#things are different but the same.........
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
nightmaretour · 2 days ago
Text
This disability pride month I'm BEGGING you to acknowledge and care about the people in this community who often fly under the radar when it comes to positivity and information. People who require equipment to live, like ventilators, pacemakers, and feeding tubes. People who are bedbound. People with visible differences. People who have disabilities caused by things like substance abuse, overdose, or self harm. People with conditions so rare that they've never met someone who has the same one. People who need full time care and have to have help to use social media.
If you want to support the community, that means supporting all of the community. Disability pride means being proud of every last one of us, and making sure everyone feels heard. Make sure to amplify the voices of those who need it this month, and ideally for the rest of the year too.
10K notes · View notes
heejamas · 1 day ago
Text
MANCHILD
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k
➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty
Tumblr media
you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.
“i like my boys playing hard to get.”
you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”
“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”
you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.
he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.
you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.
so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.
but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.
you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.
you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”
jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.
but you definitely hate rodeos.
too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.
so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.
but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.
and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.
you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.
and you hate how hot that is.
when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.
he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.
you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.
but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.
you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”
except you don’t. you really, really don’t.
so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.
you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.
(it turns out—he isn’t.)
he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.
you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.
and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.
when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.
and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne. 
and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.
you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.
and ​​you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.
on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.
you try not to look. but of course you fail.
“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”
he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.
you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”
that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.
“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”
he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.
you tilt your head. “like what?”
“like you’re bored.”
you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”
he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”
“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”
he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”
“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”
he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”
you look down, you are. shit.
he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”
you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.
the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.
and you look stunning, obviously.  short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.
he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.
you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.
you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back. 
“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet. 
you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”
he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.
you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”
“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”
you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”
he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”
you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his. 
he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.
“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”
and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.
you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”
and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.
he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.
and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.
but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.
and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.
and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.
you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.
jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—
he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.
he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?
it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you. 
but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”
and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.
but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. ​​he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked. 
he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.
you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.
he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.
he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.
he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.
the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.
later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.
you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.
you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.
“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.
you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”
he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.
“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”
“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”
“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”
he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.
so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”
he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.
“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”
you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.
a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”
you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.
you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.
and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”
he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”
he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.
“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”
“you caught me,” you beam. 
he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.
you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.
and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.
he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.
your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.
you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.
but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?
but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.
you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.
“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”
he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”
you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”
he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”
your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.
“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”
you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.
then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.
and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.
you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.
he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.
you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.
not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.
you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”
“walk,” he says.
you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”
“walk.”
so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.
his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”
“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”
you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”
he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”
you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”
he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”
“do i?”
he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”
you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”
the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.
“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”
he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.
“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.
he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.
he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”
and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.
he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”
he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.
“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”
his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”
you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”
he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.
and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”
you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”
he arches a brow. “of what?”
“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”
he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.
and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”
and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:
“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”
and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.
he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.
he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.
and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.
he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?
and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.
so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.
you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.
the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.
then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part. 
his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.
not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.
he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.
your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you. 
he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”
you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.
and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.
his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”
his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.
you smirk. “what gave it away?”
he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”
you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”
he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”
your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”
you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”
he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”
you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”
he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”
“shut up and fuck me.”
he smirks against your throat. “say please.”
you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”
“say it.”
you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”
he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.
you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”
he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.
his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”
you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”
“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”
“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”
“i’m making an exception.”
he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”
“you’re the one that came after me.”
“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”
and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”
your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”
he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”
you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”
his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”
your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.
he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”
you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”
he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”
you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”
you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”
his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”
you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.
you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”
you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”
“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”
he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”
you blink, chest rising. “what?”
he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”
you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.
“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.
you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”
he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”
he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.
and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”
you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”
you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.
then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”
you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”
your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”
he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”
you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.
he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”
you inhale shakily. “i want it.”
his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”
you gasp. “you are.”
“say my name, sweetheart.”
“you, jakey.”
he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”
you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”
his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”
“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”
he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”
you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”
and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”
he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”
you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”
he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.
his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:
“told you you were obsessed.”
he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”
after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.
you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.
lucky for you, he never stood a chance.
Tumblr media
author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠
my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova
© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures
953 notes · View notes
komorebian · 7 hours ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
✨growth✨
160 notes · View notes
kuncitizen · 2 days ago
Text
Molecular romance
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
One awkward smile, two 'study mates', and a love story that’s chemically inevitable.
Synopsis: You only stopped at his science fair booth out of pity—but the tall, nervous guy with crooked glasses and a galaxy model has other plans.
Satoru Gojo is brilliant, awkward, and talking a mile a minute about black holes like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. You weren’t looking for a tutor. Or a crush. But he’s got stars in his eyes—and maybe, now, so do you.
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo Satoru x reader
Genre: MDNI, College AU, Fluff, Slow-burn-ish, friends to lovers, attempt at humour
Warnings: Alcohol use, sexual innuendo, suggestive physical contact, eventual smut, nothing too heavy in this chapter but definitely not PG
Masterlist
Tumblr media
Gojo Satoru isn’t the kind of boy people notice right away. He’s tall, sure. Stupidly tall. And he’s got that ridiculous snowy hair, that posture, those eyes like sapphire.
But he’s always just a little too apologetic in his own skin. Half-wincing at his own existence, quick to deflect praise with a joke or duck his head when someone gets too close.
With you, though, it’s different.
Has been ever since that science fair, where he sat behind his glowing solar system like the last puppy at a shelter, and you, despite yourself, stopped to say hi.
From that day on, things slipped into place with surprising ease.
Now he's the boy who always saves you a seat in lecture, even if you’re late. Who lets you steal fries off his plate.
What starts as a one-time study session becomes a rhythm. A quiet understanding. You find yourself at his desk more often than not, legs curled into the chair or sprawled out haphazardly, papers everywhere, caffeine staining the inside of your throat.
Gojo always sits across from you. Always.
He’s there through the good days and the ones where the formulas blur into white noise. When your pen stalls mid-sentence and your head falls into your hands in frustration, he’s already nudging a fresh sheet of paper your way patiently, a quiet anchor.
Sometimes, when you’re too deep in concentration to notice, his gaze lingers. He watches the way your foot bounces under the table, how your brow furrows just before you get the answer right. He notices the ink smudge on your wrist, the way your knees brush against his under the table and stay there just a little too long yet he doesn't dare move away.
And sometimes, when you look up too suddenly, you catch him watching.
Gojo's eyes go as wide as saucers. He turns back to his notebook swiftly, chin sinking into his palm as if that can hide the flush crawling up his neck.
On the nights it gets too late, when the page turns start slowing and your head begins to droop, you fall asleep right there—arms folded over your notes, cheek pressed to the desk.
You never wake up there.
Instead, it’s always the same: the warmth of a mattress under your back, the softness of his blanket tucked up to your chin. The scent of his laundry detergent clinging to the fabric. Dim light bleeding through closed curtains.
And just across the room is Gojo. Curled into himself on the small couch, half-covered by a jacket he clearly pulled over in a rush, snoring softly.
You never mention it. He doesn't either.
But the space between you keeps closing, inch by inch.
He’s the smartest person you know, and somehow still the one who burns popcorn in the microwave and forgets to charge his phone for days. He’s awkward, anxious, and talks too fast when he’s excited, like his brain’s ten steps ahead of his mouth.
But he’s always there.
Which is why, tonight, when you show up at his door with a crate of cheap beer and the exhausted gleam of midterms in your eyes, he doesn’t ask questions.
He just lets you in.
You drop down onto the mattress with a dramatic groan, like gravity itself has declared war on your soul. Limbs sprawled, phone already in hand, your head sinking into the pillow with the kind of defeated energy only student debt can conjure.
“Midterms nearly had me on life support. I feel so liberated right now.”
Gojo stands a few feet away, arms crossed, frowning down at the crate like it might bite him.
He nudges it with his foot. “I don’t really drink.”
You blink up at him, already half-melted into the sheets, and your lips twist into a pout—equal parts bratty and pleading. “Why not?”
His answer comes too fast. Like he’s been preparing for this exact moment since freshman orientation.
“It slows down neural processing, reduces inhibitory control and impacts memory consolidation. I’d like to remember tonight, thank you very much.”
You stare at him.
“Satoru.”
He glances up, swallowing hard like he knows what’s coming but still can’t brace for impact. “Yeah?”
Your pout intensifies. Eyes wide, lower lip pushed out just so in theatrical glory. “Pleeease?”
He stares. You bat your lashes innocently.
He squints. You bat your lashes harder.
There's a beat of silence before Gojo caves with a sigh so profound it sounds like it’s been aging in an oak barrel. He grabs a can, muttering under his breath abouy how unfair this is.
“Your Jedi mind tricks are unethical.”
The can hisses as it cracks open. You grin, satisfied by the outcome of your emotional manipulation.
You take a long sip from your own beer, the fizz tickling your throat, then flop fully onto your back.
The bed creaks beneath you—his bed, technically, though it’s felt like shared territory for a while now. It still smells like his laundry detergent, something citrusy and expensive, undercut with the faint scent of old textbooks.
Gojo hovers on the edge of the mattress, like sitting too close to you might electrocute him. He takes small, cautious sips, barely tasting it.
His eyes, however, are not so disciplined.
They keep flicking over—quick glances at your legs, the bare skin of your thighs, the way your shorts have ridden up as you stretch across the sheets like you own the place. The glow of your phone reflects off your cheekbones, painting you in soft blue light, and something in his chest does a little somersault.
His teeth sink into his bottom lip, like he’s trying to physically bite down on the thoughts rushing through his head. Thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with astrophysics or memory consolidation.
Then you giggle.
His gaze snaps up in pure panic. Shit. Did you notice him gawking? Was he being obvious?
You laugh again, thumb tapping the screen, totally engrossed in whatever has you so amused. Followed by another smile. Another quiet snort.
It’s like background music he doesn’t recognize but suddenly hates.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, tone casual and a little too stiff.
You don’t even look up from your screen, “Tinder.”
Gojo's entire spine straightens.
“Tinder?”
“Mmhmm.” You keep swiping, flipping between profiles with a lazy flick of your thumb. “Why is everyone’s idea of sexy just... standing shirtless in a badly lit bathroom?”
“Oh,” he says flatly, staring at the condensation sliding down his can. "I see."
Just that.
Silence follows, heavy and stretched.
Gojo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. The can’s cold against his palm, but it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment as your finger pauses on a profile for too long. Too thoughtfully.
You peek up, noticing the weird stillness.
“Hey,” you say, tilting your head. “You okay?”
"What? Uh—" he jolts upright, straightening like someone just called on him in class. “No, I’m good. Very good, actually.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. His knuckles are white where they grip the can, and his eyes haven’t quite made it back to yours.
You hum non-committally, not buying it for a second.
Gojo takes another swig rapidly, wincing at the taste. He wipes the rim with his thumb like he needs something to focus on. Something that’s not you and the casual way you’re flipping through potential hookups like it’s just another Tuesday on his bed. While he's right there.
Just then, an idea sparks in your head.
You roll onto your side, elbow digging into the mattress as you grin. “Do you have Tinder?”
His eyes nearly bug out of his skull.
“I—uh—Tinder?” he repeats, voice cracking slightly. “No. Why would I—No. Definitely not.”
You narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “That was a lot of hesitation for a no.”
“I just—” he flounders, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t expecting the question. I don’t really do dating apps. Or dating. Or… people.”
You shrug. “You do me.”
The words hang in the air for half a second too long.
Gojo's mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again, like maybe he can reboot himself if he blinks hard enough.
Your own brain finally catches up with your mouth.
“I mean, not do me—like—not like that—I meant friends. You’re friends with me.” You groan, dragging a pillow over your face like you can smother the sentence out of existence. “God. Forget I said anything.”
You sigh as you peek up slightly from behind his pillow.
He’s not wheezing or doubled over. He’s just sitting there, glasses slightly askew, trying very hard not to laugh. His hand’s covering his mouth, but his ears are going pink.
The way he’s looking at you now—quiet, a little dazzled, still fighting back a full smile—makes something in your chest kick up just slightly.
But even as you hide your embarrassment, he’s sitting there, cheeks flushed, mind spiraling, because—
Yeah. He does you.
In his head. Way too often, and in too many ways.
When you're lying here like this. When your voice dips low and teasing. When you glance at him with something that feels almost too soft to be platonic.
You shove the embarrassment aside and raise your can in front of your face like a shield.
He finally calms down, barely, chuckles trailing off as he shifts his position on the mattress.
“Well,” you say, pushing up on your elbows with new purpose, “guess what?”
Gojo eyes you wearily. “That tone never means any good.”
“You’re about to get one.”
“One what?”
You reach for his phone on the nightstand with zero hesitation. “A Tinder account.”
His entire soul exits the premises. “Wait—what? No. No, no, I don’t need that—”
“You heard me,” your fingers are already flying on the screen. “It’s time.”
He scrambles forward like you just picked up nuclear launch codes. “Hey—hold on, I’m not—You’re not actually serious—”
The screen unlocks instantly.
Of course it does. Your fingerprint’s saved. Has been for months. The kind of trust that feels so loud and yet, here you are, setting up some Tinder date for him.
“Okay, what’s your type?” you ask, downloading the app.
“I—what—how would I know?”
“Well, who do you swipe on in your head? Goths? Muscle mommies? Librarians with a secret dirty side?”
He sputters, face slowly turning the same shade as the beer can in his hand. “Can we not do this?”
“Too late,” you say, half-distracted as you scroll. “First name, Satoru. Age… I’ll let you lie. Height?”
“Six-three.”
You arch a brow, impressed. “Really?”
He scowls. “You want me to open my medical records?”
You chuckle and keep typing. “Alright, big guy. Next: 'What are you looking for on Tinder?' ”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Salvation.”
“Not an option.”
“World peace?”
You glance up. “Seriously?”
He drags a hand down his face, voice muffled. “I dunno… companionship?”
“That's enough. I’m writing 'open to something meaningful, but down for freaky time.’”
“You're very weird.”
“Now, pictures.” Your knees bump under the sheets as you shift closer, elbows brushing while you adjust the brightness on his phone.
“God.”
“Relax. I’m not using that cursed one of you french-kissing a fish.”
“There’s a photo of me french-kissing a fish?”
“You sent it to me, you maniac.”
He groans and falls back against the mattress, arm slung dramatically over his eyes.
“This is a nightmare.”
But he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t take his phone back.
Because maybe, deep down—beneath the jokes and the beer and the painfully exposed truth—a small part of him hopes it’ll work. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe some stranger with a nice smile will finally make the incessant thoughts of you in his mind go away.
You’re scrolling through his photo gallery with ruthless determination, knees brushing his thigh as you flip past thumbnail after thumbnail like you’re judging entries for a very geeky photography contest.
“Okay,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “Let’s find you something non-humiliating—oh, this one’s just… clouds? Wait, is that lichen? Are you seriously out here photographing moss?”
Gojo doesn’t answer.
He’s stiff behind you, frozen like he’s watching someone disarm a nuclear bomb. Because he knows what’s coming. Knows exactly what the next folder might hold.
“Oh. Is this me?”
You tilt your head, thumb hovering over a grid of candid shots.
Your face in full detail, frozen mid-laugh in one, asleep at his desk in another. One photo captures you ranting at a textbook, hands in the air like you’re about to square up with it. Some are zoomed in. Some are taken from across the room.
His ears go red. Bright, angry cherry red.
Before the full meaning settles in, he lunges towards you.
“Okay—alright—that’s enough, give me that—!” His hand flails toward the phone in your grip, panic rising.
You jerk it back with a gasp, half-laughing, half-screeching. “Satoru!”
“We are not doing this,” he says in a rush, voice cracking like an over-wound violin. “Hand it over. Please, I beg you—”
You clutch the phone to your chest dramatically, feigning scandal. “So, you just casually have an entire album of me on your phone?”
His hands fly to his face,as he practically crumples in on himself like a collapsing star.
“I didn’t—it’s not an album, it’s just—okay, it’s a folder, but it’s not weird!” he sputters from behind his fingers. “It’s just—memories and.... nostalgia.”
You let out a soft laugh and toss the phone toward the bed, letting it bounce harmlessly onto the sheets. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just take a picture for your profile.”
He peeks through his fingers, squinting at you like a kitten after getting caught in the trash. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Satoru, I should charge you royalties.”
That gets a choked laugh out of him.
And still, you’re smiling. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for your best friend to have a secret camera roll of your face. Like this is fine.
Like you’re still choosing to sit next to him, shoulder brushing his arm like none of this has made anything weird.
“Come on,” you say, shifting closer. “Let’s make you look irresistible.”
He exhales. Yeah, sure.
Like that was ever the problem.
Gojo's already given up on dignity. His hair sticks out at odd angles, his hoodie is bunched up slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and his face wears the expression of a man preparing for social execution.
You sit back and squint at him critically, arms crossed, head tilted. “You look too much like a dork.”
He lifts his head an inch. “Wow. That’s incredibly helpful and uplifting.”
“Aw, it’s fine. You’re cute.”
You continue breezily, already plotting. “But we need right-swipe cute. You wanna look like you might mansplain physics and then make someone cum in under ten minutes.”
He just stares. “…What the heck does that even mean?”
“It means you need range, Satoru!” You leap off the bed, hands flailing like an overzealous theater director. “You need to look like someone’s weird little crush.”
You yank his closet open. The door creaks, hangers scraping against each other as you rifle through it.
“Do you even own anything that doesn’t scream extra credit ?”
He calls weakly from the bed, “I have a black turtleneck somewhere. I wore it once, for my thesis presentation.”
You sigh. “Tragic. We’ll work with what we’ve got.”
Moments later, you emerge triumphant with a handful of options—an unreasonably crisp button-down, a soft black tee that looks criminally flattering, and something silky you definitely don’t remember him owning.
“Try these,” you announce, dumping them onto the bed like a fashion connoisseur.
He eyes the pile like it’s radioactive. “You want me to change… into thirst trap attire?”
“Correct.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Fine," You huff, hands on your hips. "I guess I’ll just have to make you.”
His eyes widen. “Wait, what does that—”
You pounce with tipsy audacity before he can finish. He yelps as you tackle him backwards onto the mattress, the bed groaning under the sudden weight. His beer can tips off the edge with a dull thunk, but neither of you notice.
You land on top of him with a soft thud, hands braced against his chest, your knees digging into the bed on either side of his hips. His hands fly instinctively to your waist, fingers splaying like he’s trying to steady both of you, or maybe just himself.
And suddenly, everything goes quiet.
You can hear the faint hum of the light overhead. The slow, shaky inhale he takes. The way his thumbs press in ever so slightly.
Gojo's gaze flickers from your mouth to your eyes and back again.
You exhale, the sound catching slightly.
He swallows, hard. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I wasn’t—just—are you okay?”
Your lips twitch. “You’re the one under attack, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“I—well, yeah,” he breathes, voice thinner now. “You’re on top of me. Kinda hard not to worry.”
You tilt your head. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” His throat bobs, fingers flexing against your hips. “Not even a little.”
You lean in, only slightly, enough to make his breath stutter. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”
He gives a short, stunned laugh. “Not exactly my field of expertise.”
You smile softly. “Guess you're lucky you’ve got me, then.”
Click.
Gojo flinches as the shutter goes off. Light bounces off his glasses, eyes blown wide.
“That angle was godly. You’re welcome.”
His jaw drops. “You cannot—there is no way—you’re not posting that, are you?”
“Absolutely,” you say, holding up the phone proudly. “The world deserves to see this.”
He slaps both hands over his face, muffling a noise that might be despair, might be laughter, might be a scream into the void. “I trusted you.”
You smirk and climb off him, far too pleased with yourself. “You’ll thank me when you’re drowning in matches.”
Tumblr media
Tags: @tonuhye @vynn30 @bakugouswaif @silkgardenias @gielwinchester9 @coffeeluvr96 @applepi405 @victorianxox-blog @minasuniverse @r9muka @n4me @goonforgeto @allysainz @jcissors
@fictionalmenlover5 @duydyycfuu @slightystressed @qngelq2666 @urmotherswhor3 @girlywhooooops @lumiamoureads
@blondecoco @juliarchiv3s @erenistz @tryingtofeelbetteraboutmywriting @ellie-posts @cocoalmond
@nerdjolover @ducky1232 @catowuu @april-in-the-city @go-go-gadget-autism
@kianatrg @maaic @libr4sonsa @moonlight-inthe-sea @kkataleena @petaltheory @mikadrawsstuff
@reveriennn @sbicybb @torusbbg @mooskie @satotorulove @shoruio @muscovitechick @d34ly @arabellasolstice @forever-paramore28 @enouche
741 notes · View notes
papayasector · 2 days ago
Text
lando and oscar holding the same thing so the difference in hand sizes is Noticeable
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
thank you to the gem that is @ferrarihoonz for inspiring this from this ask 🫶
552 notes · View notes
anto-pops · 3 days ago
Text
Crimson Dominion - Sylus x Female!Reader
Tumblr media
Summary: You and Sylus have a routine. It’s one borne of months spent coexisting with one another, and one that you’ve easily grown accustomed to. Even though your life with him in the chapel is all a means to an end— an end that involves him devouring your soul— you would be lying if you said you weren’t comfortable and complacent with the dynamic. That’s why when you find him behaving abnormally in the bowels of your shared home, you can’t help but draw closer to the peculiar sight… and upon discovering the truth, there’s no stopping yourself from selfishly caving to the desires of your lust-drunk dragon. 
Alternatively summarized as Sylus goes into his dragon rut and has freaky, animalistic sex with you. 
Word Count: 9.3k
Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, dragon!Sylus, dragon ruts/heat cycles, biting/scratching, knotting, possessive behavior, rough sex, size difference
Full fic is now up on Ao3 (with more diverse tags, as per usual)
Something was off. 
It was hard to put your finger on what exactly it was, though. Everything within the chapel looked the same; the candelabras flickered dimly and cast dancing shadows against the walls, piles of treasures covered the ground, and the damp, wooden scent of the church pews filled the air. It was humid inside– more so than usual– and the stillness inside the chamber both unnerved and soothed you. 
Your dragon was nowhere to be found. 
His usual place atop the chancel at the front of the chapel was empty. You had grown accustomed to walking into the room to find him floating there listlessly– twirling a gold coin or some other bit of loot between his fingers while he hummed to himself and daydreamed. But this time, Sylus was absent as you glanced around the room, and you rubbed the sleep from your eyes as though that might help you to better locate him. 
“Sylus?” 
Your voice echoed throughout the cavernous room, and your call went unanswered. Strange. He was always relatively quick to come when you summoned him… where could he be? 
The heels of your boots clicked softly against the marble floor as you strode to the front of the chapel. Sylus wasn’t hiding within the rows of pews, and he wasn’t behind the podium either. Maybe it was arrogant for you to assume as much, but he wouldn’t have gone out without telling you. He had been here earlier before you’d fallen asleep. 
The cracked, stained glass windows behind the stage came into full view as you neared the back of the room, and you huffed in annoyance when your dragon still failed to reveal himself to you. “Sylus?” you called again, straining in your attempts to pick up on any sign of life within the church. 
You couldn’t hear a thing, but suddenly a unique, heady scent flooded your nostrils. 
The smell was somewhere between musky and smokey. It was too organic to be deemed soot-based, but also too bizarre to be something that was simply carried on the wind. Riding on the coattails of the fragrance was a spicy yet subtly sweet aroma that made a shiver course down your spine, and you found that as you breathed in deeply to take in more of the smell, your entire body seemed to respond to it. The hair on your arms stood straight, your stomach flipped over on itself, and one particular spot against your neck throbbed to life. 
The nearly faded bite mark Sylus had bestowed upon you all those months ago felt as fresh as it had the day he’d given it to you, and you absentmindedly rubbed at it to ease the aching sensation. 
Again, something was off. 
“Sylus, quit ignoring me and come out,” you snapped with frustration. Agitation that hadn’t existed five minutes ago ran rampant through your veins– a sudden restlessness coming to life and prompting you to search for the silver haired dragon with newfound verve. There were only so many places he could hide within the chapel. Despite evidence to the contrary, you had a feeling he was still here. It wasn’t like him to up and vanish without a word to you, and strangely enough, that smell…
He was here. You knew it deep in your bones. 
A handful of tiny rooms lined the far side of the church, so you started throwing open the doors one after another in the hopes of finding him inside of one. Four vacant closets were all you were met with, however, and you sighed loudly when the weirdly appealing scent got fainter and fainter the farther you moved away from the stage. You weren’t a dog. Following your nose seemed like the stupidest idea– especially when there was no guarantee that it was even coming from Sylus in the first place. But some inherent part of you assumed as much– no, knew as much. Whatever the fragrance was, it belonged to him. 
You made your way back to the stage, reassured by the growing potency of the unique scent. There were no other doors behind the stage, nor was there any likelihood of your dragon being outside this time of night. There wasn’t a chance that you were smelling him through the windows– the very thought of it was balmy and ridiculous. But after scouring every corner, every wall, and even glancing up at the ceiling at the support beams running parallel to the floor, you found nothing. 
Where the hell was he? More importantly, why were you so desperate to find him? That smell was driving you berserk. 
Shaking your head to yourself, you glanced down at the floor dejectedly, on the brink of accepting defeat and returning to the curtained off alcove you called your bedchamber. But then something caught your eye– something you had failed to notice in the past due to the mountains of loot that normally covered the floors behind the chancel. 
A trapdoor. 
The consolidated pile of treasure that had sat on top of it before now was spread thin off to the side of the hatch. It was as if Sylus had clawed all of it aside to gain access to the lower levels of the church, the messy state of everything leaving you to believe that he had moved in a rushed, frantic manner. Odd. 
The peculiarity of the situation was overlooked entirely by the sense of calm that washed over you. You had found him. The tantalizing, bewitching aroma that had called to you like a siren’s song was strongest above the trapdoor, and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that when you made your way inside, you would find your dragon. 
You had expected to be met with a ladder or a narrow staircase upon opening the hatch, but instead you discovered nothing. It was a straight drop down into a dark, musty abyss, but the minimal light that poured into the opening revealed that it was only about an eight foot plummet. Ripping your boots off, you set them beside the scattered pile of gold next to you, then swung your legs over the edge. The muscles in your arms screamed in protest as you slowly, carefully, eased yourself into the hole until you were dangling completely from the edge, and you suppressed the urge to scream when you let go. 
To say you landed gracefully would be a lie, but there were no witnesses to counteract the claim. 
It was dark down here– much darker than you had been expecting– but the skinny corridor you found yourself now standing in only led in one direction, and the enticing scent you had been chasing after for so long was stronger. You kept one hand on the side of the wall as you padded forward quietly, narrowing your eyes as you trudged deeper and farther into the unknown area of the chapel. 
Before long, there was light. Flickering, shifting firelight that emanated from torches you could see at the end of the passage. As you neared the end of the dark hallway, a muffled, disembodied sound reached your ears and prompted you to halt in your tracks. 
Someone was groaning. Sylus. 
Your eagerness to see him couldn’t outweigh your caution, though. Silent as a wraith, you peered around the corner of the corridor and scanned the interior of the basement. At least, you figured it was a basement. A strange one with no ladder or staircase to easily access. The underground chamber was starkly different from upstairs, primarily because there were no glittering piles of gold loot or gems. It made the space look rather dull, in your opinion. 
There were lots of soft things, however. Velveteen pillows, cotton throw blankets, and colorful tapestries that had been laid out to maximize the comfort one could derive from residing in such a dreary place. 
In the center of the makeshift nest was Sylus. 
He was sprawled out on his side with his back to you, and his long, powerful tail was curled around himself protectively. The pants he usually wore were hanging low on his hips, revealing parts of his body that you had never once glimpsed before. Your cheeks flushed in an instant at the sight, and in that moment, you considered that maybe you had made a mistake in seeking him out. 
Was he ill? He was still groaning– albeit rather softly. His skin looked damp as well, as though a thin sheen of sweat covered the entirety of his figure, and– was he twitching? His arm was moving a little. 
It was the thought of your dragon being sick that spurred you into motion. You stepped out of the corridor and silently made your way towards him, taking care not to make a sound so you wouldn’t startle him. Not that the chances of that happening were very high– you could never sneak up on Sylus. He had a sixth sense dedicated solely to thwarting your attempts at getting the jump on him. 
Once you were roughly five feet away from him, you stopped in your tracks again. He was still letting loose choked groans and writhing slightly against the floor, but there was also something else. A wet, squelching sound that made your eyes go wide and your breathing hitch in your throat. From your vantage point over him, you were made aware startlingly fast what was contributing to the new noises. 
Sylus… he had his cock clenched tight in his fist. His wrist moved furiously as he worked his hand up and down the painfully hard shaft, and from over his shoulder, you could see opaque wet stains that adorned the dark blanket beneath him. 
What… what had you just walked in on? 
You weren’t as careful when you stepped back as you had been while approaching. Your heel connected roughly with the ground, prompting Sylus to go rigid as his hand stilled against his cock. Then, almost in slow motion, his neck craned backwards so he could fix his narrowed, red eyes on your frozen form. 
For a few heated seconds, the two of you just stared at one another. Your face was undoubtedly beet red– your lips parted as you scrambled to find the right words to speak. Did you apologize? Did you ask if he was alright? What was the correct thing to do in this situation? 
Sylus, on the other hand, looked strangely impassive. Apart from the heady flush that covered his cheeks and stretched down to his chest, he seemed relatively calm. His crimson eyes– while usually sharp and piercing– were presently hooded and tired looking. They seemed to brighten when they landed on you though, and at the same time you managed to weakly croak, “I-I’m sorry–”, Sylus growled. 
Shit. 
Your previous assumption that he was tired went right out the fucking window in the next second. With inhuman speed, Sylus shot up from the collection of blankets to coil his arms around your waist, then hauled you down so you were half-draped, half-kneeling over him. You remedied the half-draped part of your position remarkably quickly, because for a few blood-chilling seconds, the lower part of your body had been flush to his arched cock– so much so that you had felt it pulse against you through the fabric of your dress. 
Another animalistic sound reverberated through his chest as you pushed yourself up so you were no longer pressed against his sternum, but that was as far as you made it before the dragon’s arms tightened around you. “Sylus– what’s wrong with you?” 
“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” His voice was low and sultry, laced with unmistakable arousal that had heat pooling in your gut. That, in addition to the inescapable scent wafting from him, was quickly making your mind feel hazy. This wasn’t normal… something was making you feel like this. Something unnatural. “I came all the way down here to keep you away from me, but you’ve ruined all my hard work.” 
One of his hands skirted up your back and pressed down against your spine, forcing you to arch into him as he leaned up to bury his nose in your neck. His next intake of breath was deep, shaking both him and yourself to your very cores, and you felt his nails dig into your hips through your dress as he exhaled gruffly. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” you mumbled, bracing one of your hands against his chest to push him back. It didn’t escape your notice that the only reason you succeeded in shoving him away was because he let you. “I-I’ll leave. I’m sorry for–” 
“Don’t go.” 
You blinked down at him in wonder. You had never seen your dragon so… out of sorts. It was an understatement, certainly, but there was no other way to describe his demeanor. Prone atop the floor, Sylus looked up at you through his long lashes, his cheeks still violently flushed and his chest rising and falling rapidly. His arms were no longer crushing you to him, but his hands remained stubbornly planted on your waist in his attempts to hold you in place. Nevermind the fact that his cock was still out– literally a hairs-width away from your core beneath the folds of your dress. 
Aside from your undergarments, there was next to nothing separating your most intimate place from his. 
“I…” you trailed off, averting your stare to the corridor you had come through earlier. “I don’t think I should stay. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re not yourself.” 
“I’m more myself than I’ve ever been,” he countered smoothly, intensifying his grip on your hips as he dug his heels into the blankets. “It’s in my nature to be driven mad with lust every few months. It’s what you might call an unfortunate side effect for my kind.” 
Almost testingly, you shifted your hips back to try climbing off of him. His fingers may as well have been barbed shackles for all the good your attempt was. Puzzled, you murmured, “Side effect? Of what? Being a dragon?” 
“In a vague sense, yes…” Sylus swallowed thickly as a shudder wracked his body– so fierce that you had to plant your other palm against his chest to keep yourself from toppling over. God, it was like he was drunk. He gritted his teeth together and cracked open his bleary eyes to stare at you again, and the next wave of his scent washed over you with the force of a tidal wave. “More specifically, it’s a side effect of a dragon’s rut.” 
Oh.
Oh.
You had read about such things once. At the time, you had naturally assumed it was fiction– a made up aspect of equally made up fairy tales told to children before they went to bed. But considering that dragons were very much real creatures that had once rivaled mankind’s population, of course the rest of the stories would be true as well. 
A dragon’s rut. A period of time when the creatures in question were inhabited by one, prudent thought above all others. 
Reproduce. 
“All the more reason for me to go,” you forced the words from your throat with the last bit of resolve you could muster up. Between Sylus’ branding touch against your hips and the way his scent was akin to an airborne aphrodisiac, you knew your willpower wouldn’t last long. Your affection for your dragon was a very real thing, but time after time, he had rebuffed your inquiries about his thoughts on love. Companionship to him was a foreign concept– something that went hand in hand with his solitary nature. You had made your peace with that months ago and resigned yourself to a short lifetime of simply being in his company before he inevitably devoured your soul. 
Or at least, you thought you had. 
It was hard to think about much of anything right now. 
Sylus sighed heavily, and the sound seemed to banish a degree of his self-control. Without giving you a moment to process his moves, he sat up and flipped the two of you over, caging you against the floor between his trembling arms and sliding one of his knees between your legs. You could only gasp when he burrowed his face in the crook of your shoulder, the warm, wet feeling of his tongue laving over your pulse making your mind go blank. 
“Can’t you feel it?” His husky voice was muffled against the spit-slick skin of your neck. “Can’t you feel how desperately I need you? Can you smell it?” 
S-Smell it…?
You made a small sound of confirmation at the back of your throat, at which point one of Sylus’ hands began trailing up your thigh, pushing more and more of your dress up your legs. “That smell… is my pheromones. Under normal circumstances, it would attract another dragon to my side. But instead…” he nipped at your throat lightly, making you jolt underneath him as your arousal began to saturate your undergarments. “It attracted you.” 
Words failed to form on your tongue as Sylus brazenly sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder. A cry that was equal parts pained and surprised burst from your lips, and a low, rumbling growl was the dragon’s only sound of acknowledgment. Sharp, deadly claws trailed against your thigh, the tips of his nails catching on the fabric of your dress as it was hoisted high up your legs, and the material pooled below your navel before Sylus hooked a finger under the flimsy band of your underwear. 
His breath was hot against your skin when he whispered against your neck, “You’ll let me have you, right? Your soul is already promised to me, but what about your body?” 
Fuck– you were positive you would agree to just about anything if it meant the ache between your legs could be sated. Every fiber of Sylus’ being oozed seduction; his handsome face, his ardent touch, his mind numbing scent. You wanted to throw caution to the wind and let him indulge in his thirst for you, because you selfishly wanted to experience everything he had to offer. 
What you had witnessed upon walking into the room had shocked you, but it had also piqued your curiosity immeasurably. 
You must have taken too long to respond, because Sylus pulled away from your throat with a winded sigh. The finger coiled around your underwear tugged imploringly, and when the dragon finally deigned to look at you again, his eyes were narrowed with barely there restraint. His tongue darted out to wet his plush, red lips, and it was at that moment you were able to see his hunger with startling clarity. 
Against your better judgement, you picked your head up to peer down at the leaking, solid length of him. It was evident that his efforts at relieving himself earlier hadn’t done much good. One would think that the spend covering the blankets meant that he had quelled his urges, but with how hard he clearly still was, his attempts had more than likely only staved off a persistent ache. 
Without thinking, you lifted a shaky hand to wrap your fingers around his cock, the entirety of it pulsing fervently in your grip. A strangled hiss slipped through Sylus’ teeth as his eyes squeezed shut at the minor stimulation your touch granted him, and you decided to take things a step further by cautiously swiping your thumb over the slick, swollen head. 
Sylus let loose an animalistic snarl that tore through the room and made you jolt. Then he was moving– pulling away from your touch and settling back on his haunches so he could rip your underwear down your legs with the lone finger he gripped them with. 
“God,” you gasped. You instinctively covered your exposed center with your hands and pressed your knees together, “You don’t have to be so rough.” 
With feline grace, Sylus drew back farther before lowering his face so it was directly above your knees. Clawed fingers spread over the tops before gripping them firmly, and then he was pulling your thighs apart to reveal your already soaked core to himself. “Do you have any idea how delicious you smell right now?” 
“I– what?” You couldn't help but stammer brainlessly, blood rushing into your cheeks in response to the sinful line of questioning. “You’re insane.” 
Sylus flashed you a wicked smirk, opting to silently prove your point by descending lower, lower, until his nose was nearly touching your wet folds. Then he breathed in deeply and shuddered. “It’s like the divine essence of the gods themselves. I wonder– does it taste as good as it smells?” 
Your eyes went wider than saucers. No… there was no way he was going to–
Sylus’ lips parted for his tongue, the flat muscle laving a hard, pointed stripe right up your center, and the pressure he inflicted against your clit made you keen breathlessly. “Sy– wait, what are you–” 
The dragon ignored you in favor of repeating the motion again, only this time he dipped the tip of his tongue inside of you to collect as much moisture as he possibly could. The feeling was surreal; it was hot and silky all at once, the sting of Sylus’ nails digging into your thighs harmonizing magically with the pleasure of his nose rubbing against your bundle of nerves. You gasped wantonly, your mind caving to the arousal that had been dogging at your heels since setting foot in the chamber. When your back bowed off of the floor to dimly press more of yourself onto his tongue, Sylus chuckled darkly and began feasting with uninhibited restraint. 
Wet, sloppy sounds came from between your legs, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed by it. Sylus certainly wasn’t. The way his mouth moved against your cunt was somewhere between calculated and arbitrary, but it was all entirely instinctual. The attention he bestowed against your clit synced perfectly with the hard, probing depths he reached with his tongue, and your head fell back against the blankets as you gasped in wonder. 
“S-Sylus,” you moaned shakily. “Sylus, it feels so good.” 
The dragon hummed his approval, withdrawing his tongue from your core so he could briefly suck your sensitive nub into his mouth before releasing it with an audible pop. The fleeting rush of pleasure disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, and directly against your folds, Sylus murmured, “Tastes just as good, too. Heavenly.” 
His mouth was back on you before you could think to say something stupid. With newfound gusto, Sylus shamelessly licked, sucked, and kissed whatever parts of you he could get his lips on. It was maddening– so much so that your hands blindly shot away from the floor to land in his hair. The soft strands curled around your fingers as you gathered fistfuls of the silvery locs in your grip, pressing him harder against you in some feeble attempt to steer him deeper. 
Another wave of that tantalizing scent of his came over you, and you swore up and down you saw stars. It truly was heavenly, and you wanted more. 
You weakly tugged at his hair to get his attention, but Sylus was too distracted to pay you any mind. He groaned eagerly and let his jaw go slack, swiping his tongue over every inch of your wet skin to collect every last drop of slick that coated it. He was positively ravenous, and you tried yanking his hair again, only harder this time. “Sylus,” came your whiny plea. “Please.” 
The needy timbre to your voice prompted his crimson eyes to fly open, and he looked up at you through his long, thick lashes with unparalleled lust. 
The heat of his gaze set your blood alight in your veins, and you had to swallow around a growing lump in your throat. “Please,” you repeated shyly. “I want… I want to kiss you.” 
For the first time since seeing him down here, Sylus looked perplexed. It was as though the concept of kissing hadn’t even crossed his mind, which made a little bit of sense considering he was a dragon… maybe he didn’t know how? But then he licked the remnants of your pleasure from his lips and let go of your legs, pushing himself up to seductively crawl over your prone form. He braced his arms on either side of your head, staring down at you with his piercing eyes almost appraisingly. 
“You want to kiss me?” he asked in that deep, sultry voice of his. “Why?” 
Despite the fact that he had just been lip-locked with your most private place, the thought of having to explain your request to him seemed largely more embarrassing. “…Do dragons not kiss each other when they do this?” 
He cocked his head to the side, the move so primal and subhuman that you were reminded once again that even though he looked human, he was the farthest thing from it. “How would I know?” 
“Do you know how to kiss?” 
His lips pressed together to form a straight line that cut across his sharp features. Was that frustration of self-consciousness you detected? You couldn’t be sure. “I don’t make a habit of bedding people, so I can’t say I’m all that familiar with the concept.” 
Ah, so it was awkwardness he was subtly displaying. For some reason, the realization made you smile– but Sylus didn’t seem thrilled with your sudden amusement. He tsk’d softly and looked towards the far wall with his brows furrowed, his sharp nails catching on the fibers of the blanket as they dug into the soft material. “I don’t see what’s so funny about me not knowing your silly, human customs. They’re irrelevant to me–” 
“It’s not funny,” you interjected quickly, reaching up to cup his cheeks and turn his face back towards you. This time, your smile was of the reassuring variety, but doubt still twinkled in those gemstone-like eyes of his. “You were just making a cute face, that’s all. I can show you how… if you want to, that is.” 
For a moment, it genuinely looked like the dragon was going to outright refuse. His jaw hardened beneath your palms, and the unyielding, stubborn glint in his irises made you believe that he would dismiss your offer entirely. But then he moved; slowly, Sylus lowered himself down onto his elbows so his face was mere inches away from yours, his nose crinkling with a quaint sort of bashfulness that you had never seen from him before. 
Was this really the same being that had shamelessly hauled you down on top of him earlier? This version of your dragon was… softer. More uncertain. You couldn’t help but find it incredibly endearing. 
Still smiling, you searched his eyes for any signs of discomfort or hesitation and found none. If anything, Sylus just looked expectant. He was waiting for you to make your next move, so you squashed your fears about upsetting him and pulled his face towards yours. 
The kiss was… stiff. You could feel the tension radiating throughout Sylus’ body as he processed what you were doing, and in an attempt to get him to loosen up, you trailed one of your hands away from his cheek to cup the back of his neck. Your nails scratched lightly against the base of his skull and pulled a barely there groan from him– at which point you decided to be bolder. 
Opening your mouth, you traced Sylus’ bottom lip with your tongue before probing cautiously at the seam– silently asking for him to grant you access. He took his time catering to your request, eventually relenting once he pieced together what it was you wanted, and the wet muscle swept through his mouth greedily. The dragon tasted of something smokey and sweet all at once– the flavor not all that different from the scent he’d been steadily giving off. It danced on your tastebuds marvelously, a tiny moan slithering free from your throat, and the minuscule sound seemed to spark something within Sylus, because he was kissing you back in the next instant. 
His own tongue wrapped around yours as the pressure from his lips increased. Each of his movements was colored with a tinge of uncertainty, but it seemed to be mostly fueled by his desire to experiment. He wanted to get it right. He wanted to learn. 
Pleased by his vigor, your hand on the back of his neck curled into a loose fist around his hair. Sylus made a sound– something halfway between a moan and a sigh– and you stole your opportunity to playfully bite at his bottom lip. You felt his back tense abruptly, his mouth halting its movements against yours, and you opened your eyes in a panic to see if you had accidentally done something wrong. 
Sylus’ face was a blur as he quickly pulled away to knock your arm to the floor, pinning your wrist beside your head in one quick motion before he was back on you. Suddenly it was like he had known how to kiss all along; his mouth was everywhere. He sucked wetly on your bottom lip, then peppered hot, open mouthed kisses along your jaw, and finally surprised you by tugging at your earlobe with his sharp canines. 
Maybe biting held a similar meaning to kissing for dragons, because you were quickly realizing that Sylus enjoyed having his teeth on you. 
“S-So?” you stammered softly, tilting your head to the side to give him easier access to your neck. Sylus latched his lips over your pulse point to bite and suck at the skin there, your lashes fluttering in response to the sting, and it took a herculean effort for you to voice the rest of your question without groaning. “Did you like it?” 
“It’s strange,” he muttered hotly against your throat. “But then again, so are humans. I could get used to it.”
It was as close to approval as you were going to get with him, so you hummed in acknowledgment and let your eyes drift shut. Sylus’ nails bit into your wrist with alarming strength– his full weight settling against you more and more as he dropped his hips so they were flush with yours– and you felt the wet, heavy length of his cock rest tellingly against your pelvis. Its mass should have scared you, especially considering you had already seen how big it was when you’d walked in on him earlier, but instead of apprehension taking root in your gut, you only felt the exhilaration of arousal. 
The arm at your side slid coyly between your bodies so you could delicately stroke his shaft. Sylus’ breathing hitched in his throat, and when you teasingly ghosted the tip of your finger over the leaking head, he jolted. His gruff voice vibrated directly against your jaw when he lifted his head and growled, “I don’t think those priests were wrong for accusing you of being a sorceress.” 
“Oh?” Your brow quirked up questioningly, your finger dexterously tracing featherlight shapes over the tip of Sylus’ cock. “Why is that?” 
“Because you’re wicked.” His crimson eyes narrowed as he released your wrist to trap your hand to his shaft with blind precision, forcing the entirety of your palm to press against his member, and the sound he made at the stimulation was nothing short of perfection. The corner of his mouth curled as he purred, “What sinful little spells are you casting on me, hm? I can’t seem to get enough. You make me greedy.” 
“Bold of you to talk about spells when you’re the one reeking of those phero-whatevers.” 
“I can’t help that. You, on the other hand…” He buried his nose in the junction of your neck and shoulder, laving his tongue over the fading bite scar he had left there a lifetime ago before whispering against it, “For how insistent you were about leaving, you’re enjoying this quite a bit.” 
To say your mind was swimming in lustful thoughts would be a monumental understatement. Even though Sylus wasn’t looking at you, you were positive he could hear your innermost desires. Over and over again in your head were iterations of “More” and “Take me”. How many times since meeting the dragon had you fantasized about exactly this happening? Not the rut part– that had taken you by surprise– but the rest of it? 
You were a fool to believe that you had dealt with your unrequited feelings for Sylus. Maybe he would come to regret this moment later on when his rut was over, but that would be a problem for future-you to deal with. Right now, you wanted nothing more than to cave to your baser instincts and for Sylus to cave to his. You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and finally help scratch the itch that had been hounding you for months. 
Emboldened by your internal acceptance, you laughed airily and did the only thing you could think of in that moment; you squeezed his cock imploringly, turning your head towards the sound of his guttural moan so you could murmur directly in his ear. “I’ll give my body to you, Sylus. So hurry up and do something with it.” 
The next sequence of events happened so fast that you could barely comprehend them. Sylus growled and yanked you upright, his clawed fingers raking down the back of your dress and tearing the fabric open so he could free you from it. There was a muted stinging sensation against your spine where his nails had broken your skin, but that hardly seemed important when you caught sight of the ravenous, insatiable hunger on the dragon’s handsome face. Your breasts spilled out in full view as the attire pooled in a messy heap around your waist– though it didn’t stay there for long. It was soon ripped away and haphazardly tossed to the side of the room without a second glance, and then Sylus was pushing you back against the blankets. 
Heavy, panted breaths sounded from him at an almost concerning pace. You blearily watched as he shoved his pants lower– evidently too impatient to take them off all the way– before one of his hands appeared against the underside of your jaw and forced you to look him square in the eyes. 
“Don’t look away,” he instructed sternly. His hand remained where it was until you nodded, and only then did he release your face and plant his arms on either side of your waist to support himself. 
The first bump of his cock against your entrance made you jump, but you followed his directions to the letter and kept your stare trained evenly on him. His right eye began to glow softly– the vibrant red stark against the flickering torchlight that illuminated the room– and he smirked to himself as he languidly slid his shaft tauntingly between your folds. “I knew it,” he growled. “You do like this.” 
Patience was a forgotten thing as Sylus abruptly pressed into your cunt, your mouth falling open around a long, drawn out moan that shook the walls of the chamber. He was huge. It was unreal how thick he felt breaching you– the very air in your lungs stolen from you as your body instinctively tensed. Sylus bared his teeth as his eyes formed into thin slits, the heady flush decorating his skin deepening into the same shade as the gem centered on his chest as he stilled his hips. Something told you that it wasn’t for your benefit, though. 
He looked like he was on the verge of losing control completely. 
“Relax,” his head dipped between his shoulders to creep closer to yours, and a glimmer of something new in his eyes caught your attention. 
Affection.
You stood corrected… maybe he was waiting for you. 
“S-Sorry. You’re…” you swallowed thickly and planted your palms down on the blankets. “It’s really big…” 
“It’s only going to get bigger, so don’t hold your breath like that.” 
It was going to what? Your eyes went comically large, and his guideline to keep your gaze on his was momentarily forgotten as you looked down to where the two of you were connected. He wasn’t even all the way in yet! “You’re not serious, are you?” 
Annoyance flashed across his face, his arms trembling with restraint as he held himself back from moving any further. “I don’t joke. Now breathe.” 
You did as he asked, sucking in a shaky breath through your nose that rewarded you with a dizzying rush of his delectable pheromones. The aroma shot through you like a bolt of lightning, striking you deep in your loins and prompting your body to practically melt against the floor, and Sylus sighed above you as he felt your walls flutter around his cock. There had to be some sort of magic attributed to your reaction to the scent, because any discomfort you had felt previously was now nonexistent. 
“Good,” Sylus rumbled proudly. One of his clawed hands lifted away from the floor to tilt your chin up, directing your eyes back to his as he shifted his hips forward ever so slightly. Inch after inch of his member slid home within your cunt, and even though your brain wanted to remain hung up on how mind-boggling the stretch was, you forced yourself to keep breathing. Whatever innate magic his pheromones performed on your body was working perfectly.
It didn’t take long for you to feel the hot, sweat-slick skin of his pelvis go flush against the backs of your thighs. Fully sheathed within your walls, Sylus groaned roughly and planted the hand under your chin beside your head. It was no secret that your dragon was strong; his large, toned body was littered with scars and lined with bulging veins that spoke volumes of his physical prowess. But being wholly beneath him like this– staring up at his broad shoulders, his thick neck, and watching the muscles in his arms shift beneath his skin– it made you feel incredibly small. 
He was giant. 
The realization also amplified your arousal tenfold, for some strange reason. Or maybe it was just his smokey scent diluting your mind with such corrupt thoughts. Either way, you allowed yourself to enjoy the sight of his powerful body moving over you as he grabbed your waist and reared his hips back again. Then without a moment of hesitation, Sylus slammed his cock into you, and your vision flashed white as a cry tore from your lips. 
“F-Fuck, Sylus–” 
He didn’t relent. Low, guttural sounds emanated from deep in his diaphragm as he pounded into you again, and again, and again. Sylus set a brutal pace right from the get-go, thrusting deep inside of your cunt with animalistic ferocity that reminded you how desperate he actually was. Having succeeded in his efforts to relax you, he had completely surrendered to the throes of his rut– grunting and snarling and digging his nails into your flesh as he practically pulled your body against his with every plunge of his cock. 
It was an iniquitous display, but you relished in it all the same. 
You were completely beside yourself. Your hands fisted in the stained blankets beneath you to hold on for dear life, your mouth falling open to let out loud, stuttering moans. You wanted to rock your hips back into Sylus’ movements, but at some point during the split second his cock withdrew all the way to the tip again, he’d manhandled your bottom half off of the floor. With your shoulder blades digging into the ground and your ass elevated in his bruising grip, the most you could do was writhe fitfully against the makeshift nest. 
“Sylus, Sylus–” you gasped, your eyes rolling back when the head of his shaft struck something deep. Whatever it was, it had you seeing stars, and you desperately needed for him to do it again. “Sylus!” 
You were met with a feral growl from him, his back hunching over as his hips snapped forward and punched another grating cry from your hoarse throat. Your spine arched more and your legs tensed on either side of his hips, and you heard your dragon huff brutishly before he was lowering your rear back to the floor. With quick, pointed movements, Sylus’ nails dragged along your thigh as he slung one of your legs over his shoulder, then pressed the other one against the blankets to spread you open obscenely wide. Then he was fucking into you again– so hard and so fast that it seemed like it shouldn’t be possible. The slap of his hips against your flushed, marked ass was loud, but it was completely overpowered by how shrill your screams were. 
It was everything you’d wanted. Probably more so, because Sylus was ramming into you with insane stamina– moaning and growling and savagely marking your legs with his nails. You didn’t even have the brain power to beg for more. Every time he pulled back and left you nearly empty, he was fucking you open again not long after, the force of his thrusts jolting you along the floor and making a crumpled mess of the blankets beneath you. To further indulge your debauchery, you threw your hands over your head to try to find something– anything– to push against so you could rut back into Sylus’ cock, but all you managed to do was shove pillows and covers farther away. 
Sylus chuckled darkly above you– a sound that made your stomach flip over on itself with how suggestive it was. His eyes were narrowed with pleasure, a half-smirk pulling at the corners of his cheshire-like lips, and he had the audacity to fucking hum, “If you want more, little sorceress, you’re going to have to beg me for it.” 
God, did you ever. You wanted everything Sylus had to offer. In the time you had known your dragon, you had become an insatiable, greedy woman– shameless in your pursuit to fulfill your neverending desires. Seeing as you had already given him your body and your soul, there was no point in considering the cost. No price was too high to pay for pleasure like this. 
“P-Please,” you croaked dryly, your voice garbled and raspy from shouting so much. “I want more. Please, give me more, Sylus.” 
To your horror, Sylus slammed into you and stilled his hips completely, holding himself annoyingly still as he leaned forward so his face was a hairs-width away from yours. The angle practically bent you in half, but you weren’t given any time to dwell on it before he was murmuring, “You can do better than that. I know you can.”
The burning ache in your loins started to transform into a dull, unsatisfied throb, and you keened needily at the lack of stimulation. It was torture. You were certain you looked crestfallen, because Sylus grinned wickedly at whatever expression spread across your face and continued to hold his hips still. 
Fine. You would give the conniving bastard exactly what he wanted, but you would make him pay for making you wait. In an act of complete submission, you licked your lips and bared your throat to him, then used your lower muscles to tighten your innermost walls around his pulsing cock. 
Sylus’ reaction was instantaneous; his mouth fell open around a stuttering groan, a violent shudder rolling over him and prompting his nails to dig into your skin harder, and his half-lidded eyes seemed to bore deep into your very soul when he fixed them on you. “You…”
“Come on, Stayrus. My dragon, please– I want more. I want you to give me everything,” you pleaded brazenly, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his thick wrist where it was still planted against your pinned knee. You knew you would get what you wanted just from using his real name alone, but you still decided to add fuel to the fire. “It hurts, doesn’t it? So don’t wait anymore– just take what you want. I’m yours, Sylus, all yours.” 
Sylus’ crimson eyes went dark as his pupils dilated, only a thin ring of red showing before a ferocious sound came from deep in his chest. You were moderately surprised when he chose to close the gap between the two of you to kiss you again, although it was far from a gentle affair. Sharp canines clamped down on your bottom lip as Sylus bit and sucked at the soft bit of skin until you tasted iron, and then his own tongue darted out to lave over the tiny wound. 
“Mine,” he growled, his mouth descending lower to plant one lone bite against the same spot he had months earlier. “All mine.” 
The potency of his declaration was overshadowed by how fast he reared his hips back before slamming them forward again. More of Sylus’ weight pressed down on the leg he held against the floor, but only for a moment. Just as the pressure started to border on painful, he snatched the limb up and tucked it against his side, pinning it there with his arm so your lower half was completely restrained at his mercy. When he deigned to start pounding into you again, you were almost tempted to start praying. 
Sylus held you securely in his grip in an act of complete possession, fucking into you harder and faster as his long, firm thrusts transformed into deeper ones accompanied by grinding rutting. The new position drove the swollen head of his cock against that same spot from before– so fast and so intense that it almost knocked you out. Your throat felt raw as you threw your head back and cried out his name, the sheer ecstasy overtaking you comparable to nothing on this Earth. Your brain was melting as you burned hotter, the knot of pleasure in the pit of your stomach constricting more and more, and Sylus let loose a loud, rumbling groan when your cunt started to clamp down on his cock. 
Wait, no. It wasn’t that you were tightening around him… he was getting bigger. 
You could feel your walls stretching wider with every toe-curling thrust Sylus bestowed upon you, and your startled gasp was muted by the sordid sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin. “Sy– I– Sylus, w-wait–” 
“I can’t wait anymore,” he snarled viciously, his head falling back between his shoulders and sending strands of silvery hair across his forehead. “Fuck, you’re intoxicating.” 
There was no way you were imagining it; the base of his cock was swelling. Your body was left with no choice but to conform to the new shape entering it at a rapid, mind-numbing pace, and your next breath was cut short when he struck that sensitive, spongy spot deep inside of you again. “Sylu– ah!” 
“Breathe,” he commanded sharply, his lust-dark eyes boring down on you as his grip on your legs turned bruising. You could see the litany of scratches that covered your thighs and your hips now that he was holding you up, but the only thing you could wholly focus on was how full you were quickly becoming. If he had been big before, now he was massive. His eyes pinched shut, and it seemed like he had to force the rest of his sentence out through sheer force of will. “Just breathe– you can handle it.” 
You begged to differ. It felt insane– like his cock was swiftly taking up any remaining space inside your body and making it impossible for oxygen to reach your lungs. You still tried, though. Through your nose and your mouth, you inhaled as deep as you were able, the air tinged with Sylus’ familiar smokey-sweet scent. His pheromones. The aroma somehow helped your body to relax, and your abdominal muscles untensed enough that the stinging stretch of your cunt shifted into something more enjoyable. 
It was a dizzying sensation, and Sylus stared down at you unblinkingly as your expression went from alarmed to serene. “That’s it… good girl,” he groaned, punctuating the praise with a harsh buck of his hips. “You fit me so well, little sorceress. It’s like you were made for me.” 
If you could form words at all anymore, you would have wholeheartedly agreed. You were made for him. You were his, and he was yours– your dragon. A cacophony of sinful noises spilled from Sylus’ open mouth as he spread his knees to give himself better leverage, fucking into you so fiercely that you knew he was close. The swollen base of his cock steadily grew larger, the stretch so absurd that you blearily wondered if your body would be able to revert back to its natural state when all was said and done. The thought was fleeting and irrelevant, however, as you were reduced to a drooling, boneless wreck in response to his blunt head assaulting your sweet spot over and over and over. 
It was pure rapture– absolute euphoria– and the tight coil in your gut that had been on the verge of snapping for far too long finally came undone. 
You wailed as you came, though there was a fairly good chance that any words you tried to speak were unintelligible. It was like your entire being– body, mind, and soul– ascended to some higher plane as your climax crashed over you. Between Sylus’ scent flooding your head and his brutal pace growing faster, it felt like you came and then kept coming. Your legs shook in his arms, and Sylus swore viciously as he held you through all of it.
After a few strained thrusts, Sylus followed you right over the edge. He fully sheathed himself within your trembling walls and roared, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous room so loudly that you knew if anyone were upstairs inside the chapel, they would have heard him. Through the waves of pleasure that rolled over you, you became keenly aware of the base of his cock swelling within you, and the uneven thrusts that had followed his animalistic cry transformed into shallow grinding. 
He was locked in place. You could feel your body enveloping his girth– stretched so tight around him that the tiniest movements made you whimper and twitch beneath him. You could never have anticipated something like this happening when you’d walked in on him earlier, but you were having a difficult time regretting your impulsive decision to seek him out. 
Sylus pressed his hips against you harder, a telling warmth spreading deep within you, and suddenly there were no thoughts you could formulate. Your voice was barely more than a choked whisper when you stuttered, “G-God…” 
Sylus had to take a moment to gather his bearings, his eyes clamping shut firmly before cracking open to reveal his crimson irises in their entirety. Then with the utmost care, he slid your legs off of his shoulders and lowered them to the floor. It was almost embarrassing how aggressively they trembled, but he didn’t pay any mind to your shaking. His muscular arm was like a steel band as it coiled under your back to lift you from the blankets, and then he tipped himself sideways against the mountain of pillows before situating you comfortably on top of his chest. You were dead weight against him with your face hidden in the crook of his neck, your arms and legs completely boneless, but you were well aware of his cock still pulsing inside you. 
With how swollen it had become, you knew it wouldn’t be leaving you any time soon. 
Sylus’ heavy breathing eventually became softer and more controlled, at which point he lifted an arm to lightly trail his nails up and down your spine. It was soothing, and you shivered and sighed against him while your brain gradually started working again. 
“I told you it would get bigger,” Sylus remarked dryly, his deep timbre reverberating through your spent body.
Unable to stop yourself, you huffed out a short laugh. Your lips brushed against the skin of his throat as you muttered, “You could have been more specific. I didn’t realize you meant it would grow like that.” 
His fingers against your back halted for a split second, and silence filled the room for a few beats. Then softly, Sylus murmured, “Does it hurt?” 
The genuine concern in his voice prompted you to crack your eyes open. Beyond the broad expanse of his chest you found yourself lying on, you couldn’t see anything… namely his face. You wondered what sort of expression he was making as he asked about your wellbeing, but you were still so limp that you couldn’t be bothered to sit up to check for yourself. “No. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but breathing helped.” 
“Remember that the next time you think about not listening to me.” 
Now you were really glad you weren’t looking at him, because you were positive he wouldn’t appreciate the way you rolled your eyes. “Whatever…” you sighed softly and shifted your hips a little, trying to gauge how much movement you were allowed with Sylus’ cock still stuffing you to the brim. Flushing red at the feeling, you asked, “How long do we have to stay like this?” 
He hummed thoughtfully, the tips of his fingers trailing higher and higher up your spine until they reached your hair. He carded through the strands lightly and shrugged, “Don’t know.” 
“What do you mean you don’t know? Am I supposed to stay like this all night?” 
Sylus shrugged again, and you had to fight the urge to use what minimal strength you had left to smack him upside his horned head. “It varies from dragon to dragon. I’ve never knotted before– much less a mortal. You may as well get comfortable and try to sleep. You’ll need your energy for later.” 
Later? Your heart skipped a beat, and you finally lifted your head from its resting place to stare down at Sylus with wide, questioning eyes. “Why? What’s happening later?” 
The smirk he flashed you was nothing short of sacrilegious. His otherworldly eyes crinkled at their corners, and the wicked edge of his sharp incisors glinted against the flickering torchlight within the chamber. “Don’t tell me you thought this would end so soon? How naive of you.” 
Your pitiful squeak was enough of an answer; you had absolutely assumed he would be sated after going at it like a ravenous beast the one time. 
Sylus wrapped his arms around you to haul you back down against his chest, a rumbling sort of purr vibrating through you at the same time his trademark scent graced your nose again. You were hardly of a mind to protest– not that you wanted to, by any means– so you let him soothe your nerves and calm your mind in that unique, atypical way of his. Turning his head so his lips brushed against your ear, Sylus said, “Allow me to remind you that it was your idea to seek me out down here. It’s only the first day of my rut, and you’ve already gone and promised me your body.”
You swallowed thickly, your lashes fluttering against the warm skin you were pressed against. “I did…”
The throaty chuckle that sounded from him had heat pooling in your veins all over again. Sylus playfully nipped at your ear, his fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Rest well, little sorceress. It’s your turn to fulfill my desires, and I have no intention of letting you go until I’ve been completely satisfied.” 
573 notes · View notes
zephyrchama · 2 days ago
Text
You rubbed your eyes. You were seeing things. Strange, sparkly things floating in the air around Solomon. They appeared to radiate out of him, causing you to stare and making his surroundings look dull in comparison.
He was just sorting books, leafing through them one at a time before placing them in one of five piles. The books were not dazzling. In fact, they were rather dusty and some were starting to fall apart. None of them had the same strange shimmer as Solomon. He practically had his own personal limelight. Your eyes narrowed. The rays didn't seem physical, perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight.
Solomon noticed the staring. The corners of his mouth turned up into a bemused smile. "See something you like?"
"Did you... do something?" you asked. It was hard to put into words exactly what was wrong.
The walking glowstick only grinned more. "You mean, with my hair or clothes?" He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the side above his ear. A tiny wave of starlight flowed out like a swarm of fireflies and dissipated into the surrounding air. "I did try some new soap that Simeon recommended the other day. Funny enough, it markets itself as 'soap scented.'"
He was being way too casual about this.
"That's not it. Something is different." You shut your eyes really hard, then opened and closed them in rapid succession. The weird lights were still there, and still only on Solomon.
"Did you enchant yourself?" you blurted out in accusation.
"Is that what it looks like?" The sorcerer looked highly amused. It made the radiant glitter shine brighter in contrast to his seasoned old books.
"Yeah. You're all sparkly. You look like the love interest in a shoujo manga." When you closed your eyes, you could still see Solomon's afterimage.
"Is that how you see me? Well, I'm flattered."
You knew Solomon, and you knew him well. If this wasn't planned, he'd take it more seriously. He'd ask questions, diagnose your vision, and check himself over for charms or curses at the very least. He'd probe for information. He'd express more than a vague entertainment over the issue.
You pooled your magic and, to the best of your ability, dispelled whatever Solomon had going on. It was a trick he'd taught you months ago that you only used once in a blue moon, but it worked. A little gust of power crossed the room from you to him. The glitzy sparkles faded away and Solomon stopped glowing.
"I knew it!" you shouted, pointing your finger at your mentor. "You did enchant yourself!"
"Well, I always want to look my best in front of you." Solomon was chuckling as the last of his magical effect evaporated. "What do you think, did it work?"
With silver-gray hair that sparkled like stars in the right light and a bright glossy cloak that looked like the universe, Solomon was plenty eye-catching on a normal day. He didn't need more. You frankly stated, "You looked like a human disco ball."
479 notes · View notes
girlgenius1111 · 18 hours ago
Text
you must've been looking for me
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
alexia putellas x reader r is struggling in the aftermath of an injury that has sidelined her for a couple months. alexia begins to realize that r is struggling in a different way than she initially thought. yet r is not quite ready or willing to admit or accept that she isn't okay. tw for discussions of an eating disorder.
Alexia wasn’t sure when it started. She wasn’t sure how she missed it, either. All she knew was that one day she looked at you, and noticed for the first time that something was wrong. There were all the physical signs, sure. But what got her the most was the look in your eyes, like you were exhausted every second of every day. 
Then, she started noticing more. The clear apprehension on your face at meals. The click of the lock on the bathroom door when you went to shower. The way you shied away from her hands whenever they drifted too close to your stomach or thighs. Eating less. Disappearing to the bathroom after dinner. 
Suddenly, everything clicked into place. She’d written so much off as you just having a hard time adjusting to being out injured. Alexia hated herself, just a little bit, for not catching it sooner. She should have been paying more attention, should have been focused on you and your tendency to overthink rather than your ankle and when you’d be well enough to get back on the pitch. 
Now, your ankle was the least of her worries. Yet she knew she had to approach this carefully. You weren’t one to jump at the chance to talk about your feelings. You never had been. Alexia had always felt that there was a layer to you that you never let anyone see. Not even her. She was okay with that, understood that. Emotions weren’t the easiest thing for her, either. It appeared that the things you kept locked away inside were hurting you a lot more than Alexia had ever considered. And she wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to talk to you about something she was sure you didn’t want to discuss. 
You, meanwhile, thought you were being subtle. Perhaps because it had taken Alexia weeks to notice, you felt pretty confident that no one could tell that anything was wrong. As far as you were concerned, nothing was wrong. This was just… something that happened sometimes. A phase. A phase of having a difficult time and hating what you saw looking back at you in the mirror. 
You’d… fix it, and then go back to normal. Your ankle would heal, you’d be able to go back to working out like you usually did, go back to looking how you were used to looking. You refused to think about how cliche you sounded, even in your own head. Everyone said they had control, that they’d stop once they got to where they wanted to be. 
But you were sick, and the sick part of you refused to see what the logical part of your brain clearly recognized. This wasn’t okay. This wasn’t under control. 
Unfortunately, logical you wasn’t winning out at the moment. The other part was in charge, pulling you deeper and deeper into a dark pit that had no mechanism to use to climb out. You fell blindly into that pit, like you were helpless to fight back. All you had to do was open your eyes and realize that what you were doing wasn’t going to make you better. Yet you stubbornly kept your eyes squeezed shut, because if you pretended not to know what you were doing, you could keep doing it. 
Your plan didn’t account for your girlfriend. Your earnest, sweet, protective girlfriend, who was sitting next to you on the sofa, thoughts racing with different things she could say. In the end, she didn’t go with any of the speeches she’d practiced in her head in the shower, or at night while you slept next to her. She didn’t use any of the advice she’d read online. 
Really, Alexia just panicked. Because you were sitting next to her, your hand loosely gripping hers, watching the same film she was watching, but you felt so far away. Your thoughts were elsewhere, she could tell. And all of a sudden, like a high speed crash, Alexia was hit with a wave of anxiety. You were slipping away right in front of her. You were hurting, and you were right there next to her and she didn’t know how to reach you. Didn’t know how to fix it, how to take the pain away. All she knew was that she couldn’t lose you, couldn’t watch you hurt any longer without saying something. 
You’d been lost in your thoughts, considering whether it would be easier to skip breakfast or lunch the next day, when Alexia’s voice broke the calm tranquility of the evening. 
“Can we talk?” Alexia said suddenly. You jolted slightly, turning your head to find her already looking at you. Already gazing at you with something unreadable in her eyes. Your surprise quickly morphed into concern, and you reached for the remote, pausing the TV. 
“Yeah, of course. Is everything okay?” You wondered, turning your body to give your girlfriend your full attention. 
Alexia hesitated for a moment. It was clear to her that you were blissfully unaware of what she was about to bring up. You were looking at her with your brows furrowed, like something was wrong with her, like she was the one who needed to be worried about. 
The brunette took a deep breath, before smiling sadly at you and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I do not think you are going to want to discuss what I want to talk about. But please, amor, just let me say what I need to say. Okay?” 
You blinked, a wave of fear washing over you. Was Alexia about to break up with you? Right then, right there? Was the best thing you’d ever known about to be over?
“Okay.” You said quietly, voice trembling. “Is it about… us?” 
“No, bebé. It’s not about us.” You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and Alexia looked apprehensive,, raking a hand back through her loose hair. “It’s about you, mi amor. I’m worried about you.” 
You felt your stomach drop. Heat rushed to your face. That feeling that the world might be ending settled in your chest. Your mouth went dry, your hands began to shake. “I’m… I’m fine, Ale.” 
Alexia pursed her lips, before slowly shaking her head. “No, bebé. I do not think you are.” 
Your girlfriend didn’t say it like there was any question to the matter; she spoke as though the issue was settled. Like there was no argument to be had about whether or not you were okay. Her firmness made you pause, long enough for Alexia to begin speaking again.
“Something has been off for a few weeks, but I just thought you were having a hard time with being injured. I have been paying more attention, though, and I know what I am seeing, now, bebé. I know what is going on, and I do not want you to pretend that it is nothing.” 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You said stubbornly, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists in your lap. Your whole body was taught with tension, and Alexia’s eyes flitted over you, like she wanted to pull you in but knew you wouldn’t let her right then. 
Something wasn’t making sense to you. Everything your girlfriend was saying, the way she was speaking, it all made it seem like she knew. But if she knew… there was no way she’d be looking at you with the amount of love you saw on her face. There was no way she’d look this worried and not… disgusted. Not upset. 
As if reading your mind, Alexia spoke again. 
“You do, mi amor. And I am telling you that you do not have to be ashamed or embarrassed or feel guilty or anything. I just want you to talk to me, okay?” 
Something about the soft tone of her voice shook you to your core, and suddenly it was a fight to blink away the tears pooling in your eyes. She always did this, always knew exactly what to say to get you to admit that something was wrong. She’d done it when you’d broken your ankle, and she’d somehow known you needed to cry about it. When you’d made that mistake against Seville and she hadn’t let you walk away from her without letting her hug you. 
You shook your head rapidly, digging your nails into your palm. “I can’t.” 
The words slipped out before you could stop them, and they felt like an admission of guilt. Alexia wasn’t phased, though, her hazel eyes gazing at you so warmly you wanted to sob. 
“Okay. Then let me tell you what I have noticed, sí?” You didn’t reply, but Alexia kept going anyway. “You are eating less. And when you do not eat less, you disappear afterwards, and come back looking like you just cried. You flinch away when I touch you sometimes, and you change in the bathroom with the door shut. You’re quieter, and sadder, and I can see that you are hurting.”
Alexia paused, letting the silence fill the room as she studied you. Your eyes were fixed on a spot on the sofa underneath you, but Alexia could see the glimmer of tears waiting to break free. 
“Mi amor, I think you are having a hard time eating.” Your eyes squeezed shut, and Alexia’s heart squeezed in her chest. “I want to help you, bebé, but you have to tell me how. You have to let me.” 
It was quiet for a moment, Alexia watching your facial expression to gain any understanding of where your head was at, what you were about to say. She was fully prepared for more resistance, more pushback. She was half surprised you hadn’t shouted at her yet, actually. 
But just as she was getting ready to say something else, to try to coax you into talking to her with more soft words and gentle reassurances, you opened your mouth. It was barely more than a whisper, but the silence that filled the room meant Alexia heard you easily. 
“I didn’t want you to know.” 
The pain in your voice took Alexia’s breath away, just for a moment. “Why, cariño?” 
You scoffed, finally raising your head to look her in the eye. “Why? Because it’s humiliating, Alexia. It’s disgusting and it’s shameful and it’s stupid and I should know better. I’m an adult, not a teenager, and this is just so ridiculous, and now you’re worrying about it and I’m messing everything up.” 
Your girlfriend shook her head gently, reaching out to cradle your cheek, swiping her thumb under your eye to catch a falling tear. 
“No, it is none of those things. Not disgusting, not shameful, not stupid. Eating disorders are not something only teenagers deal with, amor, you know that.” 
Your breath caught at the mere title of what you already knew was going on with you. It shouldn’t have been so jarring to hear it outloud, but something about hearing it made it more real, more serious. More terrifying. 
Alexia continued, her voice soft and coaxing.“This happens to so many athletes. Did you really think I would judge you or see you differently because of this?” 
You shrugged, sniffling. “Logically, no. But I just… my brain isn’t being very logical right now. And…” 
You let the sentence drift off, thinking twice about what you were going to say. Your girlfriend had caught the way your eyes seemed to fill with tears again, and she leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. 
“And what, bebé? Tell me.” 
You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself as if for impact, when really you were saying a simple sentence. Still, the sentence felt like another admission of guilt, another failure you’d be admitting to. It felt like a testament to how sick you knew you were, but you weren’t quite ready to accept that yet. 
“And I knew you’d make me stop.” You whispered. 
Alexia’s expression softened even further, if that was possible, and this time she didn’t hold herself back from tugging you into her arms. With your face pressed into her chest, there was nothing left in you that was willing to pretend that you were okay. Soft sobs filled the quiet of the apartment, but you weren’t too far gone to not feel shame. 
“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m such a mess right now, you don’t need to deal with this.” You pulled away, drying the tears off your face with the hem of your shirt. When you looked back at your girlfriend she was frowning, almost sternly, like you were about to get a lecture.
“Do not talk about yourself like that, please. You are not, and never have been, something I deal with. You are someone I love, you could never be a burden to me.” 
Sometimes, more often than you liked to admit, Alexia would say things to you that felt too good to be true. Like you were living someone else’s life, a life you didn’t deserve. This was one of those things that felt like it was too sweet, too good to be said to you. 
All you could do in response was grab Alexia’s hand and squeeze it with a weak smile on your face. Somehow, Alexia didn’t seem to find this very convincing. 
“I mean it, mi amor. I am here for you, however you need me to be. If you need me to talk to Pere and the physios with you, I will. If you want me to come with you to therapy, I will. If you need me to–”
What little peace you’d found in Alexia’s comfort evaporated almost immediately. You leaned away from her, your expression suddenly defensive and unmistakably scared. 
“Talking to the physios? To Pere? Therapy? Alexia, none of that is necessary.” 
Alexia’s mouth opened and shut a few times, as she looked at you, completely stunned. “You- not necessary? Amor, this is serious.” 
But it couldn’t be. You couldn’t let it be serious. Couldn’t be the person everyone worried about, couldn’t be the girl who wasn’t okay. It was one thing to admit you had a bit of a problem. It was entirely another to admit that it was a problem you’d completely lost control of. 
You didn’t think about how you couldn’t make it through any meal without thinking of all the calories within. 
You didn’t think about hearing that voice, the one that lived inside your head that told you that you were horrible and bad and ugly and unlovable. 
You didn’t think about how even on days where you did eat, and didn’t make yourself sick afterwards, the thoughts that ran through your head were enough to make you question if you really even wanted to be here at all anymore. 
You didn’t think about how you couldn’t understand why anyone stayed, why anyone spent any time with you. Because it was more than just an eating problem; there was something wrong inside your head that made you hate yourself, and this was just another manifestation of that broken part of you. 
“It’s not serious. It’s completely under control.” 
Alexia blinked at you, completely disbelieving. It didn’t make any sense to her; you’d admitted something was going on, but taking it a step further and admitting you needed help wasn’t something you’d allow. How could you see there was a problem and not see that it couldn’t be fixed by you all on your own? It didn’t make any sense to her. 
“It’s not, bebé. It is not under control. You need help.” Alexia worked to keep her voice soft, gentle. You still reacted like she’d shouted at you.
Rising from the sofa, you put as much distance between you and your girlfriend as you could. All you felt was fear, and sadness. Neither of those emotions were safe emotions, though. Neither of those were emotions you could hide behind, so you did the only thing you could think of. You got angry. 
“Alexia, I don’t need help. Not your help, not anyone else’s help. You don’t get to tell me what I need.” It wasn’t so much your words but the vitriol you spoke with that had your girlfriend realizing this conversation was over for the evening. 
“You are upset. We can talk more tomorrow when we are more calm.” Alexia said slowly, looking like she wanted to reach out and grab your hand, but resisted. You were rendered speechless that she hadn’t shouted back at you. It was shocking that she hadn’t tried harder. 
Shocking, and something else. Disappointing, just slightly. Like maybe she was giving up on you. 
Alexia walked away into the bedroom, and you didn’t know whether to follow or not. You didn’t know how to face her after all of this, you didn’t know how to ask for what you needed. 
All you could do was stare at the space she’d been standing, and wonder when everything had gotten so messy.
You slept on the couch that night, though you didn’t really want to. It felt like you were being torn in two, with part of you craving the comfort Alexia had provided, the relief of knowing that she finally knew and you didn’t have to keep so much hidden from her. The other part of you couldn’t admit she was right, that you did need help. You weren’t sure if it was pride that stopped you, or fear of what anyone finding out would mean. More than anything, you didn’t want anyone to see you differently. Not the team, not the staff. Not anyone. You didn’t want to be unwell, you didn’t want to be worried about. The latter part of you must have been stronger, because instead of crawling into bed next to Alexia and letting her wrap you up in her arms, you were on the couch under a soft throw blanket that didn’t feel anywhere close to as soft as Alexia. 
The next morning came without either of you getting much sleep, yet you woke up with an alarming amount of clarity. Maybe Alexia had been whispering in your ear while you slept, or maybe your brain just needed to relax before it really thought critically about what was going on. Either way, you felt a little embarrassed for how you reacted the night before. You didn’t want to need help, but you also weren’t completely blind to the fact that you needed it. The suggestion, though, of telling people, of asking for help, was so terrifying it had you spiralling and downright refusing before you’d even really thought much about it. 
But in the light of day, you realized maybe Alexia had a point. There was a before all this, a time when you didn’t think about the way you looked or obsessed over the things you ate. There was a time before everything felt this heavy, even if you hadn’t realized how heavy things had gotten until just now. And you’d thought, for a while, that a time after would come when you’d been successful, when you’d gotten to where you wanted to be. You also knew how wrong that thinking was, knew enough about eating disorders to know there was no point you’d be satisfied if you kept going like this. 
There could still be an after, just maybe a more healthy one. 
How to explain this mess of thoughts to your girlfriend, you weren’t sure. 
You were hesitantly standing in the doorway of the bedroom, needing to get dressed to go to training, though training was still just rehab for you, but unsure if Alexia wanted you in the room. 
She’d been upset last night, that was for sure. And, to an extent, you understood why. You just weren’t sure how long this… whatever she was feeling, anger or not, would last. You didn’t know if she was going to look at you with that fearful and disappointed look in her eyes again, the look you saw last night and would be perfectly content never seeing again as long as you lived. 
Yet Alexia came out of the bathroom, pulling a t-shirt over her head, and her lips tilted into a small smile at the sight of you. Without any hesitation on her part, your girlfriend crossed the room in a few steps and pulled you into a hug. You hugged her back, though you were confused. 
Alexia murmured a quiet good morning into your hair, seemingly content to just… stand there and hold you for a minute. 
“Hi.” You whispered back. “Are you not… not mad at me?” 
Alexia pulled away finally, her forehead creased in confusion. “Mad? Why would I be mad?” 
“I… last night you were mad because I said I didn’t need any help. You were upset with me, that’s why I slept on the sofa.” 
“No, mi amor, no.” Alexia said rather frantically, gently grabbing your face in her hands. “I was not mad. I was upset, yes, but not mad at you. You were so worked up and upset, I thought you wanted space, that is why I did not say anything when you didn’t come to bed.” 
“Oh.” You mumbled, eyes casted downwards in an effort to avoid eye contact with your girlfriend. “I misunderstood.” 
You felt Alexia’s lips press against your temple before you were back in her arms, squeezed tight to her chest. 
“I am sorry, bebé. I was not angry with you. This is not… this is not something I get to be angry with you about, understand? This is so difficult, and you need to do this on your own time and your own terms. I cannot, and will not, force you to do something you are not ready to do. Recovery… it has to be a choice, mi amor. It has to be your choice.” 
Somehow, all of that made you feel worse. You’d half been hoping she’d still be mad, you realized, just so you could be mad back at her. Just so you could go back to ignoring the fact that she was right last night. You did need help. But she was being soft and understanding and patient, and that didn’t leave you much room to deny what you knew to be true. 
Alexia was right. Getting better had to be something you wanted. And while you were sure you were at wanting yet, you knew that you needed to get better. 
You must have been quiet for longer than you thought, because Alexia was tilting your chin up and saying your name for what sounded like not the first time. 
“Tell me what is going on in your head. Please.” 
You inhaled deeply, suddenly feeling like you didn’t have the words to explain anything that was going on in your head. “I just… I don’t know. I think you were right last night, but I don’t want to think that. I don’t want to need help, Ale, I really don’t. I don’t know what to do. I’m- I’m scared.” 
Those words may have never left your mouth before, save for when you were forced into watching horror movies. Yet they spilled right out of your mouth so easily, Alexia’s magic power of somehow making you be vulnerable working too well. 
The relief that flashed across your girlfriend’s face was not something you could possibly miss. You hadn’t even fully agreed with her yet, but clearly the fact that you weren’t still stuck in denial was enough for Alexia, and that made it feel like enough for you, too. 
“You do not have to know what to do. You do not have to fix this yourself. We can figure it out together, amor. Take today to think about what you want to do. Nothing has to be decided right now. Think about therapy, consider it. But try to breathe for now, hm? Everything is going to be okay. I promise.” 
Alexia leaned in, then, gently pressing her lips to yours. She kissed you with emotion and love and so much softness, you felt tears sting your eyes. You weren’t sure why, exactly, but you believed her that everything would be okay. It was the way she said it, confident and sure, that settled something within you. That took some of the unease and just made it go away. 
Of course, today of all days was when the medical staff decided you were ready to run again. You’d thought it was still a few days off, maybe a week, but they were happy with the progress you were making. Esther, the lead physio in charge of your recovery, told you the news excitedly, and initially, you felt the same way.
Though it was just meant to be a light jog on the treadmill, you thought it might make you feel better, might calm the racing thoughts that had been plaguing you since the night before, but which had grown even worse since Alexia had left you to train with the team. You could tell she was nervous by the way she bit at her bottom lip and squeezed your hand almost too tight in the hall outside the gym. 
“Have someone come get me if you need me, okay? Promise?” She’d said. 
You’d promised, though you hadn’t thought you’d need her. You’d have been wrong though. 
Because here you were, barely a half hour later, and it felt like everything was crashing down around you for the second time in less than 24 hours. 
You hadn’t done any intense exercise since your injury. Hadn’t run since then. Incidentally, that meant you hadn’t done any intense exercise or running since… it had started. And within just a few minutes of your run, your head began to spin. Black spots dotted your eyes, and your breath came short. 
You’d have liked to think that it was just a lack of water, or maybe the stress of the night before combined with such an overwhelming step forward in your recovery. Instead, as you pulled the emergency stop pin and stumbled off the treadmill, all you could think was that you’d really messed up. 
You could feel the weakness in your body, the lack of strength that had nothing to do with your time off recovering from your injury. 
What you’d probably known already became suddenly very apparent and undeniable. You were weak because you hadn’t been eating. Hadn’t been fueling yourself correctly. Not enough to get through the day, certainly not enough to get through a workout. The consequences of your actions were staring you right in the face, and even though you should have seen them coming, they were a complete shock. 
What you’d tried to tell yourself was a quest to be better, be healthier, was something else entirely. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t about that. It was about what you looked like and how you felt in your body. 
If you kept going like this, your career would be in trouble. The realization felt like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach. 
You sat down heavily on a weight bench, dropping your head into your hands. You were lost in your head, entirely and completely enveloped in the enormity of what you’d been doing to yourself, and what it meant for you. 
A hand rested on your back, and a voice met your ears. 
“Hey, talk to me. What’s going on? Is it your ankle?” Esther asked, scanning your body for any sign of what was wrong. You’d been fine one minute, jogging happily on the treadmill, a small smile on your face. The next, you’d gone pale, all the color draining from your face before you practically fell off the treadmill. 
“N-no.” You managed. “Dizzy.” 
You didn’t have to look at Esther’s face to know she was confused. Before she could speak, though, a second voice piped up. 
“Esther, can you go get Alexia?” Kika said quietly, crouching down on your other side. Her face was scrunched with concern, and she grabbed your hand, squeezing gently. 
Esther was off without another word, and your stomach twisted at the thought of Alexia seeing you like this, of Alexia knowing that things were this bad. It seemed, too, that Alexia wasn’t the only one that knew something was going on. 
Even though your head was still spinning, you forced your eyes back open and looked down at Kika.
“What did she tell you?” 
Kika gave you a sad smile. “Nothing, really. Just asked me to get her if you didn’t seem okay.” 
Your heart simultaneously clenched and melted. Of course Alexia would ask the only other player in the gym for recovery with you to keep an eye on you. And of course, she didn’t tell anyone anything specific, just as she promised she wouldn’t. 
“Just breathe slow, okay? I’ll get you some water once Ale gets here.” 
You nodded, just barely, and focused on your breathing. Eyes fixed on your navy training shorts, you inhaled and exhaled, trying to match the rhythm that Kika was rubbing her thumb back and forth over your knuckles. 
You didn’t even have time to glance up when the door opened again before Alexia was darting across the gym and falling to her knees in front of you. She was breathless, frantic, and you felt a pang of guilt for worrying her like this. 
Alexia’s hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your face in her direction. She was sweaty, eyes wide with alarm and frantically scanning your whole body for a sign of what might be hurting you. 
“What is it? What’s wrong?” 
Your eyes flickered to Kika, though the movement made you dizzier. You gripped Alexia’s forearms, trying to hold yourself steady, unsure how to answer Alexia’s question without lying and without letting Kika know what was going on. You didn’t think you could take the shame of another person knowing just yet. 
Luckily, Kika got the hint, mumbling something about water and an energy gel and heading out the door. 
Alexia didn’t look away from you the whole time, her eyes fixated on you, burning with worry. She looked to be seconds away from taking you by the shoulders and shaking you, begging for you to tell her what is wrong. 
“I-I’m not okay.” You whispered, hoping that Alexia knew you well enough to understand what you somehow couldn’t force yourself to say out loud. 
Her expression softened, one hand moving to cradle your cheek. 
“I know, amor. Tell me what does not feel right.” 
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady the wobble of your bottom lip. It was no use, and soon tears were sliding down your cheeks, warm and silent. 
“Dizzy. Really dizzy. I almost passed out.” 
You couldn’t look your girlfriend in the eye, but you could feel the realization hit her, the way her breath caught and her hand tightened its hold on yours. 
“Because of…?”
You nodded, eyes still shut. “I’m not okay.” Repeating this sentence felt like the only thing you could do to ask for help. Because actually asking would have made you the weakest person on earth. 
“Okay. Okay, bebé.” Alexia murmured, tapping your cheek lightly until you opened your eyes again. “You need help, mi amor. We need to get you help.” 
This time, you didn’t jump away from her or act like she was crazy. You didn’t shout. You just exhaled a short breath, and nodded slightly. 
It made you feel sick, agreeing with her. Because asking for help, trying to help yourself was somehow harder than hurting yourself. That was easy, you realized. Hating yourself and believing you didn’t deserve anything good came so naturally to you.
The mere acknowledgement that you needed help was the hardest thing you think you’d ever done. Yet you knew that whatever came next would be even harder. 
i metaphorically just gave you a piece of my soul. please enjoy.
439 notes · View notes
azullumi · 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k
note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)
Tumblr media
PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS
The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.
In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.
The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.
As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.
A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly. 
Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.
But surely there should be something, right?
Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.
Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.
You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.
And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.
From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.
He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.
You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.
However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.
The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.
When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.
“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender, 
Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.
(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)
The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”
You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.
And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.
This was fine, it was fine.
You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.
Tumblr media
ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101
Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite. 
He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you. 
His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.
Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."
Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.
You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.
He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."
You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—” 
“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.” 
He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”
And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.
You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.
Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.
Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.
Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.
“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”
"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?
While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.
For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”
“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”
“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”
He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.
And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart. 
Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.
Tumblr media
MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS
In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.
You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief. 
What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.
One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”
You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.
You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.
“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.
For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.
This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss. 
He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying,  you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.
“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”
But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.
He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.
Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.
They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.
They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”
It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat. 
Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.
Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.
But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”
Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”
Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.
Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”
He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.
Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers  was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”
Tumblr media
© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.
665 notes · View notes
suliigwp · 3 days ago
Text
Lucky Page — OP81
Oscar Piastri x reader | established relationship, SMAU
Tumblr media
SULI: have this little treat before the next chapter of tronab — I'm obsessed with this man. Short and sweet🧡 also please pretend it says Saudi Arabia instead of Miami in a pic😘 you'll get it
Warnings: Thirsty comments, sexy jokes
SUMMARY: Every time Oscar Piastris girlfriend posts him on her private Instagram page before a race— he wins
Tumblr media
China race week
Tumblr media
Liked by pastrypriv, lando.jpg and 21 others.
y/npriv: IM GONNA EAT HIM (lando ipad kid behind 'em)
16 comments.
lando.jpg: I was reading your post🙄
pastrypriv: only you're allowed to eat me
↳ y/npriv: 👀
↳ pastrypriv: can you be wholesome for just a second?
charl3smess: no bc why does he look like he’d taste like strawberry yoghurt
car1105.finsta: I bet he smells like sunscreen I gifted him
a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I think if you bite him he’d make that lil “ow :/” sound
↳ y/npriv: CAN CONFIRM. tested. 7/10 bite resistance
piastrilicious: what the hell is going on here
georgewearssocks: blink twice if they’ve put seasoning on u
↳ lando.jpg: he blinked once. medium rare incoming
↳ y/npriv: dinner’s at 8 x
↳ car1105.finsta: save me the elbow
↳ charl3smess: i want the cheek. soft bits hit different
↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: dibs on the fingers
↳ pastrypriv: you guys are sick
↳ y/npriv: bff you literally said I'm allowed to eat you
↳ pastrypriv: bc I wanted to be devoured with love 💔
...
Tumblr media
Liked by mclaren, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 1M others.
yourusername: First win of the season and so many more to come! I'm so proud of you🧡
24k comments.
oscarpiastri: Couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm 🧡
↳ yourusername: Are you calling me the tire strategy again 😒
↳ oscarpiastri: Maybe 👀
piastribabe99: SHE MANIFESTED THIS I KNOW SHE DID
landonorris: Here we go. Can’t wait to hear about this for the next 3 months.
↳ yourusername: You’ll live.
↳ oscarpiastri: You’re just mad I finished ahead 😌
↳ landonorris: Don’t test me little man
mclarensunshine: this is my Roman Empire. the way she looked at him on the podium 😭
↳ wagsonsight: HER EYES WERE GLOWING
danielricciardo: OH HE’S WINNING WINNING 🔥
↳ yourusername: more things than the race if you know what I mean
↳ danielricciardo: oop
↳ lando: WHAT IS THIS BEHAVIOR
↳ oscarpiastri: y/n.
gridwives: their dynamic >>>>>
maxverstappen1: Congrats, mate. Let’s see if you can do it twice 😉
↳ yourusername: 👀 challenge accepted
↳ oscarpiastri: 😬
oscarpiastriluvr: She’s the proudest gf and I’m sobbing about it
carlossainz55: You better frame this post. Historic moment.
↳ yourusername: Already making a scrapbook 🧡
↳ oscarpiastri: I’m scared
f1wifematerial: real love is posting him even when he still has champagne in his hair
...
Bahrain race week
Tumblr media
Liked by charl3smess, a.lbonbutmakeitferal, georgewearssocks and 19 others.
y/npriv: how he was looking at me last night
22 comments.
pastrypriv: Y/N!
↳ y/npriv: just like last night
↳ lando.jpg: stop this madness 😭
lando.jpg: YOU NEED TO GO TO CHURCH. IMMEDIATELY.
↳ y/npriv: my god is busy blessing Oscar
↳ lando.jpg: I’m calling his mum
m4xisnumberone: I should not be here
↳ y/npriv: then leave
↳ m4xisnumberone: not until I report you to the FIA
charl3smess: I will never unsee this
↳ lando.jpg: SAME
↳ charl3smess: why are you everywhere
a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Delete this before I make a group chat without you
↳ y/npriv: you wouldn’t dare
↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: try me
georgewearssocks: This is entirely inappropriate
↳ car1105.finsta: just say you’re jealous
↳ georgewearssocks: 😐
car1105.finsta: wait so is this a before or after quali kind of look
↳ y/npriv: Carlos?
↳ car1105.finsta: i’m just trying to understand the timeline 🧎‍♂️
↳ pastrypriv: this is so humiliating
...
Tumblr media
Liked by car1105.finsta, m4xisnumberone, lando.jpg and 22 others.
y/npriv: LAWRD HAVE MERCY
comments.
lando.jpg: GET A GRIP
↳ y/npriv: I physically CANNOT
↳ lando.jpg: you need to be stopped
m4xisnumberone: nah cause this one actually made ME flinch
↳ y/npriv: 😌
↳ m4xisnumberone: NO
charl3smess: you’re not normal
↳ y/npriv: he unzipped his suit and so did my sanity
a.lbonbutmakeitferal: not to be dramatic but i feel unsafe here
↳ y/npriv: okay but imagine you saw this in PERSON
↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: i’d pass away
car1105.finsta: you didn’t even try to be subtle
↳ y/npriv: didn’t even TRY
↳ car1105.finsta: that’s love i fear
georgewearssocks: Lord have mercy? No. We need a restraining order.
↳ y/npriv: try and catch me 😌
↳ georgewearssocks: i’m telling Oscar
dannyricc3: yeah okay this one is a little bit illegal
↳ y/npriv: delete your jealousy x
↳ dannyricc3: i’m texting your mother
dannyricc3: Not Oscar keeping his silence
↳ pastrypriv: let me be
...
Tumblr media
Liked by dannyricc3, m4xisnumberone, car1105.finsta and 17 others.
y/npriv: HE WON AGAIN. TWO IN A ROW. i’m not saying it’s because i posted him last night but i posted him last night.
18 comments.
lando.jpg: no because this is getting weird now
↳ y/npriv: don’t act like you’re not scared
↳ lando.jpg: i AM
↳ lando.jpg: imagine how big the gap would be if you attend a gp👀
charl3smess: if he wins three in a row i’m opening a shrine to you
↳ y/npriv: start collecting candles
a.lbonbutmakeitferal: I KNEW IT. WITCHCRAFT.
↳ y/npriv: consider me your local track witch 🧹✨
↳ a.lbonbutmakeitferal: you’re too powerful
georgewearssocks: I was skeptical. Now I’m terrified.
↳ y/npriv: you should be
m4xisnumberone: This is how cults start
↳ y/npriv: you’re just mad i didn’t post you
↳ m4xisnumberone: DON’T
car1105.finsta: can i send a photo of ME with puppy eyes for this week??
↳ y/npriv: lol no. this account chooses oscar now.
↳ car1105.finsta: brutal
pastrypriv: Two wins. Coincidence.
↳ y/npriv: say that again when you’re holding another trophy next week
...
Saudi Arabia Race Week
Tumblr media
Liked by gridlife2025, paddockfashionista, waglifeinsta and 45k others.
F1GossipFeed: Spotted at the Saudi Arabia GP: @/yourusername making a stylish appearance in the paddock! Looks like she’s here to support @/oscarpiastri in person this weekend. ✨🏎️
12k comments.
f1fanatic_23: Love seeing the support! Hope Oscar feels the energy 💙
gridlife2025: She always looks so cool, no wonder Oscar’s killing it this season
raceweekbuzz: VIP vibes for sure, who else wishes they had paddock access?
speedqueen_94: This is the motivation Oscar needs to bring home another podium 👏
paddockfashionista: Okay, her outfit is EVERYTHING. F1 fashion goals!
motorsportjunkie: Supporting your driver in person? That’s next level. Respect.
tracksidevibes: I’m here for the power couple energy, can’t wait to see them at the podium
...
Tumblr media
Liked by lando.jpg, georgewearssocks, pastrypriv and 22 others.
y/npriv: trying something today🤭 good luck my boys!
10 comments.
lando.jpg: You better post me twice for extra luck
↳ y/npriv: double the trouble 😈
pastrypriv: Don’t jinx it, witch
↳ y/npriv: oh, I’m blessing you. Big difference.
charl3smess: Proof that the best wingwomen come with filters and funny faces
m4xisnumberone: I demand a selfie too or I’m boycotting podium photos
a.lbonbutmakeitferal: Make sure you send one to me or I’m crashing your next Zoom call
car1105.finsta: Officially the best hype squad captain
georgewearssocks: I see the power of good vibes in action
dannyricc3: This energy is everything. Good luck boys, don’t disappoint!
...
Tumblr media
Liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri, ln4 and 2.3M others.
mclaren: ✨ DOMINANCE ✨ What a sensational performance from @/oscarpiastri and @/landonorris today at Saudi Arabia! A commanding 1-2 finish, crossing the line nearly 30 seconds ahead of the rest of the pack. Pure teamwork, focus, and speed. 🏆🏆
77k comments.
f1fansworldwide: That’s how you show up and shut it down. McLaren is back baby! 🔥
oscarpiastrifan: Oscar and Lando are unstoppable when they’re together. Loved every second of that race!
landonorrisfanclub: A 30-second gap? Unreal. Proud of my boys 🧡💙
yourusername: My boys did THAT 👀💥 So proud!!
↳ mclaren: our lucky charm🧡
...
Private Group Chat—
'Paddock Hazard'
@/yourusername:
ok but seriously… 30 seconds ahead??
Lucky Page magic strikes again 💅���
@/lando: I want to believe but you’re gonna have to post me solo next time or I’m out 😤
@/oscarpiastri: I’m not sure if I believe this “Lucky Page” thing but… can’t argue with results 😂
@/maxverstappen1: I’m starting to think you’re the real driver here tbh
@/charles_leclerc: Not gonna lie, I’m lowkey jealous of this power you’ve got.
@/alex_albon: So when’s the ritual? I wanna join the cult.
@/yourusername:
First, you gotta post the ugliest selfie you have.
No exceptions.
@/lando: Nooooooo
@/oscarpiastri: If posting on the Lucky Page means I keep winning, I’m down to let her do whatever she wants.
@/yourusername:
Careful what you wish for… next race I’m posting the one of you with bedhead.
@/lando: Wait, that was private!
@/maxverstappen1: I vote for more bedhead pics. It’s only fair.
@/charles_leclerc: Honestly this chat is the best thing about race weekends.
@/alex_albon: Agreed. Also, when’s the group photo for maximum luck?
@/yourusername:
Only if you promise to not fight each other
@/georgerussell63: you expect too much from us
@/maxverstappen1: No promises.
@/georgerussell63: see?
@/oscarpiastri: Whatever happens, Lucky Page is here to stay. Thanks for keeping my podium streak alive
_____________________________________________
Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!
758 notes · View notes
longreads · 2 days ago
Text
If 😂 was a word, would that make emoji a language?
Tumblr media
NEW on Longreads today: An excerpt from Keith Houston’s new book, FACE WITH TEARS OF JOY: A NATURAL HISTORY OF EMOJI, which tells the entire history of emoji so far. 
In 2015, the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary named 😂 the Word of the Year. In this excerpt, “The Emoji Tongue,” Houston explores language, the rapidly changing ways we communicate around the world, and these colorful disruptors we know today as emoji.
Just as the same sequence of letters can mean different things in different languages, some emoji mean different things in different cultural contexts. In Japan, for instance, 🙏 means “thank you” and not “praying” or “high five” as it does in other places. The Japanese words for “poo” and “luck” sound similar, and so 💩has connotations of serendipity that do not travel well.
Read the chapter, “The Emoji Tongue,” on Longreads.
467 notes · View notes
marc--chilton · 1 year ago
Text
(mgv) all those "they're already dating/married" hilson fics but a little to the left in omegaverse....... they spend so much time together that their scents were already intermingled. even if they weren't already bonded no one can pinpoint when they did bond because outwardly they're still indistinguishable as anything but Together anyway
30 notes · View notes
community-gardenss · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
he was hardly monstrous then
16K notes · View notes
fishyfishyfishtimes · 5 months ago
Text
It's always so weird to come down from the biology heavens to see what the average person believes about animals, plants, ecosystems, just the world around them. I don't even mean things that one simply doesn't know because they've never been told or things that are confusing, I'm talking about people who genuinely do not see insects as animals. What are you saying. Every time I see a crawling or fluttering little guy I know that little guy has motivations and drive to fulfill those motivations. There are gears turning in their head! They are perceiving this world and they are drawing conclusions, they are conscious. And yet it's still a whole thing if various bugs of the world feel pain or if they are simply Instinct Machines that are Not Truly Aware of Anything At All????? Help!!!!!! How can you look at a little guy and think he is just the macroscopic animal version of a virus
15K notes · View notes
fucked-by-the-narrative · 12 minutes ago
Text
not only possible, it's GOOD and ESSENTIAL to have friends of different ages than yourself. It helps you to prevent that feeling from disconnect of people who are not living the exact same thing you are - you can get the perspective of people who already have been through similar things than you and made it out the other side, and also maybe meet people who lived differently the same age you are (who maybe had different fun things to do, different obligations, and different desires - how much did that change? maybe it's the environment, maybe it's different people being different, but nevertheless an infinite source of inspiration for you to try new things or marvel at how things were).
the opposite is also not only possible but also vital: people younger than you remind you of how it was to be a little bit naiver, a little bit more restricted by life's pressures (school, not being taken seriously by your family - these things are very easy to forget once you're not being a victim of it). You can try to remember how bad it was, and validate people around you, maybe be the person you wish you had at that time, and see if it was really something that would help.
I dunno, I can't write for shit my ideas, but I just feel you have to be able to see people who are walking the path you already did and people who are already very far along it, and see these people exist and are living, and this process is beautiful and gets better if we know we are not alone. We feel less alone when we are able to relate to people who also live similar dilemmas to us, it makes us feel like the truly social and gregarious organisms we are.
I need you people to realize that you can be friends with people older than you. like, much older than you. like, decades older than you. you can be friends with these people. regular friends, just like anyone your age. it is possible.
65K notes · View notes
artsymeeshee · 4 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Here's the mini comic of Dipper's nightmare! I know the idea of Mabel being the one to have the nightmare about pushing the button has been played with before, but I wanted to explore that with Dipper. (Also sort of a way to include some bonding time with Stan). Plus I think they both benefit having a more serious talk like this.
9K notes · View notes