[catthartic]

٠࣪⭑

this is just an archive blog to save fanfics

also i get to be silly lovey dovey here .

2๑๑7™. .𖥔 ݁ ˖

TAGS : + (character) , + (media)

i dont care about rpf tbh im here to read good writing ++ support my friend!! occasionally ill rb something abt kpop but at that point it's. its rlly not about them as idols its more abt their persona 😭

[myntrose]

misc. texts w/ bf! Valko

a/n : back with some fluffy smau ! I love this wofie sm. + some headcanons I have about his texting style at the end.

c/w : period mentioned but no specific gender, really leaning into valko having wolf traits and habits here, fluff, crack

°˖𓍢ִ໋🍃⋆˚🐾˖°💚⋆

valko texting headcanons :

he's the kinda nerdy that loves using emoticons > emojis. ":D", ":(", "^-^". that last one being his favorite cause he says it's him (wolf ears)

spam texter. he texts exactly what he's thinking right in the moment, which often leads him to forget his original point

you can tell if he's fresh out a meeting with the way he texts you. if he sounds more business ceo, point it out and he'll start apologizing LMAO

speaking off, during meetings he'll text you shamelessly. "baby I'm so bored" 'you're literally working val' "it's so borin this guy keeps bringing up numbers" 'he's your financial consultant???'

likes to send reels of baby animals/puppies cuddling, following up with "look it's us"

if you take too long to respond, or leave him on delivered/read for a second longer than he likes, he'll send shit like "oh so you hate me okay"

all right reserved to @myntrose on tumblr. do not copy, translate, repost, or claim my work as your own. the artwork on my blog does not belong to me, unless stated otherwise.

[nanaqinli]

Texts w Valko <3

notes: mostly sfw, slightly suggestive. my first smau!!! it's just a small test, lmk how i did please go easy on me thank uuu ^^

[snoozer-crow]

valko being so oblivious (maybe purposefully so) about the controversy him being gay would cause, that he's not afraid at all to be seen in public and at events matching clothes and holding hands with m!reader! when press approaches him for a comment about the speculation, he just flashes them a sharp toothed grin and says "yeah! that's my boyfriend." like it's no big deal.

he'd just be so happy to be able to show you off as his that any fear of controversy or backlash completely leaves his brain. he seems almost giddy when people ask about you, completely ignorant of their tone as he tells them how happy you make him. he'd go to gay bars with you and attend pride parades with the bi flag painted on his cheeks and the biggest smile on his face as he waves around a pride flag.

of course if someone openly doubted your relationship, he wouldn't have any problem decking them in the face for it. but he wouldn't let it ruin your date together, and quickly switches his focus to cheering you up, taking you somewhere with good pastries or your favorite drink just to see a smile back on your face again. :))

[humanjarvis]

tw: mentions of not eating

“eight,” he says when he plucks your headphones off. 

before you go to bed for the night, “eleven.” 

when he looms over you with a flat-sounding “twenty-one,” you finally crack. “i can count, too. one two, three, fou—”

“your skills are impressive. unfortunately, i’m counting because it's been twenty-one hours since i’ve seen you eat a scrap of food. unless you've been taking your meals in the shower?”

“maybe i have.”

“efficient,” he remarks. “but i can’t imagine it’s texturally satisfying.” 

your shoulders sag under his unimpressed gaze. “i just haven't been hungry, sylus.”

“if you only eat when you're hungry, your body’s already behind. is there something wrong? are you sick?” 

“it’s more like i’m forgetting than anything. i’ll get so caught up in thinking, and before i know it, hours have passed. by the time i notice, i have to choose between food and sleep. sleep usually wins.”

he nods slowly, pondering something. then, he starts to turn on his heel. “well, the dishes should be dry by now, so i’m going to bake some cupcakes. feel free to join me,” he says casually. 

you blink like you’ve misheard. “cupcakes?”

“yes. the twins are out for the night, so there’s no fear of them being stolen fresh out of the oven. it’s a rare opportunity.” 

at that moment, your stomach growls. 

he nods approvingly, as if the sound came on his command. “not hungry, huh?” 

as you stare down at your belly, searching for answers, it only says hello to you again. “i didn’t think i was.” 

“maybe you just needed something to awaken your appetite. now that it’s back, we can't let it go dormant again.” he extends a large hand and helps you up from the sofa, a half-smile spreading on his hopeful face. “come on. i’ll mix, you frost.” 

you shuffle forward a few steps, then pause. “…do you have sprinkles?” 

at his rich laugh, your stunted spirits soar. “yes, sweetie. i keep a drawer full just for you.” 

[feastofdesires]

Valko had no idea what to expect getting tangled up with you.

That you were in bed with Onychinus literally and firguratively was hard to wrap his head round at first. Especially when you had only good things to say. About how much a criminal organization felt like a family.

It was absurd.

But his pack wasn’t so different, really. His blood binds him to his aunties and cousins. To the oldest and the youngest. He could see how it was similar, belonging, even if it wasn’t by blood. Maybe that’s what made it even more special: the existence of choice.

Meeting Sylus… also wasn’t what he expected. Maybe it’s all the rumors surrounding the enigmatic king of the N109 Zone, but Valko hadn’t expected him to be so…

Calm. Calculating. Firm, but not wholly unkind. He didn’t use violence for the sake of it (Valko still got carried away in the bloodlust sometimes). What got him was the unflinching loyalty. When he listened to how the twins found themselves as loyal henchmen (their own proclamation), he was still shocked that Sylus would let anyone that tried to kill him live. Then again… they’d only been kids. And the way they followed after Sylus was just like his younger cousin with himself.

And then there was you. You, who would rush into a wanderer firefight without a second thought because to you protecting innocent people was just your natural instinct. You, who packed as much ferocity into your tiny (to him) body as much as you cared kindness and compassion. You, who did not show fear or shame at your uglier emotions.

And the way Sylus looked at you… he had no idea someone like that could look so soft. You affected Sylus the same way you affected himself. You inexplicably soothe this beast inside him that he can’t help but wonder if Sylus hid a similar beast within.

Valko didn’t anticipate being drawn into either of your orbits. He figured he wasn’t the type. Neither you or Sylus ever pushed.

“I’m willing to accept many things for a fussy kitten.” Is all Sylus had said on the matter, but Valko had never scented anything antagonist regardless. And then Onychinus went and provided resources to him and his company with vague suggestion of it just being a smart investment.

Now…here he was.

Valko hadn’t meant to find himself in the bed of Sylus, but when he carried you in after falling asleep on the couch, you stubbornly tugged at his arm, asking him to not leave and he just… how was he supposed to deny you? You were deeply asleep now and he’d been resting his eyes for a while now. He was… comfortable. Content. You were snoring slightly and clinging to a little crow plushie “Grump Crow” you had announced.

Your scent was perfectly intwined with Sylus’s in this space. He saw part of you left all over the place where you’ve inserted yourself. Would you do that with him too? Irrevocably mark your existence in his life?

While sleep was hardly pulling at him, Valko had nearly fully settled into something like a deep meditation (something he’s taken up to help temper the wild beast inside him). That was until the near silent open and closing of a door, mechanical fluttering, and a harsh scent of gunpowder and blood hit him.

He nearly sat straight up before remembering you were still haphazardly thrown over him. That’s when he had to carefully escape your grasp. He took a moment to slip off his sweatshirt at least so you could keep his scent. After that, he slipped out of the room and followed his nose to the source.

In the hallway he saw a trailing bloodstain lead into the bathroom and his ears pinned slightly. The blood was starting to overpower all other scents now, but the natural musk of Sylus was beneath it all.

Without thinking, he pushed the cracked bathroom door open fully.

“What happen-“

Valko’s voice trailed off when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun and Sylus the one holding it, shirtless and bleeding, with a first aid kit strewn about the counter.

The two men stared at each other quietly, Valko with his ears pinned and an instinctual snarl pulling as his lips and Sylus with a cold passivity. Finally, Sylus flicked the safety on and set the gun aside, grunting softly from the movement. Several bullet wounds ripped through the muscle on that half of the body’s ribs.

“Is she asleep…?”

Valko’s ears perked when Sylus had spoken. Quietly. Calm. Always calm.

“Uh… yeah. She was falling asleep during that weird show of hers. The one with all those people on an island trying to figure out who should be their mate- anyways- I tried to move her to your bed then she just kinda dragged me down with her…”

Sylus huffed softly, unable to help the small smile already pulling at his lips.

“She sinks her little claws in deep.”

Valko shifted slightly. Normally you were the buffer between the two of them.

“The bullets’ still in there?”

Sylus gave him a sidelong glance, as if trying to take Valko apart piece by piece to figure out what made him tick.

“That is why I’m in here, yes.”

“Let me help.”

Sylus grimaced at the suggestion.

“Sure. Go back to bed before a little kitten figures out she’s alone.”

Valko snorted before carving out space for himself next to Sylus. To his credit, Sylus was only slightly glaring holes into Valko’s face.

“Don’t be stupid. My evol can get them out quicker than painfully digging for them can and the sooner you’re cleaned up is the sooner you can go lay down and be all wrapped up in a sleepy kitty-cat.”

Valko didn’t outright touch Sylus, but the wolf made it stubbornly clear that he wasn’t just going to take no for an answer with the way his tail had slightly wagging and a cheeky grin grew.

“You’re enjoying this.” Sylus drawled before sighing and turning his injured half towards Valko. Valko wasn’t offended when Sylus kept the gun in easy reach.

“Only a little. I like helping- in general.” Valko placed a careful hand a few inches off of the main wound area, unable to help himself from noticing the way Sylus took in a breath, making the torn muscles flex against his hand. “And while you might not be my pack- family- it’s still important to help other members…”

Sylus watched in poised silence as Valko used his evol to draw the metal bullet casings from ruined skin. The pain was manageable, the evol control was exceptional.

“Holy fuck. Your lung should be Swiss cheese. Those fuckers were deep.” Valko looked at Sylus with wide eyes, holding the bloodied bullets in his palm.

“But they aren’t. I’ll heal the rest later.”

The two stared at each other a while longer.

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll eat later.”

“No, you should eat now. Your evol is really energy intensive.”

“I manipulate it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that your body had to use a lot of it to do so.”

A metaphorical spark danced between their two glaring eyes. Then Valko’s tail started wagging again.

“She won’t be happy if she finds out you put off eating.”

A beat. Then a sigh.

“Well played.” Sylus drawled before tossing a roll of bandages at Valko. His tail wagged faster as he stepped closer to help bandage the wounds.

It was by the next hour that Valko has Sylus patched up and getting comfortable on the couch with a nice plate of food. He remembered you mentioning Sylus liked texture over flavor, so he fried up a veggie medley with some shredded chicken. Nice and healthy. Valko plopped down right next to him when Sylus put on the show you started falling asleep to earlier.

“It’s important to know if the male focus this episode makes the right choice.” Was all Sylus had divulged with a shrug.

Several hours later when you shuffled out to the living room, you were absolutely tickled to see Valko quietly curled up with his head in Sylus’s lap and Sylus running lazy fingers through the clipped strands.

You snapped a silent picture, but when you looked you noticed Sylus had still caught you, but a quirk in his brow and a tug on the corner of his lips made you grin just as much as you giggled. You moved quickly to join the cuddles when Valko’s ears pivoted around to follow your noises.

Everything really was perfect.

[cocoaxia]

★ — guess who?

summary: in which the lads boys are a little bit, kinda sorta, slightly jealous.

ft. xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus & caleb (and a special guest!)

notes: basically just fluff, minor allusions to drinking/partying but not explicitly mentioned so it’s up to your interpretation! they’re all a little sinister + evil + concerned…what can i say. that’s it (i think).

p.s. GUESS WHOOOOOOOOOO

a/n: valko i plan to Eat you soon…ty for reading (- -)(_ _)

© cocoaxia

[ohmylaw]

𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒈𝒂𝒔 𝒅. 𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒆 ⠀﹒୨𝑒 fluff !! based on this ask

it wasn't strange for ace to do things that made no sense at all. he fell asleep in inconvenient places, stole food off others' plates when his was still full, in between other stuff. so, a midnight kitchen raid for a snack wasn't something out of the ordinary.

you were half asleep in the kitchen of the moby dick, leaning against a counter while ace dug through the cupboards for food. "you know," you mumbled, holding back a yawn. "normal people would ask thatch to cook something."

ace snorted. he had found a jar of pickles and was now trying to open it while talking to you. "normal people are idiots."

you smirked as he struggled to open the glass jar. even the strongest of men fumbled against the almighty air-tight seal. it was funny to think about it. "need help?"

"nah, i got— hmph, filho da puta—"

you blinked, not sure if you heard right. "what did you say?"

ace left the jar on the counter and looked back at you. in all of your years knowing him, you've never seen him look like this—like something caught him off guard. he gave you a dumb smile and scratched the back of his head.

"nothing."

"that was not nothing." you pointed at him accusingly. "what language was that?"

he continued to rub the back of his neck, suddenly avoiding eye contact. "uh... portuguese."

"portuguese?"

"mhm."

you stared at him. ace spoke another language? why didn't he tell you anything? and why did he look embarrassed about it?

"you never told me you spoke portuguese!"

he just shrugged, pretending it wasn't a big deal. "never came up."

"you cursed at a jar in another language..."

"it deserved it."

you burst out laughing. ace grinned a little at the sound, shoulders finally relaxing now knowing that you weren't making a huge deal out of it. you noticed the faint pink creeping onto the tipa of his ears.

huh, interesting.

"why are you embarrassed?"

"i'm not."

"you're blushing."

"it's hot in here."

you raise an eyebrow. "there's snow outside."

ace clicked his tongue. his hand took the jar once again and finally managed to pry it open. "you ask too many questions."

you hopped onto the counter beside him, suddenly feeling fully awake.

"say something else."

"no."

"please?"

"no."

"aceee."

he groaned dramatically, but there was no real annoyance behind it. you had him cornered and he knew it. he could never say no to you, not for real.

"...fine." he looked at you from the corner of his eye. "você é irritante."

your eyelids narrowed. "was that mean?"

a slow grin spread across his face. "maybe."

"translate it."

"no chance."

you kicked his shin lightly ans he laughed, warm and unfairly attractive for someone awake at this hour.

"c'mon," you whined. "you can't suddenly become mysterious and bilingual. that's mean."

"mysterious?" repeated ace with a bark of laughter. "but you know everything about me."

"apparently not."

he looked at you quietly for a second before speaking. his eyes shifted into a softer expression. with a lower tone, he said: "tá bom, meu amor."

"...what."

ace immediately realized his mistake. you watched the exact moment panic entered his soul with a confused look. he turned away so fast he almost knocked over the jar of pickles.

"you heard nothing."

"no, no, absolutely not." you grabbed his arm. "what did that mean?"

"nothing."

"ace."

"forget it."

"ace!"

his freckles dissappeared beneath a furious blush as he mumbled, barely audible: "it means... 'okay, my love.'"

your brain stopped working for a second. complete silence filled the room. then, with a high pitched voice, you said: "oh my god."

your boyfriend groaned, roughly palming his face. "i'm leaving."

"you just called me your love in another language!"

"i said i'm leaving."

you were laughing too hard to stop him as he buried his face in his hands. but, before he could escape, you caught the back of his tricep with your fingers.

"...say it again?"

ace peeked at you through his fingers. the look on your face absolutely ruined him. soft, sleepy, smiling at him like he'd hung the stars of that night's snowy sky himself.

that thin line on his mouth melted into a love-drunk smile. "...tá bom," he murmured, stepping closer to you. "meu amor."

sigh. yeah, you're never letting this go.

[calebsfavoriteusedthong]

NERD!ZAYNE TEACHING THE GUYS HOW TO MAKE A GIRL CUM USING YOU AS VISUAL AID😝

🔞MDNI🔞

*Yes, this is a fuck you to that bitter anon.

"They are full of shit" Caleb wiped a stray drop of alcohol from his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at nobody in particular. "The girls on the third floor make up half that stuff for fun."

You were wedged in the middle, squeezed between Caleb and Rafayel on the edge of a mattress that groaned under the collective weight. Every time someone moved, the springs let out a pathetic little squeak. The alcohol was starting to feel like a warm, heavy blanket behind your eyes, blurring the room into soft edges, but it was definitely making you feel a little more brave. Or reckless. Probably both.

You’d know these idiots since freshman orientation. Two years of shared greasy takeout, late night study sessions, and brutal hungover Sundays. That messy stretch of friendship was the only reason you felt comfortable enough to let your filter slip.

"It's not just the third floor," you said, tracing a finger around the rim of your cup. "It's everybody. The nursing majors. The track team. Pretty much every girl I've talked to. They all said the same thing, that you guys look like you belong on a billboard, but fuck like clumsy horny dogs."

"A horny dog? Seriously?" Rafayel looked genuinely wounded. "I am an artist and a very attentive one."

"You think lighting candles counts as attentiveness."

"It contributes."

From across the room, Sylus remained focused on his phone.

"Let them talk," his thumb paused over the screen "The loudest complaints usually come from people who never say what they really want."

You laughed "That's what you're going with?"

Sylus shrugged.

"Fine. Caleb?" he immediately looked suspicious.

"What?"

"That girl from the lacrosse team you fucked last weekend..."

Caleb groaned. "Oh, come on."

"How do you know she actually finished?"

"Because she told me she did."

"And?"

"And she was loooooud."

You stared at him and saw his confidence falter slightly.

"Girls do that so you'll speed up and get it over with"

Caleb opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked toward the window, his jaw shifting. "She... she wrapped her legs around my waist the entire time. That means it was good, right?"

"That means she was trying to get more friction because you weren't hitting the right spots," you said turning your head towards Rafayel "What about you?"

Rafayel straightened. "What about me?"

"When was the last time you actually looked down to see what was happening instead of just listening to the noises she was making?"

Rafayel's face turned a bright pink that extended to the tips of his ears. "I can tell by the rhythm. The atmosphere shifts."

"The atmosphere doesn't make a girl cum, Raf," you laughed, the whiskey bubbling up in your chest.

Across the room Xavier finally lifted his head from the rug, his hair stuck out in every direction.

"I just do it until they tell me to stop."

The room went quiet.

"Xavi, that is not the reassuring answer you think it is."

"Oh." he considered that.

"See?" you said, pointing around the room. "None of you actually know how to make a girl cum, you just assume you did a great job because you're hot, and then leave them to finish the job themselves after you fall asleep."

"That's correct"

The words cut through the conversation.

Zayne didn't look up from his anatomy textbook, he just adjusted his glasses and continued reading for a few more second before lifting his eyes.

Caleb barked out a laugh. "Oh, here we go."

Zayne ignored him.

"Most guys operate on assumptions rather than observation."

"Listen to the expert," Caleb said. "A man whose dating life exists entirely in textbooks."

Zayne's expression didn't change. "I understand the theory better than you"

"Theory?" Caleb repeated.

"Anatomy, Caleb."

"That's a lot of confidence for someone talking in hypotheticals." Sylus teased.

Zayne hesitated "It isn't as complicated as people make it out to be. I can show you."

"Do it." the words left your mouth before you could calculate the weight of them. "Show them."

Caleb sat up straighter. Rafayel looked interested. Xavier was really awake now.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

Sylus finally dropped his phone into his lap, his gaze locking onto your face, heavy and unblinking.

​Zayne didn't blink either. A dark red flush crept from beneath the collar of his black sweater, staining his throat. He looked at your cup, then at the space between his own knees, his jaw working as he swallowed.

Shit Shit Shit

​"We're... we've known each other a long time, this feels like we're crossing a line."

​"She asked," Sylus stood, the leather chair groaning beneath him. He crossed the room to slide the deadbolt into place before he leaned against the door and folded his arms. "And the doctor says he has the answers. Let's see a demonstration."

------

​The floorboards felt cold under your bare feet. Taking your clothes off wasn't nearly as smooth as moments like this looked in movies. It was awkward, rushed, and far too real. Your jeans caught on your ankles as you kicked them off, your bra strap twisting before you cleared it from your arms.

​"Sit here," Zayne whispered. He was now sitting on the edge of the mattress, knees spread wide apart.

You moved into the gap between his thighs. His chest felt warm against your shoulder blades.

Caleb and Rafayel pulled two chairs forward and Xavier stayed on the floor, dragging himself closer until his knees almost touched your ankle.

Before moving anywhere else, Zayne clamped his hands around your waist. His palms felt warm against your skin, holding you steady between his thighs.

"The skin requires warming first, If you touch her when she's cold, the muscles contract. It closes the blood vessels."

​His hands slid higher, the friction of his palms catching against your ribcage. He paused when he reached your breasts, using his fingers to lift and shape them without any sudden squeezing. He kept his touch frustratingly light, his thumbs sweeping in slow arcs across the base before flicking directly over the tight tips.

​A gasp caught in your throat, slipping out as a sharp breath. You dug your fingers into his knees, squeezing just to keep from writhing away from his hands.

"Are those goosebumps?" Xavier asked from below before reaching out, his hand hovering an inch from your left knee before he dropped it back to the floor.

"Yes, but it's an involuntary reaction," Zayne leaned his head forward, his hair brushing against your earlobe. "It doesn't mean she's cold."

Caleb cleared his throat, looking down at his hands, then back at you.

The sudden loss of Zayne's touch on your breasts made you shiver, his hands already traveling down your abdomen to grip your inner thighs. He parted your legs wide, exposing you to the heavy stares of the room. Under the direct glow of the desk lamp, the skin of your inner thighs visibly trembled.

His knuckles dragged over your outer lips and he stalled there, his jaw tightening as he drew his hand back and stared down at the slight sheen—not nearly enough.

"She’s nervous and that's completely normal. Any friction here would just cause irritation."

"So you're stuck," Rafayel said. He was leaning so far forward his chest rested against his knees, his eyes wide and tracking every movement of Zayne’s hand.

"No."

Zayne brought his hand up to your face and pressed his middle and index finger against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open. The scent of paper vanished under the wet heat of your mouth. "Wet them."

You took his fingers in, tongue curling around them. Zayne watched your lips close around his knuckles, his chest expanding against your back, before he pulled them out with a wet pop, a thin thread of saliva breaking between his hand and your mouth.

​"You only need to do this once to get things moving," Zayne explained guiding his wet fingers back down between your thighs. "If a man needs to re wet his fingers or use lube over and over, it means he’s doing something wrong."

He pressed his slick fingers directly against your clit, rubbing an agonizingly perfect circle.

A sharp cry broke from your lips and he rested the heel of his hand firmly against your pelvic bone, using that grounding weight to steady his touch while his index and middle fingers began a slow, testing exploration of the skin surrounding the swollen bud. He moved in light crescent shapes, mapping the outer edges first without touching the center directly.

Your hips moved, trying to force his hand to hit your favorite spots, but Zayne held your waist with his other hand, keeping you still.

"Not yet," his voice was losing its stiffness "Look at how she reacts when I go near it. She's so sensitive right here. Such a good girl for letting you all see." The bastard knew about your praise kink. Of course he knew.

He changed the strokes to a firm downward motion along the sides before gathering the slick that was beginning to coat his knuckles and smoothing it back up. He watched your skin change color under his fingers, his thumb finally making direct contact with your clit, pressing down and tracing a tight, clockwise circle.

Your thighs twitched, knees trying to clamp shut around his arm.

"Don't hide," his thumb switched direction, drawing slow figure eight that dragged across the very top of the bud before dipping into the soft groove underneath. "Let them watch how wet you get when someone actually takes their time with you. You look so pretty when you're dripping like this."

Across from you, Caleb's hands were gripping his own knees so hard the fabric of his sweatpants strained. His eyes were wide and fixed entirely on the gloss of your skin where Zayne’s thumb was slicking the fluid back and forth, finding the exact weight that made your head fall back against his shoulder "She’s... she’s shaking..." his voice sounded rough and uneven.

Rafayel moved to the edge of his seat, his fingers tangling in the hem of his shirt, his face had gone from pink to tomato red "And the color is different..."

"Because the blood is pooling exactly where it’s supposed to," Zayne told them increasing the pressure just a fraction until you let out a broken whimper. "If you change the rhythm too fast, you lose the progress, so find the pattern she responds to, and you stay there."

From the floor, Xavier stared at the small twitches of your hole "She’s pulling in, like she wants to wrap around something."

Sylus stepped away from the door, his hands were out of his pockets now, his knuckles white as he watched Zayne’s fingers spread your folds apart, exposing the wet, pink interior completely "She's begging for it."

​Zayne looked up at the four men watching.

​"The manual rhythm is only the baseline, the tissue is highly receptive to temperature and texture. Anything you can execute with your hands, you can replicate, and enhance, with your mouth.

​He brought his index finger directly to the very tip of your swollen clit, pressing with small, localized prods.

"If you use the tip of your tongue like this," Zayne explained, his finger mimicking the flicking motion against the sensitive bud, making your hips jump, "you target the isolated nerve clusters. It's high intensity and it forces the blood to the surface faster."

He then slid his index and middle fingers tightly together, flattening them against each other to create a wider, smoother surface. He pressed the flat length of both fingers firmly against your entire center, dragging them in a long upward stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.

"But when she gets overwhelmed, you switch," Zayne said as he repeated the stroke "You have to use the whole flat of your tongue like this. It dampens the sharp sting of the sensitivity while keeping the heat building. You alternate based on how much she's twitching."

He used his other hand to gently pull your lips apart "Look at the opening," Zayne's breath felt soooo hot against your neck. "When the nerves are active, the tissue swells. It opens on its own."

Behind you, something thick pressed firmly into the cleft of your ass. Zayne was completely hard. His glasses had slid down his nose, but he didn't take his hands away to fix them.

​"Zaynie..." you moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder again. The sight of the guys watching you was winding the coil in your belly tighter and tighter.

​"Tell them," Zayne ordered, his fingers digging harder into the top of your clit. "Tell them what it feels like."

​"It's... it's so good," you sobbed out "I... Zayne, I need...fuck...."

Sylus moved closer.

​"The internal contractions," Zayne told them, his words breaking as his thumb worked in a fast circle. "They will milk whatever is inside. Just one finger in. Now. Feel it."

​"Now?" Rafayel stammered, his hand shaking as he reached out.

"Now!" you ripped the word straight from your chest,

​They moved together, a crowded rush of limbs. Four fingers,all pushed into your wet pussy at once.

Your muscles clamped down in spasms. Caleb let out a low curse, his head dropping against your thigh as you squeezed his finger. "Fucking hell... tight little pussy."

"Keep your fingers still," Zayne's thumb was still holding pressure against your twitching clit while he kept your hips steady against his own shaking thighs. "Feel the rhythm. That's her release."

Rafayel didn't speak, his eyes were fixed on his finger buried inside you.

The silence returned slowly, punctuated only by the sound of you trying to catch your breath. One by one, the fingers withdrew, leaving your cunt open and drooling. You collapsed back into Zayne, your muscles humming with the aftershocks.

Four men stood around the bed, looking down at their wet hands. Zayne was breathing hard against your neck, one hand shaking visibly as he pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

He cleared his throat, his voice cracking slightly "Are there... any other questions?"

Xavier raised his hand slowly to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the wetness on his knuckle, his eyes completely dark as he stared at your open thighs.

"Yeah," he said "Can you teach us how to make her squirt?"

Tags: @thealunari @jadeloverxd

[stillseiims]

[cheeseceli]

Enhypen as Olivia Rodrigo songs

Pairing: ot7!enhypen × gn!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, scenarios (272~390 words)

Pairing: Enhypen as “you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love” songs

Warnings: pet name (babe) at jake's, idol!hee and idol!jay, mention of food at sunoo's

A/n: the devil works fast but I work faster | daily click

Heeseung - stupid song

“And I want you more than any stupid song could ever say”

Heeseung never wrote a song for you.

It wasn't because he never tried to. Actually, he never tried anything as much as he tried to write you a song. But among the countless studio nights and the hundreds of lost drafts he made nothing was enough. Every love song he ever wrote just sounds too simple now.

And that saddens him, truly. For years he has written poems about the most random topics, and there's no way better for him to express himself than a blank papel and a pen in his hand. He's an artist. He's sure he should be able to write at least two verses for you.

But he never felt anything like that for anyone before. That's exactly where the problem begins. While most people think that "I love you" is a strong sentence that should be used carefully, he thinks it's too weak of a phrase. He needs a stronger word to be able to explain his devotion to you. No one created that yet, so it seems.

So heeseung sits down in his chair and tries to write something for you again. But nothing could quite compare to how you made his heart burn so much it felt like it was going to consume him at the same time it felt like that was the only thing that could heal him. You made him forgive all the mistakes he's done in his past because at least they all led him to you, but no word he knew explained that well.

Soon enough, he came to the conclusion that every artist lied. Every songwriter who made an entire album to their lover was either a whole different species or simply a liar. Or maybe, no one has ever wanted someone as much as Heeseung wants you. Maybe that's why no word, no song, no action can ever feel enough. And no one would ever understand how good it is to turn up the radio and laugh at love songs, because suddenly they all feel too little, too stupid now.

Jay - what's wrong with me

“Head just keeps on pounding with the simple thought: what if this isn't what I want?”

"So? What do you think?" Jay asked, anxious to know what his friend would think of the lyrics. It wasn't the first time he showed one of his songs to Sunghoon, nor was it the first time he wrote for - or about - you. But, for some reason, this particular song was making him feel more nervous than usual.

"It's... Good."

That was it. Barely a sentence and an awkward nod.

"I'm gonna need a bit more feedback here, Hoon."

"No, no, the song itself is nice." he said, the frown on his forehead contradicting his words "I liked it. Really."

"But?"

Sunghoon went quiet suddenly. He usually wasn't a man of many words, that much is true. But, this time, it felt like he did have something to say. He just was choosing his words with uncharacteristic caution.

"This song... It's about Y/n, isn't it?"

Jay nodded. "It's a love song. Who else would it be about?"

"Makes sense, I guess." the frown was back to his face "It's just that, I don't know. It seems pretty sad for a song with so much love."

That made Jay freeze. Not because he had to think of what his friend meant, but because he knew exactly what that was. In a single sentence, Sunghoon put into words what Jay was running away from for months.

His love didn't feel in love anymore. He knew it better than anyone.

Of course, he still loves you. So, so much. But lately, he hasn't been able to shut down the thoughts that overflowed whenever he looked at you: what if this isn't what I want?

Jake - less

“If loving me means saying 'babe, I think this is the end', I guess I wish I wish I wish you loved me less."

You weren't fine. And, even though you constantly tried to convince him otherwise, Jake knew you too well.

He knew what a true smile looked like on your lips. He knew how love shines in your eyes. He knew how anxiety would make you clench your jaw and how sadness would take over your voice. Above everything, he knew how exhaustion would look like when it came to you.

That's the sight he was the most used to now.

It came down to a point that he didn't know what else to do. He wanted you well. And he wanted to be with you while you thrived. But now more than ever, these two realities existing at the same time felt impossible.

After all, he fears that the phrase he had always hated the most was true. If you love someone, you gotta let them go.

"You know what, nevermind." You interrupted his thoughts, already heading to bed "Let's leave it at that. Why don't we solve it tomorrow?"

"We've been leaving it for tomorrow for quite a while."

"One more night won't hurt anyone, then."

You were already under the covers, turning to turn off the lights. You weren't even avoiding him, it seemed you were just trying to buy time. If you postponed it just enough, then maybe you'd be able to come up with another solution. Maybe you'd convince him to stay.

But that would only hurt you more.

"We need to talk." He tried once more, his voice breaking in a way he could barely recognise himself.

"Tomorrow."

"Babe..."

"I know what you're going to say, Jake. Tomorrow. I'll agree with you tomorrow." With closed eyes, you opened your arms. "Just come here tonight."

Few things can hurt Jake more than that. Because he truly wants to give in. He wants to believe tomorrow could be a better day for both of you.

But he loves you too much for that.

Sunghoon - honeybee

“But even when I'm quiet, I love you, baby, I promise”

Sunghoon wasn't really familiar with love.

He thought that, to be loved, you had to fight for it. He thought that he had to spend every second of his life showing that he was worth it. So, when you came with an open heart and free love, he wasn't sure what to do.

At first, he simply let you take the initiative. In a way, he didn't really believe in you in the beginning. Whenever he'd reach for your hand, he half expected it to be gone already. In days where he had no energy to hive, he convinced himself you'd go away. When the inevitable occurred and he made a mistake, he was so sure you'd think he wasn't worth the time. So he let you take the lead. He let you prove him wrong. So you did.

For the first time in his life, Sunghoon wasn't scared of losing someone he loves. Not in a way where he'd take you for granted, just in a way where he finally realised that he could be loved for the simple fact that he is... him. That was more than enough for you. And, for the first time, he felt at peace in love.

He didn't stress himself with trying to prove it. This new feeling allowed him to love quietly. His acts of love now were reaching for you in his sleep, accidentally failing to cook you something before you woke up and adoringly looking at you while you spoke. And you understood it. Through ever sleepy smiles awkward words and loving silence, he knew you understood the message most didn't.

So never again was he scared of losing you. But that didn't mean he didn't pray every night, hoping you both would stay together until the end. Not because he thought you'd leave if he didn't love loudly enough, or that he thought you'd hit the road at the first mistake he'd do. He just hoped because he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life looking at you, memorising your every trait and appreciating how time would change you while still seeing the face he fell in love with.

The moment he got familiar with love - your love - he realised he'd never have to prove himself again. But he'd hope, and hope, and hope every day.

Sunoo - maggots for brains

“But that's just the thing that happens when my baby goes away."

You didn't think you'd miss Sunoo that much.

Of course, you were to expect a thing or two. The first time you had to sleep after he said goodbye, you almost laughed, because the pain was precisely what you thought it'd be. The lack of messages would be unfamiliar and finding his photos on your phone would be unbearable.

At least, you were expecting it.

The truth turned out to be way more painful.

It seemed that Sunoo was everywhere, in every single thing. Which was weird, considering he would never be there again. But you could swear that all ways led to him, even if you tried to ignore it. And God knows you tried.

Every outfit of yours scared you now, as they made his "you look amazing" comments echo in your mind. All of your favourite dishes were now just memories of him stealing your food. Every funny thing was something you wanted him to know. There was nothing left for you: nothing could replace all the thousands of memories you had of him.

Memories you had of the two of you.

Little by little, you felt like a zombie. You hadn't even noticed, but it was like your brain had turned itself off just to make sure you wouldn't have to think of him again. In the small glimpses of consciousness, you had found yourself looking at his number way more times than your dignity allowed.

You knew it was going to be painful. You'd feel lost, like a train off the track. You wouldn't even feel like yourself. But not in a million years you would've guessed that you miss him like that. And now, whether it be in the silence or in the chaos, you keep on wondering if you'd still have him if you knew back then that you loved him that much.

Jungwon - the cure

“But it doesn't matter how your love feels anymore, it'll never be the cure."

It was the fifth time in two weeks that you and Jungwon fought.

At this point, you didn't even know what you were fighting about. Whenever he'd start to talk, it seemed like he forgot you were even there. For most of it, it just seemed like he had a lot going on and had to let it out. Something that you'd have no problem with, if only his words were merely vents.

But it seemed like he was spitting poison.

You thought reassurance would be enough. You loved him and could show it at all times. However, time goes by and it seems that his doubts only grow. No matter how much logic, comfort or love you put into your words and actions. Jungwon had already pushed the self destruction button a long time ago.

"...you know I love you, right?"

Jungwon didn't answer, not at first. All he did was to sit down on the edge of the sofa, his head down so you didn't see his red eyes. But you could see the water stains in his shirt that came all the way up from his eyes. You saw how his hair was messed up from how much he ran his hands through it. You could even hear his shaky breath.

Slowly, he nodded.

"So," you breathed in, your throat hurting with the weight of the words you were trying to say "you understand that if I'm leaving, it's not because I love you less. It's because I don't think that what you need right now is my love. Right?"

At that, his head fell even more, his hand coming up to cover his eyes. He hoped you hadn't heard the heartbreaking sob he just let out. Once more, he simply nodded.

You stepped closer to him, as lightly as you could. When you put your hands on his cheeks, he didn't look up. He couldn't dare to. Still, you wiped his gears, hoping that could lighten his heart. At least a little bit. One last time, you kissed his head:

"I hope you can find the cure soon enough."

NI-KI - drop dead

“the most alive I've ever been, but kiss me and I might drop dead."

"Oh, so this is where you disappeared to."

You turned around to see Niki coming to you with his usual grin. Even though you had made peace with the fact you have a crush on him, the simple sight of him was enough to make your breath hitch.

You were so screwed.

"It's been that long? I've been meaning to use the bathroom, but Jake can't seem to get out." You gestured between the two of you and then at the locked door next to you "It even formed a bathroom line."

"I'm not gonna use the bathroom. I was just looking for you."

Like magic, you felt your face get heated at that. God, even the stupidest things or the most casual comments made you all dizzy. You hated to have a crush. Even more than that, you hated to be aware of it.

He didn't seem to get the hint, though:

"It's getting late too. I could walk you home..." his voice lowered, like he had rehearsed this in his head a thousand times but lost confidence the moment he tried to say it "if you want."

You smiled. A big, shiny and this-will-hurt-my-cheeks smile. "Yeah, of course. I'd love that."

He nodded, trying to hide a smile of his own. It was so clear none of you knew what you were doing, both walking into unknown territory. But when he looked at you and you saw his eyes go down to your lips for a millisecond, and how he seemed to lean towards you slightly, you swear you had never felt more alive.

That is, until Jake opened the bathroom door. Then suddenly you wanted to die.

"Sorry," he interrupted, clearly not reading the room "you can use it now."

"Yeah, sure. I'll - I will" you pointed at the bathroom, avoiding everyone's eyes. Niki thinks you murmured something after that, but he didn't catch it. You locked yourself behind the door way too fast for him to understand it.

"What happened?" Jake asked to no avail, as the only answer he got was Niki letting his smile finally show up while he threw himself over his friend, silently celebrating like he had just won the world cup.

It seems you weren't the only one with trouble at hiding your crush.

Masterlist | you'll probably like: they listen to your break up song

Daily click

Reminder this is just fiction!! I'm not trying to portray real life and you shouldn't believe that this is how the members actually are. This is just for the vibe and the delulu!

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @greentulip @firstclassjaylee @queenofdumbfuckery @lezleeferguson-120 @enhacolor

Dividers by @cafekitsune | images 1, 2 and 3

2026, june. cheeseceli

[myphisto]

escape [sylus x caleb]

suggestive, making out, mc vaguely mentioned | crossposted to ao3

Caleb could break this man and he would dissolve with a grin on his face. This fiend would take the force of gravity in stride, and let matter collapse in on itself.

happy pride month! it's june here anyways. im going to be keeping a drabble/oneshot collection for li x li fics + i'm open to any suggestions and requests :ppp

“You spoiled her rotten before I even got the chance.” Sylus’ mouth plants itself onto his with nothing short of contending passion.

Caleb holds the zeal of something far larger than himself. But not the heart. Sylus sees right through him. Caleb Xia’s heart is shrewd, a twisted little thing. Sylus sees what calls this broken machine to action. 

What sputters the little bleeds that pour out of that aching organ. His first love and the commander of his final death. A tragedy indeed.

Caleb gasps, “Just doing my duty.” He welcomes the onslaught. Embraces the flame of competition—soul and root battling for what they claim is theirs. It’s a rightful change of pace, Caleb thinks. No gutting worry in the back of his head to be careful—no pit in his stomach.

He could break this man and he would dissolve with a grin on his face. This fiend would take the force of gravity in stride, and let matter collapse in on itself.

“Is there a drill sergeant in there?” Sylus chuckles the question in his break for air, but the flick of a finger against his forehead holds another weight. “Your mind’s running a regiment.” The scrunch of Caleb’s nose pokes at the mirth in Sylus’ voice.

“And yours is invasive.” Caleb barely manages to get the words out before he decides the oxygen isn’t worth it and latches his teeth to Sylus’ bottom lip.

There’s no balance here, not a twirl of serenity or a dance on the line of equilibrium. Here they are lopsided and jagged, biting hard and kissing harder. Fang clicks against fang, shackled chains are pulled taut and desire is caught in a violent flurry.

Here, fate cannot touch Sylus’ heart.

Here, guilt’s ugly manacles cannot dig into Caleb’s ribs.

[catthartic]

[qintten]

birthday greetings from the lads! 🐦‍⬛

pairings: sylus and lads LIs / sylus x lads LIs

notes: the guys greet sylus a happy birthday! can be read platonically, romantically, or poly lads! sylus might appear like a grump here hehe, he's not he's just nonchalant (fake)

[cheriefrosting]

⁀➴☕︎ | Sylus loves playing with fire

Sylus is well aware that you're angry with him.

And he wants to give you all the space you want to deal with your emotions before you're ready to talk to him about it.

But as he sits across from you while you ignore him to watch some cliche soap opera that's been ongoing for 10 years with more than 600 episodes and refuse to eat, he can't help himself.

First, he has to rein the laughter in. He schools his features into one of grave seriousness like he's about to interrogate a criminal and in a solemn tone, finally attempts to address you again.

"Psspss, kitten"

It's almost comical how fast your head snaps up, almost identical to a real ball of fur, head snapping around before your gaze lands on Sylus who is trying his hardest not to laugh.

"Did you just-"

"Are you hungry?" Sylus shows no signs of having said something prior to this at all, looking serene but you're sure you heard him.

When you going back to ignoring him, not deeming him worthy of even a response, Sylus tries again.

"Psspss here kitty"

This time, you're sure of what you heard, indignation filling your veins at his audacity as you get up from where you'd been watching your show, aiming straight for your boyfriend, violence clear in your aura.

Sylus, for all his flaws, knows when self-preservation should take charge as he shoots up from his seat, dodging your attack and making a run for it with you hot on his heels.

"I can't believe you would psspss me like I'm some stray-!" You pick up a throw pillow in the midst of your chasing, tossing it straight at the Leader of Onychinus who ducks at the correct time and successfully dodges it.

"I tried to get you to eat with me before-" Sylus ducks again to dodge your attack- two throw pillows thrown in succession- standing up straight before he resumes running around the couch with you right behind "-and you wouldn't acknowledge me"

"Because I'm still mad at you!"

Sylus stops running at that, turning to face you as you attack him with balled up fists that land no damage at all "Be mad at me all you want" He says, long fingers encircling your wrists and holding them right over his heart "But don't skip your meals because of it"

You frown at him "Acting all sweet now won't work after you watched the season finale without me!"

Again, Sylus tries his hardest to hold his laughter in. But you catch the smile threatening to break on his features anyway.

"You're in timeout" You even point to the far wall and Sylus finally ends up grinning because he thinks you're really cute when you're joking.

His smile drops real fast when he realizes you're not.

Two minutes later, he's standing by the wall, fully grown adult, mob boss, one of the most feared beings on the planet, trying to appease his girlfriend but you know it won't be long before he can't help himself.

When you feel something collide with the side of your foot a while later, you peer down to see a bunched up ball of string at your heels.

With Sylus holding the loose end tauntingly.

The moment Sylus sees you bunch up the ball in your fist as you slowly stand to face him, he knows he's screwed.

But he doesn't need saving. He's right where he wants to be.

A/N: This was funnier in my head I'm sorry-

m.list

[abyssyby]

“hello?”

onychinus wasn’t really an official office, but there existed a home-base of operations.

with clean-cut interior, bulletproof glass conference rooms, desks scattered with both paperwork and technology alike under the ambient warm light surprisingly considerate of people who are sensitive to brightness, the building stands central north of the N109 zone.

this, as far as dwellers and factions know, is the home of the infamous ruler of onychinus. the dragon’s den. the keeper’s castle.

and this young, new assistant who is trying to make something of himself in the tower of bodies trying to climb upwards on the social ladder starts work today.

onychinus promises worth in exchange for loyalty. no questions asked.

he can do that.

he hasn’t even been sat an hour yet on his new desk before the phone started to ring.

briefed that all calls should be handled with promptness and professionalism, he takes it barely at the first ring. not expecting the voice that comes through.

“helloo?”

it takes him a moment to recall the script. “service?”

“can talk to papa?”

papa? he’s spent all week memorizing the names of the organizations affiliates. not one is called papa. had he missed something? so soon shall this be the end of his career?

he swallows. ponders—this can either be an enemy with technology to change their voice, or… no, how could a child know this number?

“hello? can talk to papa?”

“who is this?” he demands, harsh.

it is lost on the voice. he dictates his own learned script slowly. “my name… is… keewo.”

keewo… neither was that on the list. had he missed a page? was it the phonetic alphabet? code?

his palms begin to sweat. phone calls should never last more than a minute unless necessary. and the time ticks dangerously closer to forty seconds.

and his supervisor seems to he counting with him, because across the room, polishing a newly shipped in protocore weapon, his eyes meet ones behind a crow’s mask.

“you are not in our system.”

“what tissem?” the voice breathes, mouth too close to whatever receiver he was using. “can talk to papa pease?”

“are you a child?” forty seconds… the masked man rises from his seat.

“no. i boy.”

“how old are you?” forty-three. he’s placing the weapon down.

“i two. oh-most, twee.” the boy says happily. “can talk papa now, pease?”

forty-nine. his eye twitches. “who is papa?”

“my papa!”

fifty. shit. the supervisor is a few steps— “what’s his name?”

“uhh… uh…” fifty-three.

fifty-four.

fifty-five.

“papa name is… uh—“

“you dialed wrong.” fifty seven.

“no! i pwactice.” he harrumphs on the other end. fifty eight. “my papa name sy-woos!”

fifty-nine.

sylus.

his blood runs cold.

at sixty, like clockwork the phone is snatched from his hand. but the masked man who’d given him strict instructions that day has frozen in his own place a few paces away.

behind him stands a ghost never meant to be witnessed by mortal eyes. this shadow clad in darkness that only allow his red irises’ glow to pierce through. he lowers his head—respect, fear— he cannot say. but his heart beats like hooves in of a stampede.

“kyros.” says sylus. mister sylus— he would be instructed to call him were it not deemed unnecessary because he never comes in. “papa is working, angel.”

he barely hears the commotion on the other end. doesn’t even register the way the ominous entity of a man’s voice softens to an unbelievable timbre just above him.

“i know, i miss you too.” he says. footsteps fade along with the voice as he retreats with the wireless into the private office reserved for him alone.

he’s done for, surely. how could he have dismissed the boss’s son? how could he have known? no matter; he should have. and now—

“hey.” the masked supervisor squeezes his shoulder and he jumps like a cat.

the man— he isnt sure which twin this is but there were two of them earlier— snickers. “scared?”

he swallows.

“don’t worry about it.” he points to the dock missing its handheld, towards the light glowing orange. “forgot to mention, if it’s this color, always redirect to the main phone.”

he swallows. the boss doesn’t like to be bothered with trivial things, is what he knows. right?

but his supervisor adds. “he doesn’t like missing calls from very important people.”

he has no time to process before sylus returns and the handheld clicks in place in the dock before him.

crimson eyes examine him and he feels like his skin is peeled apart and soul exposed for a moment before sylus slowly turns away.

“carry on.” is the command.

and so, he does. he can do that.

no questions asked.

[wispitty]

(short reacts) vol. 2 | "forced together after a fight" + one piece men

summary: you guys fought. it was over something stupid. but now you're both forced into the same space. there's tension.

characters: zoro, sanji, beckman, kidd, kuzan, smoker, doflamingo, lucci

volume 1 here: (crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon)

ZORO

You’re stuck in the storage room. Door jammed. Of course.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. You’re pacing.

“You gonna say anything?” you snap.

He glares. “Why? So you can twist it again?”

You scoff. “Oh my god, Zoro, it wasn’t that serious—”

“You walked off mid-sentence.”

“And you accused me of not trusting you!”

“Because you don’t!”

You both freeze. Breathing hard.

Silence. Heavy. Stubborn.

He looks away first. Runs a hand down his face. Voice quieter now.

“It wasn’t about the mission.”

You blink. “What?”

“It was about you not looking at me. Like I mattered. Like you could walk away that easy.”

Your chest aches.

You step closer. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares. Eyes burning.

Then—quietly: “You’re the only fight I don’t wanna win.”

And just like that, the wall breaks.

SANJI

You’re in the galley. Alone. Together. Not by choice.

He’s chopping something aggressively. You’re pretending to read.

Finally: “You gonna keep acting like I insulted your bloodline?”

He huffs. Doesn’t look up. “You mocked my cooking.”

You sit up straighter. “I said I didn’t like parsley—”

“Which was the point of the dish.”

You groan. “This is ridiculous.”

He slams the knife down. Finally looks at you.

“It’s not about the parsley.”

You blink. “Then what?”

“It’s about you smiling at everyone else and giving me scraps. Like I’m just supposed to accept that.”

Silence.

You stand. Walk over. Slowly.

“Sanji, I... I didn’t know I made you feel like that.”

He’s still glaring. But his voice softens.

“I don’t need much. But I need you. Not the version that pretends I don’t matter.”

You press your forehead to his.

“I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “…If you ever insult parsley again I will cry.”

You both laugh. The tension breaks like sugar glass.

SMOKER

You’re both in his office. Trapped by a freak storm. No way out.

He’s sitting at his desk, arms crossed. Cigar untouched. Smoke curling but not moving.

You’re standing by the window. Arms wrapped around yourself.

The silence aches.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like I didn’t care,” you say finally.

He exhales. Sharp. “You didn’t try not to.”

You flinch. “It was one stupid comment, Smoker.”

“You said I push people away.”

You pause. Then softer: “Because... I felt pushed.”

He stands. Hands clenched. Jaw set.

“You think I don’t want to let people in?” he mutters. “I don’t know how. Not when I care. Especially when I care.”

You blink.

“And you? I care too much about. And I don’t know how to not fuck that up.”

Silence again. Heavy. Real.

Then you step forward. Slowly.

“You didn’t fuck it up. You just… need to let me be close.”

He nods once. Then again.

“Fine. Then come here.”

And when you hug him, he doesn’t let go.

KUZAN

The power’s out. Generator’s dead. You’re in the safe room. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

He’s sitting with his legs stretched out. You’re across from him, blanket wrapped around your knees.

You haven’t spoken in hours. Not since the fight.

You finally break. “I shouldn’t have accused you of not caring.”

He blinks. Doesn’t look at you. “You meant it though.”

You wince. “Yeah. But I said it wrong.”

He sighs. Long. Heavy. “I’m not good at showing things. Never been.”

You nod. “I just… needed something. And I asked like a brat.”

Finally, he looks at you. Really looks. Eyes tired. Hurt.

“You wanted more than I gave,” he says. “I can’t blame you for that.”

You scoot closer. “I don’t need perfect. I just need you.”

A pause. Then—he opens his coat.

You crawl into his arms like it’s home.

And he whispers: “…Stay. Even when I’m cold.”

And as you snuggle against him, he leans down to rub your nose against his.

“For you, I’ll learn to warm up.”

KIDD

You’re both somehow stuck in the engine room. Maintenance locked. Power out. Nowhere to go.

Killer’s mysteriously MIA.

He’s pacing like a caged lion. You’re sitting on a crate with your arms crossed.

The silence is vicious.

“Can you stop stomping?!” you snap.

He growls. “Can you shut up?”

You stand. “You’re acting like a total asshole. Over a joke!”

He spins around. “It wasn’t funny!”

“It wasn’t meant to hurt you, Kidd!”

He stops. Face tight. Shoulders stiff.

“…It did anyway.”

Your breath catches. The fire drops to a flicker.

“You think I don’t care?” you whisper. “That I’d really say something to hurt you like that?”

He stares. Silent. Then—quietly:

“I think I’m scared you could. That’s what pisses me off.”

You walk up. Place your hand on his chest.

“I could. But I won’t. You know I won’t.”

He leans in. Forehead to yours. Sighs deeply.

“Then don’t just walk out next time I mess up. Give me hell, punch my lights out... but don’t just leave me.”

You nod. And finally—you both breathe.

...And suddenly the latch unlocks from the outside.

BECKMAN

The crew left the strategy room. You stayed. He stayed. No one spoke.

Now? He’s by the window. You’re by the maps.

Still. Heavy. Silent.

“You didn’t have to make that decision without me,” you say.

He sighs. “It was tactical, sweetheart.”

“It was dismissive.”

He turns. Jaw tight. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

You look down. “Doesn’t change how it felt.”

He walks over slowly. Stops just short of touching you.

“I’m used to making calls here. Fast. Sharp. Detached.”

You meet his eyes. “But I’m not just another crew member.”

His expression falters. Cracks.

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why it scared me. That I forgot for a second.”

You nod. Step into him. Let your forehead rest against his chest.

“I forgive you.”

He exhales. Deep. His arms come around you like a sigh.

“…I won’t do it again. I swear.”

DOFLAMINGO

You’re in his office. Door locked. Strings blocking all paths.

No way out.

He’s at the window, drink in hand. You’re on the couch. Arms crossed. Mood terrible.

He exhales. “You’re still sulking?”

You glare. “You called me ‘disposable.’”

He turns. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, good! That makes it fine then.”

He slams the glass down. “Don’t try to act like you weren’t baiting me.”

“You pushed me first.”

You both stare. Anger fading into something raw.

His walks over. “You think I don’t care? About you? Really?”

You blink. “I think you only care in ways that make me bleed.”

He flinches. That grin of his falters.

Point-blank.

“…I said it because I was angry. Because you matter more than I can afford.”

Silence.

“…The last one left in my life who still does.”

You stand. Still angry. Turning.

“Then say that instead. Love me without the strings, for once, Doffy!”

He grabs your wrist. Holds it like a lifeline.

“I love you,” he says, voice rough. “Even when I say shit I don’t mean. You know that.”

You touch his face. “Then prove it.”

You kiss. It’s not soft. But it’s honest.

And all the strings are gone.

LUCCI

You’re in a cold, wet cave. A mission went to absolute shit.

He’s sitting at the edge of the fire. You’re by the wall. Arms wrapped around your knees.

You finally speak. “You didn’t trust me.”

He exhales. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He’s quiet. Then: “You disobeyed an order.”

You snap. “I followed my instinct. Because I knew what was right.”

Silence again. Heavy. Cold.

“I didn’t want you hurt,” he says finally.

You blink. “You thought I couldn’t do it.”

He nods. Slowly.

“I’ve lost people who mattered. I didn’t want to watch it happen again. Not to you.”

You cross the room. Kneel in front of him. Take his hand.

“I’m not dying, Lucci. You have to trust me.”

He looks at your joined hands. Then at you.

“…Then next time,” he says, “don’t run into danger without me. Or away from me. If we fight, we go together.”

You nod. “Deal.”

And for the first time that cold night, it doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

[hleonardo]

♡ PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ৴ .ᐟ

sft/w ৴ hurt/no comfort ৴ mizuki/reader—wuyang/reader ৴ mizuki-centric ৴ yowai = weak ৴ noroi = curse

mizuki has very few weaknesses, but out of all of them, his biggest one is you. you’re his light, his yellow, his person. so what happens when a certain someone comes into the picture and demolishes his chances?

Words weave throughout a grapevine he isn’t intertwined with—was never meant to be. It seems as though he finds himself in this sort of position a lot, these days.

“It’s no good, ojisan,” Mizuki mumbles to himself one humid night, grueling aside the banks of a river in Kanezaka. “feelings, this yearning. I’m letting them get in the way of my purpose.”

When the ginger chime of a bell sounds out behind him, he doesn’t even so much as flinch.

“I can put you on.”

Kiriko, ever the mind reader.

“Tch. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He smirks underneath his mask, though the typical display of smugness doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh please, don’t play coy with me.”

“I play coy with everybody.”

She snorts.

“Fair.”

Silence commences, towing the line between comfort and discomfort. While uneager to fill it himself, he’s strangely relieved when she does the hard part for him.

“I know them, Mizuki. Truly,” She says, voice totally free of derision. Reality disarms him. “tell you what, I’ll put in a good word for you, ‘kay?”

So, both curious and inevitably at his heart’s wit’s end, he takes her upon her offer of being “put on”. Although time flies when you’re a double agent, and at the end of the day there’s none left for pursuing you or…eugh..the L-word.

A month and a half goes by before he sees you again, except this time, you’re sporting a new accessory. A boy.

Wuyang. Some raven-haired goofball with hazelnut brown eyes and a smile that could rival the sun’s rays. Not to mention he’s basically a superhero to Chengdu, and soon, the world if all things go according to plan.

If you’re in it with Overwatch, you’re in it for life, or whatever they say.

Okay, nobody says that.

Well Wuyang looks like he’s won the lottery by simply standing at your side, and as far as Mizuki’s concerned, he most certainly has. Shit, the only thing he quite literally has over him is his height, but he doubts you give a rat’s ass about that, positively beaming as you exchange introductions.

So much for Kiriko’s good word.

Mizuki finds himself back at the same banks of the same river in Kanezaka, swamped by the same humidity the air held before. No ginger bell sounds out this time and it ruins him a little further to know that his acquaintance won’t be showing up like how she had before, but maybe it’s for the best, saving his ears from scoffing down another empty assurance.

Despite it all, his heart still beats for you. Sure he knows now that his L-word will never come to fruition, no matter how much he wants it to, but the newfound sense of restrain somehow makes the sorrow feel funner than before.

“Please please please, Noroi,” he pleads, angrily attempting to skip a stone across the water’s surface. It sinks, much like his fantasies. “free me!”

Why is he so…so—?!

Yowai.

Yowai, yowai, yowai, yowai, yowai, yowai, yowai, yowai…!

He glares at the sunken stone as the word makes itself at home in his very being like it’s what’s at fault for every single mishap that’s ever caused him anguish.

In all honesty, he can’t even be mad. Not at you at least. Wuyang is perfect for you, the proof is in the pudding. The electrifying chemistry the two of you displayed before his eyes is undeniable.

As much as his lungs burn and his eyes sting he doesn’t shed a tear, opting to stew in stillness for the rest of the night.

Freedom will never find him, he settles. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’ll always be.

[winxanity-ii]

FIRST [1/?]

ship: virgin!telemachus x fem!virgin!brothel worker!reader warnings: explicit ( oral f. receiving only / mutual virginity / heavy fanservice / soft dominance ) word count: 6.3k (strap up, babes, this is a long one~) a/n: y'all i don't know why but i've been SO embarrassed about this lil fic just sitting in my docs 😭😭 like i fully forgot i'm grown (20) and can post what i want??? even then i guess it's just the lil-nerd in me who just giggles/squirms when faced with my own smut 💀💀 but yeah this is a oneshot that started as a silly thought (aka virgin!telemachus with virgin!reader and then turned into a whole thing and now i'm in love with telemachus and maybe crying a little?? anyway. pls enjoy this soft, heated, reverent mess of a fic. (also someone come get Peisistratus for being a menace) 💀🩷✨✨ idk might do part 2 if i can get over this block 😭😭

PRT.2 - Second

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The tavern was too loud for a place still mourning.

Laughter clanged like armor. Mugs slammed against wood. Someone was playing a lyre too fast, too off-key, but the crowd didn't care—they were drunk on peace, drunk on wine, drunk on finally.

And maybe Telemachus should've been, too.

He sat at the far end of the long table, boots planted, tunic a little looser than usual. There was still a sword at his hip—habit, not threat—but he hadn't had to reach for it in weeks. The suitors were gone. His father had returned. His mother no longer cried into candlelight. Ithaca breathed again.

So why couldn't he?

"Drink," said Peisistratus, pushing a cup toward him. "If you're going to stare like that, at least look mysterious while doing it."

Telemachus blinked. "I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," his friend grinned. "Whole brooding prince thing? Very effective. That barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in."

Telemachus turned, just in time to see her saunter off after dropping another round of drinks. She had smiled at him, he thought. Maybe lingered. He hadn't noticed.

He glanced back at Peisistratus, sheepish. "She was just being polite."

"She was being polite with her chest, my guy."

Telemachus sputtered into his wine.

Peisistratus leaned back with the smugness only the youngest son of a king could afford. "Gods, you're hopeless. What do they do in Ithaca, anyway? Stitch tapestries? Pray? Practice self-restraint until you die untouched?"

"We defend our homes," Telemachus said, wiping his mouth. "We hold our families together. I didn't exactly have time to entertain women while men ate my mother's food and planned to take her bed."

Peisistratus groaned. "Still reciting war monologues, huh? Your house is intact, your mom's safe, your dad's alive, and you—you've still never—"

"Don't." Telemachus glanced around, lowering his voice. "You don't have to announce it."

"Then deny it."

He said nothing.

Peisistratus stared. "Telemachus."

Still silence.

The prince of Pylos let out the most exaggerated gasp Telemachus had ever heard. "You are—!"

"I never had time, okay?" Telemachus snapped, heat rushing to his cheeks. "And it's not like I—like anyone—I mean, I could have, maybe, once or twice, but—"

"Spare me." Peisistratus slammed the mug down. "You've been home for weeks. Women all over the castle smiling like doves in heat. And you've done nothing?"

Telemachus opened his mouth. Closed it.

"...You're impossible."

"I'm cautious," he rebuttled.

"You're cursed."

Telemachus rolled his eyes. "You said we were celebrating your last night in Ithaca, not my alleged virginity."

"And we are." Peisistratus stood up suddenly. "Which is why we're fixing that."

Telemachus tensed. "What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head." The younger prince grabbed his wrist. "Come on."

"Wait—"

"I know a place."

"Peisistratus—"

"You trust me, don't you?"

"I—That's not the point—!"

"It is exactly the point." Peisistratus grinned, half-dragging him through the tavern door, past the lyre, past the wine, into the soft night where stars bloomed and scandal lurked.

Telemachus' stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the nerves, or the fact that for the first time in years... he didn't know what came next.

☆

☆

The wash water stung your hands. Not from heat, but from the way your fingers had cracked again—tiny splits in your skin from scrubbing too long, too often, with too little rest between. But you didn't stop. You couldn't stop. If you could just finish this last basin, you could dry your hands by the fire and maybe—

"Hey." You flinched.

One of the older girls leaned into the doorway, silk slipping off her shoulder, perfume following behind her like smoke. She was smiling—but not in that fake, flirty way they did for customers. This was different. Kind. Almost... pitying.

"You're up."

"...Up?" you echoed, straightening too fast.

"First client. Just got called in. He's a special one, too. Big spender."

Your mouth went dry. "I—I thought—"

"I know. You've been doing laundry for weeks. Earning your keep. But tonight's different."

She crossed the room, gently took the basin from your hands, and set it down. The water sloshed over the sides. You stared at it like it might pull you under.

"I'm not ready."

"No one ever is," she said softly. "Come on. We'll help you."

Moments later, you sat like a doll in a chair that wasn't yours, surrounded by girls whose hands moved too fast for you to follow.

One was curling your hair with a hot iron pin, another was dabbing rose oil on your wrists. Someone else adjusted the straps on a dress that dipped too low, hugged too tight. You barely recognized yourself in the mirror. Cheeks smooth in oil. Lips bitten raw. Cleavage you'd never seen before.

"You're shaking," said one girl, brushing powder across your collarbone.

"I-I'm fine," you lied.

"She's nervous," another grinned. "That's cute."

"She's lucky," said the girl with the perfume. "First time, and she gets him."

You finally gain the courage to speak. "...Who?"

The girls exchanged a look.

"I heard he's a prince," someone whispered. "Or close to it. Tall. Polite. Kind eyes. Might not even make you do anything."

You swallowed hard.

"Just remember," said the first girl, crouching in front of you, voice low. "Pretend you've done this before. That you're in charge. Even if you're not. Men like that."

Her hand touched yours. Warm. Grounding.

"You'll be okay."

.☆.      .✩.           .☆.

You followed the Madam up the stairs like you were walking to your own execution.

Each step felt louder than it should've. Your heartbeat was pounding in your throat. She stopped in front of a thick wooden door, glanced over her shoulder, and whispered, "He's already inside."

Then she was gone.

Just like that.

You stood there for a second, alone in the silence, hands slick with sweat, chest so tight it hurt. You almost turned and ran. Almost knocked on the Madam's office and begged to go back to your linens, to the hot sting of soapwater, to the safety of anonymity. Almost.

But you didn't.

You opened the door.

He stood near the window, back turned, silhouetted by moonlight.

His posture was perfect—hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly tilted, like he was measuring the stars. His cloak was folded neatly on the chair beside him. His boots, still dusty from the road. He didn't turn at the sound of the door closing.

Your fingers clenched at your sides. You tried to remember what the girls said.

Pretend I've done this before. That I'm in charge.

You took one step. Then another.

Your voice came out soft—too soft. "You can sit down... if you'd like."

He turned.

And you forgot how to breathe.

Not just because he was handsome—though gods, he was. Soft brown curls that caught the light. Broad shoulders. Eyes like calm earth after rain. But what stunned you wasn't his looks.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like you were real.

Like he hadn't expected someone nervous, someone trembling in silk like she was being sacrificed.

Like... he saw it.

He stepped forward, slower than you expected.

You reached up—mechanically—like you'd practiced. Fingers brushing his jaw. His skin was warm. Clean-shaven. You smiled, or tried to, coy and low-lidded like the others had shown you.

But when he raised a hand—slowly, carefully, like he was asking permission—and touched your cheek...

You flinched.

Your whole body jolted. Just slightly. But enough.

He froze. His palm still hovered, but he didn't push.

You dropped your gaze. "I'm sorry. Forgive me. I just—I've never—" The words got caught. Your throat burned.

He stepped back. Not in shame. Just to give you space.

"...Me neither," he said quietly.

There was a silence after he spoke. Not an awkward one. Not really. More like a stillness—a moment suspended in the air between two strangers who had no idea what to do now that the truth had been said aloud.

You weren't sure who sat down first. Maybe you did. Maybe he followed. But somehow you both ended up on the edge of the bed, not touching, facing slightly different directions like you were afraid of spooking each other.

You stared at your hands in your lap. "I didn't think... you'd be nervous."

He gave a soft huff, not quite a laugh. "Why not?"

"Because when I walked in here, you turned around like... like you weren't afraid of anything."

That made him pause.

He looked at you—just looked—eyes dark and unreadable, like he was weighing whether to say the truth or something easier.

Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a faint, crooked smile. "Looks can be deceiving." He held out his hand. "I'm Telemachus."

You blinked.

The name struck something deep in your chest. You're not sure why, but it sounded really familiar. Still, you reached out, slipping your fingers into his before the silence stretched too long. "I'm ____."

He held your hand a second longer than he had to.

" ____." he said softly, like he was tasting it. "That's... a beautiful name."

He repeated it again, slower this time. More careful. Like he was folding it into memory.

You looked away first. But only for a second. When you turned back, he was already watching you—shoulders drawn in a little, face unreadable.

He blinked, startled at being caught, and looked away quickly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. His ears were flushed.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm not... I didn't come here planning to do anything like this. My friend—he pushed. I didn't even mean to follow him in, but I—I don't know."

He sighed through a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, shoulders rising and falling under the weight of his own honesty.

"I've fought men twice my size. Led ships through storms. Stared down men who wanted to kill me in my own hall," he said. Then turned his head to you, eyes meeting yours. "None of that was as terrifying as opening that door."

You blinked at him. "...Why?"

He looked away again, and you could tell he was choosing his words.

"...Because if I went through with this," he said slowly, "I'd never be able to go back."

That confused you. "Back?"

"To the boy who never did," he murmured. "To the version of me who still hadn't. I spent so long carrying him around, pretending he didn't matter. But I think he does. And if I let him go—" he paused, "—I want it to be for something real."

You swallowed.

Telemachus glanced at you, half-smiling. "Sorry. That was a bit heavy."

"No, it wasn't," you said, surprising yourself. "I... understand."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

You nodded. "I gave my first kiss to a coin."

He blinked.

You flushed. "I mean—! I didn't—I meant—" You exhaled, collecting yourself. "I gave it to the idea of a coin. A better life. A trade. I thought I could handle it. That if I said yes to this place, I could keep my soul out of it."

He was quiet.

You laughed, bitter. "But I think it got in anyway."

When you looked up, his expression had changed. Something had softened in him—not out of pity. Not out of guilt. But recognition. He knew that feeling. That ache behind your voice.

"I was scared," you whispered. "I still am."

Telemachus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. "What are you scared of?"

"That it'll hurt," you said. "That it'll be awful. That I'll do something wrong."

"It's not something you can do wrong," he said quietly. "Not when you mean it."

"...Do you?"

His breath caught. You didn't mean to ask it like that. Like it was a challenge. But it hung there.

He nodded. "I... I think I do. Now."

Another long pause. But something shifted in it—something warmer.

You both smiled, small and unsure.

He turned slightly toward you. "Would it be alright if... if I... kissed you?"

You nodded.

The kiss wasn't perfect. It wasn't practiced or smooth or clever. It was a little too hesitant. A little too careful. His lips were warm but tentative, like he didn't want to overwhelm you. Your fingers curled in his tunic, clutching the fabric, not pulling—just holding. His hand touched your cheek again, and this time, you didn't flinch.

It deepened. Slowly. You tilted your head. He let out a breath.

When you finally parted, you were both smiling now, a little dazed.

"I don't want to do anything that scares you," he murmured.

"That's the thing," you said softly. "It still scares me. But... not as much."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to see your face. "Do you want to stop?"

You hesitated, and then, with the tiniest breath, you said, "No."

You moved first this time—your hand trembling slightly, brushing the inside of his knee and then higher, testing the waters. He inhaled sharply, but didn't stop you—his gaze locked on yours like he was waiting to see what you'd do next.

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Didn't take.

He just watched you, like you were a storm rolling in, and he was the only man foolish enough to stand beneath the thunder. But then you moved again. Just a shift, just closer. And something in you said: Try it. So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him.

The moment your lips touched his, Telemachus melted into it—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand cupped the back of your neck like it was instinct, holding you steady, and then—

His mouth opened, his tongue slid against yours, and you gasped.

A startled, breathy sound that you couldn't bite back. It caught in your throat like a held-back whimper, made your lashes flutter. You weren't expecting that—how warm he was, how eager. He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who'd read about it, dreamed about it, but never had permission to try.

And gods, once he had it... he took it.

His arms wrapped around you without thought, strong and sure. In one smooth motion, he pulled you forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your knees against the bed, your body pressed flush to his. His hands didn't just rest at your back—they curled, palms dragging up your spine like he was learning the shape of you by feel alone.

Your mind raced.

He's strong. He's so strong. This is going so fast—but I don't want it to stop.

You barely remembered to breathe.

His hands spread wide against your ribs, holding you in place like he was afraid you'd vanish. His tongue moved against yours again, this time slower—more deliberate. Testing. Teasing. Tasting.

You whimpered, and his grip tightened.

Some small, silly part of your brain sparked to life, voice hushed but not gone:

If this is what all the customers are like... maybe working at the brothel won't be so bad.

But the thought barely had time to settle before memory returned, sharper now—the voices of the girls who'd painted your lips and whispered in your ear before the door opened.

"Touch his chest. Men love that."

"Use your hips—grind just a little, then stop."

"Fake moan. Even if you don't mean it. They eat that up."

The words came in flashes.

You tried to recall what you were supposed to do next. How you were supposed to arch your back or roll your hips or do that breathy little laugh one girl had demonstrated by the mirror.

But none of it came naturally.

Not when his hands felt so real. Not when his lips were shaking slightly against yours. Not when he kissed you like you were something he didn't think he'd ever get again.

You clutched his shoulders instead.

Not because someone told you to, but because you didn't know how else to keep yourself from falling apart.

Your lips finally broke from his, breath catching as you pulled back just enough to see him.

And gods—Telemachus looked wrecked.

His cheeks were flushed pink, almost feverish. A single curl clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair had fallen wildly out of place, soft spirals tousled from where your fingers had tugged them. His mouth hung open slightly, lips swollen and red, wet where he'd kissed you too long and too hard and too much—not that you'd wanted him to stop.

His eyes, though...they were the worst part.

Wide. Glassy. A little dazed.

And so hungry.

Not like a man ready to devour—but like a boy starved of softness, blinking up at you like you'd just fed him something he never knew he needed.

You sat on his lap still, panting softly, your chest rising against his.

Your hand moved before you could think. Fingers brushing his jaw, then up along his cheek. You cupped his face, thumb tracing just beneath his eye like you were trying to remember every line of him.

He's handsome, you thought, breathless.Too handsome to be here. Too gentle to want someone like me.

Telemachus leaned into your touch like it was instinct. Like it was safe.

You stared at him.

And then... you moved.

Slowly, you slid from his lap, your knees hitting the floor one after the other. Your hands rested on his thighs, steadying yourself. You leaned forward, eyes cast down, heartbeat loud in your ears.

This was what the other girls said men wanted.

This was what they told you would happen eventually.

Maybe if you did it well, he'd want to come back. Maybe he'd ask for you again. Maybe—

But your fingers had barely reached for the tie of his tunic before—

He stopped you.

Gently.

Firmly.

Telemachus' hands curled around your waist again—not desperate, not panicked, but certain. Like he'd been waiting to stop you from this.

You didn't even get to ask why before he was lifting you. Effortless.

He picked you up like it was nothing, like you weighed less than the breath in his lungs. Before you could protest, he'd turned and settled you back on the bed—this time seated lower, your legs tucked beside you. You stared up at him, startled, breath still ragged.

His hands didn't leave your hips. But they didn't move either. Just stayed there. Warm. Steady. Present.

You swallowed. "Why...?"

He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level, voice soft.

"I'm not here to take from you," he murmured. "I... I don't want that to be your first memory."

You blinked. Tried to read his face. His voice hadn't changed. There was no judgment in it. No shame. Just... truth.

He touched your knee—light, barely a brush.

"But... I want to give you something... If you'll let me."

It didn't take long for the truth of it to click into place.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart lurching as it settled in.

He was telling you—right now, in this quiet moment with your hands still trembling in your lap—he wanted to give, and he wanted nothing in return.

The realization made your stomach twist in a way you didn't have a name for.

Before you could find your voice—before you could tell him, you don't have to, I didn't mean for this—

Telemachus moved.

He dropped to one knee—not with dramatics, not like some chivalrous knight, but like something in him had simply given way. Like his body understood before his mind did that this was where he belonged.

Not beneath you. But before you.

His shoulders bowed, his head dipping slightly as his gaze stayed locked on yours. His hands hovered over your thighs—not touching, just there. Waiting. Asking without words.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch.

"You don't have to do anything," he whispered. His voice was so low it felt like a secret passed between breaths. "Just let me take care of you."

Your lips parted, but you didn't speak.

He continued—voice steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to awe.

"I've thought about this moment," he admitted. "Not like this, not here—but... about what it would feel like. To be trusted with someone. By someone."

His fingers finally moved—just enough to ghost over your knees. Then higher. Sliding along your thighs, slow and warm and so careful.

He didn't press them apart.

He didn't ask for more.

He just waited.

And the way he looked at you—gods, it was unbearable. His eyes didn't flick down to your chest. Didn't scan your body like a thing bought and paid for. They were locked on yours. Unblinking. Steady. Patient.

You didn't think you'd ever been looked at like that.

Like your nervousness was sacred. Like your silence was allowed. Like you were the sky and he'd found a place in it.

Your hands curled into the sheets.

And then—

You nodded.

And everything stilled.

Not the air. Not the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath the bed. But him. Telemachus didn't surge forward. Didn't pounce. He waited one heartbeat—two—just to be sure. Just to give you the chance to change your mind. And when you didn't, he moved.

The first press of his lips to your inner knee was enough to break you. You inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching from how careful he was being. As if he thought you might shatter. As if he'd fall apart too, if he touched you wrong.

His hands were warm against your calves, large and steady, sliding beneath your legs to part them—not forcing. Guiding. Creating space. Creating breath.

You couldn't look at him. Could only stare at the ceiling as the fabric of your dress shifted—bunched higher and higher as his hands pushed it past your knees, your thighs, up over your hips. Each inch of exposure made your skin burn. Not from embarrassment. From realization.

From how huge his hands felt.

The way his palms wrapped around you so easily. How his thumbs brushed along the softest parts of your inner thighs. How your skin tingled wherever he touched—like his fingertips were ink, and you were being written on.

His lips followed.

He kissed higher.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like each inch of skin was a vow.

He paused between each kiss like he needed permission from your skin to keep going. And when he reached the place right at the intersection of your thighs—he paused again, and the heat of his breath made you jerk.

Your voice came out soft. Fragile. "Telemachus..."

His head tilted up.

You expected hunger. Or urgency.

But his eyes..

Gods, his eyes.

They were soft. Dazed. Like he was seeing something divine.

You could feel his breath there—there—hot and reverent, like prayer pressed to skin. It burned in the most delicate way. A kiss without contact.

And then—

His mouth covered you.

You jerked.

A small, startled squeak caught in your throat as your hips lifted off the bed, back arching on instinct. The heat of his mouth was searing—not rough, not greedy, just everywhere. Warm and wet and real.

"T-Telemachus—!" you gasped, the sound breaking halfway through as his tongue moved. You clutched at his hair—those soft brown curls that caught your eye the moment you saw him—and whimpered as the pressure began to build.

It was clumsy at first. Careful. Testing. But gods, he was trying—tongue flicking and tasting and exploring in slow, cautious strokes that grew bolder every time you whimpered.

Every sound you made pulled something new from him.

You couldn't see his face, but you felt him—his hands gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open, his mouth pressing against you like he was trying to learn you by muscle memory. Like he didn't want to miss a single reaction.

You weren't trying to say his name, not really, but it kept falling from your lips like a prayer—"Telemachus, Telemachus, Telemachus—" and every time you said it, his grip on your thighs tightened, his tongue slowed, focused, like the sound fed him.

He moaned into you once—just once—and the vibration made you cry out, thighs twitching around his head. Your fingers tangled in the sheets. You couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop trembling. Every time you cried out—every little "ah," every breathless "oh gods"—he shook with need.

"Please," you whispered, not even knowing what you were asking for.

His hands slid further beneath you, thumbs hooking under your thighs as he lifted your legs—gently, reverently—and pulled them over his shoulders, like this was where he'd wanted to be all night.

He didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

His fingers pressed into your hips, holding you still when you started to squirm, when your legs tried to close. You didn't want to push him away—you just didn't know what to do with all of it.

The pressure. The heat. The way he was everywhere.

And when you came—

Gods, when it hit—

You didn't scream. You didn't cry.

You breathed—one long, shaking exhale as your whole body went tense, then soft. Your thighs locked around his head, your back bowed, and your fingers slipped from his hair to your own lips, muffling the sound that rose from deep inside your chest.

And he didn't stop.

Not right away.

Telemachus kissed you through it—tongue gentle again now, coaxing you down with slow, soft laps that made your thighs tremble and your lungs shudder. Like he couldn't bear to let you go yet. Like he wanted to catch every last wave of your pleasure and hold it in his mouth.

Only when your hips twitched from the overstimulation and you sagged against the pillows like a storm passing, then—and only then—did he lift his head.

He looked... wrecked.

His face was flushed. Lips wet. Hair mussed from where your fingers had accidentally tangled in it. He looked like a boy who'd just touched divinity and barely survived.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Your legs had gone loose. Your chest rose and fell like it had been emptied of every secret you'd ever tried to carry. And him—Telemachus just stayed there. Sitting on the floor beside the bed, head resting against the mattress, eyes closed like he was memorizing the sound of your breathing.

He hadn't touched you since. Not in that way. Not even to kiss you again. He just sat there, reverent and flushed and so very still, as if breaking the silence might ruin it.

Eventually, you found your voice.

"Should I... should I... help you?"

He let out a breathless laugh. "No. I'm... I'm alright."

You looked at him, eyes flicking downward.

He was obviously not alright.

But he only smiled—softer this time, a little crooked.

"That was enough," he said. "More than enough." Now it's his turn to question you. "Was it... Was that—?" he started, then cut himself off, unsure.

Your hand reached for him, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, catching the last trace of yourself there.

"That was..." you couldn't even finish. Your voice cracked, but you smiled. And that was enough.

His breath hitched, just for a second. Then, gently, he asked, "Can... Can I lie beside you?"

You nodded.

He stood and climbed onto the bed with a quiet grace that didn't match how tightly his body must've been wound. He slid in behind you—not too close. Not assuming. But when you shifted—just a little—and your back brushed his chest, he went still.

You felt his arm ghost toward your waist. Waiting. Always waiting.

You let him.

He exhaled as he wrapped around you, chest pressed against your spine, his breath steady against your hair.

And gods... it felt like safety.

Not heat. Not hunger. Just warmth.

You'd never been touched like that before.

Never felt like that before.

And the craziest part?

Neither had he.

You whispered, "...You're still hard."

You felt him laugh, muffled against the back of your neck. "I know."

"I can—"

"No," he said softly. "Not tonight."

You turned your head just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. "Then... what do we do now?"

He smiled. Sleepy. Adoring. Infatuated in a way that made your heart ache.

"Now?" he murmured. "Now we stay."

And so you did.

With his arm draped over your waist, his nose tucked behind your ear, and your breath starting to slow to match his, you let yourself fall asleep.

Just this once, in someone else's arms.

Just this once, without fear.

☆

☆

You woke to the smell of lavender soap and old wood.

For a moment, your eyes stayed closed. You didn't want to risk opening them—afraid that the night before had been a dream spun from nerves and exhaustion. Afraid that if you looked beside you, he'd be gone. Or worse... that he'd still be there, and it wouldn't mean anything.

But you didn't need to open your eyes to know he was still behind you.

You could feel him.

Telemachus' chest was warm against your spine, one arm draped lazily over your waist. His fingers twitched in his sleep, like he was still holding on to something. His breath was slow. Even. Peaceful.

You tried not to move. Tried to hold still like maybe if you stayed quiet enough, time would pause. But it didn't. You felt the moment start to shift—the softness fraying at the edges, reality creeping in.

You turned your head slightly. Just enough to whisper, "Are you awake?"

His breath caught. And then, softly. "Yeah."

You rolled onto your back, eyes meeting his.

He looked ruined. Hair tousled. Eyes a little puffy. Lips still flushed from where you'd kissed him. But gods, if he didn't look at you like you were something he was scared to blink at.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hi."

Neither of you moved.

You weren't sure what to say. Should you say anything? Ask if he'd be back? If it meant something? If he'd still want you when the sun was high and the world was loud again?

But then he reached up, fingertips barely brushing your cheek, and said, "I've got to leave soon."

Your stomach dropped. You nodded, trying not to let it show.

"But," he added quickly, "that doesn't mean this... have to end."

You looked at him.

He smiled—soft, boyish, crooked. "I don't think I could forget you if I tried."

You didn't believe him. Not really. But part of you wanted to. And maybe that was enough for now.

You sat up, pulled the sheet around you. "I should get dressed before everyone wakes and the girls start talking."

"They'll talk anyway," he muttered.

You looked over your shoulder. "Oh?"

He smirked faintly. "They were whispering when I came in last night. Half the brothel knew where I was going."

That made your cheeks burn.

You stood, tried to tame your hair, tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the dress you'd been poured into. You felt his eyes on you the whole time. Not leering. Just... watching.

Like he still couldn't believe you were real.

"I'll send for you," he said suddenly.

You turned. "What?"

"I mean—" he sat up, voice softer now, more careful. "If... If you want your actual first time to be... different... I could find a way."

Your throat tightened. "You don't have to—"

"I want to."

You blinked.

He stood. Stepped close. Tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear and whispered, "If last night was your first... then I want the second to be mine, too."

And then he was gone.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

You were back in the laundry room before the others, sleeves rolled to your elbows, sleeves that still smelled faintly like him. You kept your head down, folding quietly, avoiding the curious glances and the not-so-subtle giggles from the other girls.

"Did he kiss you?"

"Did you touch him?"

"How big was his dick?"

You ignored them.

The Madam approached mid-morning. You braced yourself for orders—new clients, more linen, someone drunk puking on the rugs again. But she only said. "You're off the floor."

You blinked. "What?"

"No clients. No touch work. From today on, you stay with the laundry."

Your lips parted. "Why?"

She didn't answer at first, just tucked a folded piece of parchment into your palm. A receipt. A payment.

"He bought it. Your virginity." she said simply. "The prince. Paid enough to take you off rotation."

Your mouth dropped. "Prince??"

She snorted—an unladylike sound for a woman who wore perfume and lace—and kept walking, her heels clacking across the wooden floor as she called out something about clean towels to the other girls.

You scrambled after her, nearly tripping on the hem of your skirt. "Wait—wait! What do you mean a prince?! Why would a prince buy me? When would he—does he come back? Will he come back tonight?!"

The brothel was already alive with its usual morning rhythm—cleaning cloths flapping out windows, perfume bottles clinking onto vanities, girls slipping between one another to straighten bedding and fluff pillows. A few early clients sat in the lounge area downstairs, their voices low and lazy, nursing watered-down wine while waiting for their favorites to appear from behind silk curtains.

You chased the Madam past them all, dodging a tray of breakfast figs and a girl giggling down the hall with her corset still half-undone. You reached the hallway leading back toward the laundry room when she suddenly spun around to face you—and you stumbled to a stop with a squeak.

She didn't speak at first.

Just looked at you. Looked through you.

Then—tap.

Two fingers to the center of your forehead.

"Honestly," she sighed. "And here I thought you were one of the smart ones."

You blinked, wide-eyed. "I—I am!"

She gave you a flat look. "You keep the ledgers balanced. You talk back to the bookkeeper without blinking. You know which clients are late on payment before they sit down. Hell, you taught Clio how to read last week—and you fixed the squeaky back door with an oil rag and string."

Your face flushed. "Then why—"

"Because, darling," she said, tone sharp but not cruel, "you're acting like a little airhead this morning, and it's beneath you."

You shrank in on yourself slightly. "I just... I don't understand."

She sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "The man you were with last night—"

"Telemachus," you said quickly, almost breathless. Just hearing his name made your chest pull tight.

The Madam's lips pursed.

Tap.

She poked your forehead again, this time more pointed.

"That's Prince Telemachus," she corrected. "Don't forget who you're talking about."

You blinked. "But I thought—he never told me—"

She raised a brow. "Of course he didn't. Nobles never do. Not when they want to see how you treat them before the title gets in the way. That's why you listen to the whispers that goes through here. I'm positive someone let it loose."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

She continued walking, and you had to trot after her again.

"Anywho, the prince of Pylos—Peisistratus, the youngest of King Nestor' sons—he came in just after dusk last night. Said he needed someone untouched. Said it was a gift, of sorts, for the prince of Ithaca. And the moment I thought of someone who might actually look him in the eye and not fall apart..." She gave you a sideways glance. "So I sent for you."

You gawked. "But I—I flinched. I almost cried!"

"Yes, precisely why I chose you," she said dryly, "and yet he bought your virginity the moment he left. Paid triple what we charge."

You stopped walking.

The hallway around you blurred—sunlight spilling through stained glass, footsteps echoing above, voices below, the brothel alive in every direction.

You stood frozen in the middle of it.

Prince Telemachus bought my virginity.

You touched your lips.

They still tingled.

Even then, all you could be stuck on was the fact that Telemachus was a prince.

And suddenly—everything clicked. Like someone had thrown a torch into the back of your mind and lit up the whole kingdom map.

You recalled the whispers in town. The parade of ships. The late-night feasts held at the palace people like you weren't invited to. The rising hum of change in every corner of Ithaca.

The return of King Odysseus.

And that boy—the one who kissed you like the world was ending—

"Prince Telemachus?!" you squawked again, way too loud this time.

But the Madam was already halfway down the hall, waving a rag at the kitchen girl and calling for someone to bring fresh honey-water to room six.

You stood frozen, still clutching the folded parchment like it might burn you.

You looked down at it again.

The ink hadn't changed. His name was still there. The number. The seal.

All real.

And your chest—your whole body—went still.

"...So I'm free?!?" you shouted down the hall after her.

The Madam didn't stop walking.

She just gave a half-smile, scoffing like you'd just asked if pigs could read.

"No one's free here, girl," she called over her shoulder. "But you're his now."

And with that, she disappeared into the steam of the bath corridor, barking something about soap and firewood.

You looked back down at the parchment.

Your fingers were shaking a little, but only because they felt lighter somehow. Like for the first time in weeks, you were holding something that might mean more than just survival.

And then—just barely—you smiled.

Because he didn't take you.

He chose you.

And maybe, just maybe...

He'd choose you again.