[pluvoia]

"PUPPY LUST"

in which, TALIA AL-GHUL has not been oblivious to your love-sick and desperate advances; a weakness in which she must correct. ‧₊˚✩彡 includes: talia al-ghul x fem!reader, assassin!reader, trainer!talia, slowburn, mature content (17+), hints of internalized homophobia, brief kissing / making-out, finger sucking, fingering, slight dumbification, power imbalance, subby!reader, dom!talia, fingering, slapping, face sitting (reader receiving), forced orgasms, hair pulling, brief sword-play, "ma'am" kink, degradation, overstimulation, dialogue is supposed feel.. professional / old-timey, 4.9k words. ‧₊˚✩彡 kinktober masterlist.

THE WHISPERS, no matter how hard the others tried, were always bound to make their way to you. falling from the sickeningly envious mouths of fellow assassins-- there was almost no doubt you'd find out about the snaking tones they carried, doused in jealousy and hot, hot, hot rage. nothing ever got past anyone in the league-- much less you.

and that was the issue.

you were the league's greatest gift after all; blessed with the brutality and insensitivity to the harshest of work, higher-ups respected you miles beyond the treatment any other assassin received. they nodded when you walked through meetings and smirked when your performance in training was nothing short of impeccable. best of all-- they congratulated talia on her phenomenal teachings, her protege yielding results much better than any one could have expected.

talia would nod, thin-lipped and curt. her mask of indifference was impenetrable in such settings-- though you always saw the glint in her eyes that followed. her chin would tilt upwards ever so slightly, and her shoulders would un-tense. pride.

you liked to make talia proud-- liked to see her relax, liked to see her gloat. so your achievement was static-- nothing short of perfection, punching, kicking, killing with a routine steadiness-- all for her.

for the longest time, you couldn't understand the reason behind this obsession you had-- just why her presence evoked such a forceful need to please. but you didn't question it-- couldn't question it, not when her approval was so compelling, so intoxicating.

alas, the rumors began. floating through-out your colleagues through bitter glances and snide remarks; eventually mangling themselves into harsher strikes during training and mistreatment when your leaders were not looking.

( "for god's sake," one of your fellow assassins sneered, teeth baring at you as she held impossibly tight onto your upper forearm. "can't you let one of us have the spot-light? must you be so selfish, so irritatingly powerful, all of the time?"

your feet swatted out from underneath you, causing the girl to lose balance and fall to the matted floor of the training area. she yelped, and in that time, you had managed to pin her underneath your body-weight, pressing into her back with your elbow hard. "i am not understanding of what you mean," you had replied through gritted teeth, "if you wish to be praised by our trainers, perhaps you should fight like it."

the girl groaned from underneath you as your elbow dug into the back of her ribs-- but you payed her no mind, vision dancing upwards to where the trainers were all observing the spar. eyes darting to talia, you saw her own flicker with satisfaction. 'again,' they murmured to you. so that's what you did-- fought victoriously against every other assassin they threw at you, barely breaking a sweat.

again and again and again. )

but what did it matter? none in the slightest, to you; the league members around you could be as bitter as they liked, for they were not the ones on the receiving end of talia's affections like you were.

perhaps affections was too strong a word, though; despite your spars and missions being executed flawlessly, talia took her delight in your victories impersonally, however praised she may have been. it was clinical, detached, her relationship to you. beyond your extensive training sessions, she barely offered you glances at meals or the curtesy of greetings outside of the mainly professional settings you were both always in. pondering this for longer than you would have liked, one night in the small privacy of your quarters, everything suddenly fell into place. it was glaringly obvious, now, why you clung onto every glimpse of approval she sparingly offered; why the rush you felt when she smiled at you, her younger protege, was so terribly intense.

you were to take what you could get, you thought, chewing at your bottom lip. the moon shone onto the sheets of your bed coolly, and something brazen sparked to life right in between your ribs. maybe, you thought in gluttony, you could force her to give you more.

and so that's what you had done-- and why, now, you had found yourself in an empty sparring room.

the cloth of your sports bra and leggings clung to your skin mockingly. your training session with talia was supposed to have begun almost fifteen minutes ago-- and if talia was anything, it was not tardy.

her absence was punishment, you could deduce that much; for what, though, you could not place.

sure, you had been overwhelmingly glued to talia's side for the past few weeks-- offering yourself to her in more ways than just a trainee; whenever she needed hydration or food-- you were there. if she needed an errand done, or something fetched, you had already completed the task before it could fall from her lips. at first, talia hadn't minded-- it was nice, having someone so in-tune with her every need, she needn't ever speak; it was just done. but after a while, your efforts had become obvious to the trainer. talia could read you like a book; although it would not have taken a genius to understand the shine in your eyes at talia's every breath in your direction. it was pathetic, talia had thought; and this infatuation was to be treated-- cured, instantly.

so she waited; in the shadows of the sparring room, watching you pace anxiously-- from corner to corner, attempting to decipher the punishment, understand where you had angered your goddess.

her voice broke you from your worrying, and made your throat tight. "you've been awfully attentive as of late," talia began, easily jumping down from the observing level of the sparring room to the mat where you stood frozen in place. "tending to my every need, as if.." with every step she drew nearer, and your pulse quicked, "as if your servitude could buy my affection."

you swallowed, and the sound of her heels clicking against the mat suddenly became an unwelcomed harmonization to your heart-beat, which pumped tauntingly throughout your ears. "i..." heat bloomed in your face, crawling up your neck like ants. "i don't... know...."

before you could blink, the blunt end of talia's sword connected with your ribs. air escaped your lungs suddenly, and you fell forward onto your knees. "stupid girl," talia sneered, peering down at you with disgust, "i believed i trained you better than this; better than to.. embarrass yourself, for someone's attention."

"that was never my intention," you sputtered, leaning backwards onto the palms of your hands as you watched talia come to a stand still in front of you. her shadow blocked out the minimal sunlight offered from outside, and the only distinguishable feature you could make out on her face was the glow of her emerald irises.

talia tsk'ed, using the blade of her sword to press against your chin; it tilted upwards to meet her gaze, sweat pooling at your hairline. "oh, but was it not?" she questioned lowly. "it's a weakness," talia countered, "you do know better than anyone else how we treat weaknesses, don't you?"

you were nodding before you could think, and the tip of her blade pressed further into your chin; it was a miracle she had not broken skin yet.

"speak." she commanded. "i have trained you to speak when you are spoken to, have i not?"

"you have, i apologize," your own eyes lowered, lashes fluttering against your cheek.

"you apologize to who?" talia asked, suddenly bending down to meet your eye-level. you could smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume-- jasmine and lavender-- as it radiated off her; much like what you assumed was frustration.

there were few times you were able to look upon talia's face so closely-- every beauty-mark, freckle, scar, painted across her face with such perfection it almost wounded you. "you, ma'am,"

there were even fewer times you had witnessed talia smile. often a seldom woman, there was little to smile about within her life and line of work, which blended messily in a conglomeration of rigorous training and strict habit. now though, the tiniest grin broke out across your trainer's lips; "good girl."

something within you sparked immediately to life-- it burned at your ribs, and made your core suddenly sop. shame should have been crawling up your spine, enveloping your mind-- this was the woman you looked up to!-- but you couldn't seem to get past this rush of infatuation every blink she offered gave you. it was as if every second glance she had given as a reward for your fighting was multiplied tenfold, and hitting you like a truck.

you couldn't fight the way your legs twitched closed, thighs pressing together to dull the ache that had bloomed at talia's attention.

"see," the woman scoffed, swatting a hand out against your leg to separate your thighs, "i've trained you for years, seen you as no less than my equal-- and you think i hadn't figured out what you really wanted?"

the hand she had used to keep your legs apart was suddenly on your jaw; her thumb stroked idly at your bottom lip, before entering your mouth. you gasped softly, taken aback at the gesture, though made no moves to stop her; in fact, you opened your mouth wider, inviting her thumb onto the plain of your tongue.

"ever since you started... shadowing me, without my request, i knew there was something you craved." talia continued, hissing ever so slightly at the sensation of you sucking on her thumb, "something more that you wanted-- something beyond the scope of our relationship as trainer and trainee."

there was a lapse in silence as her voice stopped-- the only noise being the tiniest of sounds you emitted as you continued to suckle on her digit. without warning, however, talia removed her thumb from your mouth-- grasping your jaw tightly in her hand, pulling you forward and closer to her frame. your faces were barely inches apart now, her breath fanning across your lips erotically. "say you wanted my attention." she whispers. orders.

the blush on your cheeks deepens. "i wanted your attention, ma'am."

talia hummed, inching her face closer to yours-- so close the proximity almost burned. "i don't reward weakness," she whispered, green irises darting down to the saliva-coated plump of your lips, "but obedience?" her hand trailed south, meeting the base of your throat and holding steady. "obedience i can work with."

you parted your mouth to say-- what? her name? to beg? you weren't sure-- but your lips parted, and your breathing hitched all the same. "ma'am," you croaked out.

talia reeled herself away from your frame as you spoke, swiftly standing. her vision darted across the sparring room, before landing on a support beam in the middle of the room. she jut her chin in its direction, her index finger pointing idly at it. "go sit against it."

your body moved without a second thought, hesitation nowhere to be found as your back pressed up against the support beam. the wood was cold against your exposed skin, shocking your system.

"you've trained your body so well, to obey to every command," talia spoke, admiring her nails idly-- as if she was bored by this entire ordeal. "but it seems i've found an area i, shamefully, had not thought to focus on," it was not long before talia was stood in front of you again, this time resting a palm flat against the wooden support beam to lean over your frame. "your mind."

talia cleared her throat to speak again. "tell me," she uttered, using a foot to shove your thighs apart, "what else did you want from me?"

when no words emptied themselves from your throat, simply at a lack of an answer, talia's voice filled the space again.

"what did you crave when you were following me around like a lost little puppy, huh? what is it that you wanted, every time you kneeled at my feet, offering me things i did not request?" her tone was mocking; clearly, she was getting more joy out of this than she was letting on.

"i.. i wanted you, ma'am," you whispered, feeling her stare intensify against you. "i realized there was something inside me that.. that screamed, every time you looked proud of me, every time you were satisfied with my work," your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you watched something in talia switch. "it's selfish, ma'am, it truly is-- but i could not bare to... only receive this affection from you during sparring hours, or- or whenever a mission was completed; i needed it far more than you can imagine."

your confession caused talia to falter, an emotion you could not place sweeping over her face momentarily. "you needed it," the woman repeated lowly, "do you know what it is like to need something so badly, you think you are going insane? do you think you have even a clue as to what yearning truly feels like? to want something so terribly it disgusts you?"

talia spoke with such ferocity, it was almost petrifying. this was now a woman you could not recognize-- her passion, her sentiment, her understanding-- blurring the edges of her face and turning her into a whole new human you did not know. it was startling, how quickly this evocation of emotions had occurred; how long had these unspoken feelings remained festering inside the second in command to the league?

"i do," you tried wearily. "god," you swallowed, running a hand down your face, "it brings such shame to me-- knowing the amount of nights i have laid awake, desiring nothing more than you-- wholly, unrestraint."

with your comment, you had expected talia's self-restraint to crumble-- you had expected her to fall to your level, pounce on you with such vigor it would have you seeing stars.

but that is not what happened.

at your comment, talia looked angered. dark eyebrows knit together and she scowled. "no," she suddenly argued, "do not speak to me of shame. especially when it--" talia faltered, and something rocked terribly within your gut because talia never faltered, "when it pertains to you, and wanting nothing more than to have you."

the hand that had been resting on the support beam suddenly found your hair-- and she yanked your face upwards to meet her gaze as she hovered above your frame. you winced, taken by surprise at her action.

"we should not be doing this," she rumbled, leaning down so that your faces were separated only by a few centimetres, "we should be training. that is what i am supposed to be doing--! and you're here, selfishly distracting me, thinking you can-- you can coax me into doing this with you, coax me into falling in love with you,"

your eyes widened, and for a moment, there was nothing you could say. "i--"

"no." talia spoke again, sneering again in your face. "you wanted my attention, huh? you wanted your compliance to my every need to get you my love," her lips ghosted over yours, and the low heart-beat of your cunt was growing all too consuming, "you don't deserve my love, nor my regard." she spat, voice lowering to barely over a whisper, "but i am not cruel. you wanted my physicality beyond sparring? fine, but you will not complain, and you will take it how i give."

talia's lips pressed firmly to yours, and she kissed you with such fervor it was dizzying. there was no procrastination in your movements as you kissed her back, lips parting to allow her tongue into your mouth had she wanted to. and she did-- because suddenly, her appendage was deep down your throat, consuming every sense you had. her hand tightened within your hair, yanking and pulling you closer to her with almost no struggle. when you both separated for air, her chest heaved as she spoke. "take off your pants."

fingers hooking into the waist-band of your leggings, you wasted no time in shrugging them past your ankles and letting them fall to the ground. talia's eyes bore into your core-- right where you felt your panties dampening-- and her lips drew tight.

the connection of her sword to the mats of the training area echoed lowly throughout the room. talia moved, slowly, inching forward as if this entire thing was not real and crawling on all fours, before she stopped right in between your legs. one of her hands, she brought to her mouth-- before spitting on two fingers, and immediately placing them onto your cunt. the wetness from her saliva combined with the slick from your pussy as she shoved her digits underneath your panties; inhaling sharply once she felt how aroused you truly were.

talia's fingers danced methodically at your clit-- rolling, pressing, teasing the bundle of nerves with no regard for your own release. she worked strictly against your folds, learning and adapting to your responses; training herself to the tune and song of your body.

her silence was not to be taken as dis-engagement, however; her pupils were blown wide, and the hairs raised on the back of her neck every time another one of your moans bellowed out throughout the room.

if you hadn't known any better, you would have assumed talia was just as aroused as you were.

shoving her appendages inside of you, curling suddenly, she spoke. it was low-- considering she had leaned forward, close enough to your body, to get herself inside of you. "is this to your liking?" she asked, though not of concern-- of the desire to learn. you knew your trainer well-- and could understand this was not for your pleasure, but to become knowledgeable in what you liked for the soul purpose of turning it against you in the future.

you nodded, head rubbing against the wooden support beam. your jaw had gone slack at her actions, eyes blinking furiously, willing your vision to stay forward-- willing them to not roll into the back of your head despite how good you feel.

"such a selfish little whore," she hummed, the heel of her palm grinding against your clit as her fingers continued to scissor in and out of you passionately. "begging for my attention, practically drooling over any and everything i do, just because you wanted my fingers in your cunt." at her words, the tips of her fingers found your g-spot-- and she was not merciful in her actions. curling and uncurling at a maddening pace, she continued to speak-- ignoring how your back arched off of the support post, or the way your hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. "some of us have dignity," she uttered your name, and despite the disapproval it carried, it still went straight to your pussy, "some of us-- no matter how badly we want it-- must remain respectable when we want to be fucked by our protege."

you were gasping now, reality blurring as you slowly understood the implication of her words-- talia wanted you, too. though she had had much more restraint than you did; using that fact against you as she bullied your cunt.

"can you imagine that?" she laughed, chuckling lowly underneath her breath. "having to suppress the urges we have because we are honorable?" her fingers scissored again and again and again within your pussy, which drooled all over her hand needily. "clearly you can't. not when you're getting what you want."

"i'm going to cum," you say, suddenly, cutting talia off. her movements cease for a moment, and you cry out-- pleasure fogging your common-sense. though, talia begins to move again; her hand now pistoning three fingers in and out of you at a wild pace.

"cum then." she says simply. an order.

and your body obeys-- shuddering, your hips barely tilt off the floor as your legs twitch-- your orgasm washing over you with terrible intensity. you gasp, the breath stolen from your lungs as your cunt clenches around talia's fingers, strangling her digits with ease.

your trainer's movements, however, remain unyielding. she continues to finger-fuck you with the same vigor, her thumb pressing intensely at your clit. she does not speak as she does this-- does not baby you through your orgasm, and certainly does not let you ride it out; no, talia wants to keep you on that same high. she wants to keep you going, drawing out your orgasm drop by drop.

"oh, talia, i- i can't--"

talia's free hand releases your hair, and you felt a hot smack against the side of your face. the welt stings, and you yelp at the action. "that is not how you address me."

"ma'am--!" you cry out, hips thrashing at the sensation of her fingers continuing to work at your folds, her pace unrelenting.

"that's right." talia says, eyes darting down to your cunt and then back up to your face. "and i don't care if you can't take it-- this is what you wanted, isn't it?" she questioned mockingly.

"yes, ma'am, but i'm sensit--"

"i told you," talia interrupts, "you will take what i give." her fingers pull out of you momentarily, only to pinch your clit. your sobs suddenly rip through the training room, and talia pays you no mind at all. her hands continue to work at your body, one re-entering your weeping pussy and the other shoving the band to your sports-bra upwards to free your breasts. talia ducks her head, taking one of your nipples in her mouth and sucking.

your moans are certainly pathetic as she continues to lap your breasts, switching between each one methodically, all the while her fingers press against your g-spot intensely.

it's almost embarrassing, how fast your second orgasm draws up on you. you can barely announce it before you pussy is spasming against her hands, and your back is arching into talia's mouth as her tongue darts across the stiffened peaks of your nipple. wordlessly (but not silently-- no, talia groans as she feels you come apart on her hand), she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

the corners of your vision are going white as you continue to cum, head lolling backwards onto the frame of the post. "fuck, ma'am," you whine, cunt beginning to pulse with pain as talia's movements do not let up.

another pinch to your clit has you sobbing again, although this time, real, fat tears roll down your face. your trainer's eyes dart upwards, before she peels off of your breast and-- without thinking-- licks the stripe of your tear away, tongue brushing against your cheek. "poor girl," she coos, fingers continuing to scissor inside of you, "when you cum again for me, i'll think about giving you a break."

"i cannot cum again," you argue, voice raspy from all of your moaning.

talia tsks, kissing down your collar-bone to your breasts again. "didn't i tell you not to complain?" she asks, before popping a nipple right back into her mouth, swirling it around her tongue. your reaction is stark, hips jutting against her palm even though the sensation of her finger-fucking you is quickly becoming all too overwhelming. "now you will see what happens to greedy fucking girls, who don't know how to accept what they've begged for."

✩✩✩

after your sixth orgasm, you think you have blacked out. all feeling in your cunt has gone, and you are unsure of how talia's fingers have not gone numb inside of you.

offering you a way out, however little you may deserve it, talia lets up. she finally reels backwards, withdrawing her hands-- only to wipe your cum and slick off on her assassin's uniform.

the woman sighs, before fiddling with her uniform's zipper-- letting it fall slowly, revealing her frame inch by inch. it's tantalizing. brown skin glowing underneath the subtle sunlight that snakes its way into the training room, talia peels off the rest of her clothes with ease-- remaining in a black lace set. "your poor cunt might break if i fuck it any longer," she coos, mock sympathy seeping from her words, "so i'm going to put mine on your face instead, and fuck myself on your tongue until i am satisfied."

her words spur you into action, setting your core on fire. before she can ask, you're laying backwards, scooting the majority of your body down and onto the floor-- the crown of your head hitting the mats with a soft thump. "please, ma'am,"

your pleading seems to please talia-- as the ghost of a grin washes over her face, and she hooks her black thong to the side, unveiling her own sopping pussy. "please what?" she questions, lowering herself onto her knees. hooking one over your chest, she stradles you-- her wet cunt mere inches away from your mouth.

saliva collects in the back of your mouth-- and your begging is without any thought. "sit on my face," you urge, hands tentatively moving upwards to grasp onto the plush of talia's thighs. they're warm, molding to the shape of your palms easily, as if they've been made especially to fit into your hold. "god, it's all i want-- let me make you feel good."

without warning, talia lowers herself onto your lips-- her taste and arousal encapsulating your senses. "god, thank you, yes," you cry out, tongue darting outwards to lick a stripe from her hole to her clit slowly. talia's hips stutter against your face, and you feel her nails dig into your scalp.

"yes," she moans, throwing her head back-- allowing long, brunette locks to flow down her back. "do that again--" she gasps.

you do as you're told-- flattening your tongue against her folds and passionately licking, her pleasure make your cunt throb. you moan against her pussy, the vibrations causing her to rock her hips harder into your face; grinding, fucking herself onto your tongue, chasing her own bliss.

"see," she whines, hips moving steadily against your face, "p-perhaps this is what we've been missing, this is how you can improve yourself tenfold," a moan rips though-out the sparring room, and talia's legs twitch from where they rest on either side of your head. despite this, despite her pleasure making it hard for her to form coherent words-- talia still speaks. "you have trained yourself to every breath i make-- taught you w-what i like, what i want," your hands squeeze at her flesh, hot skin melting in your palms, "but you knew-- this is what you wanted, right? to be underneath me, be devoted to and worship me," spreading herself impossibly wider on your mouth, talia's moans only increase in volume. "you knew you w-wanted to make me cum on your face, watch as- as i fuck myself on your tongue; such a lustful and selfish girl," talia groans, and you feel her cunt begin to spasm on your tongue, pulsing and throbbing in warning as her orgasm knocks the wind out of her lungs. "--god!" she yelps, eyes rolling into her skull as she cums all over your face, her slick coating your jaw and filling every sense you have.

reaching a hand between your face and her body, your index finger finds her clit-- and you begin to roll it messily, drawing out her orgasm, coaxing out another through the overstimulation as she had done to you. she protests, talia's hips bucking wildly against your face and fists yanking at your hair. "don't fight it, ma'am," you beg, tongue lapping at her hole, "please-- just let me keep making you feel good,"

"i--" talia tries to argue, she truly does, but her body betrays her as she falls forwards-- suddenly grinding impossibly deeper against your mouth. a broken moan escapes from her lips, back arching at the sensation of your tongue curling inside of her and your fingers pressing intently at her clit. "god, i think i'm--"

"yes--!" you sob, legs spreading instinctively despite the lack of stimulation at your own cunt, "please cum again, cum on my face."

and talia does. hard. her body shudders on top of your own, legs shaking and thighs twitching at the sheer force of her second orgasm on your face. her grip on your hair loosens ever so slightly, finally, as she slumps over, chest heaving up and down.

there's a certain silence that radiates through-out the sparring room, along with the scent of talia's perfume, and sex. sitting up, the woman beside you swallowed-- collecting her breath, and whatever last strings of dignity she had. "well," she cleared her throat, reaching over for her uniform, "it seems as though your efforts have not been in vain, for i have realized that i, too, may have..." you watched talia falter, the tint on her cheeks deepening a romantic shade of red, "desired you more than i originally thought."

"and i am ever grateful for this, ma'am," you replied, sitting up as well. the cool draft of air wafting inwards from the court outside of the training room hit your skin, and you shivered. green irises scanned your frame easily, up and down with a practiced precision, and to your surprise-- talia moved to grab your articles of clothing.

"get yourself dressed," she ordered calmly, "for we still have training to do, don't we, my girl?"

© PLUVOiA 2025 | PLAGARISM, REPOSTS, TRANSLATIONS, & AI FEEDING STRICTLY PROHIBITED. - masterlist

loren's thots: me when doomed yuri. GUYS i am so sorry i have not posted in a few days, the guilt is literally eating me aliiive.... this piece just gave me, honest to god, the WORST writer's block ever and when i finally got over it, it was thanksgiving lmfao which!!! happy thanksgiving to all my fellow canadians! (shh... im a day late but whats new)

loren's tags--!

@soggywhore  @inlovewithpsychos @battlebaesworld @amoreselli @68saturnism @stellacherryfairy @kryptonkiss @sixtoads @luckysalbum @unseenzombieprototype @thekentfiles @unclearblur @blv3rd @cassiecasluciluce@k4sey1st@needy-self-ship-jjba@solarsunset222 @clarknsun @crushcunt @navyhaze @moviecritc

[sakunai]

HER SWORN SWORD . you swore an oath to serve talia, and tonight she intends to have you serve her in a different way. pairing ! talia al ghul x fem!reader warnings ! period sex (reader is menstruating), period cunnilingus + fingering, scissoring/tribbing, dom!talia, sub!top reader, power imbalance, mentions of reader having taken a chastity vow, nicknames used : beloved, pet, good girl, dumb pet, habibti + my lady (towards talia). 💬 sorta based on a daenerys thought i had... i know mama.... BUT HAPPY PRIDE Y’ALL !!!

“Beloved.”

The moon hung low over the mountainous compound, casting shadows across the wooden floors and monsters along the walls as she called for you softly from within the lamplit chamber.

You entered without hesitation, the large door shutting behind you as you knelt to the floor on one knee, awaiting her acknowledgement.

All knew within the grand halls of the League that you were Talia’s sworn sword, the shadow that had followed behind her since her youth and your own, the blade that idled outside her bedchamber in the dead of night, lest anyone dare to traverse where they are not welcome.

You, the woman who had knelt before her in your maidenhood and vowed, with her own sword pressed to your neck and the taste of blood and steel in your mouth after defeating her lesser champions, that you would serve her until your dying day. That your body, your blood, your unwavering loyalty and service would all be hers.

You swore fealty. You bled to honor your oaths. No man would ever touch you, nor would worldly pleasure tempt you.

“You are not my father’s dog.” Talia laid before you, reclined on the silken cushions of the divan, blood red and gold along the trim, a testament to the opulence of the Al Ghul name and the waste they laid to their inferiors.

“He does not command you away from me,” she said, and her decency — which, you knew better to assume she reserved any in the privacy of her chamber and especially around you —was barely covered by a thin, sheer robe that was deafeningly white, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder like spilled ink. “You belong to no one but me.”

“My lady—”

“Where did he send you?” Talia asked you, and you unlatched your sword, setting it down by the door of her chamber where you were supposed to be keeping your post on the other side.

“Nowhere so far that I could not return to you,” you said. “Only beyond the perimeter, My Lady, and only for such a short time. I returned to my post as you would wish it.”

Talia turned her face away from you, her lips pursing with displeasure. “Come here,” she demanded.

You rose to your feet and crossed the room in an instant. Once you were within arm’s reach, her hand grasped ahold of your belt, pulling you down until you knelt again next to the divan, now at her eye-level. “I wondered where you were,” her fingers traced your jaw. “I don’t like wondering.”

“Your father’s men are fools,” you remarked and the corner of her mouth lifted in amusement. “I apologize for my absence.”

Her fingers travelled across the curve of your jaw and down the line of your neck, your throat bobbing at the feel of her nails and the soft pads of her fingertips against your skin.

“You are bleeding,” Talia hummed, almost idly. The back of her knuckle grazed your pulse point and you shivered, eyelashes fluttering. “I know it.”

“It is nothing—” you whispered, your jaw tightened slightly from the sudden exposure of your condition. “I have handled monthlies worse than this. Lest you forget the prowess you’ve perfected within me.”

“Brazen,” she laughed darkly. “Look at me, pet. I want you to remove your armor.”

“My lady, this is not—”

“Show me,” Talia’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, her eyes dark with desire. “I wish to see where you bleed.”

“You know where it is,” You stiffened, almost shy. “And you also know the vows that I have sworn at your feet.”

She seized your jaw in her palm and you whimpered with need. “I release you from that foolish vow,” Talia whispered, as her mouth met yours in a soft kiss filled with heat. It burned and burned so good, your heart hammered against your ribcage. “I release you from every vow. You will swear new ones tonight.”

Your hands reached for your breastplate first. Then piece by piece the rest of your armor was discarded, set neatly next to you on the floor until all that remained was the thin shift and your underwear beneath. For a moment, you shied away from her eyes as she sat up, her knees bracketing either side of your body.

“You have not changed,” Talia said, her palm cupping the side of your cheek. “A warrior beneath it all. And mine…” Your eyes lifted to meet her gaze, all emerald and shining down at you, and she smiled, affectionate and amused. “You’ve denied yourself... for that ridiculous vow?”

“For you,” you whispered.

“For me.” She kissed you again, her mouth hungry and demanding and you sighed against her lips, tongues meeting in a wet tangle. “Up,” she commanded, her hands coming to rest on the side of your hip, feeling the outline of your body through the shift.

You moaned at the feel of her flush against you, the heat of her hands slipping under the fabric, bunching it by the hem and pulling it over your head to expose you further as she walked you backward to her massive silk-draped bed.

“My lady, I want to—” you gasped when she separated from you to toss your shift to the floor. Your nakedness made you flush. “I want to see you. Can I?”

“Talia,” she corrected, taking your outstretched palms in hers and pressing them against the slack knot of her robe. “You know my name, beloved.” You pulled the knot loose and she rolled her shoulders, the fabric falling free as she laid you down beneath her.

Her body was a carved masterpiece, her skin like melting gold, breasts heavy and perfect. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, a weight in your stomach swelling with need and Talia laughed sweetly as she pushed you onto your back on the silken sheets, spreading your thighs open and climbing on top of you.

“Look at you,” she kissed down your body slowly, savoring every inch. From latching onto your breasts and sucking each nipple into her mouth, to kissing the curve of your stomach, down to your thighs, until her mouth hovered over your clothed cunt, where the cloth was folded underneath to absorb the blood.

“You saved this little cunt for me,” Talia purred, voice dripping with filthy reverence. “Does it ache, my sweet sword?”

You whimpered, your hips twitching upward as she peeled your underwear off, folding it carefully and setting it aside. You felt shame burning at your cheeks. “Talia, wait, it’s not—”

“Save your embarrassment for a lesser woman,” she whispered, dragging an index finger along the faint smear of blood staining your inner thighs. “I want to taste you,” she declared, and before you could answer, she licked a long, slow stripe up your puffy slit, tasting the mix of blood and slick.

You squirmed, hips twitching as you let out a long moan, the heat of nervousness swelling into unbearable heat, your thighs trembling as they tried to close instinctively.

“Delicious,” Talia groaned, the sound vibrating against your clit. “Bleed for me, habibti.” Her mouth sealed over your cunt, tongue sliding through your folds with obscene hunger as she sucked gently on your swollen clit, then licked you with broader, messier strokes, smearing your blood across her lips and chin.

“F-fuck— Talia—!” You cried out, fingers gripping the sheets. The weight in your belly twisted into deep, throbbing pleasure with every curl of her tongue.

The room was filled with the wet, filthy sounds of her mouth moving sloppily over your heat, your back arching up to chase the pleasure she was giving you. “So good— ah, it’s so much….”

“That’s it,” Talia murmured against your pussy, swirling her tongue over your clit. “Fuck my tongue, pet. Let your Lady drink from you. This cunt has been starving for attention, hasn’t it? So neglected... So loyal... let me stretch you.”

She pushed a finger inside you slowly, one palm pressed softly against your belly in soothing rubs as she eased a second in, your hot, gummy walls sucking her deeper and she curled them against that spongy spot deep inside you while her tongue flicked relentlessly over your clit.

“Fuck me— yes! Talia, yes!”

“Sing for me,” she laughed. “Just like that… my needy thing… cum for me while I fuck you the way you dreamed of.”

The combination of her mouth and the aching fullness of her so deep inside you, fucking against that sweet spot made your thighs shake violently. “I’m… God— fuck, I’m cumming!”

“So obedient,” Talia suckled your clit harder. “Cum on your Lady’s tongue like the desperate little whore I made you.”

You shattered with a broken sob, back arching hard as your orgasm crashed through you. Talia kept licking you through it, drinking down every drop of your arousal and blood, moaning praises into your cunt the entire time.

When you finally stopped trembling, Talia crawled up your body and kissed you with her bloody mouth, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

“I am not finished with you,” she whispered hotly. “I want to feel you against me. Can you take me?”

“Yes— God, yes.” You whined with desperation, cupping her face with a palm as you wiped the blood from her mouth, your lips going to her neck and down her sternum, grazing a stiff nipple between your teeth. And she moaned, her head tilting back, fingers tugging at your hair.

Talia rolled onto her back and pulled you on top of her, straddling her thigh first, but then she guided your hips between hers, thighs thrown over each other’s until your cunts pressed together, your bloody, sensitive pussy flush against her dripping one, unbearably hot from wanting you.

“Ride me,” Talia ordered, her green eyes blazing. “Be a good girl and fuck your Lady. I want you.”

Even in this position, with you on top, and muscles flexing, you were utterly submissive, pliant and at her service like the oaths you swore on your knees. “Fuck me, beloved,” she whispered.

Talia’s hands gripped your hips hard, controlling the rhythm as you began to grind down. The slide was slick and messy. Your blood mixed with both of your arousals, created the wettest, most obscene glide and every roll of your hips made your swollen clit drag perfectly against hers, up against her swollen folds then down against that sensitive bud.

“Fuck— my lady,” you gasped, bracing your hands on either side of her head. “Your pussy’s perfect...”

“You’re doing so good,” Talia cooed up at you, her honeyed voice breaking into a moan. “Grind that filthy little cunt on me. Can you feel how wet I am for you? How much I’ve wanted to ruin my perfect, chaste girl?”

You whimpered and moved faster, hips rolling desperately as you fucked down into her. The pressure on your sensitive, weeping pussy was overwhelming in the best way as Talia’s hands guided you harder, forcing you to take more from her.

“Look at the mess you’re making,” she groaned, eyes flicking down to where you were grinding. “All that pretty blood smeared across my cunt. You’re mine. This pussy has always been mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you moaned, voice breaking as you rocked harder against her. “Only yours, my lady— you’re so fucking wet—”

“My dumb little pet,” Talia’s breath hitched, her own hips bucking up to meet yours. “Fuck, fuck, fuck— yes! Fill me up like this, my desperate girl.”

The wet, filthy sounds of your cunts sliding together grew louder. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to hers as you fucked her exactly how she wanted, each filthy smack of your hips making her tits bounce, and you grasped both in your palms, fondling and squeezing them as her eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

“Use me,” Talia’s fingers dug into your ass, pulling you tighter against her. “Use me until we cum,” she growled. “I want to feel this needy cunt gush for me, beloved.”

You came first with a strangled cry, your thighs shaking as your pussy clenched and throbbed hard against hers and Talia’s nails clawed against the bottom of your spine as she shuddered and followed right after, moaning low and filthy as she ground up into you, riding out both your orgasms until you were both slick and trembling.

As you panted, desperately trying to catch your breath, Talia pulled you down against her chest, stroking your hair reverently.

She kissed your temple softly, a palm cradling your lower abdomen as if daring pain to come and try its hand at taking you from her arms.

“Your vow is broken,” Talia whispered, her voice like silk against your ear. “You are no longer chaste. And you will never take another. You will swear yourself to me again.”

She paused to look up at you, her green eyes soft with warmth and gentleness. “And I will swear myself to you. You must accept me, beloved.”

You shivered, pressing your face into her neck, a grin toying at your lips. “…As my lady commands.”

[emilys-bangs]

spoken for | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, unit chief emily, established relationship, fluff, very mildly possessive emily, luke flirts just a lil bit (not too much), fem pronouns, use of petnames

Summary: Luke assumes you're a new addition to the Bureau. No harm in being friendly, right? Only you're not just anyone, he soon realizes. Requested here.

Word count: 0.8k

Maybe, you think, lunch bag clutched in your hand, eyes darting around through the window of Emily’s clearly vacant office, visitor’s badge somewhat hidden in the folds of your clothes, you do look new. It certainly helps that there’s mysteriously no familiar faces around. Your brows had creased into a frown that still somewhat lingers, even under Luke’s bright smile and noticeably wandering eyes.

“B team?” He guesses, still not quite giving you the chance to cut in. “You’re a profiler, right? You’ve got that look about you.” His grin widens to show charming dimples, pearly white teeth splitting the seam of his lips. You quietly wonder what kind of look that is, because you’re decidedly not—although you’ve lived long enough to be able to glean the flirtatious edge of his mouth, his easy open posture.

Your own shrinks a little bit. The lunch bag crinkles in your hand as your fingers tighten around it, discomfort settling under your skin like pebbles as you crane your neck. 

Where the fuck is Emily? Or anyone else that knows you, for that matter?

Luke Alvez—it’s definitely him, curly hair and a slight roll to his r’s—follows your line of sight, craning his head to meet your eyes. “I could show you to Cruz’s office, if you’d like. Team’s already gone off on a case, he’ll help you get settled.” He offers politely, and then the heat in your neck triples.

“No, thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t work here. I’m Y/N Prentiss.” Though you don’t know why you say it, because he clearly doesn’t know you. Emily’s not the most forthcoming when it comes to sharing details about you; it suits you just fine, although now you kind of hope he knew so he’d get the hint instead of the both of you having to suffer you floundering through it. “Have you seen her?” You murmur, thumbing creases into the paper bag.

Luke’s face shifts into an expressive oh. “Prentiss?” He reiterates, curiosity drawn in the raise of his brows.

“Mhm.” You hum distractedly, turning your head to the glass doors. Still no sign of raven bangs or meticulous suits.

“Huh. Any relation to our Unit Chief?”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m looking for her—”

“Hi.” A soft touch at your lower back uncoils every muscle under your skin. You relax into Emily’s minimal touch, smiling as her hand flattens on your back, turning to catch her dark eyes and the mug of coffee held in her hand. “Is that for me?” She points to the bag.

“Mhm.” You nod, handing it over. “Forgot it on your way out.” You murmur.

Emily’s eyes gleam. You know if you were somewhere private you’d have gotten a sweet kiss for your troubles, sweeter murmurs into your mouth about how thankful she is, how you spoil her even though, really, you’re doing the bare minimum. 

You grow warm at the thought.

Her soft smile tells you she sees through to the spool of thoughts in your head, knotting into a flustered mess as her chest presses into your side.

“You know Y/N?” Luke asks, breaking your eye contact with your wife. Emily’s hand curls around to your waist; she lightly palms the clothed curve, leaning in just enough to close the distance between her front and your back.

“Of course I know Y/N,” she says dryly, “do you know Y/N? She’s my wife.”

Luke’s mouth hangs open. He stares, eyes darting between the two of you, then to Emily’s hand, searching for the lack of a ring. You know it’s strung on the chain around her neck, a gold band pressed warm against her heart.

“I was getting there.” You murmur, scratching behind your ear.

“I know you were, hon.” Emily says fondly. Her tone undeniably drips sugar, flirtation in itself.

Luke snaps back into action. It’s honestly a bit comical, the way he suddenly backs away, head dipping respectfully.

“Ma’am.”

“Please don’t try to flirt with her again.” Emily throws over her shoulder as she leads you away to her office. “You’re already on thin ice.” 

“Emily,” you admonish, fingers knotting together even as her dimple winks at you. “He wasn’t flirting. Just—uh, being friendly.”

You slip through her office door as she holds it open for you. Emily shuts it with a soft click, her brows arching. “Is that why you were looking so flustered, then?” She sets everything down on her coffee table and wraps her arms around you, still safely behind the privacy of the door. 

Your skin heats further as she smiles, her eyes knowing. Her knuckle comes up to smooth over your cheekbone; you lean into it, missing the contact. “He was being too friendly if you ask me.” She murmurs.

“Just a touch,” you agree. Her chin tilts and you meet her kiss, tasting coffee on her tongue. “But don’t tell him off.”

Emily blows a drawn out, dramatic sigh. “As you wish.” She drawls reluctantly. She kisses you again, hand slipping under your neatly pressed clothes, “I’ll just cut it from his paycheck.”

“Emily.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes @yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers @wittygutsy

[paracosmic-murdock]

જ⁀➴ offer me that deathless death

pairing: francesca bridgerton x lady's maid!reader

after visiting her mother and not getting straightforward answers about pinnacles, she turns to you, her lady's maid, for the information she needed.

ⓘ desperate times call for desperate measures, self discovery, class differences, reader has a crush on her boss but who wouldn't?, kinda pervy?, smut (guided masturbation, exhibitionism/vouyerism, pillow princess!francesca, oral sex, fingering, multiple pinnacles ♡), minors dni, francesca learns about pinnacles, also this is pretty much cheating (sorry john), take me to church by hozier

2.8K words

𖤘 @i-do-not-care-bear @dollh2nni @iriassss @supernova-mk @ryuxjiiii @lustdripped @tpwkstiles @classywolfhunter @jasvidal @aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh @gigglesngeek @ghizlana @yuinno @averyjadedemerald @ghostlyreeder @strwwbbrri @stxrswrld @vintage-karma @jumblybee @solinadarvenel @t0rit0ri @moonlightwonderlan @manixx9 @monk28-67 @mirrorr @lm-sc-af-lw @ladybirdsunset @sevslover @lostamoeba @theunstablenarrator @thescriptofsharkboyandlavagirl3d @black-catt @heavenlyshauna @plantnoteater @reidsrae @yourvenusyour-love @lupeisalesbian @fl0werrlv3r @ohno-people @hedidnotpleaseme @ghtoic @beaucate @hitwn @femlover12 @snixxxxxx @strl0rd @nmbubbles @dormantdoormat @dannyjimen @doubleoree (other tags in the comments) (sorry i panicked i didn't want to not tag you guys😭)

❁ night and day i dream of you (bridgerton masterlist)

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

You believe you have never seen Lady Kilmartin this uneasy; and she is often uneasy, as even in silence, her anxiety tends to be loud—at least in front of you she is.

Not like you deem it a problem.

If you were to be honest, you would confess you find her adorable.

Cute.

Beautiful.

Breathtaking.

And it's not that you fancy her—of course you don't, she is your employer. The lady of the house. Dozens of ranks above you. Married to John Stirling, who you have known your whole life since your parents have worked for the family for around forty years and you have lived there as well. And also, she is a woman.

So, yes, it's not that you fancy her.

Except that you do.

“I should like to ask you something.”

You tilted your head to meet her eyes in the mirror, undoing her corset unhurriedly. “Of course, my Lady.”

She cleared her throat and looked at you, hesitant and anxious, and shook her head. “No, forget it. Thank you.”

“Are you certain?” You frowned. “Because you can ask me anything you please.”

“Yes, I am certain,” she replied and curved her lips softly. “You can continue.”

You nodded.

But her curious despair was bigger than her shy nerves.

“What is a pinnacle?” She asked suddenly, the question making you drop her corset to the floor and leave her bare in front of the mirror. “In the bedroom. Do you know?”

“Oh—”

Francesca blushed and picked the nightgown to cover herself. “I apologize, this was inappropriate, was it not? I just— John asked. He asked whether I had reached it or not and I said I had but I have no clue what it is that I was supposed to reach and Penelope mentioned something and I asked my mother but she would not tell me! I— sorry. Sorry. This does not concern you, I apologize.”

“You wish to know what a pinnacle is?”

“Yes,” she confirmed after sighing heavily. “I merely want information, but I understand if you do not wish to speak of the matter with me.”

You hummed. “Lord Kilmartin does not satisfy you?”

“No, he does! I just… No, he doesn't.” She pressed her lips together. “And I do not understand. I love him! I love my husband, I truly do, I do not know what is wrong with me!”

“No, no! Do not say that, my Lady, you are not the problem.” You shook your head. “May I ask what you and Lord Kilmartin do?”

“Uhm…” She blushed and looked up, too embarrassed to meet your eye. “We kiss…, he takes off his clothes, he… touches me there and, you know, he…”

“I understand.” You smirked lightly. “Do you take off your clothes? Or just your undergarments?”

“Just my undergarments.”

You nodded. “Sometimes, a woman needs more than that to reach her pinnacle, my Lady. That does not signify that there is anything wrong with you, it just means your partner will have to do additional things so it is enjoyable for you as well, but that is not to be any sort of imposition. You deserve to enjoy it like your husband does.”

“What kind of additional things?”

“Like getting you naked and touching more of your body, kissing you in places that aren't only your mouth, uh… You could mention it to your husband, my Lady, I am certain he would be willing to help.”

“Have you reached it before? The pinnacle?”

“Yes,” you said. “It is most… delightful, I must say.”

“Is it?”

You chuckled softly. “It most certainly is.”

“How does it feel?” She raised an eyebrow and turned to face you.

“It… starts slowly. Your body starts getting warmer, your heart beats faster, and it is like everything around you is too much and not enough at the same time. It comes from between your legs and expands to your whole body, it feels like you will explode from within with how good it is sometimes.”

“Thank you for the information,” she muttered. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course,” you agreed and turned around to help her in her nightgown.

“Can you teach me how?”

Well.

What a question to ask someone who is on her knees in front of you.

“So I know what to tell my husband. You don't have to do it! You don't have to. Only if you… want to. Please.”

“Alright, I will help you.” You nodded and stood up, leaving her gown on the floor. “I can guide you.”

“Thank you.”

Francesca stood awkwardly in front of you, almost making you laugh at how incredibly sweet she was.

“Lay on the bed.”

She nodded quickly and rushed to the bed as if you would regret it if she took a false step.

You took a seat on the edge of the bed and gulped at the sight of her. “Close your eyes… and… touch your body. Slowly. Try to focus on the feeling.”

Francesca inhaled and exhaled calmly as she complied, brows furrowing a little in concentration.

“You could stick to your breasts for a moment,” you proposed. “You can—yes, just like that.”

Her breath caught ever so slightly as she played with her nipples, eyes darting at you as if asking for approval.

“Does that feel good?”

She nodded, looking at you as she touched herself.

She stared at you as her hands explored elsewhere, as you asked her how it felt when she reached certain places, and as she nodded in affirmation.

It physically hurt that you couldn't be the one to touch her… you know that if she was yours, you wouldn't let her go to sleep not knowing what an orgasm is.

What hurt the most, though, was that she looked at you every step of the way.

“Wait,” you stopped her when she was almost reaching her cunt. “Open your legs wider.”

She swallowed hard, watching your reaction more than anything. “Like this?”

“Yes, just like that... You are ravishing.”

A soft moan left her lips and she felt herself clench around nothing at the praise.

So this is really it? Is she about to achieve her first pinnacle?

“Am I?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, seeing how incredibly soaked she was. “You can continue.”

She nodded and continued her path.

Her body jerked when she made contact with her clit and a loud whimper left her lips.

“Don't stop,” you whispered. “Rub yourself in circles. Be careful, for you are sensitive, but when your body asks for more, you could put a finger inside yourself.”

She nodded. “How do I know when my body asks for more?”

“You will know it,” you replied, suppressing the urge to join. Touch. Help. You gripped the fabric of your skirt until your knuckles hurt. “How are you feeling?”

Francesca bit her lip slightly. “I am feeling great.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, gently putting some strands of her hair behind her ears and ignoring how your touch only gave her goosebumps.

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps I should leave you to it,” you mentioned and attempted to stand up, but she gripped your forearm with her free hand.

“Stay,” she ordered, and you have never seen her this desperate. “Please.”

“Okay,” you agreed and took a more comfortable position on the bed. “I will stay.”

“Thank you,” Francesca moaned and closed her eyes, though her face was still turned to you, the filthy sounds of her making you press your thighs together. You noticed she had not let go of your arm, instead gripping it harder.

“Does it help… that I am watching?”

She opened her eyes. “Yes.”

“Is it exciting to be watched?”

“Yes.” She widened her legs more and inserted her index finger inside herself, letting out a quiet hiss. “Do you find it exciting to watch me?”

You certainly weren't expecting that question.

“I do,” but you answered honestly. “You are incredibly beautiful, my Lady. Anyone would be excited to watch someone like you.”

“I think I am close!” she cried out, breath labored. “Goodness, I— It's not enough, God, I'm—”

“Allow me,” you interrupted her and, in a matter of seconds, your hand replaced hers. “How does this feel? Is this okay?”

Francesca was dripping in pleasure, eyes closed shut and your name leaving her lips in feral whispers. “Yes, yes, please, oh, God. Please, do not stop, please.”

“You must be quiet, or someone might hear.”

“I cannot… I— I cannot be quiet, this feels so— Oh, God.”

You looked around, too worried for your own good, and there was only one way you knew to shut her up.

You kissed her.

And she returned the kiss like her life depended on it.

You felt her walls tightening impossibly hard, making it difficult for you to continue, but you would not dare stop.

She needed this. You needed this.

The way she tried to bring you closer by your neck and shoulders, how her hips thrusted forward so you could go deeper, how you could swallow her whines to silence, all until she finally reached her pinnacle, it all drove you insane.

Finally.

She writhed underneath you, thighs trapping your hand firmly, all the tension dissolving into waves that washed away her almost everlasting frustration, the residues of her pleasure being enough for her to want more.

You broke the kiss. “Was that okay?”

“That was amazing,” Francesca confessed in a sigh of bliss, still dangerously close to your lips. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, my—” You were interrupted by a kiss on your lips that caught you off guard but was not unwelcomed one bit.

You moaned into the kiss, diving deeper into her and letting her take you in entirely, and there she laid on her bed, her legs still shaking every few seconds but keeping your hands in place, your fingers still in and out of her softly as her pinnacle subsided.

Francesca broke the kiss barely to say “Don't leave.” and immediately kissed you again.

“As you wish.” you muttered against her lips, yours making their way to her neck to kiss her there while your other hand toyed with her nipples.

“Can I touch you?” she inquired, fingers hesitantly touching your bare cleavage with her fingertips.

You continued fingering her, gaining speed soon enough. “You would like to touch me?”

“Yes,” Francesca stated plainly, moaning as you pulled out your hand and turned to rub her clit rapidly. Her hips imitated the rhythm of your fingers and her lips let escape her cries of pleasure. “Yes, yes, yes, oh, God, yes, yes!”

“Yes, Francesca?” You, once again, shut her up with a kiss. “You would like to touch me?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Right after you give me another pinnacle?”

“Am I— Am I about to… Oh, my God, get another pinnacle?”

“I am fairly certain you…” Before you could finish that sentence, she screamed your name to announce her second pinnacle, though you interrupted her with a kiss before she could get too loud. “Shh… Be quiet, be quiet,” you cooed, pecking her lips before speaking again. “While I would love to have you all for myself and hear you scream my name as loud as you need to, you must be silent or else someone will hear and come to check if you are well.”

Francesca nodded. “Okay.”

“Now,” you purred in her ear. “I remember you mentioned you would like to touch me?”

“I would very much like that.”

“Alright,” you accepted but, before taking off your dress, you surprised her with your actions: you sucked your fingers clean.

Tentative, with intention.

Francesca's eyes flickered with something darker, sweeter, and she watched you with hunger.

When was the last time she needed something as much?

Was it two hours or two centuries ago?

She debated, she yearned, all while you undressed yourself under her curious, heavy, starved gaze.

She ached, she fantasized, all while you positioned yourself atop her and held her hand to drive it to your glistening cunt.

Francesca allowed you, touring your slit carefully—she felt her body beg for more touch, for you.

You grunted. “Francesca—”

“I like it when you say my name,” she muttered against your lips, her eyes fixed on yours like you are the last thing left on Earth. “You are really pretty.”

You bit the inside of your lower lip and kissed her again, feeling how her surprisingly skilled hands got to know the most intimate part of your body. “You as well. Oh…”

If you were to be honest, you would say you had never come as quickly as this one time—a time so different than those you have shared secretly with one of your fellow maids, mainly because this is the woman you were born to serve.

Does this count as serving her? Would this, somehow, be considered as part of your duties? If so, you have never been more glad to have this job.

Also because she is the most beautiful woman your eyes have ever laid upon. She is perfect with her long brown chestnut curls, her soft skin, and such wonderfully talented fingers that had your walls clenching in ecstasy like never before.

Francesca left you empty to then imitate your actions and suck her fingers, and then she frowned softly, the salty and unfamiliar taste of your arousal peeking her curiosity. “Do I taste similarly?”

You crawled backwards, not without kissing your way south, and definitely not without taking a little of your time to suck her nipples, latching onto them with some delicious sort of despair. Francesca whined with no stop, hands gripping the bedsheets as she felt her heartbeat reach places she never believed possible for it to. “I know of one way to find out.”

Francesca squirmed and watched you intensely, a soft gasp of complaint when your mouth let out her tits, taking back all the attention, left her flushed lips. “How?”

“Open up,” you instructed, hands separating her knees delicately. She covered herself, embarrassed. “Do not shy away, Francesca. Nothing here I am yet to see.”

“I just—” She blushed, the red sprawling from her ears to her chest. “I am slightly embarrassed, that is all.”

You hummed, encouraging her to open her legs. “How could you be embarrassed? Do you not know how incredibly beautiful you are?”

“Sorry,” She huffed out a shy chuckle. “I apologize.”

“Do not ever apologize,” you told her, feeling her open her legs with hesitation. “We could stop if you so wish.”

Francesca widened her eyes and shook her head. “No! No, no, let's… continue.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes.”

You curved your lips, comforting, as she gave you the much needed space.

“You are perfect,” you told her and kissed the inside of her thigh. “You are so wet. That means you are enjoying this. You are?”

“I am,” She breathed out heavily. “And you?”

You drove her legs to your shoulders and dove in, leaving a slow kiss on her clit. You licked your lips, eyes fixed on her. “Sure I am. She is so pretty, is she not?”

“Who is?”

“She is.” You smirked and started kissing her, enjoying her taste as if you hadn't drunk anything for months. “And she tastes so good, too.”

Her eyes rolled back and her thighs trapped your head in place. “This feels so good…” Francesca whimpered. “Goodness…”

You pinned her hips to the bed as you continued eating her out, soft and sweet, like she is a dessert you don't want to finish. She urged you to go faster, the pleas in her moans and the placement of her hands in your hair were enough of an indication that she needed it.

“It is coming again,” Francesca shrieked. “The pinnacle. Please, please.”

Instead of words, you allowed your actions to speak for themselves, quickening your pace as a result.

Honestly, you were growing slightly tired, but you wouldn't dream of leaving her on the edge, so close that she…

“Oh, my God!”

Francesca came once again, feeling as if her soul had left her body and she was watching herself react to her most recent pinnacle from far above.

She almost hates herself for never experiencing this with her husband, but if there is something for which she can actually hate herself, it is that every time she tried to picture her husband touching her instead of you, the filthy and demanding thrill would expire and only calling your name could ground her back to this moment.

It was you.

The sight of a body like hers, that reacted like hers, and felt like hers brought her a thrilling challenge that her husband couldn't. The feeling of nimbler hands on her body and your soft, dedicated mouth on her lips was a sweeter thought.

You are a sweeter thought.

Your lips on hers that tasted like her own arousal were salty, but sweeter than all the biscuits from teatime.

And she pondered about it all until she fell asleep.

Tonight was... most informative.

[acupofqueercoffee]

“A match made in heaven”

Unohana Retsu x Female Shinigami Reader

cw : soulmate au with a twist (you get flower tattoos wherever your soulmate receives a scar) plot twist being it only appears when you manage to win the heart of your supposed soulmate | mentions of blood | a pinch of fluff

just a silly little something to blow off the steam before i go back to watching bleach and brainstorming better ideas because i’m that desperate 💀

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

You live to fight. You fight to thrive.

In battles, you see ecstasy. In pain, you revel.

Your single-minded pursuit of violence, in your squad where the most battle-hungry, blood-thirsty beats unite, is nothing out of the ordinary. Inside the 11th division, you are merely one among many, but amongst other Shinigami, you are deemed one of the most unhinged reapers.

Although your bloodlust is no curiosity, your Zenpakuto’s is. It carries one of, if not the eeriest ability, lethal to both the wielder and the opponent, for it offers you unimaginable might at the cost of your blood. Simply put, the more impaired your body is, the stronger you become. Although the activation of Shikai is not necessary for the increase in energy, pain for the sake of victory is, however, mandatory, and as a result, you have long since learnt to embrace it instead of forsaking it. In combat, you rarely dodge, constantly, intentionally pushing yourself to the brink of collapse, for only then, you are unrivalled.

It is also in consequence of your susceptibility to injuries that the squad four’s station is more or less your dwelling, and its inhabitants, your second family. Even though your habitation under the roof of fourth division primarily is to be on the mend, there are in fact twofold motives to your incessant visits to the infirmary.

“Captain, your true-blue patient, once again, comes bearing gifts!”

Soaked to the skin in scarlet, but still on battle-induced high, you sport the goofiest of grins as you barrel down the hallway and through the door, leaving a bloody trail in your wake.

“Ta da!” With your arms, you make a gesture for dramatic flair as though the miscellany of wounds littering your body is your most prized possessions.

“Why, if it isn’t the charming little thorn in my side.”

Unohana Retsu, the Captain of squad four, receives you with a saccharine smile. Although on its own, her remark may sound satirical, bordering on exasperation, the lovely lilt of her honeydewed voice betrays her amusement. You know better than to take offence regardless, beam becoming only brighter as you step towards your lady, but alas, it is as if your feet have been swallowed by a pool of quicksand. The treachery of your legs bring about your immediate descent into darkness, though the entwining of arms around your body prevents the inevitable collapse.

Unohana is unbothered by the blood that soils the pristine white of her Captain uniform, thickly oozing warmth and spreading like a plague across her immaculately-donned attire.

She remembers vividly your first appearance at the hospital; during one serene day in Seireitei, you have arrived, entirely bloodied and irrevocably broken, at the doorstep of her division. Irrevocable that is, has she been away, but she has not, and thus, you have lived to see another day. Following your first visit, your presence as often as not is found in the hospital, and every time, you come in the form of wrack and ruin, but a damaged thing for her to fix. Your perpetual proneness to injuries has Unohana doubting your worth as a Shinigami especially since you occupy the fourth seat of squad 11. On the other hand, it will be a lie to say that she is not fascinated by the way you always manage to carry your broken body on your own two feet no matter the gravity of your conditions, a feat someone of Zaraki’s caliber cannot even achieve.

At the first sight of the Captain, a silly smile will crawl onto your lips before you will certainly fall. She has not always been bothered to catch you, letting her subordinates see to it that you are relocated to her quarters until after she has put you back together.

It becomes more and more apparent to Unohana with every one of your unceasing visits that you appear to be enamored of her. From the infirmary to the Ikebana Club, you will follow her like a love-sick puppy at the first opportunity. You do little to hide the fact, actively expressing your whimsical affections with both words and actions. Your eyes will peruse her, teeming with twinkles, as she tends to your wounds. Whenever you come to visit her, despite being drenched to the bone in your own blood, a dreamy smile will be found, taking permanent residence on your face.

“I’d like to woo you.”

One evening, as you offer the Captain your unabashed confession, she has countered you with a wry chuckle.

“You are a fool.”

“A fool for you.”

Over the rim of her teacup, royal blue eyes fix you with a hollowed-out stare accompanied by pale lips thinning into a line.

“My heart holds no place for trifling affairs.”

Her change in demeanour do you no harm, and you stand firm.

“What is courting if not an elaborate battle? One of these days, I’ll conquer you, my lady. So, watch me worm my way into your heart.”

“By all means. I’d like to see you try.”

After the exchange, you disappear for a period of time. She has half a mind to believe that you have met your untimely demise if it is not for your Reiryoku that she can positively, quite tangibly feel. And then, one day, as Unohana retreats to her quarter for the night, she is visited by a Hell Butterfly. It comes bearing a letter from you, challenging her to a duel, which in hopes of putting a stop to your folly once and for all, and you in your place, the Captain readily accepts.

“Do you know how I came to bear the title of Soul Society’s best healer?” Hair cascading down her shoulders and eyes lacking their usual shine, the woman that hauntingly calls out to you is not Captain Unohana Retsu of the 4th division but Unohana Yachiru, the first Kenpachi. “So that I could enjoy fighting forever. When my opponents are merely one step away from death’s door, I heal them with the flimsiest hope of being promised a prolonged fight.”

Still, in the face of a cold-blooded, blood-thirsty killer, you are unfazed. If anything, you are enchanted; under the silky, silvery cloak of the moonlight, she looks every bit the epitome of a nocturnal nymph, ready to ruin you at any moment.

“You are an intrigue, an enigma. That much, I know. Within cages upon cages, lies a blood-thirsty beast who sings oh so sweetly to me.”

All too suddenly, the sharp tip of her Zanpakuto catches the lapels of your uniform, effortlessly slashing the fabric until a portion of your flesh is revealed, and her suspicion, confirmed.

“Hmm, what a pity.” The hum leaves her lips in a lazy, condescending drawl as the blade draws blood on a cluster of spider lilies printed between your collarbones.

“If you lust for blood, my lady, blood I’ll happily shed for you.”

“Oh? There’s only ever been one person to have come close to sating my appetite for bloodlust. You have on your body traces of myself whereas I wear on my body the one scar left by him. If it isn’t the finest evidence of how insignificant you are to me, what, pray tell, do you think is?”

“I know not the answer, but by the end of our battle, I dare say, my lady, that you will see me in a new light.” Your hands wrap around the blade that is pointed towards your chest, as though it is her dainty digits fitting into your fingers. With wild abandon, blood starts oozing out of your palm. It dribbles down the length of her Zanpakuto, before in a soft pitter-patter, continues raining onto the earth in front of her feet. “Let us commence, shall we?”

She has been sorely disappointed, she will admit, when for the better part of the battle, you continue taking hits after hits with no acceptable counterattacks. She has been naive to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, you will really prove her wrong.

The sinking of her Zanpakuto into your heart is designed to be a shallow blow, not to kill but to incapacitate you. Should it proves perilous to your life, she can simply fix you, for, after all, killing you, at least for now, is not her objective. You, on the other hand, seem too intent on greeting death in the eyes, evident in the way raw, bloodied fingers lock around her forearms to yank her forward even as she goes to pull her Zanpakuto out of your chest. The recklessness of your action forces her Zanpakuto into your flesh, buried to the hilt as it enters through your chest and exits through your back. Regardless of the obviously fatal blow, your hold on her frame remains surprisingly strong, stubborn arms trapping her in a bone-crushing embrace.

When you whisper, your lips caress the shell of her ear.

“Let me show you what I’m capable of.”

To say that she is tickled pink will be an understatement. Although the amusement that she feels is nowhere near enough to offer her a sense of ecstasy, what little of it that swells inside her body, though fickle, is great enough in and of itself to go unnoticed. It has been a very, very long time after all since she has been offered a fight of such class that can pull at her heartstrings, and when finally met with someone who can hold out against her relentless attacks, she relishes it down to the last drop. By no means are you as strong as her. Still, your might is not to be trifled with, your resolve even more so.

Given her experiences and her mastery of the blade, it is not entirely a surprise that she outdoes you. It is, however, nothing short of miraculous that you do not go down without leaving a trace of yourself on none other than the great and the glorious Kenpachi. Unohana will soon find out that by sticking her Zanpakuto into your heart for the second time, she has unknowingly staked your claim to herself. It comes in the form of a cherry blossom that begins blooming on her body as your wound heals into a scar.

It appears, after all, that you are not entirely without worth.

Presently, your head is cushioned by her pillowy thighs. Once again, she has restored you to mint condition after you have collapsed in her arms. Slipping through willowy fingers like smooth satin is a forest of your strands as Unohana languidly plays with your hair.

A hum that spills forth your lips notifies her of your return to the conscious world, and when your gazes collide, she sees so much love in your eyes. You always look at Unohana as though the stars hanging high in the sky are her doing, overflowing with wonder and worship and nothing in between.

Taking into your hand the thick braid of her hair with deep reverence, you kiss the words into her fragrant hair.

“I love you.”

“You are a fool.”

“A fool who has managed to worm her way into your heart, no?”

At your words, she offers you a soft affectionate smile before leaning down to press a delicate peck on your forehead.

“That you have, against all odds.”

She who craves bloodshed and you who prosper by shedding blood: a match made in heaven.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Forevermore”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

21.04.2023 — happiest of birthdays to the mother of all mothers 🥳🎂 she’s turning 1200+ years old today 🥹🫶🏻

something short, simple and sweet. it would be an insult to my status as a hopeless unohana simp if i couldn’t even wish her a happy birthday with a written work of mine. it’s still about 23:40 here where i live, so thank the archon i’ve made it! though barely :3

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

“A little birdie told me it was your birthday today, so I brought you a little something.”

No welcoming comes your way as you are left to watch the unbothered back of the Captain while she leisurely sips her tea. Only after has she emptied the cup does she put it down and stand, measuredly making her way towards you.

She stops directly under your nose, so close to your body that you can feel the ghost of her breath on your neck.

“Well, what is it that you wanted to give me?”

“Me!” You squeak.

Fishing a silk ribbon in the colour of bright red out of your sleeve, you clumsily tie it around your waist over your uniform. By the time you speak again, a big bow is sitting precariously on your hipbone. “My gift for your birthday, Captain, is me.”

Cheeks ablaze and heart aflutter, you direct your gaze onto the beautiful face before you. A sly smile and mirthful eyes greet your eyes.

“My, how brazen of you.”

“But, whose idea was it, hm?” The curve of her lips is too deep to be deemed sincere. Saccharine but spine-tingling, kind but killing. It is after all the Captain’s infamous smile that can get her whatever she wants. “My meek little lamb isn’t one to come up with such salacious plan.”

“Matsu-” A playful finger descending onto the top of your chest leaves you at a loss for words. It slithers along the lapel of your uniform before resting an inch just shy of your navel. The silk tail of the ribbon is caught between two spindly fingers, and the remainder of the name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper. “-moto.”

“To take advice from Matsumoto of all people. Was it why you were rendezvousing with her lately instead of spending time with me?”

“I couldn’t rack my brain alone. I wanted my gift to be special and a surprise.”

“I was surprised alright.”

In parallel with her words, you, too, are taken by surprise when her hands climb your body, palms flat against your chest, simply resting.

“When the idea of getting myself robbed of my secret admirer rattled me more than I would have liked.”

Although you can hear her voice and know that she is muttering something, the context of her speech is entirely lost on you. You suspect that it is intentional. Still, you wonder aloud.

“Captain?”

“Your birthday present,…” Your growing anxiety is eased by the smile she spares you as her eyes find yours. “…for now, I can’t say that I love it, but I like it a lot. I promise to hold it dear.”

As obscure as her words are, the implication, having not lost on you, puts a grin on your face. The unbridled glee that you are bombarded with can also be heard in your voice.

“Happy Birthday, Captain Unohana!”

A kiss that is pressed onto the apple of your cheek is but a fleeting touch of a butterfly’s wings. Warm, tender, and unequivocally the reason behind the hummingbird flutter of your heart.

“I’m very happy. Thank you.”

When she murmurs it with a sparkle in that delightful blue of her eyes and a sweet blossom of a smile, you are helpless against your body that acts of its own accord. Gingerly, you take her hand from where it is resting on your chest, and all too softly, your lips caress her knuckles. Nuzzling your cheek into her palm like a spoiled kitten, one final kiss of the night finds home on the inside of her wrist. Beneath your lips, you feel the fluttering of her pulse as you mouth a silent oath.

I will love you, Captain Unohana. Forevermore.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[acupofqueercoffee]

“A healer, a lover, a killer”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

wc : 6700+

cw : arranged marriage // sexual assault towards the very end // ***non-con is NOT between reader and retsu*** // blood and gore // graphic description of corpses // hurt-comfort // fluff and fluff and fluff and fluff // flirting // wives // minazuki is a gentle-giant 🥺 // murderous milf // older woman x younger woman

ffs i just want to spoil my mommy rotten (and be spoiled rotten) is it too much to ask for ಥ◡ಥ i’m desperate to do her justice but bruhh she sure is difficult to write 🥲

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Marriage, in essence, is a sacred binding of two people, or rather two lovers during which they vow as one to cherish the beauties, to endure the burdens of life.

There may have been a time when you have fancied such foolish fantasies, entertained little hope of finding a love so profound that it will bleed colours into your lonely, miserable life.

Alas, fate does not favour you. But of course, it never does. Likely will never do.

You were born earning the resentment of your father, for his beloved wife perished as you came to be. She was the apple of his eyes, the one possession that he dearly cherished, and swore to cherish in perpetuity. With fingers entwined and two hearts as one, they had endured the burdens of life in tandem, and just when it was beginning to thrive, a promising future stretched out ahead of them like a perpetual sunrise, a curse befell them in the form of you, oh evil, despicable you.

Bearing the brunt of the mother’s death is the child as your father treats you with much hostility. Within him resides not a dot of affection for you, and he makes a point of rubbing salt into your wounds, reminding you in every possible way that you are a murderer, an abomination, a hellspawn on a sacred land. Your life is no better than a slave’s, easier perhaps without the need to exert yourself, but certainly not kinder without anyone to converse with, much less to confide in. Even a slave has companions whereas you who is abhorred and forsaken by your own flesh and blood, have no one in this world but yourself.

Thus, in your father’s resentful hands, the flickering light in your heart eventually, completely dies.

When you have finally come to terms with your life as it is, marriage comes to you in the form of a cruel joke.

If you have been none the wiser, you may have believed it to be a chance at a better life, a crack of sunshine through a sky full of gloom. And for a while, you have. Naive enough to hope. Foolish enough to dream. All it takes is a flick of your father’s merciless tongue, and the fool’s paradise, in which you have been taking sanctuary, comes tumbling down.

“You do not deserve to feel happiness as ephemeral as it will be. So, listen to me. And listen carefully. The Gotei 13 wanted me to hand you in saying that while you may not presently look the part, you are a menace to soul society. You should have never been born to begin with. Instead of her, it should have been you.”

“Despite everything, in the end, I very generously agreed to relinquish you under only one condition. That you will be wedded to one of the captains. Such an outstanding opportunity is hard to come by and apparently, they were desperate enough to get their hands on you whatever the cost. I requested that the wedding be held to the nines for the sake of publicity. People need to witness it with their own eyes in order for them not to talk foul of my family.”

“I can’t have the whole boat going putrid because of a single carp, can I? So, enjoy it while it lasts, dear daughter because I can’t promise that you’ll come out unscathed once they’re done with you.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Your soon-to-be other half is a stranger. You know about her as much as you know about the outside world: in other words, next to nothing. Except that her eyes are reminiscent of azurites, and her hair, a moonless night, the woman with whom you will be spending the rest of your life is merely a stranger to you. But then again, with their motives kept under wraps, you will be lucky to survive through the night.

Fleeing is out of the question for you understand the extent of your capabilities, and to flee right now will be tantamount to dicing with death. Despite your father’s despicable attempts to trap you in despair, you decide that playing docile is quite possibly your best bet. Come rain or shine, you will survive. You have not endured the torments of your wicked father after all this time simply to be trampled like a weed. What an insult it will be to your painstaking efforts.

So, when you are asked if you will take the stranger before you as your lifelong partner, without hesitation, you say, “I do”. Legions of people bear witness to your false union as your wife echoes your words; her dulcet voice, like the first trickle of rain, slakes your drought.

“Won’t you seal the deal with a kiss, Captain Unohana?”

Amongst the circle of people who are uniformly dressed in white overcoats, the one whose voice has sounded mischievous has been a man with a straw hat and an additional pink garb.

Unohana. Unohana. Unohana.

A pretty name indeed, as befits a pretty woman.

The first half of his statement is entirely lost on you as you repeat the name in your mind over and over and over again. It is the delicate crawl of fingers on your face that rectifies your lapse of concentration. First thing you notice, once you have blinked the haze away, is her violet gaze that is caressing your features and her face that has unexpectedly appeared under your nose, leaving little to no space to the point that your breaths mingle.

The warmness of her breath that ghosts along the apple of your cheek smells faintly of wild flowers and herbs; then comes the silky press of her lips atop the corner of your mouth. Given the circumstances, the kiss is not entirely unpleasant. If nothing else, it is kind, and although you loathe to admit it, your heart sings under her touch.

You fail to mention before that she has rose buds for lips, and now, upon departure, they bestow upon you a beautiful pink blossom smile. It is serene, strangely soothing, and you feel at peace with the woman who is your wife, all kind eyes and saccharine smiles, but whose full name you have yet to learn.

As inclined as you feel to assume that the kiss has somehow irreversibly put you under her spell, the more logical part of you know that neither your mind nor body is tampered with; your admiration for her beauty is born purely of your unadulterated self. Since the dawn of your life, it is ironically in the hands of a stranger whose intentions with you are still unclear that you experience tenderness for the very first time. Some semblance of affection has visited you in the form of a palm cradling your cheek and lips caressing your skin, and although you know it to be nothing more than a performance, it is undeniably the closest that you have ever felt to being loved.

Her gesture has understandably moved you in the warmest of ways, and it is only given that, as she continues to drench you in gentleness and swaddle you in kindness, you will grow to forget the true nature of your marriage.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“Follow me.”

Such has been your wife’s first words to you, a command that leaves no room for rejection, as she comes to meet you in her, or rather your shared quarters. In her absence, unsure of what to do with yourself, you have been sitting on your heels by the side of a tea table, anxiously awaiting her arrival, but immediately on her command, you arise to your feet. And then, follow her you do as she leads you outside.

In the middle of the veranda, a wooden tray lies in wait, holding on it a ceramic pot and two ceramic cups. The side of the veranda, towards which the pair of you are heading, lacks the railing, and it overlooks the other buildings in Seireitei. When she goes to take a seat beside the tray, you silently watch her. Only upon being motioned to do the same do you mirror your wife. The night is tranquil and the sky, brimming with tiny twinkles. The flickering lights from the buildings below and the glittering celestial bodies above; together, they give you the illusion that you are being swallowed into an infinite pool of stars.

In the quietness of the night, she speaks with a gentle lilt that is carried to you by a zephyr.

“You have questions for me, I take it?”

Simply sitting still in leisurely contemplation of the stars, she oozes charisma, and you cannot help but admire her. Due to the moon bathing her in its silver glow, her long hair that is tied loosely around the small of her back shines with an otherworldly sheen. She is the juxtaposition of darks and lights as the charcoal of her strands that elegantly frame her angelic face accentuates the milkiness of her skin.

“Am I that dangerous of a person for you to willingly go through with this folly?”

It is more or less a slip of your tongue. There are many questions to which you seek answers, and at the first chance, without really thinking, you end up blurting out the one thing that is on the forefront of your mind.

When her eyes seek your face and your eyes subsequently are greeted by her face, to your surprise, a smile crawls onto her lips.

“My, what gives you the impression that this marriage is a sham?”

“I was told by my father that I was to be surrendered to Seireitei, and that all he had asked in exchange was for a captain to wed me very publicly, because he hated the idea of his family name being tarnished by the likes of me.”

“The likes of you?”

Tea is poured equally into two cups; one finds itself in your hand whereas the other is taken into elegant fingers. The warmth of the liquid as you take a delicate sip thaws the chill in your bones. By the time your voice makes an escape from your lips, it is accompanied by the billowing steam from your cup.

“A menace to soul society.”

“Hmm, is that what he said?”

Your response has been a nod, and she receives it with a hum.

“I see.”

Cradling the cup in your palms, you twiddle your thumbs over the rim, lips caught between your teeth.

“Is it true?”

“Partially, that is.”

At her words, confusion reigns. However intrigued you are, you wait patiently, poising for elaboration as she takes a languid sip of her tea.

Once again, she holds your stare before she speaks. The tilt of her lips that settles back into a line indicates solemnity.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential, but since it concerns you, we’ve come to a collective agreement that it wouldn’t hurt to inform you of it. That, and we necessitate your cooperation.”

“You are not inherently a peril, although if fallen into wrong hands, you will inadvertently prove hazardous to Soul Society. You have innate powers that, while you may not be able to use them, make you a catalyst of sorts. It is not Reiryoku as Shinigami possess which therefore makes you a peculiarly. Even amongst the Gotei 13, only four of us is made aware of this phenomenon, meaning that your father, too, was kept in the dark. We thought it best to take you under our wings before any of the risks become a reality.”

“Simply put, after thorough investigation of your father, we exploited his hatred for you so that you will be relinquished to us without him making a fuss. Additionally, in order not to arouse suspicion, we’ve made a false announcement to our fellow captains and subordinates. They know you to be my longtime lady-love whom I’ve decided to tie the knots with. A flourishing merchant such as your father would surely lust for publicity. He was only playing right into our hands by stating his one condition.”

Even though the bombardment of information is too much to process, now, you know with certainty that you are not necessarily rotten to the core, and that your stranger wife alongside her companions harbour no ill will towards you.

As she takes another dainty sip of the tea in her cup, you silently mirror her, mesmerised all the while by the grace and elegance with which she carries herself.

“Although an apology is in order for my sudden behaviour at the altar, as I’ve explained to you, displays of affection and physical touch are mandatory for the believability of our story. This marriage isn’t merely for show in that we have to talk and act as married couples do. Do try to put up with it.”

Talk and act as married couples do?

The implication alone has your cheeks ripening into cherries, the redness of which is only amplified by the unexpected words that go tumbling down your lips.

“I didn’t particularly mind the kiss, so an apology isn’t necessary.”

“Is that so?” The delicateness of her voice has a playful lilt to it, and it pleasantly tickles your ears. “Then, my dear wife, I’ll be counting on you from now on.”

“I- I’ll do my best.”

“My, my, aren’t you a good girl.” She wears a smile on her face that drips delight while you are painted red to the tips of your ears.

Good Girl.

Those two little words alone has single-handedly put you in a trance that the rest of the night passes in a blur. As far as you remember, the pair of you sip tea in silence until when she suggests retiring for the night, like a lost puppy, you follow her. Her quarters become your quarters and her futon, your futon because, as far as a married couple is concerned, living separately is out of the question.

Suffice to say, on the night of your wedding, you lie awake in bed, unaccustomed to the warmth of another body just inches away from yours. Amidst counting the tiles on the ceiling, you peek a look at your partner to find her at rest. Even asleep, she truly is a sight to behold. However, unbeknownst to you, she shares the same sentiment, and it is proven soon by the voice that calls out to you in the death of night.

“I’m surprised that you took me at my words without the faintest hint of scepticism.”

“Call it a gut feeling if you will but you seem to mean me no harm. Besides, I have nothing to lose by taking a chance.”

On the night of your wedding, you wear a smile to sleep.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

your chance at a better life, after all, is not entirely an impossibility.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Unohana Retsu.

The name of your wife which you have forgotten to ask her directly has been revealed to you by her Lieutenant in the name of Isane Kotetsu.

Captain Unohana, as her subordinates address her as, is surprisingly a natural at playing lovers.

Likewise, touch-starved and thirsty for endearment, aside from shyness that stems from inexperience and her offhand compliments, you take on the role of a love-struck wife with much ease.

“My, my, darling, is that a proper way to see your wife off? How cold.”

She does a convincing job of sounding crestfallen as you walk her out of her estate, sending her off to work with only a wave of your hand.

Upon hearing her sigh, you walk up to her, letting your palms glide over the chest of your finely-dressed Captain. A kiss is demanded of you, and so, in the presence of her Lieutenant and a few other subordinates, you drop your lips to the apple of her cheek, murmuring your utterances into her fragrant skin.

“Do your best, Hana. I’ll be awaiting your return.”

Genuine surprise can be found in the widening of her eyes, albeit lasting only for a fraction of a second. And then, her lips are curving skyward, settling into a saccharine smile.

If the kiss that finds you on the tip of your nose, like the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings, is not enough to sweep you off your feet, then the pad of the thumb that caresses the bone of your cheek certainly is. Ample, in fact.

“See you later, little flower.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

Your wife has an unusual way of styling her beautiful long hair.

She tends to wear it in a thick braid, but instead of letting it dangle behind her back, she lets it hang below her chin almost in the form of a necklace. You will go as far as to say that it is one of her idiosyncratic features, for without it, her attire for work is incomplete. On idler days when she remains at the estate, her hair can be seen tied loosely at the small of her back.

When you have noticed how difficult it is to care for a hair of such thickness and length, you have expressed your desire to do it for her. To your delight, she has let you, and so, here you are, gingerly applying essential oil to a mane of dark hair as you comb it with great reverence.

You admire the way she sits, spine always straight, perfectly poised. The same goes for the voice that softly caresses your ears, warm and tender.

“How was your day?”

“Infinitely better than what I was used to,…” For an answer, it should suffice. And yet, “…but I’ve missed you, Hana.”

It may just be one of your flaws; you never know when to keep your mouth shut. Thankfully, she receives your divulgence with a sweet smile.

“My, you’re quite the charmer.”

Cheeks painted pink and heart thrumming giddily, you continue combing her hair. Surely, she is graced by the gods themselves; lush and healthy, her charcoal mane slips through your fingers like expensive silk.

“You called me Hana.”

“Oh! I- I did, yes. Since we’re supposed to be long time lovers, I thought it was only fitting for me to call you by a unique name. If you don’t find it agreeable, I’ll refrain from-”

“None of that. I’ve never been called a pet name, is all. It’s refreshing.”

Then, after a beat of silence, she chuckles. Until now, you have only seen her smile, having never heard her laugh or chuckle for that matter. It is the most wonderful sound, rich, warm, and the culprit behind your breath that has suddenly been stolen.

“Yachiru would like you.”

You do not know whether to rejoice or lament that such a precious sound stems from the thought of someone else. In the end, you settle on savouring it all the same.

Yachiru, whom you have the pleasure of meeting during your visit to your wife’s Ikebana Club, is quite the boisterous little lass. You feel silly and selfish in equal parts; silly for going green because of a child and selfish because you want to be the sole reason behind all the lovely sounds that she makes. On the other hand, as your wife has expected, the pink-haired girl takes an instant liking to you, sticking like glue to your side. Meanwhile, instead of paying attention to the real task at hand of arranging flowers, you end up being entranced by your wife’s gentle cadence and her distractingly gorgeous face.

When the name which you have uniquely chosen for your wife leaves your lips, Yachiru mimics you.

What you have not been expecting is for your wife to intervene.

“If you could refrain from calling me by that name Yachiru, I would appreciate it. I don’t mind you giving me a new nickname but this one is reserved for my wife. She alone calls me Hana, and I would like for it to remain that way.”

“My, Captain Unohana is very romantic!”

If you are not mistaken, the dreamy sigh comes from Matsumoto, the Lieutenant of the 10th division.

“I understand, Captain HaHa. Can I call you Captain HaHa?”

“By all means. As long as it isn’t Hana, I don’t mind.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

More often than not, your wife’s placating smile is the testament to her benevolence as a healer, but there are times when she wields them as a weapon.

Having cultivated the habit of preparing lunchboxes for your wife and her Lieutenant, you deliver the homemade meals personally to her division. One of the things that you look forward to every day includes admiring your wife in her elements. Such little glimpses into her work life allows you to understand just how much of an influence she has on her subordinates.

Soft-spoken and kind-faced as the Captain of squad four is, even the rowdiest of Shinigami fear her; they regard her with much respect. You have yet to hear her raising her voice to someone, and even still, she has never had to repeat her will more than twice for the other person to obediently comply with it. There are people from the 11th division, who, according to the information that you have gathered, are supposed to be the most battle-hungry Soul Reapers in Seireitei, that at your wife’s gentle warning and excessively sweet smile will flee with their tails between their legs, leaving a trail of apologies in their wake.

“Oh my, treating me as if I’m some kind of ghost.”

Puzzled, she has wondered aloud, and you have found her expression heart-meltingly adorable.

During one of your visitations to her squad, you have also had the pleasure of befriending a special someone.

You remember marvelling at the giant sage green creature that is aloft; its form, very reminiscent of a manta ray. However, when you see someone climbing effortlessly down the back of the creature, you have been surprised, to say the least, to be greeted by the unmistakable voice of your wife.

Upon striding towards the pair of them, you fall prey to the surprise attack of an extremely wet tongue. Even though it leaves you resembling a drowned rat, what simmers inside you is the farthest from annoyance. If anything, you find the one-eyed giant quite lovable.

“Why, will you look at that.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, sweet girl, that she likes you.”

Before you hug the bizarre creature, you peek a look at your wife. Only when you see the nod of her head do you advance.

“Oh! Right back at you…?” Another questioning look at your wife earns you her name. “Minazuki.”

“Miki, you adorable little munchkin!”

At your words, she emits a crooning sound that you are inclined to believe is her way of purring in pleasure.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

When your wife has some time on her hands, she has a habit of climbing mountains. It is as much a recreational activity as it is a hunt for medicinal herbs. Having been longing to accompany her during her excursions, you have, after much consideration, raised the question, only for her to readily agrees.

“Can I come?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The silence that cocoons the two of you is anything but unbearable as you amble abreast. Taking it as your opportunity, you voice the query that you have been mulling over for some time now.

“There’s something I’m curious about.”

“What are you curious about?”

“Why you?” When you steal a glance at her, you find her eyes on the track, face impassive. “There were four of you who were privy to the truth, correct? So, how come you were the one to marry me?”

Her response does not come until after a while, voice sounding serene as it usually does.

“The Captain-Commander is out of the question, and among the three of us, I was deemed the most suitable candidate. One doesn’t go out much due to how sickly he is and the other is- well, it’s unthinkable that he’ll settle for one person.”

“And what about you, Hana? Have you got no qualms?”

“Whatever the Captain-Commander asks of me, I do without question.”

Oh.

You have asked, and so she has answered. It certainly is not meant to hurt.

And yet,

“I see.”

“That, and I also happened to be the first person to learn of your existence.”

At this, you perk.

“You did? How?”

“Purely by chance, but that’s a story for another day. Now, come. The herbs I’m looking for are just up ahead.”

She teaches you about different herbs and you help her collect them, preening under her complimentary head-pats when you find the right plants, and becoming all the more hell-bent on seeking rarer herbs, for only then will you be rewarded with honey-dewed whispers. Upon stumbling across one such plant, in your excitement, you fail to see a hole in the ground as you briskly make your way through the thickets.

Needless to say, your recklessness leaves you with a strained ankle. It is your pained grunts that garner the attention of your wife. When she finds you limping, the discomfort apparent on your face, she helps you to a tree trunk. You are thankful for the arm that is stably wrapped around your waist for it halves the effort that you will otherwise have to exert.

No sooner has she sat you down onto the mossy trunk than she is kneeling before you. Taking your wounded foot into her hand, she gingerly lets it rest atop her thigh. Forefinger and thumb pluck your sock, peel it down, and doing so reveals your ankle where a bruise is already beginning to bloom.

As she works on your wound, you can feel the pads of her digits ghosting across the naked base of your calf. Her fingers, dainty in appearance, have strength in them along with callouses that you suspect are the by products of her years of sword training. Speaking of which, Minazuki, her Zanpakuto as she has taught you, Miki as you like to call her, is slung over one of your shoulders. Since her Lieutenant is absent, for today’s trip is you and your wife’s alone, you have happily taken the role of the Captain’s blade bearer.

Due to the injury that you have sustained, despite your reassuring that you are fine, your wife does not take no for an answer, and so, the expedition is cut short. Soon after the pair of you have mounted Minazuki, you fall victim to exhaustion, surrendering yourself to the clutches of sleep.

The first thing you notice upon opening your eyes is the shimmering sea of stars, with the first thing you hear being her voice that pulses warmly in your ears.

“Are you awake?”

“Hmm, where are we now?”

When you shift, you discover that your head is cushioned by her thighs.

“Not very far from home.”

You are suddenly awestruck by the vision that appears in your line of sight. Backdropped by the starry sky, she is truly a sight for sore eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“My eyes feel hot.”

A palm finds home on your forehead. You cannot help but sigh dreamily at her cool touch that seems to instantly soothe the ache in your head.

“You have a touch of fever, I fear. Rest. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

You can only hum, ready to succumb to slumber again. However, when you feel the withdrawal of her hand from your forehead, your fingers catch her wrist, emboldened by a feverish haze. You press it against your neck where the coolness of her flesh offers you sweet reprieve from your body’s heat. If you are not mistaken, you have felt the faintest sensation of a fingertip tracing the length of your nose before you drift.

She does, in fact, not wake you.

By the time you open your eyes, you are already under the comfort of a futon that smells distinctly of her.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

You do not know when it changes, but at one point, it does. Your marriage stops being an elaborate masquerade and starts becoming something more by the time you no longer need reminders to exercise intimacy. A kiss on her cheek, a palm on the small of her back, sweet-nothings dripping with honey; they come to you as easily as breathing, and she responds to you in kind as she always has. But then again, to be unreservedly honest, your actions, from the beginning until now, have never been absent of sincerity.

From sleeping entwined in each other’s arms to walking with your fingers intertwined, even in the absence of onlookers, in the privacy of your quarters, you behave as lovers do. Neither of you seem to notice the change, and if you do, neither of you bother to comment on it. It simply is the way it is.

“Oh, Hana, you’ve returned! Come here. Sit.”

“What is this?”

“I just thought that your feet could use some pampering after walking around all day.”

“My, you need not trouble yourself-”

“But that’s what married couples do. They look after each other.”

“Very well, then, if you insist.”

Adoration, ardour and nothing in between; that is how you sink to your knees before your deity. Raising her feet off the floor, you gingerly place them atop your thighs. When you slip the socks off her feet, you exercise both care and tenderness, barely suppressing the urge to press delicate kisses to her exquisitely dainty ankles. Once her feet are completely bare, you guide them into the bucket that is sitting in front of you. Under the warm water, you trace the little notches of her bone, run your fingertips along every dip and hill the way you want your lips to caress them.

Then, all too gently, you gather them once again into your lap where a towel awaits. You take your sweet time petting them dry, the desire to drench her porcelain skin in kisses now coming back with a vengeance. As if possessing a mind of their own, your hands slips beneath her uniform, fingers leaving playful caresses along the length of her shin.

Suddenly overwhelmingly thirsty, you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue before chancing a look at her. There is a silent question in your eyes, and she answers you with a nod of her head. As soon as the green light has been given, you carefully hike the skirt of her Shinigami uniform over her knee, allowing your fingers to knead the muscles in her calfs without interruptions.

It is true that when you have decided to give her feet a wash and a massage, you have no ulterior motives.

But now,

Now, it is entirely a different story.

The collision of your gazes sparks a flame in you.

Has the blue of her eyes always been this dark, you wonder.

*Knock*

*Knock*

*Knock*

“Captain Unohana, may I please come in?”

Hastily scrambling to your feet upon hearing Isane’s voice has you tripping over your own two feet. Your forthcoming fall is prevented by willowy fingers that latch onto your wrist. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, following a breathless “oomf”, you find yourself seated on the pillowy thighs of your wife.

Seemingly unfazed, she commands, an arm around your waist cradling you close to her chest.

“If it’s nothing important, Isane, I suggest you leave us be. My wife and I are currently in the middle of some important matters that urgently need attending to.”

“U-understood!”

It is beyond your control; your hands finding purchase on her shoulders, even more so the amicable slap that you deliver to her arm.

“Did you really have to phrase it like that?”

“Like what?”

Ah. There is no denying it. From the very first moment you behold this woman, you have fallen irrevocably in love with her.

“Hmm? Care to enlighten me?”

You do not. Care to enlighten her that is, for your lips have found hers, sampling her smile to see if it tastes as sweet as it looks. You have taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, and there is no going back, although when you feel no reciprocation from her part, you pull back with a heavy heart.

The look on her face is indecipherable; she has always been difficult to read. Completely at a loss, you are tempted to blurt out that it has been a momentary lapse of judgement even though you know very well that it is anything but. The loudness of your rampaging thoughts is instantly lulled as soon as her lips seize yours, the fervent collision prompted by the hand that is holding you at the peak of your nape while wandering digits curl deliciously into your hair.

Likewise, greatly galvanised by the ravenous mouth that is feasting upon your lips, your fingers wander beneath her braid, and further still beneath the lapels of her uniform. It is as you are ghosting along the jut of her collarbones that your fingertips feel a patch of uneven skin just below the dip in her throat. As if electrocuted, she jolts, subsequently discarding you in the process of rising to her feet.

“You should leave.”

Leave? Leave where?

After all, this has become as much your home as it has been hers.

“Hana, I- did I do something wrong?”

“You should leave.”

Ah. Never have you thought that you will find yourself at the receiving end of the generous Captain’s genuine irritation.

As the last vestiges of warmth is entirely replaced by the chill of her stare, you decide that you will smile. You will smile for the both of you, as wide and as big as you can, a farewell to what could have been.

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Delivering your utterances in the cheeriest voice that you can muster, you smile at her. You smile so broad that the uncomfortable stretch of your lips hurt your face.

But as soon as the door to her chamber closes with a thud behind your back, the first droplet of tear begins to fall.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

In a wicked twist of fate, you fall into the hands of malicious men who have all the intentions of maiming you beyond repair. It is drizzling, a night befitting your mood, as the cold droplets mingle with your warm tears.

There are hands, hands everywhere, tearing your clothes haphazardly off your body, hitting you when you struggle; your foot has caught one of your assailants in the crotch, and his payback comes in the form of kicks to your ribcage. Blood is leaking out of your nose from being brutally backhanded across your cheek. It forces you into a daze.

A whore. A wench. A witch.

Awful names have been called.

Four versus one; you are helpless against them. Your suffering is their satisfaction, but a rag doll in their heartless hands, as they manhandle you with a single minded purpose of ravishing you.

You feel hands on your thighs that are manipulating your body as they see fit.

You hear the rustles of fabric, frantic and foreboding.

In the face of danger, it is her face that you picture.

And then, you hear screams.

Alas, the raindrops are red, eerily reminiscent of blood.

Hands are retreating. Feet are scrambling.

And suddenly, you are alone.

With much difficulty, you sit up. When you bring your palm up to your face for examination, you find blood. Your eyes follow the scarlet trail on the ground only to be greeted by the lifeless eyes of the man who has kicked you with wild abandon. His body lies a few steps away from his head. Scattered messily across the ground are his companions, and mixed within them are parts of their bodies; a leg here, an arm there. In the middle of it all stands she, holding her blade with a head impaled on it like a grotesque skewer.

Ah. So, this. This is your Hana in her purest form, who has butchered them in cold blood as though they are mere cattle.

Such empty eyes. How merciless. How magnificent. You are not so much surprised as mesmerised. Such macabre display should scare you except that she has killed in order to save, and if nothing else, you feel cherished, you feel protected.

Sore all over as you are, you attempt to stand, immediately shaking on your legs like a newborn fawn.

“Hana.”

It is but a feeble croak that manages to bring her eyes to you all the same. In an instant, she is by your side.

Her hair is unusually undone, and it leaves the scar in the middle of her chest exposed. Surprise colours your features when her sword is unceremoniously dropped to the ground in order for her to slip free of her Captain Uniform. The white cloth is then gingerly draped over your frame which is as good as bare. Your clothes are in tatters, tears and bruises marring your features, and for once, she seems to be at a loss for words.

Although her mien betrays nothing, behind those unfeeling eyes, you can practically see the cogs turning in her head. While she appears to be in a dilemma, you take the initiative to approach her, fingers gripping the dark fabric of her Shinigami uniform white-knuckled tight.

Your forehead collapses onto her shoulder before you whisper against the hummingbird flutter of her pulse.

“Hold me, Hana. I need you to hold me, please.”

And hold you, she does. Oh, how she does, as you weep and weep and weep until with the drying of your tears, your consciousness, too, fades.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Only because I thought she’ll be trea-”

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Please. Please, spare me. I beg of you. Please.” The man before Unohana grovels at her feet. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

“Whatever I want?”

A series of frantic nods ensue. She cannot care less if he looks a crying mess. His state of dress: posh and pristine, his state of being: without a nick, only reminds her all the more of you, bloody and bruised, and her blood boils. Oh, how her blood boils!

“What I want is your head!”

“What I want is your heart!”

“What I want is you sliced in half!”

Looming over the cowering excuse of a man, she sinks her sword into his chest, inch after inch of blood-drenched blade penetrating his flesh.

“Well? Do you think you can give me what I want?”

“Please. I- I’m sorry. Have- have mercy.”

“Mercy, you say?” The moonless night echoes with a maniacal laughter, dark and haunting. “How laughable!”

“No matter, you will die at my hands. And you will die tonight. My bloodlust will not be sated unless you die. So, die you will whether you like it or not.”

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

“I received a letter this morning.” You speak into her chest as you lie cocooned in her arms. “Father has passed.”

“Does it upset you?”

A fervent shake of your head should suffice for an answer. Still, you voice your reason.

“He may have been my mother’s devoted husband but he was never my father.”

Silence reigns. Her fingers trace patterns on the small of your back while your face nuzzles the little notch of her throat.

“Thank you, Hana, for being my sunshine after the rain.”

In a show of sincerity, you press a delicate kiss to the scar beneath your lips. When your face is brought out of its safe little cocoon, it is only so that she can take a bite out of the sweet, succulent fruit. She conquers your lips in the same way she has conquered your heart, and all too happily, you let her consume you. Body, mind and soul.

By these hands that are no stranger to bloodshed, you have been healed. In more ways than one.

In these arms that are capable of destruction, you have found solace.

A healer or a killer, Retsu or Yachiru, she is your beloved wife all the same, and you intend to cherish her for all that she is.

In sickness and in health.

In good time and in bad.

In perpetuity. In tandem.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[moonsglare]

i just woke up, it’s 7am and i’m having thoughts about jingliu…

if there was one person on the luofu who knew jingliu the longest, it was you. not the high cloud quintet or the cloud knights, you. the daughter of jingliu’s master, and the stubborn sword champion’s personal healer. she entered your life as a gangly, hungry girl who could barely hold a sword in both hands—and now, she’s the greatest warrior the luofu has ever seen.

but more importantly, now, she’s your wife.

it seemed almost like an inevitability, that you’d fall for her. for all that she was your mother’s disciple, you didn’t see her much as children. jingliu would always be training, and you would always be studying. it was only after she became a member of the cloud knights, and you a member of the alchemy commission, that things would really start to blossom—like a lotus flower, bright and pure.

you were the only healer jingliu really trusted and even allowed to heal her. the warrior had a stubborn streak several miles wide, but perhaps it was the echo of your mother in you that had her obediently heeling to your treatments—a fact that always awed her fellow cloud knights, who teased her relentlessly about it. “whipped,” they’d say. jingliu would only grumble and grudgingly thank you, before leaving the clinic and decidedly and publicly putting every one of her squadmates on their asses during a sparring match.

but nonetheless, it is no one but jingliu who comforts you when teng xiao arrives at your door, a set of armor folded neatly in his arms, and a grim, apologetic look on his face. that night it is jingliu who sits by your side, letting you weep into her shoulder as she awkwardly and clumsily attempts to console you. grief burns through you like a wildfire, but jingliu is there, her presence soothing and cool like moonlight. you both fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms, finding that, if nothing else, there is comfort in shared loss.

the next morning, you ask her about it as you both still hold each other close. jingliu’s mouth opens and closes, struggling to choose the right words. “i swore to her that i’d protect you,” she answers. it makes you smile, just a little, even if grief still twists sharply in your heart.

“you’re protecting me by cuddling me?” you tease her, and her pale cheeks flush.

“that’s— i believed you might have needed—“ she stammers, and you cut her off by pressing closer against her cool body.

“i’m just teasing,” you whisper against her skin, arms tightening around her muscular form. as if to ground yourself, as if to assure yourself that she’s really here. “i appreciate it, jingliu. thank you.”

at your words, the warrior relaxes. her voice is barely higher than yours when she replies, tinged with a hint of tenderness. “of course.”

jingliu is different, after that. you guess that it’s because you are all she has left—much the same in how she is all you have left. there is a gentle awkwardness to her now, like someone who has never known how to be soft trying to learn for the first time. she sits patiently as she lets you fuss over her wounds, knowing that you need this, that you need to know she’s alright. she only looks away when you get a little too close, when she can feel the warmth of your breath on her skin, and she hopes you don’t notice (you do).

she comes to the house whenever she can, which feels just a little emptier without your mother’s commanding presence. she stands shoulder to shoulder next to you at the counter making dumplings, her rough, battle-scarred hands dwarfing your own more delicate ones—but she wraps the dumplings with finesse all the same. you eat them together, quietly, but the silence is comfortable. you know each other enough that words are unnecessary. these nights you can only ever fall asleep in her arms—and she can only ever fall asleep in yours. neither of you question it, but what is there to question anyway?

jingliu ends up being many of your firsts—including your first kiss. it happens on one of those nights, tangled in each other’s arms, with nothing but a sliver of moonlight to illuminate jingliu’s pale face. you feel her pulse jump under your touch, as your thumb traces the ridge of her cheekbones and your lips press gently against hers. kissing her is nothing grand, no fireworks or butterflies—just the quiet sense of finally coming home.

jingliu is your first time, too. her hands trail down your body with reverence, lips pressing kisses like prayers against your skin. she brings you to the edge of heaven with her fingers and her mouth until you lie boneless on the sheets. she kisses you while your essence is still smeared across her lips, and you eagerly return the favor.

jingliu is your first and only love. it’s the soft, quiet kind, more of a respite than a whirlwind in and of itself. a shelter where both of you can return to, when the world becomes too much. you’re there for each other at the lowest lows and the highest highs—jingliu attends the ceremony as you’re sworn in as the cauldron master of the alchemy commission, eyes trained only on you as you accept the honor. and you attend jingliu’s ascenscion ceremony for the title of sword champion, standing at the forefront of the crowd, a proud smile on your face. to jingliu, that is her true victory.

and yet, even as the sword champion, there are still things she fears—like telling you she loves you. it takes a grand amount of coaxing from her new friends—a blacksmith, a high elder, and a pilot, respectively—before she works up the courage. she whispers it against your neck one moonlit night, intertwined with you in the sheets. her voice trembles ever so slightly, her breath fanning unevenly against your skin, and she tenses when you laugh softly. but the tension bleeds out of her immediately when you say it back, and she slumps against you, as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.

(baiheng and yingxing later force her to buy them drinks, and she does so, grudgingly. after all, they were right when they said there was no way you’d say anything other than ‘i love you too’. dan feng only attends for the free alcohol, but he is happy for her nonetheless.)

your marriage is a quiet affair—or as quiet as it can get, with baiheng and yingxing together on the guestlist. but it is perfect, to you and jingliu. the rings were crafted by yingxing, inlaid with stones baiheng discovered along the trailblaze. neither of you actually wear them on your fingers due to your jobs, but none other than dan feng gifts the both of you corded red rope to loop the rings through and wear as a necklace. it becomes your greatest treasure, even centuries down the line.

the next few months of your life are calm and routine—until jingliu returns home one day with a teenager, of all things. the boy has long, shaggy, white hair, and curious golden eyes. He reminds you of a cat.

“this is jing yuan,” jingliu introduces to you. “my disciple.”

the boy greets you politely, before jingliu sends him off to an empty room in your home for him to claim as his own. once the boy is out of sight, you turn to jingliu, quirking a brow.

“disciple?”

she nods. “yes. i believe he has potential.”

you only hum at her answer, stepping forward to fix her collar. she lets you fuss, as you always have, and then presses her lips against yours gently, her hands on your waist. “trust me,” she whispers, and you do.

jing yuan fits into your life more easily than you expected. a sharp-witted young man, quick with a blade but even quicker with his words. it isn’t long before you grow fond of him as well—in an almost parental sort of way. before you realise, you start fussing over him the way you fuss over jingliu. it seems you’re not the only one susceptible to jing yuan’s charm, since the newly formed high cloud quintet adore him just as much—baiheng, especially, is delighted to have another little brother figure besides yingxing. jingliu is no exception; the pride in her gaze as she watches jing yuan train is visible to anyone.

nowadays, your home feels fuller. it is no longer just you and hingliu making dumplings—another pair of hands, sometimes even another three appear to help. the dinner table is full more often than not, and there always seems to be more plates in the sink. sometimes you find purple fur on the floor, or the occasional jade-like scale in between your couch cushions. but joy, you learn, is fleeting. nnd no one ever notices it is here until it is gone, ripped from your hands before you can even blink.

jingliu is your first and only love. she is also your first and only heartbreak.

everything you’ve built with jingliu over the course of centuries crumbles in a matter of days. the battle against shuhu is vicious. you can barely even keep up against the constant stream of injured that flood the alchemy commission. you and your colleagues down energising pill after energising pill to stay on your feet and support the xianzhou forces. tet the news from the frontline would nonetheless bring you to your knees.

baiheng, dead. yingxing, cursed. dan feng, imprisoned. and worst of all—

jingliu, mara-struck.

the ten lords commission keep her under strict watch in a holding cell. you barely have the time to visit, what with the number of patients that demand your attention. jing yuan is the one who visits her, by his authority as the new arbiter general. he speaks to you when he can, updates you on her condition—but you’ve treated enough cases to know when something is bad, even if jing yuan tries to assuage you with purposefully vague wording.

she barely recognises you when you approach her. her beautiful ruby eyes are covered by a ragged, black cloth. thick, metal bindings encircle her wrists and restrain her arms behind her back. you call her name, quietly, gently, trying your hardest to stifle the tremble in your voice. sometimes, there is a flicker of recognition. most of the time, there is nothing.

you return to an empty house. it’s so, so cold, and your bed is far too big. you hold tightly to your ring, praying that jingliu be spared this fate. but the aeon does not listen.

because no more than a few months later, jingliu breaks free from her confinement, and rampages across the luofu. smoke chokes the air as ice and frigid wind sweeps across the epicenter that is jingliu. but instead of running away, you run towards her. the ice seems to part and melt before you as you run. you need to see her.

instead, all you witness is the majesty of the lightning lord, as he strikes down your beloved.

nothing remains of jingliu. they find no body, not even any remnants of armor or personal effects. after that, they strike her name from every record for her dishonor. all her achievements, her victories—erased. as if she never existed. you are forced to resign as cauldron master in shame, with your apprentice dan shu taking your place.

you feel… nothing. only a pervasive, parasitic emptiness spreading through your entire being. you spend your days in a bed in a guest room—you can’t bring yourself to set foot in the room you once shared with her. the kitchen lies deserted. you barely feel hunger or thirst, or any sort of sensation. and yet, you keep living. your cells respire and your lungs draw breath, and your heart still thumps in your chest—even as your soul rots and decays.

the only thing—or person, rather—that stirs you now somewhat is jing yuan. he has lost everyone too, this general who will always be that curious-eyed boy to you. you do your best to pick yourself up; if not for yourself, then for him.

(but jing yuan knows. he sees it in your eyes, the truth of the matter. the guilt that gnaws at you, that compels you to keep fussing over him.

you think that caring for him will help you atone for the way you failed jingliu. he wants to tell you that his master would’ve never thought such a thing. but he doesn’t, and lets you mother him all the same.

he needs this too.)

jing yuan appoints you as his personal healer, even as his advisors protest. they question your ability—after all, how could a good healer not even mend the one she loved most?

that moment is the first and last time you ever see jing yuan angry. it fades as quickly as it comes, however, and you are appointed as his personal healer nonetheless. you remain by his side for the next few centuries, watching as he grows more and more into the role of the general. the pain of your loss doesn’t heal—not fully, at least, but it scabs over.

still, you can’t help the ache in your chest when jing yuan approaches you one day, a young boy at his heels.

“this is my disciple, yanqing,” he introduces. the boy has flaxen hair, and expressive amber eyes. there’s a fire in them, a determination that you remember seeing in a pair of ruby ones. he greets you, politely and a little shyly.

it’s a painfully familiar scene, and the best you can manage is a wordless smile.

yanqing becomes another target of your fussing soon enough. he squirms when you check him over for injuries, insisting that he’s fine. the boy is incorrigibly stubborn. but in the end, he is still a boy. his enthusiasm, unmarred by grief and loss, brings a liveliness to your monotone life. you can’t help but sneak a few more extra strales into his pockets for swords when jing yuan isn’t looking.

(but he knows. jing yuan always knows.)

you are not happy, not truly, not without her, never without her, but for now you are content. the boys in your life give you reason enough to keep going.

yet your life turns upside down once more when the stellaron bursts on the luofu. jing yuan keeps you away from the whirlwind of conflict, assigning an elite squad of his knights to guard your house. it makes you curious, but the answer reveals itself to you only a few days after the crisis is resolved.

there, standing amidst the unconscious bodies of the cloud knights supposed to guard you, is none other than the ghost of your beloved.

she’s as beautiful as the day you lost her.

[dispatchiscalling]

HEADLOCK m.list ۶ৎ fem!reader & z-team

HEADLOCK — CH. ONE : GUARDIAN ANGEL new dispatcher, same old story. [ wc. 2.9k ]

“Good morning. Do you know where you are?”

Everything was white. 

“Where I am?” 

Your voice was foreign. Words sat on your tongue, ones you didn’t remember putting there. They fought to leave the prison of your mind even after you swallowed them down, staining your mouth like a film of mucus. 

The faint scent of soap and perfume pushed past the nauseating disinfectant. You took a shower this morning. When?

“Yes, darling.” 

Your eyes shot up. Did you know this person? She was looking at you like she knew you, and you were supposed to know her, but… you couldn’t pin a name to her face. 

“Um…” You looked around the room. The room swayed as a calm breeze threaded through the cracked window. Fresh air mixed with disinfectant burned your nose and soon everything was swimming: your vision, your thoughts, your senses. 

This exact situation felt painfully familiar, but you were sure this was the first time you’ve been here. 

The woman sitting across from you smiled graciously. “That’s okay, honey.” She took a moment to scribble something in her notebook. Every stroke of her pen quickened your heart rate. “Can I get your name and age?”

Name. You knew that one. You introduced yourself, but at this point, you questioned whether this was an introduction at all. You seemed to be forgetting the very first time you and this woman met. “I’m twenty years old.”

The lady’s eyes softened, her smile reminiscent of the kind one would wear when they already knew the answer. “You’re twenty-four, love. It’s 2024.”

“Oh.” What? “Wait—no, it’s 2020, I was just…” 

Just what? What were you doing before this… appointment?

She flipped her notebook shut, gently resting her pen on its cover and offering her phone. “See?” 

Her wallpaper flashed and the date, January 2024, lit up along with it. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, sinking into your chair. “Oh.” 

Questions swarmed your mind, chief among them being, who are you? Who are you to me? A knock came to the door before you could resolve them. 

Blonde Blazer peeked inside. Relief slackened your posture; finally, a familiar face.

“I’m so sorry for interrupting.” Blazer stepped across the doorway. “But I need our Angel. Shift is starting soon, and we’ve got a new dispatcher today.” 

The woman left her chair to converse with Blazer in hushed tones. You weren’t sure if they thought they were whispering or if you had impeccable hearing, but you didn’t miss a word. 

“She’s going through an episode.”

Blazer’s face fell. “What? So soon?”

“Yes. I don’t think it’s wise to put her in the field.”

“I— I thought she was getting better.” Blazer sighed, her eyes flickering to you. “I’d hope the whole team would be together, you know… Today of all days.”

The doctor’s lips pursed. “It’s a period where—”

“Where she’s confused and disoriented, yes, I remember.” Blazer sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’ll be resolved within, what, a few hours?”

“Right. She’ll likely forget the mission objectives by the time she gets to the mission site. So I’m sorry, it’s a no.”

“Oh!” Blazer’s eyes widened, her hand landing on the woman’s shoulder. “No, no, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come off frustrated or… Please, don’t apologize. I’m just excited about this new dispatcher and…”

The woman smiled knowingly. “I don’t see anything wrong with letting her be with her team. As long as she’s not dispatched, of course.”

Blazer’s eyes lit up. “That’s— thank you. That’s perfect.”

Your eyes dropped to your lap the second they started to shift again, moving through the room towards you. You expected to feel some sort of way about them having a conversation about you when you were sitting right behind them, but you figured this thing happened often. You were accustomed to this scene, and the discomfort felt natural. Comforting, ironically. Or maybe you told yourself that because familiarity of any kind was better than the mystification around your present circumstances.

The woman dropped back into her desk chair and Blazer stopped in front of you. “C’mon, Angel. Ready to meet your new dispatcher?” 

You smiled. This you remembered. 

/

Malevola was the first Z-teamer you ran into. The most comfortable you felt all day was when she slung her left arm around your shoulders and her right around Sonar’s, greeting you happily as you all burst into the break room. The Z-team was already shit-talking their new dispatcher as they hooked up their comm systems. 

“I’ll take Wednesday.” Punch-up grinned, adjusting his earpiece. 

“We doing bets already?” Prism looked up from her phone, leaning over the table with a competitive gleam in her eye. 

“Don’t we do that over the line to freak ‘em out?” Flambae raised an eyebrow, leaning on Prism’s chair. “Why aren’t we doing that, huh? I wanna do that.”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Punch-up brightened, hopping up onto a chair and slamming his fists onto the table. “But I’m putting five down just to kick it off.”

“Five? What kinda cheap bet is that?” Flambae snarled, Prism echoing her enthusiastic support. “You’re a cheap, short man.”

“Here, angel.” Sonar fished through the charging station for your earpiece and tossed it your way. He tossed Mal hers right after. “Also… you’re working today? Thought you had your… you know. Your thing.”

“Hm?” You glanced at him while slipping in your comms. Was he talking about the office you were just in? “Oh yeah, my thing.”

Sonar and Mal exchanged looks but left the issue alone. You weren’t unfamiliar with that brand of look, either. 

“Blazer said I’ll just be observing.” You smiled. Punch-up threw one of the sodas on the table in your direction, and you were thankful you were able to catch it before it knocked you square in the forehead. 

“We’ll miss you out there, angel.” Punch-up sighed, holding his head in his hands and carrying on melodramatically. “Whatever will I do without my lucky charm?”

“You’re so lame. I hoped I didn’t have to see a grown man whine and bitch when I clocked in today.” Prism snapped. “Besides, if she was pairing up with anybody today, would’ve been me.”

“Oh, ‘cause you need that much help.”

“I don’t but it’s damn nice to have it, isn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes, cracking open the can and sipping on liquid energy. 

Your power was centered around probability. The power to sway the heat of battle toward good (or bad) outcomes. Your power ensured the odds were always in your favor, as well as for those you bestowed your lucky blessings upon. You’ve gotten the Z-team out of many dismal situations and thus, earned the title of being their Guardian Angel. 

When the entire team was successfully online and connected, you were patched through to your dispatcher. Invisigal appeared in the room just as a voice crackled through the line—

“Hey, team. This is your dispatcher, Robert Robertson. I’m starting my first shift—”

Everyone in the room locked eyes, small smiles growing exponentially. Within the second, the room was bursting with laughter. 

“Tell me that’s not your real fuckin name,” Prism’s words were split with cackles, taking off her glasses to swipe at her eyes. Flambae grabbed the back of her chair, wasting no time jumping on the bandwagon.

“You stuttering, bitch? Can’t be shook on your first day, man, come on.”

You chuckled softly, hiding your grin behind your hand. Mal’s hand curled around your wrist, pulling it down. “You can laugh, babes.”

Your dispatcher’s voice cut through the chaos, albeit unsuccessfully. “Can we clear the channel, please? There’s a lot of overlapping—”

Invisigal stepped forward, her expression bright and mischievous. The team tuned out Robert’s instructions for her sake. “I saw him in his underwear.”

The room erupted into giddy screams for the second time in five minutes. You couldn’t even hear your dispatcher at this point, and you weren’t sure you wanted to; you were way more intrigued by whatever Invisigal saw. He packing much? See, Prism was asking the right questions. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Chase’s voice blasted over the line, physically shocking the team into submission. You flinched at the volume tearing through your eardrum, standing at attention. “May I remind you these calls are fucking recorded for training fuckin purposes! So keep the line clear before we send you back to whatever fuckin cell we pulled your stupid fuckin asses from!” 

Invisigal rolled her eyes, her fingers tapping together in a blah blah blah gesture. Soft snickers filled the room, quiet enough to go unnoticed by the dispatchers. 

One by one, crises were called in and your friends were sent out. You hung out in the break room, watching their profiles travel around the city map, smiling when they dunked on your dispatcher, though the details of the shift blurred in and out of clarity. 

Chase said they’d ‘send you back to your cell.’ What cell? 

Everyone on the Z-team was a villain, a past life they claimed without shame, and yet somehow, you couldn’t place yourself alongside them. When you first joined them, you believed they were all genuine heroes. It wasn’t until a dinner together that the Z-teamers confirmed they were villains with numerous crimes under their name, finding amusement in your naivety. Invisigal had insisted you were one, too, before being hastily interrupted by the rest of the team.

You simply didn’t know. And the not knowing was growing unbearable.

How could you reconcile a life you knew you had but couldn’t recall? There was a void where memories should be—you could hear the remnants of time whispering in the caverns of your mind, loud enough to make themselves known but too soft to be recognized. Your life was a constant cycle of failing to retrieve a memory while being certain that you know it exists; that retrieval is just around the corner. But relief never came, leaving behind a chronic, aching curiosity.

“...hello? Earth to Angel.”

“She’s resting right now, dude. Chill out.” Sonar’s voice drew you back to the present. A sharp inhale brought the city map back into focus.

You cleared your throat. “Hi?”

“Nice of you to finally join us.” The monotony of Robert’s voice created a false sense of comfort. “I’ve got a call from a convenience store a block from here, and your teammates are resting or, you know. Actually doing their jobs.” 

“Um, woah.” Mal scoffed, her disdain evident. A chorus of disapproval followed. 

“I’m not cleared to be in the field,” searching, searching, searching for his name…. “Dispatcher.”  

“Just Robert’s fine.” He said flatly.

Robert. Right.

“You’re on my roster, and that means you’re going to that corner shop.” Robert doubled down, and you could hear the finality in his voice.

“Ohhh, look at him go getting all bossy and shit.” Prism laughed. “Stupid.”

“Sorry?” Robert retorted. “Who’s stupid?”

“You, stupid.” Prism sneered. “Coming in here, acting like the big man in charge when you clearly don’t know shit.”

“Yeah, we’ve been here longer than you, man.” Flambae added. “Unlike you, we know what we’re talking about.”

“You’re saying that like I’m not the big man in charge,” Robert said, smooth and collected. “I am. And I think I know what I’m doing. Have any of you failed a mission yet? Anyone?”

You stewed behind the screen. Clearly, Robert didn’t believe you and while you appreciated your team’s efforts to butt in, it came across like everyone was playing a big fat joke on the new guy. 

“No? I thought so.”

“I promise I’m not kidding, Robert,” you said. “Ask Blazer, she’ll tell you the same thing.”

“Bother my boss on my first day? No, that’s great advice.” His tone was caustic. It made you cringe and shrink into yourself. His exasperated sigh was like static over the channel. “Look, we’re almost done with our shift. How about we stop messing with the substitute teacher and tolerate each other for ten more minutes?”

“Nobody’s messing with anyone.” Mal insisted. You pulled up her camera feed on your tablet, correctly predicting her scornful expression.

“Uh-huh. Get out there, Angel.”

“Your funeral.” Invisigal snorted. “You might be sending her to her death. Her memory’s fucked.”

Holy shit. “Visi.” You groaned into your comms, “Seriously?”

“Oh, she’s got memory problems now? Story just keeps getting better, guys. Everyone gets an A for creativity.” Robert snapped.

The channel blew up with insults and complaints.

“You wanna make me the bad guy? I’ll be the bad guy. Corner store, now. That’s an order.”

Sonar was quick to interrupt. “I can take her mission.” 

“No, I’m going.” You muttered, tossing the tablet onto the break room table. You crushed your soda can and tossed it into the bin, ignoring the jeers and protests over the line. Golem’s low baritone voiced his dissent, and you could hear the roll of Robert’s eyes.

“Amazing input, Golem. Just— this is great. Great job, team. Love the dynamic we’ve got here.” 

You left base, traveling towards the corner shop Robert directed you to. He left you to your devices, as the mission was pretty straightforward, redirecting his efforts to the other Z-teamers.  

Did he give you a mission objective? Or—no, Sonar was taking your mission. 

You pushed through the corner store’s doors and maneuvered through the corner shop with borrowed confidence. You frequented this location, probably? Probably. Sonar liked twinkies—that much you were sure of. This place should have those. 

“Who’s there?!” Someone screeched.

Your brows furrowed, spinning around and finding no one. “Calm down, I’m just here to buy some snacks. I only have my card on me, is that okay? You take card?”

“Angel, what the fuck are you doing?” Robert buzzed in your ear. “You’re—”

“You want anything?” Your fingers brushed over the packaging of chips and chocolates. “Hey, Mal likes these.”

“You’re in the middle of—for fuck’s sake.” Robert cursed. “Behind you, behind you, behind you—”

You felt the cool press of metal to your neck and the clicking of a gun. Your hands flew up in surrender, chest seizing. 

“Fucking hell.” Robert whispered. “Armed robbery, Angel, you’re responding to an armed fucking robbery.”

You wanted to scream: did you tell me that? But you knew what the answer would be yes, as was the case every single time you asked that question. 

You were shoved into the nearest shelf, a masked figure barking in your ear. “You wanna die, huh? Think you’re tough?”

“Get off me.” You hissed, scanning the room. Your brain vaulted into crisis mode and you welcomed the familiar buzz of adrenaline; over time, you learned that your body remembered more than your mind.  

You threw your head back into the robber’s nose, taking advantage of his moment of disorientation to spin in their arms and knock their gun from their arms. They stumbled back with a choked groan, whipping out a second firearm. 

“Try that shit again, bitch. You’re dead before you take a step.”

“You sure?” A feeling of superiority overwhelmed you as you focused your power. Possibilities flew past your eyes and you mentally contorted reality to suit your needs. The bullets wouldn’t touch you.

“Don’t antagonize them.” Robert’s urgency was lost on you. 

You shrugged, taking a step forward. The robber cocked the gun, fingers teasing the trigger. You took another step—

BANG!

The bullet whipped past your ear, impaling a bag of Doritos behind you.

You clicked your tongue. “Oh… you wanna try again? Wait—I’ll come closer.”

“What the fuck is your problem?!” The robber shrieked, wagging the gun in your face, desperate to deter you. “Stay— stay back!”

“You were for real gonna kill me,” you hummed, sweeping aside the crumbs below your feet. “Damn.”

BANG!

You shook your head, watching as the second bullet pierced a bottle of pop and doused the floor in fizzy bubbles. You stared at him, confusion and pity clear on your face. “I’m literally standing right in front of you.” 

“I know!” The robber whined, clearly distressed by their sudden decline of skill. They slapped the gun like it was malfunctioning. You observed them for a moment, noting the panic in their eyes. 

You grew tired of watching them fumble with the weapon and snatched it from their hands. “No, no, no. Hitting it doesn’t do much. Let me.”

You swung the grip of the gun into the robber’s skull, sending them into the mess of soda and chips below. You cocked the gun and aimed it right between the offender’s brows with an eerie accuracy. 

“Woah, Angel. Let’s—” Robert interrupted your train of thought for the nth time. “You’ve got them down. Good job, let’s bring ‘em in.”

You hummed absently. Something was close to clarity and you were itching to follow through. The gun felt familiar. Standing over a victim felt familiar. 

Your body remembered more than your mind, and it was telling you it always pulled the trigger. 

“Bring them in, Angel. We’re waiting on you.” Robert voiced eased you out of the spiral yet again, but this time, he only annoyed you. You felt so close to satiating your curiosity—and you were starving for answers. You just needed a moment more to turn that corner. Or… an action.

Your fingers curled tighter around the gun. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Warning lights flashed behind your eyelids. Your focus flipped to the gun and whatever fascination you had with it vanished. The person that itched to pull the trigger, gone. The sense of familiarity slipped from the seat of your mind, and you dropped the weapon as if it burned you. 

“Fuck,” you screwed your eyes shut. Your head pulsated, the world swimming around you. Time and space blurred together and you were left abandoned by common and rational sense. “Fuck.” 

The robber scrambled for his weapon, and this time you weren’t prepared to bend the odds—the bullet tore through your shoulder. 

taglist (open!) ۶ৎ @ottocre @camilo-uwu @trinityobsessesovatings @mommymilkers0526

[catesdefenseattorney-deactivate]

"back to me.."

cate dunlap x fem!reader: based on season two, so spoilers ahead, where you ended up in elmira with the others and are finally talking to cate after returning to campus.

word count: 1k.

authors note: GUYS I don't know if this is good and I'm scared. I've not written in so long but I really want to get back into it so feel free to leave ideas and i'll try and write them to the best of my abilities. this came to me while listening to back to me by the marias. I have proofread this but if I missed some mistakes i'm so freaking sorry.

cate stands off at the sidelines, watching everyone in front of her enjoy the party and watching those who are not. she watched as jordan finished their third shot before punching this guy who was sucking beer up his ass, watched as emma retreated into the bathroom after something happened with sam in the other room.

but more importantly she was watching you.

slumped down in a leather arm chair you picked at a loose string of your jeans, staring off into space while a couple sloppily made out again the wall beside you.

just a year ago cate would've been in that crowd of people, feeling the music and alcohol pumping through her body while she danced with you; your hands on her hips, her back flush against your front, and her hand holding the back of your neck.

that all felt like a lifetime ago now.

you two hadn't had the chance to talk after you'd arrived in that elmira van, didn't get the chance to talk after jordan punched her either; though she did hear you calling jordan an 'asshole' for it as you walked away with emma.

small victories, right?

cate blinks and then sam is blocking her view of you.

"sam what the fu--" cate tried to look over his broad shoulder, just to get a glimpse of you again, but he was too tall and she was only met with his spiralling words.

"andre's dead?"

"who said that?" cate asks even though she knows it was emma, which explains the storming off to the bathroom.

"what- what the fuck? is.. is it because of us? because of what we, what we did? what.."

cate didn't have time for this, "sam, do you want my help again?", and she's already slipping off her glove.

"no, no, no, no. I want, I want all of this- I want all of this to stop! I want to go home."

cate cups sam's cheek with her bare hand, locking him into her command.

"It doesn't matter, nothing matters. feel nothing."

sam's body instantly goes lax, "oh, okay... I'm gonna go find justine-- need anything?"

"mh-mh," cate hums with a smile and a shake of her head, blood vessels already popping in her eyes. sam murmurs a 'cool' before moving on.

of course you're not there when he moves.

"fuck," cate whispers to herself before pushing herself off of the wall and beelining for the back door.

cate is already taking a puff of her vape before she's even outside, exhaling once the back door closes behind her. she leans against the back porch railing, bringing the vape up to her lips again.

"so you vape now?" you asked from behind her, causing cate to visibly jump out of fright.

"uhm- no, no, it's an--" cate turns to glance back at you but you're already moving to lean against the porch railing beside her. she stuffs the vape into her bag. "anxiety pen."

"never thought you'd stoop so low. thought you only did the 'real stuff'."

"it's an anxi-- okay, yeah, a vape. whatever. I've been under a lot of pressure recently, okay?" cate frowned, looking down at the grass below the porch.

she hadn't expected to talk to you today, hadn't expected to talk to you ever again actually. she thought you'd want to live out the rest of your life avoiding her like the plague, find some other girl much more deserving of your love, while she stayed stuck in time, building a house full of old memories - good memories, when you two were still together - where she could go to whenever she needed you but couldn't have you.

she did that a lot at vought. even when you weren't around you were still her escape, her comfort.

"under a lot of pressure because 'flipped' flopped?" you stifled a chuckle at your own shitty joke.

cate didn't stifle her's though, "that was terrible."

"the joke or the movie--"

"both." cate groaned while chuckling, her head falling forward. this is the most normal cate has felt in, well, a year. laughing over a shitty joke with you was just one of the many dreams she had had in your absence, then she'd wake up and reality would hit her.

that you were, in fact, not laughing alongside her. because you were locked away in a rehabilitation centre and it was all cate's fault.

cate found that she wasn't laughing anymore, the atmosphere now feeling heavy. she looked to the side to make sure you were still there and that she hadn't just imagined this moment like she had so many times before.

"I'm--" cate clears her throat once she feels her words getting caught in it, taking a shaky breath. "I'm sorry. about- about everything, by the way. really, I am. and I know jordan and emma won't believe me but I.. I need you to--"

"we went through so much shit at elmira." you said with distaste, effectively cutting cate off, brows furrowing at the memory. at the life you were living only three days ago.

"I know and I can only imagine what it was like for you guys--" cate turned to look at you, her hand reaching for your arm.

then cate hesitates, eyes flicking from your arm to your face where the two of you locked eyes. cate's breath hitches.

"but I imagine you probably went through your own stuff at vought." you said quietly. cate's gloved hand gently touches your arm and a small smile tugs on your lips at the contact.

"the worst of it was not having you there." cate mumbled with a small smile matching your own.

you let out a breath you hadn't even realised you'd been holding in, murmuring a 'yeah' in response.

a beat passes before you push yourself off the porch railing and cate lets her hand fall back to her side.

"emma and jordan would probably kill me if they saw us. well-- they'd kill you then me."

cate let out an awkward chuckle, grimacing. "yeah, definitely."

you move to the steps of the back porch, getting ready to take your leave.

"I'll see you around then?" cate asks and she hates how disappointed she lets herself sound.

you turn around, "why? we still share a dorm right?"

cate blinks, her eyes widening before she's nodding. "right-- yeah, we do. I just thought-- you'd bunk with emma like you have been--"

"cate."

"right, yep, we still share a dorm." cate chirps, falling into step beside you.

[initforthethrill]

☠︎︎ kinktober day #2 ↳ subspace

sweet surrender aka soft and floaty cate gets exactly what she needs tw: girlcock, g!p reader, subspace, daddy!reader, daddy kink, submissive!cate, finger sucking, fingering, dickriding, creampies, vaginal sex, tender sex, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, aftercare, etc. 2.1k+ words

author’s note: so i wrote this differently a few days ago and then after watching cate go through it in this week's episode i totally rewrote the entire thing because i needed to give her extra tender loving care for once...

The door clicked, and the apartment’s quiet shifted—like the air finally remembered how to breathe. You stepped in from the hallway’s stale fluorescence, shoulders still squared by the long day, jacket half off one arm, keys in your teeth while you toed your boots loose. You looked like the city distilled: rumpled oxford, loosened tie, tattoos peeking from your cuffs, exhaustion written in the tired set of your mouth.

Cate didn’t bother with hello. She slid off the couch like the gravity in the room had changed, sweater hem skimming bare thighs as she crawled across the rug. Her eyes were glossy and too big in her face, blue gone balmy, voice caught somewhere soft and small.

“Daddy.”

It landed under your skin like a vow. All the strain in your posture uncoiled at once. “Hey, baby.” You dropped to a knee before Cate could reach your feet, meeting her halfway on the rug. “Look at me.”

Cate lifted her chin. The expression there—pleading, floaty, almost teary—was the precise key to your chest.

“Color?” you asked, thumb stroking along Cate’s jaw as if the question itself needed petting.

Cate breathed out a little sigh, nuzzling into the touch. “Green,” she whispered. “Promise.”

Your smile tilted, helpless and proud. “Words good?”

Cate nodded, messy hair falling around her face. “Some. Want—” She swallowed, cheeks pink. “Want you. Wanted you all day.”

“I know.” You kissed the corner of her mouth. “You did so good waiting for me.”

Cate’s lips quivered like praise might break her. She wormed into your lap when you sat back onto your heels, climbing until she was straddling thighs and hips, arms looped around your neck like a child’s careful cling. Up close, she was bright and delicate, the kind of tender ache that needed hands. You smoothed the back of her sweater, palm wide and slow, breathing with her.

“Thirsty?” You murmured. “Did you eat?”

Cate shook her head, whining into your collar. “Don’t make me do anything hard. ’M floaty.”

“Okay,” you said, tone going low and certain. “I’ve got you.” You shifted to stand, palms under Cate’s thighs, and the little sound Cate made—relieved, weightless—nearly brought you to your knees again.

In the bedroom, lamp light pooled in honey-colored circles. You set Cate on the bed with a careful bounce and brought a bottle of water to her lips, steadying it as Cate drank. “Good girl,” you praised, wiping a stray bead from Cate’s mouth with your thumb. It earned you that wrecked, grateful look that made every muscle in your body soften. “Fingers,” you said gently.

You watched her for the tremor of hesitation, found none, and eased one hand to Cate’s mouth. “Open.”

Cate opened obediently, lips plush around two of your fingers. The first suck was shy, tentative. The second was needy, and the third was everything—wet, reverent, the kind of latch that sent heat arrowing down your spine. Cate keened softly, eyes tipping up, adoring. She sucked like it was medicine and prayer, like she could draw your steadiness through skin. Her tongue laved, cheeks hollowing. Drool slicked your knuckles and spilled to your wrist.

“That’s it, baby,” you breathed, cock hardening against the zipper of your slacks with a sweet, aching inevitability. You didn’t rush. You let Cate suck, let her make a mess and make herself small. With your free hand, you unbuckled your belt and eased your fly down, breathing even, never taking your eyes off Cate. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

Cate made a tiny, grateful noise around your fingers.

“Do you want me inside you?” You asked softly. “Want to sit on Daddy’s lap?”

Cate nodded, still suckling, tearful now from the intensity of wanting. She let your fingers slip free with a wet pop. “Please.”

“O-kay,” you hummed, tugging Cate’s sweater up and off. No bra. The soft weight of Cate’s breasts lifted with her breath, nipples flushed. You kissed each as if checking them in, a methodical tenderness that made Cate arch like a cat. “Do you want to ride me, honey?”

“Mhmm.” Cate’s hands pawed clumsily at your shirt, impatient. “Need to feel you. Slow. Please.”

“Slow is all we’re doing.” You stripped, shedding the day piece by piece—shirt, tie, the tightness in your shoulders—until you were in nothing but briefs dragged down your thighs and the patient beat of your own pulse. Your cock was thick and aching, curved against your belly, the head slick already with pre-come. You stroked once, not for the friction but to show it to Cate: Here’s what’s yours.

Cate stared in a daze, tears shining in her lashes. “Perfect,” she breathed, little voice gone dreamy. “My daddy.”

Your throat tightened. “Yours,” you confirmed, hand steady as you reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “Knees up, angel.”

Cate lay back, knees falling open—so trusting it hurt. You slicked your fingers and stroked between her folds, parting her gently, finding her already slippery with want. Cate gasped, hips chasing the touch. You circled her clit in slow, sure motions and kissed her, a careful press of mouths that kept Cate anchored to now.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” you murmured against her lips.

Cate clutched at your shoulders. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Need you, Daddy.”

“I won’t,” you promised, easing two fingers inside, crooking them shallow to feel the clutch and melt of Cate’s cunt. Cate moaned, wet and high, and nuzzled for your hand again. You offered it, sliding two clean fingers back between Cate’s lips.

Cate suckled immediately, eyes going hazy, thighs shaking around your wrist. The cadence built like a tide: mouth and cunt, suck and pulse, Cate helplessly working for sensation while you gave and gave in careful portions. You kept the rhythm simple, a soothing repetition that let Cate float. Praise spilled in a low stream—You’re doing so well. Breathe for me. There you go—until Cate’s body loosened, tension gone to something boneless and sweet.

When you withdrew your fingers to reach for your own cock, Cate whimpered at the loss—then sighed when your palm smoothed up her belly.

“Up you come,” you coaxed, pulling Cate into your lap. You settled back against the headboard, legs spread, cock resting heavy against your stomach as Cate straddled your hips. The position was a cradle. Cate’s whole body fit along your front, breasts pressing into your chest, lips close enough to kiss with every breath. You guided the head of your cock to Cate’s slick entrance and waited.

“Take me slow,” you said, voice quiet as a secret. “Breathe and sink for me. I’ve got you.”

Cate, floaty and obedient, sank. The first inch had her mouth falling open, pupils blown. The second pulled a broken sound from her throat. By the third she was clinging to your shoulders with wet eyes and a trembling smile, taking all of it because she wanted to, because she knew you would never let her fall.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” you said, voice gone wrecked with tenderness. “Good girl. All the way.”

Cate seated fully with a shiver, the thick stretch making her gasp. You didn’t move, just kissed the damp corners of Cate’s eyes and tucked hair behind her ear. “Is it too much?”

“No,” Cate whispered, and then—soft and fierce—“It’s everything.” She rocked, tiny motions, enough to feel the shape of you inside her. “Oh, Daddy. I love you.”

It made your exhale stutter. “I love you more.” You slid your palm to the small of Cate’s back and pressed, guiding a slow roll of hips. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

You found the rhythm together—no thrusting, not really, just the patient tide of Cate’s body using you for warmth and fullness. Cate’s mouth opened and closed around your offered fingers like a lullaby. Drool dampened your knuckles. Her tongue pushed under and around like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to taste or worship. Every time you praised her—good girl, pretty thing, look at you—Cate clenched around your cock in a flutter that made your jaw go tight.

“You’re safe,” you murmured into her hair, rolling your hips shallow, keeping everything soft. “You’re doing so well for me. You’re my best girl.”

A tear slid free and caught on your collarbone. Cate made a little broken laugh like she was embarrassed by her own feeling, but kept moving, tiny rocking circles with her hips that sent pleasure up your spine like a warm hand. You thumbed gently over Cate’s clit, careful, consistent, never crowding her with speed. Cate’s breath hitched against your neck.

“Daddy,” she whimpered around your fingers, the word blurred by spit. “S’good. S’full. I—” She whined, eyes glossy, thighs trembling.

“Stay with me,” you soothed, rubbing a little faster, kissing between Cate’s eyes. “I’ve got you. Can you give it to me? Nice and easy.”

Cate nodded, head a frantic little bird’s shake, and then she went quiet—the kind of quiet that was all breath and pulse—before her body tightened and fluttered and clung. The orgasm came through her like a wave moving shoreward: gathering, cresting, breaking with a soft, high noise she bit into your shoulder to contain. She shuddered and clutched and sobbed tiny, happy sounds into your skin, riding it out on that same slow rhythm until the tremors gentled.

“That’s my girl,” you whispered, chest heaving, desperate to be careful even now. “So good for me. So good.”

Cate blinked wetly and floated, a dazed smile tilting her mouth. “Love you,” she said again, like the words themselves filled her lungs.

You brushed the hair from Cate’s forehead. “I know, angel.” You shifted your hips minutely, the movement sending a delicious pull through both of you. “Do you want me to come inside?” Always a question, never a presumption.

Cate’s lashes fluttered. “Please,” she whispered. “Want you to.”

You nodded, breath catching. You kept the pace gentle, small rolls that dragged you through the clutch of Cate’s heat. The wanting sharpened, narrowing to a point. Cate watching you through teary, adoring eyes didn’t help. You swore softly, pressed your foreheads together, and let yourself go exactly as slow as the moment asked. The pleasure rose like a tide without wind, inexorable and sure.

“Look at you,” you gasped, voice breaking on love more than lust. “Fuck, I’m— Cate—” You buried with a shiver and came in long, aching pulses, deeper for how careful you stayed, the release spilling warm inside Cate as you held her close. Cate’s body fluttered, squeezing, sweet aftershocks tugging every last throb from your cock.

You breathed there together for a long time, bodies damp and twined, the room filled with the soft, silly noises of kisses that didn’t need to land anywhere in particular. You didn’t pull out until Cate made a little noise of discomfort, and even then you eased apart with the same reverence you’d shown putting you two together. Tissue, a warm cloth, clean pajama shorts for Cate she didn’t actually put on because she preferred to be naked under the blankets when she felt like this.

Water again. A bite of toast you coaxed into her, laughing quietly when Cate mouthed at your fingers like she couldn’t help it. “You did so good,” you said, tucking you both under the comforter and gathering Cate onto your chest, palm rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “So proud of you for telling me what you needed.”

Cate’s voice was soft and slurred. “Just needed you.”

“You always have me.” You kissed the crown of her head and stared at the ceiling the way people look up at their gods. “Always.”

Cate hummed, drifting, tears drying salted on her cheeks. She turned her face into your throat and breathed you in. For a minute she was nothing but warmth and heartbeat and the soft, satisfied ache of being known. She could feel where you had been inside her, could feel the afterglow sitting gentle in her muscles like a hand smoothed over her.

“Daddy?” she mumbled, almost asleep.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Will you stay? Right here?”

“As long as you want.” You reached over without jostling her and switched off the lamp, pulling the night around you two like a second blanket. You kept rubbing those slow circles on Cate’s back. “I’m not going anywhere.”Cate sighed like relief took real weight and finally put it down. Floaty, teary, tender, she drifted with her mouth open against your skin, tasting the last hint of your salt and the easy night. When she slept, she slept smiling, held in a body that would always be a home. You followed her a little later, still on watch even in dreams, the words I love you looping through you like a pulse.

[shdysders]

too late II

pairing: jenna ortega & female reader

summary: in which the truth finally comes out, but not on your terms—and definitely not on hers.

word count: 10.4k

author’s note: like i mentioned before i wrote this over four months ago and never got around to posting it. i don’t really love it, and it might feel a little rushed since i haven’t re-read it since i first wrote it, but i wanted to share something since it’s been a while. consider this a small apology for going quiet. not sure if i’ll keep posting, but for now, here’s this. let me know what you think, if you’d like.

For two weeks, Jenna couldn't get you out of her head.

Even though she had told herself, over and over, that it was done. That she had made the right choice. That this was for the best.

But the moments lingered in her thoughts, clinging to her like the remnants of a dream you could never quite shake off. She'd lay in bed late at night, the quiet stretching between the heavy silence of the room, and she could feel the weight of everything she had said to you, everything she had walked away from.

She never expected to feel so torn.

The decision had been made—final. She knew there was no turning back from it. It had to happen, didn't it? She had convinced herself, time and time again.

She had broken the two of you apart for reasons she couldn't even fully explain to herself.

There was guilt, there was the ache of knowing she'd hurt you, but there was also this strange, unsettling sense of rightness that came with the choice, as if it was something that had been fated. And yet, that didn't make it easier. It didn't make it feel less wrong.

Her thumb always hovered over the phone screen, a draft message staring back at her, begging to be sent. She had typed it countless times, each time deleting it before her finger could press the button. "Are you okay?" was always the start.

But it wasn't enough. She wanted more than that. She wanted to reach out, to make sure you were alright, but how could she? After everything she had said. After what she had done. It would be unfair to you, wouldn't it? To just show up and ask how you were doing after tearing everything apart.

You deserved so much better than that.

She remembered how you looked at her, the hurt behind your eyes that she couldn't erase, no matter how hard she tried.

How the words had come out wrong, stumbling over her tongue, rambling in a way that didn't make sense but still left a mark on both of you.

And then, the way you had looked at her. The tears that almost spilled from your eyes. The quiet "oh" that you had whispered, like it was a small admission of defeat. Jenna's chest ached at the memory. She had never wanted to cause you pain. She had never wanted to be the one who broke you.

But it was done. It had to be.

She could still hear your voice in her head, soft and pained. She could still see the shimmer in your eyes as you fought to keep it together. It made her want to call you, to text you, to ask if you were okay, even though she knew deep down that she had no right.

But then there were those moments—the quiet mornings when she woke early, unable to sleep, and the first thought in her mind was of you. It was a fleeting thought, quickly smothered by the reality of the breakup, but it was there, always there. Were you okay? Were you getting better? She had to know, even though she didn't deserve to.

The longer Jenna sat with these thoughts, the more her guilt gnawed at her. The more she questioned herself. Was it too late to fix it? Was it too late to reach out to you? Maybe it didn't matter.

The doubt never fully left her.

It sat in the pit of her stomach, twisting every time she thought about what she had done. Why had she done it? Why had she walked away from you, from everything you two had built together, when it felt so wrong?

Every time Jenna tried to convince herself it had been the right decision, a voice in her head pushed back. It was like trying to convince herself that she hadn't torn a part of her soul away when she ended things. It didn't make sense. Not when she loved you.

She loved you so much.

It was more than just the small things—the way your hand fit perfectly in hers, the way you'd laugh about the stupidest things, making her forget about the weight of her world for a while. It was more than that.

It was how you made her feel like she could breathe easier when you were around, how you understood her in a way no one else could.

You saw her for who she really was, not the façade she put on for the world, not the parts of herself she kept hidden behind layers of insecurities and fears. You made her feel safe, and loved, in a way that made her heart ache just thinking about it.

The way your voice would soften when you spoke her name, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. The way you held her after a long day, arms tight around her like you could protect her from everything.

How could she have done that? How could she have let go of something that meant so much to her?

She thought about the quiet mornings when you would be the first to wake up, your messy hair still wild from sleep as you stretched and groggily smiled at her.

Every piece of her own brokenness seemed to fall into place when you were by her side. It felt like home. And yet, now she had walked away from it. Moved away from it.

And now, all she wanted was to go back. To rewind time, to find the courage to say something different.

She wanted to go back to that night, to that moment when she had sat across from you, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces as she uttered the words that had torn everything apart.

She wished she could have just pulled you close and told you how much she loved you, how much she needed you, and how scared she had been.

But it was too late now. The words had already been said.

Now, as the days passed and her thoughts spiraled, Jenna found herself wishing she had said anything. Anything to stop the hurt. Anything to fix it.

It got to the point where she found it harder to focus at work, her mind constantly drifting, her thoughts veering toward you when they shouldn't. Even though ending things with you was supposed to make work easier.

It was as if everything she touched, everything she read, had some trace of you in it. Some days, when she stared down at the lines of the script in front of her, your voice would fill the silence, echoing the way you would help her work through the scenes.

It was like you were there with her, coaching her through the dialogue, offering small pieces of advice that always seemed to make everything fall into place.

Sometimes, the simplest words—lines she had read a hundred times before—felt like they carried something more.

She would hear them in your voice, almost like a phantom whisper, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed. For a moment, you were still there beside her, as you always had been.

She missed you so much that it felt almost suffocating. It was strange, because the pain of it seemed bigger than just a breakup.

It was as if you had died, and the thought of never seeing you again had left an empty, hollow feeling in her chest. But that was ridiculous, wasn't it? It was just a breakup. People broke up all the time. It wasn't a funeral. You hadn't died, and yet, it felt like a part of her had.

She caught herself thinking that maybe she could go see you tomorrow, that maybe she could find the courage to face you, to apologize, to make things right.

But then the harsh truth hit her: she was the one who had ended it. She had been the one who said the words, who took the step that closed the door.

If there was any death here, it was the death of the love that once was, and she had killed it herself. She was the one who had let it die.

She wished she could go back and do it all over again, even if that meant facing the hard parts. Anything to bring you back into her life. But it was too late now.

She had already made the choice. And she had to live with it, even though it felt like a slow kind of death.

For weeks, it seemed like everyone on set had noticed that something was off with Jenna too. It wasn't anything obvious—she still showed up on time, still gave her all to every take, still cracked the occasional joke between scenes. But there was a heaviness to her presence that hadn't been there before, a quiet distraction that lingered in her eyes or the way she'd zone out in moments she normally wouldn't.

Nobody said anything. Maybe they thought it wasn't their place, or maybe they just chalked it up to the pressure of work. Either way, they left her alone, offering polite smiles and tentative questions about how she was doing but never pushing for more.

Everyone except Mila.

Mila was one of the first people Jenna had worked with in the industry, and over time, they'd grown close—close enough that Mila had been one of the few friends Jenna introduced to you.

The three of you had hit it off immediately. Mila's easygoing personality and sharp sense of humor made her easy to like, and before long, she had become part of the small circle of people Jenna trusted implicitly.

You and Mila had bonded quickly during visits to set, sharing inside jokes and late-night conversations that blurred the lines between friendship and family. Mila had been there through a lot—both the good and the bad—and while Jenna hadn't told her about the breakup, she couldn't help but wonder if Mila had noticed the shift in her mood.

Jenna had told Mila everything once. But now, she hadn't told her anything.

Not about the breakup. Not about why her smile felt more forced than usual. Not about how she struggled to keep it together some days.

Still, Mila noticed. She always did.

Her usual teasing had shifted in recent weeks, replaced by quiet, searching glances. Sometimes, Mila looked at Jenna like she was on the verge of breaking, as if she could see cracks forming beneath the surface that Jenna wasn't even sure were there. And that look... it confused her.

Had you told Mila?

The thought had crossed Jenna's mind more than once, an anxious flutter in her chest as she replayed your last conversation in her head. You wouldn't have said anything, would you?

You weren't the kind of person to share personal things like that without a reason. But the way Mila looked at her sometimes—with that mixture of pity and quiet concern—it was hard not to wonder.

For days, Jenna tried to shake the feeling, brushing off Mila's attempts to talk or check in with excuses about work or being tired.

But Mila wasn't one to pry, but it was clear that Jenna wasn't herself, and eventually, she decided enough was enough.

"You need a night out," Mila announced one evening, catching Jenna off guard in her trailer. "Just us. A girls' night. Go somewhere loud, have a couple of drinks, and, I don't know, live a little."

Jenna hesitated, her fingers pausing over her phone screen as she looked up at Mila. "I don't know if—"

"Don't even try to talk your way out of it," Mila interrupted, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. "You've been all... weird lately. Everyone's noticed. It's time to shake it off. Besides, I already have the perfect place in mind."

Jenna opened her mouth to protest again, but Mila didn't give her the chance.

"And hey," Mila added, her tone softening just slightly, "you should invite Y/N. I haven't seen her in forever."

The words hit Jenna like a punch to the stomach. She froze, her brain scrambling to catch up as Mila continued, oblivious to the shift in her expression.

"What?" Jenna finally managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

"Y/N," Mila repeated casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You know, your girlfriend? Bring her along—it'll be fun."

The realization sank in slowly. Of course Mila didn't know. Jenna hadn't told anyone about the breakup, not her family, not her closest friends—not even Mila. She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud, to admit that she had ended something that had meant everything to her.

"Oh," Jenna said after a moment, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah... sure. I'll, uh, I'll ask her."

"Great!" Mila said brightly, grinning as she clapped her hands together. "It's settled, then. This Friday. You, me, and Y/N. It's going to be great."

Jenna nodded, pretending to go along with the plan as her chest tightened with guilt. She couldn't even imagine how she was supposed to explain this to Mila—let alone face the thought of actually seeing you again.

But for now, she pushed those thoughts aside, plastering on her best fake smile and hoping Mila wouldn't notice the cracks beneath it.

"Yeah," Jenna said softly, her voice barely audible. "It'll be great."

___

The week passed faster than Jenna wanted it to, each day slipping away like sand through her fingers.

By Friday morning, she found herself regretting not protesting harder when Mila had first brought up the idea.

She could've said she had something else to do—work, a family obligation, anything that sounded remotely plausible. Or better yet, she could've just told Mila outright that she didn't want to go.

Because she didn't.

Jenna didn't want to go out, didn't want to pretend to have fun, and she especially didn't want to sit through an evening where Mila expected you to show up.

The thought of it made her stomach twist, the kind of anxious churn that left her restless and exhausted all at once. She hadn't even texted you about it, and she didn't plan to. How could she, knowing what Mila was expecting versus what she would actually get?

Still, as much as she hated the idea, the more Jenna thought about it, the more she realized that this might be the right time to say something.

A month had passed. Thirty long, aching days since the two of you had broken up, and she still hadn't told anyone. Not her family, not her friends, and certainly not Mila. But Mila wasn't blind. She had to know something was going on, even if she didn't know the full story.

Maybe you'd told her.

The thought was both a comfort and a weight, lingering at the back of Jenna's mind as she tried to figure out what Mila did—or didn't—know. If you had said something, then it wouldn't be a surprise tonight when Jenna finally admitted it.

If Mila asked, of course.

Jenna wasn't planning on volunteering the information. But if Mila pressed, if she brought it up with that quiet concern she always carried lately, then maybe it was time to stop dodging the question. Time to stop pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.

And who knew? Maybe saying it out loud—finally letting someone else in—would take some of the weight off her shoulders.

Or maybe it would just make everything worse.

Jenna arrived at the bar later than she'd intended, though she couldn't bring herself to care. The thought of lingering too long, standing awkwardly with Mila before things really got going, had filled her with dread.

She'd spent way too much time overthinking her outfit, too—something casual but not too casual, like she wasn't trying too hard to look like herself when she didn't feel like herself at all.

The place was already buzzing by the time she walked in. Music thumped softly under the hum of voices, and the low lighting made the bar feel warmer than it had any right to. Jenna spotted Mila almost instantly, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand.

She was talking to someone Jenna didn't recognize, but the moment Mila saw her, she perked up and waved her over.

"Finally! I was starting to think you'd stood me up." Her tone was light, teasing, but it carried just enough of a playful jab to make Jenna smile despite herself.

"Yeah, sorry," Jenna said, slipping into the seat beside her. "Traffic." It was a weak excuse, but Mila didn't press.

"Don't worry about it. You're here now." Mila signaled the bartender, sliding a drink over to Jenna. "Figured you'd need this."

Jenna laughed softly, lifting the glass. "Thanks. What is it?"

"Something not too crazy," Mila replied, swirling her own drink. "Didn't think you'd want to dive straight into tequila shots."

Jenna took a sip, letting the conversation flow naturally from there. It was easier than she expected—Mila always had a knack for making things feel effortless. They talked about work, swapped a few jokes about the chaos of the set, and somewhere along the way, the glasses kept refilling.

By the third—or maybe fourth—drink, Jenna was starting to feel the edges of her tension blur. Mila was, too, her laughter coming easier, her cheeks flushed pink.

Her now for what it seemed like sixth drink hovered near her lips as she sat back, her gaze lazily drifting around the room. She took a small sip, her movements slow and deliberate, almost giving the impression she'd forgotten Jenna was even sitting there.

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the low hum of music and scattered voices, until Mila suddenly stiffened. Her eyes widened with a spark of realization, her expression snapping to life.

"Oh my god, right!" she blurted out, the sharpness of her voice cutting through the din. "Where's Y/n? Is she okay?"

The words hit Jenna like a sucker punch, the casual tone unable to disguise the weight they carried. Jenna froze mid-sip, the glass slipping from her lips as her breath caught in her throat. She coughed, the sudden burn forcing her to set the drink down hastily, her fingers trembling as the glass met the table with a sharp clink.

Her chest felt tight, heat blooming beneath her skin—not just from the alcohol, but from something heavier.

Of course Mila would ask that. She had invited you for God's sake.

That detail had slipped Jenna's mind entirely in the haze of the evening, or maybe she'd pushed it aside on purpose. Now it was front and center, leaving her no room to deflect.

She glanced at Mila, already regretting the defensive edge in her voice as she snapped, "Yeah. Why wouldn't she be?"

The words came too quickly, too sharp, and the moment they left her mouth, Jenna wished she could take them back. They weren't just defensive—they were revealing, betraying a tension Mila clearly wasn't expecting.

Mila froze, her brows lifting in mild surprise at the tone. For a brief moment, she looked unsure of how to respond, and then her expression shifted again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out, and instead, she fidgeted, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh, nothing," she said at last, though her voice had lost its usual breezy confidence. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a dismissive laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I just thought maybe something was wrong? I don't know. She didn't come, so I just wondered."

The nervous energy radiating from her now was unmistakable. Her hand moved to adjust her glass, her fingers drumming against the surface of the table before falling still. She looked everywhere but at Jenna, as if avoiding her gaze would somehow soften the tension hanging in the air.

Jenna narrowed her eyes slightly, her stomach tightening as she watched Mila's sudden shift in demeanor. Something was off—Mila wasn't just making small talk. She was circling something, and Jenna could feel the subtle crackling undercurrent of panic in the way Mila's gaze darted around the room, as if searching for an escape.

Jenna's fingers curled around her glass, the condensation slick against her palm. The question lingered, sharp and unspoken, in the space between them. Why was Mila so nervous?

"Actually I...Uh" Jenna's voice wavered, caught somewhere between a lie and the truth. Her hesitation felt damning, and she hated how small it made her feel. "I didn't ask her."

The admission hung in the air, heavier than she'd intended, and Jenna flinched inwardly at the way it sounded—cold, thoughtless. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Mila didn't know that, and Jenna could already see the gears turning behind her friend's eyes.

"What? Why?" Mila's brows shot up as she leaned forward, her curiosity sharpening with the movement. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, but her full attention was fixed on Jenna now, the question hanging in the air like a dare.

Jenna froze, her hand hovering mid-air with her drink still in her grasp. The room around her blurred into a haze of muffled conversation and dim light as her thoughts screeched to a halt. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not tonight, not here, not with Mila.

Was this it? The moment she finally said it out loud?

Her stomach churned, and her grip on the glass tightened as the weight of the unspoken truth pressed harder against her chest. What was the point of keeping it to herself anymore? Mila would find out eventually—everyone would.

Besides, when else was she going to say anything? At the table read? Where the cast, producers, and half the crew would be there to overhear? No. That wasn't how she wanted it to come out.

She inhaled sharply, a shallow breath that did nothing to steady the trembling in her hands. The drink clinked softly as she set it down on the table, her fingers still clutching the rim like it was an anchor.

"Because, uhm..." The words felt foreign on her tongue, her voice shaky as her gaze darted down to the table. She could feel Mila's eyes boring into her, waiting.

Her throat felt dry, the lump forming there making it harder to speak. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up just enough to meet Mila's gaze.

"We... we're not together anymore."

The words tumbled out unevenly, quiet but heavy, and the silence that followed was deafening. Jenna's stomach dropped, her pulse pounding in her ears as she watched Mila's face shift through a range of emotions—surprise, confusion, concern.

For a second, neither of them moved. Mila blinked, her lips parting as though to respond, but no sound came out. She glanced at Jenna's hand still gripping the glass and then back to her face, her expression softening slightly.

"What?" Mila said again, but this time her voice was softer, almost disbelieving. She leaned back in her chair, her fingers nervously tapping against the table. "I—since when?"

Jenna's jaw tensed, her teeth pressing together as she tried to find the words, but none came easily. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected, and the weight of Mila's question made her chest tighten even more.

"Not long ago," Jenna finally said, her voice flat, like she was trying to smooth over the jagged edges of the truth. "It's... complicated."

It wasn't complicated.

Yet Mila nodded slowly, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece something together. The nervous energy from earlier was gone now, replaced by an unfamiliar kind of stillness.

Jenna could feel Mila's unspoken questions hanging in the air, but she didn't have it in her to answer them—not here, not now. She picked up her glass again, her fingers trembling just enough to make the drink ripple.

Mila opened her mouth as if to speak but hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line instead. "I—I didn't know," she said finally, her voice careful, almost apologetic.

Jenna shook her head quickly, as if to wave it off. "It's fine. Really. It's not..." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn't fine, but admitting that felt like too much.

The silence between them returned, heavy and unyielding. Mila shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering toward the door as if searching for an escape, while Jenna stared at her glass, the weight of her own words settling deep in her chest.

Mila didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the table as though she were trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner absentmindedly.

Jenna could see the wheels turning behind her friend's eyes, the way Mila's lips pressed together as if she were holding back a question. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable, and Jenna shifted in her seat, wishing she'd said anything else—anything to steer the conversation away from this.

But then Mila looked up, her expression caught somewhere between hesitation and concern. Her fingers stilled against the napkin, and she inhaled softly, her gaze flitting to Jenna's before darting away again.

"Is..." Mila began, her voice quiet and careful, like she wasn't sure if she should even be asking. She bit her lip, her brows knitting together as she seemed to second-guess herself. "Is it because she's... sick?"

The question hung in the air, stark and unrelenting.

Jenna blinked, her thoughts skidding to a halt at Mila's question. Sick? The word echoed in her mind, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. She stared at Mila, trying to piece together the sudden turn in the conversation.

Her first instinct was to assume she'd misheard, that the low hum of music or the alcohol in her system had muddled her perception. But the look on Mila's face—hesitant, nervous, but serious—told her she hadn't.

Jenna frowned, her confusion deepening as she scrambled to connect the dots. Sick? What the hell is she talking about? The word didn't fit anywhere. You weren't sick. At least, not in any way Jenna knew of.

Did you have a cold?

Her stomach churned uneasily. Was Mila talking about someone else? Or was this some poorly worded attempt at... what? A metaphor? A joke? Jenna didn't know, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread curling low in her chest.

Her grip tightened on her glass, the condensation slick against her fingers. Mila's question replayed in her head, each syllable dragging her further into her own confusion.

Mila had said it like it was obvious, like it was something Jenna should already know, and that only made the knot in her chest tighten further.

A faint heat crept up Jenna's neck, frustration mixing with her unease. She hated not understanding, hated the way her mind was now running in circles trying to grasp something she clearly didn't have all the pieces to.

Jenna's heart thudded faster, her thoughts a jumble of fragmented possibilities that led nowhere. Her confusion was quickly giving way to something sharper—irritation, panic, a gnawing need to demand what are you talking about? But she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't do anything but stare at Mila and hope she'd explain herself before Jenna had to ask.

She wet her lips, suddenly aware of the dryness in her throat, and willed herself to keep her expression neutral, though she could feel the tension pulling at her features. She didn't want to look clueless—vulnerable—but she had no idea what Mila meant, and it was beginning to eat at her.

Her fingers drummed restlessly against the side of her glass as she glanced at Mila again, searching her face for some kind of clue.

Mila froze, her eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face. It wasn't shock exactly—it was something subtler, like she'd just realized she'd let slip something she wasn't supposed to say. Her hand stilled mid-air, clutching her glass, and her gaze darted away from Jenna as though avoiding eye contact would somehow erase what she'd said.

Jenna felt her stomach drop, unease prickling at her skin. Her grip on her drink tightened as she leaned forward, her brow furrowing. "What?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. "What do you mean, sick? Does she have a cold or something?"

Mila flinched at the question, her face tightening into an expression that only made Jenna's anxiety spike. Mila swallowed, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers tapping lightly against the glass she held.

"You... you don't know?" Mila finally said, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.

The way she said it—the hesitant tone, the words themselves—sent a jolt of panic straight through Jenna. Her heart skipped a beat, her chest tightening as a chill spread down her spine. Why was Mila framing it like this? Why did it sound so heavy, so dangerous?

Jenna's throat felt dry, her words coming out unsteady. "Don't know what?" she said, her voice rising slightly as she fought to keep calm. "What are you talking about?"

Mila hesitated again, her teeth catching her bottom lip as if she were debating whether to say more. Her gaze flickered up to Jenna's face, studying her with a mixture of wariness and something that almost looked like pity.

"When did you guys break up?" Mila asked carefully, the question quiet but deliberate, like she was trying to piece together a puzzle.

The question caught Jenna off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't respond. Her mind spun, trying to connect the dots Mila was implying but not fully saying. She blinked, then looked down at the glass in her hand as if it might hold the answer.

"It was..." she began slowly, her voice trailing off as she tried to pinpoint the timeline in her mind. Her thoughts felt scattered, disjointed, as she realized how much time had slipped by without you.

"September," Jenna said finally, the word feeling heavy on her tongue. She stared at the condensation pooling at the base of her drink, her voice quieter now, almost distant.

The realization sank in as she said it aloud, a wave of emotion hitting her in its wake.

Three months.

She hadn't even thought about it in those terms until now, but it was true. Three months of getting through each day without you. Three months of forcing herself to push forward, even though the weight of it had felt unbearable at times, even though it was her fault.

And now here was Mila, looking at her like there was some crucial piece of the story Jenna didn't know. The unease grew stronger, twisting in her stomach, and her voice came out softer, more fragile than before.

"Why does that matter?" she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge and a plea all at once.

Mila's expression shifted as she looked at Jenna, her features softening with a guilt so palpable it made Jenna's chest ache.

There was something about the way Mila's eyes rested on her—sad, full of hesitation and regret—that made Jenna feel small, like a little kid who had just been caught doing something wrong but didn't know what it was.

The weight of that gaze was unbearable, and Jenna found herself straightening in her seat, as if good posture could somehow shield her from the impact of whatever Mila was about to say.

Her heart hammered in her chest, the seconds stretching unbearably long as Mila opened her mouth, hesitated, and then sighed quietly.

"Jenna..." Mila said softly, her voice almost trembling. She paused, her eyes dropping to her hands for a moment before meeting Jenna's again.

The next words landed like a punch to the gut.

"Y/N has cancer."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, echoing in Jenna's mind as her entire body went still. For a second, it didn't even register—like Mila had spoken a foreign language Jenna couldn't translate. The room seemed to tilt, the muted background noise fading as all Jenna could hear was the faint ringing in her ears.

"What?" she breathed, her voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. The word felt foreign in her mouth, like it wasn't enough to encompass the sheer disbelief coursing through her veins.

Jenna's heart pounded so hard it drowned out every sound around her.

Cancer?

No. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Her head swam, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision or wake herself up from whatever cruel dream she'd stumbled into. Mila's words echoed over and over, growing louder with each repetition until they were almost unbearable.

There was no way. No way. You would've told her. You had to have told her, even though she broke up with you. Right? Jenna gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white as her thoughts spiraled. You wouldn't keep something like this from her. You couldn't.

The idea that you might have felt the need to tell Mila instead of her made her stomach churn. When had it happened? How long had you known? And why hadn't you come to her, at least for this? She couldn't stop the questions from flooding her mind, each one more agonizing than the last.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, nothing came out. Her voice felt lodged in her throat, trapped behind the whirlwind of disbelief. Finally, she forced the words, shaky and unsure, as if saying them out loud might make Mila realize how impossible they were.

"When did she tell you that?"

Mila's eyes flicked downward, and she bit her lip nervously, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The air between them thickened with unease, Mila seeming to grasp how heavy her revelation truly was. She exhaled sharply, as though trying to remember something she wasn't sure she wanted to recall.

"A week ago. Maybe two," Mila said finally, her voice quiet, tentative.

The answer made Jenna's breath hitch. A week ago? Two? She felt like the world tilted, like her chair was suddenly unsteady beneath her. She stared blankly at Mila, trying to process how you could've known—really known—and said nothing to her. Her mind flashed back to that awful night, the night she shattered everything, and she realized just how long it had been. Nearly three months. Three months without you. Three months of thinking the pain was one-sided.

And yet, you told Mila.

The betrayal mingled with guilt, forming a storm that twisted in her chest until it felt impossible to breathe. Why didn't you tell her? Why did you think she didn't deserve to know?

Her hands fell to her lap, trembling slightly as the adrenaline coursing through her body rendered the alcohol utterly meaningless. For the first time all night, she felt stone-cold sober.

"What type?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling from her lips before she even realized it. It felt necessary. Urgent. As if understanding the specifics might make it more manageable, something she could wrap her head around.

Mila hesitated, her discomfort evident as she glanced away and then back at Jenna. She looked almost apologetic, like a woman who'd accidentally unleashed a tidal wave and now couldn't stop it.

"She told me it was... something in the lungs," Mila said slowly, almost wincing at the words. She faltered, clearly unsure of how to phrase what little she knew. "And I don't really—when I asked her how serious it was, she didn't really say..."

Mila trailed off, reaching for her glass. She drank deeply, the motion unnervingly casual for such a serious conversation. It felt wrong, somehow—her nonchalance juxtaposed with the chaos unraveling in Jenna's chest.

"But it can't be that serious, right?" Mila added, her tone nervous but edging toward hopeful, as though willing Jenna to agree.

Jenna couldn't reply. Her throat burned, the words catching painfully on the realization that she didn't know anything. Nothing at all.

Her hands clenched into fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms as her mind raced. The possibilities were endless, and they all sounded worse with every second of silence. Lungs. Something in the lungs. A dozen horrific images flashed through her mind, each more unbearable than the last.

And you hadn't told her. Not about this. Not about anything.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking down to the table as a horrible, crushing helplessness settled over her. What was she supposed to do now?

Jenna's thoughts began racing, rewinding through every moment she could remember with you. Every interaction over the past few months played back like a fragmented reel in her mind, and she realized with growing dread that there were signs.

She'd noticed you'd lost weight—nothing drastic at first, just subtle changes. Your cheekbones had become more defined, and the jeans you loved wearing had started sitting looser on your hips. She remembered teasing you about it lightly, asking if you were trying out some trendy diet. You'd laughed it off, brushing her concern away, and she hadn't pressed.

And the cough. God, the cough. It had started as something minor, almost unnoticeable—a soft clearing of your throat here and there. But it stuck around. Over weeks, maybe longer, she'd noticed it lingering, deepening. There were times when it sounded almost painful, raspy, like you were struggling to catch your breath after a fit. She'd asked once or twice if you were okay, and you'd shrugged it off, blaming it on the weather or a cold you couldn't quite shake.

Now it felt obvious. Too obvious.

Had you known back then? Had those symptoms already been signs of something so much worse, and she'd completely missed it?

She remembered other things, too, things that felt insignificant in the moment but now came rushing back like flashing warning signs she'd ignored. You'd gotten tired more easily, saying you needed to lie down after errands that wouldn't have phased you before. Jenna had chalked it up to stress or exhaustion, something manageable. You'd stopped joining her for long hikes, claiming your legs felt "off," though you'd never been specific about it.

And then there was the bruise. A vivid purple mark on your arm that you couldn't remember getting. She'd joked about you being clumsy, and you'd laughed along, but she remembered how quickly the color had darkened, how long it had taken to fade.

Her stomach churned at the realization that all of it—every small, seemingly disconnected thing—might have been connected. How hadn't she seen it before?

She gripped the edge of her chair tightly, her knuckles white as her mind spiraled further. When had you known? Were you already aware back then? Were you coughing while lying in her bed, pretending everything was fine, knowing it wasn't? Had you looked at her across the breakfast table, silently carrying the weight of something she couldn't even begin to fathom?

Her chest tightened, her breaths quick and shallow as the guilt crashed over her like a wave. If you had known, if you'd been dealing with this alone, why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't she noticed?

Every moment she hadn't pushed harder, hadn't questioned further, now felt like a failure. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she hadn't. She'd let you brush it off, just like she let you slip away when she ended things.

The thought that you might have been carrying this secret—this unbearable burden—during those final months together made her feel sick. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable. Too wrapped up in her own emotions to see what had been happening right in front of her.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry, not here. Not now. She didn't deserve the release. All she could do was sit there, hands trembling, head spinning, replaying every moment that now screamed at her with a truth she hadn't wanted to see.

The guilt hit Jenna like a physical blow, a crushing weight that left her breathless. She had broken up with you. She had walked away from the one person she loved most in the world.

What if, in the moment she ended everything, claiming her work was too demanding, that she couldn't give you what you deserved, you had been silently carrying this? What if, while she was drowning in her own stress, you were drowning too—but in something far worse?

Her stomach twisted painfully, her chest hollowing out as the realization settled deeper. The words she'd said that night came rushing back to her. The look on your face, the way you'd nodded. She hadn't noticed it then, but there was something in your eyes—something heavy, resigned, like you weren't just letting her go but bracing yourself for something far bigger.

God, had you known? Had you sat there, holding that secret, letting her leave because you didn't want to make her stay out of pity? The thought made her stomach churn violently.

She pressed her palms against the table, needing something to ground her as her head spun. All those months.

Three months.

Ninety days she had spent convincing herself she was doing the right thing by focusing on her career, by staying away from you so you could move on. Ninety days where she'd justified her choice as selfless, when in reality, you had been the one suffering. Not her. Never her.

She broke up with you because she said she was "overwhelmed." That was the excuse she gave. She'd cried about deadlines, interviews, and sleepless nights while you—you—were fighting something that made all of that seem meaningless.

The shame was unbearable. It was suffocating. How could she have been so blind? So selfish?

The memory of your voice haunted her now, the way you'd tried to reassure her when she broke things off, even as you were clearly heartbroken. How had she missed it? The exhaustion in your tone, the fragility behind your words?

Her throat tightened, bile rising as she imagined what you must have felt—knowing you were sick, facing something unimaginable, and having the person you loved walk away from you. She had abandoned you. And for what? Because she claimed to be suffering from her workload? The idea made her want to scream.

Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair, gripping tightly, as if that could stop the onslaught of guilt. She'd made you feel like you weren't enough when the truth was, she wasn't enough. She hadn't been strong enough to stay, to notice, to see you.

She wanted to believe you hadn't known back then, that you hadn't been aware of the cancer when she left. But even if you didn't, it didn't matter. Because you'd faced this alone. And now? Now it felt like she'd been gone at the very moment you needed her most.

The rest of the night was nothing like Jenna or Mila had envisioned. What was supposed to be a casual girl's night out—a break from the chaos of work and life—had turned into something suffocating, something heavy. Neither of them knew how to recover from the bomb that had just been dropped.

Mila seemed to be trying, though. She fiddled with her glass, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, occasionally throwing out a lighthearted comment about the music or the drinks. But her voice was thinner now, her movements stiffer, as though she wasn't sure if it was okay to pretend everything was normal.

Jenna didn't even try. She nodded when Mila spoke and murmured vague responses, but her mind was elsewhere. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. She couldn't focus on anything Mila said; her words blurred together, meaningless and distant, like background noise.

She kept fidgeting—picking at her nails, twisting her rings, pushing her drink away only to pull it back closer. Her legs bounced under the table, her body humming with restless energy that had nowhere to go. Every time Mila glanced at her, guilt flashed across her face, but Jenna couldn't bring herself to reassure her. She couldn't bring herself to do anything except sit there and try not to scream.

Her mind raced. Over and over, she replayed what Mila had said: "Y/N has cancer." The words felt like a brand, seared into her skull, impossible to escape. She wanted to text you, to call you, to demand answers—but what would she even say? Did you know how much she wanted to see you right now? Did you even want to see her?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to come here tonight to tell Mila about the breakup, to maybe cry a little and then laugh it off over a second drink. Instead, all she wanted was to go home. To be anywhere but here.

Her phone sat heavy in her bag, and she had to physically stop herself from reaching for it every other minute. What would she even say if you picked up? Would you pick up? The thought of hearing your voice again both thrilled and terrified her.

She wanted to know everything. When did it start? What type? How bad was it? Were you okay? Were you scared? Did you hate her for leaving you? The questions screamed in her head, louder and louder, until her temples throbbed.

Mila broke the silence with a forced laugh, trying again to steer the conversation to something normal, but even she gave up halfway through her sentence. She took another long sip from her drink, her gaze darting around the bar, clearly uncomfortable.

"I think I should head home," Jenna blurted, her voice cracking slightly.

Mila's eyes widened, and she nodded quickly, almost relieved. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," Jenna said too quickly, shaking her head. "I just—I need to..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Mila didn't press her.

The walk out of the bar felt surreal. The music and chatter faded into a dull hum, her footsteps heavy against the floor. By the time she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, but it did nothing to clear her head.

Jenna's hands were shaking as she unlocked her car. She slid into the driver's seat, closed the door, and just sat there. The keys dangled uselessly in her hand as she stared blankly at the steering wheel. She didn't cry. She couldn't. All she could think about was you.

She needed to see you. To hear your voice. To know the truth. But she didn't know if she had the right to reach out—not after everything. So she just sat there, torn between guilt and longing, until the weight of it all became unbearable.

The house was dark when Jenna got home, the only light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. She hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, her coat and bag left discarded by the door. The quiet was almost oppressive, the kind that made her chest feel even tighter. She kicked off her shoes and made her way to the couch, collapsing onto it without even bothering to take off her scarf.

Her phone burned in her pocket, but she didn't take it out right away. She sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the coffee table. The familiar space, usually comforting, now felt foreign. Nothing felt normal anymore—not the cushions under her, not the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, not even her own breathing.

She pulled her phone out with trembling hands, unlocking it and staring at the blank call screen. Your number was still there, at the top of her recent contacts, even though she hadn't called you in months. Her thumb hovered over your name. She didn't know what she was even going to say. Was it true? Why didn't you tell me? Why did I have to find out like this?

The first time she called, it rang once before she hung up. Her heart was pounding too hard, her stomach twisted into knots. She tried again, this time letting it ring through.

No answer.

The third call was the same, and by the time the voicemail picked up, Jenna was biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. She dropped the phone onto the couch cushion beside her, leaning back and covering her face with her hands.

You didn't want to talk to her. That had to be it. Why else wouldn't you pick up? She couldn't blame you. Not after what she'd done. But the thought of you sitting there, seeing her name light up on your screen and choosing to ignore it, made her stomach churn with guilt and dread.

She picked up the phone again, her fingers trembling as she opened the messaging app. What could she even say? How could she even begin to ask the question clawing at her throat?

She typed and deleted the message three times before finally settling on the only words she could muster.

is it true?

Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. Then she hit send, tossing the phone onto the coffee table like it burned her.

The wait was excruciating. Every second stretched into eternity, her eyes glued to the screen even though no reply had come through. She didn't know what she'd do if you didn't answer.

But you did.

Her phone buzzed, and she snatched it up with both hands, her pulse thundering in her ears as she opened the message.

what are you talking about?

The words hit her like a wave of icy water. Jenna's stomach twisted, her heart lurching in her chest. Did you not know she knew? Or were you pretending not to know? Either way, the confirmation that she'd have to say more made her hands tremble even harder as she tried to think of how to respond.

Jenna stared at your reply, her mind spinning. What are you talking about? It was almost cruel how normal the words looked on the screen, like they hadn't just completely uprooted everything she thought she knew. Like they didn't force her to put her fears into words that she didn't even know how to face herself.

She started typing, then deleted it, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the keyboard. She couldn't write it. Writing it would make it real, and Jenna didn't know if she could handle that. The word alone carried too much weight, a weight she never imagined she'd have to face—not for you, not for anyone, and certainly not like this.

Her jaw clenched as she tried again, typing out the letters slowly, deliberately, as if each one could shatter the phone in her hands.

cancer

That was it. That was all she wrote because if it were true—if you really had cancer—you'd understand what she meant. She pressed send before she could overthink it, then stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest so hard she thought she might pass out.

The reply came quicker than she expected, but it didn't make it any easier.

yes

Jenna's stomach dropped as the world seemed to tilt around her. The room felt like it was spinning, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, but for a moment, she couldn't even think. Then, another reply came through.

i'm sorry.

Her chest ached at those words. Sorry? Sorry for what? For being sick? For not telling her? For everything? Her fingers shook as she typed back, her mind racing with a thousand questions, none of which felt like they'd ever be enough.

why didn't you tell me?

The reply didn't come as quickly this time. Each passing second was agonizing, the silence feeling louder than it had any right to be. Jenna stared at her phone, her breathing shallow, her thoughts spiraling.

i was going to. but you made it clear we were done.

i didnt know how

Jenna dropped the phone onto her lap, her hands shaking so hard she couldn't hold it anymore. The words were a slap in the face, brutal in their honesty, and she couldn't even argue against them. You were right. She had been the one to leave. She had been the one to shut the door on you, and now you were sick—seriously sick—and she hadn't even known.

She picked up the phone again, staring at the screen as if it could somehow give her the answers she didn't have.

im so sorry, she typed, her thumbs trembling as she hit send. It was all she could think to say, but it felt hollow, inadequate.

The reply came a moment later.

me too.

Jenna stared at your last message, the words sinking deep into her chest like a weight she couldn't shift. Her heart pounded as her fingers hovered over the screen, uncertain, scared, and desperate all at once. She needed to know more—she had to know more.

She typed quickly, her breath catching in her throat.

where are you?

The reply came a moment later, and Jenna's stomach dropped as she read it.

at the hospital

The hospital? Jenna blinked at the screen, rereading the words as panic gripped her chest. Hospital. Why? Was it that serious? It couldn't be that serious, right? But why else would you be there? Her mind spun, racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.

She gripped her phone tighter, her pulse roaring in her ears. Why hadn't you told her? Why hadn't you called or messaged her before it got to this point? And then it hit her—of course, you hadn't told her. She'd left you. She'd broken up with you and walked away.

Her head fell into her hand as guilt crashed over her again, harder this time. She had shut the door on you, and now you were in the hospital. Alone. How long had you been there? Days? Weeks? The thought made her feel sick.

Jenna's fingers shook as she typed, her desperation clear in every movement. She started the message and deleted it three times before finally forcing herself to just write the truth.

can i come see you? i really want to see you.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a moment, her chest tightening. Was it too much? Too sudden? She wasn't sure if you'd even want to see her, but she couldn't stop herself from asking. She pressed send and let the phone fall to her lap, her heart racing as she stared at it, waiting for a reply that felt like it might never come.

Jenna's phone buzzed with your reply, and her stomach flipped as she read it.

visiting hours ended like 25 minutes ago.

She exhaled shakily, the weight of the evening pressing down harder. Of course, they had. She should've guessed, but that didn't stop the frustration and helplessness from clawing at her. She needed to see you. She couldn't wait another day knowing you were there, in the hospital, without her.

Her fingers flew across the screen, her desperation evident in the hasty, unpolished message.

can i come tomorrow?

ill come first thing in the morning

The response didn't come right away, and Jenna stared at her phone, her chest tightening. The seconds dragged, each one stretching endlessly. Finally, her screen lit up again.

if you want

they open at 8.

The simple reply stung more than she expected. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was neutral, distant—so unlike how things used to be between you. She hated that, hated how far apart you'd grown. And it was all her fault.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed again.

how are you?

The message felt inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say. She needed to know, even if she was terrified of the answer.

Your reply came quickly, short and to the point.

been better

Jenna's breath hitched, the two words slicing through her like a blade. She stared at the screen, her thoughts a jumble of guilt, worry, and overwhelming sadness. She wanted to ask more, to press for details, but her body was betraying her.

The alcohol, which had burned through her emotions like fuel all evening, was now taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavier, her body sinking deeper into the couch. She typed out a half-formed message, her fingers sluggish and uncoordinated.

i really

The phone slipped from her hand as sleep overtook her, her mind still spinning with thoughts of you, the weight of everything crushing her even as unconsciousness claimed her.

The room was dark, quiet except for the soft hum of her breathing, but the tension in her face remained, even in sleep.

___

The next morning came far too quickly, the harsh light seeping through Jenna's curtains and forcing her awake. Her head throbbed with a relentless ache, and her mouth was dry, but none of it mattered. Her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with her hangover as the events of last night flooded back into her mind.

She didn't linger in bed. She couldn't. The longer she stayed still, the more the anxiety clawed at her chest. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she winced as the cold floor met her bare feet. She fumbled for the ibuprofen bottle on her nightstand, nearly knocking it over before popping two into her mouth and washing them down with a long gulp of water. The relief wouldn't come fast enough.

Jenna moved through her morning routine like a ghost. She grabbed a piece of toast but barely took two bites before tossing it aside. Her jeans were pulled on hastily, paired with a wrinkled hoodie she found draped over the chair in her room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused, her reflection startling. Her hair was disheveled, her face pale and drawn. For a moment, she thought about fixing it, but the thought of wasting another minute when you were waiting...

Her hands shook as she pulled on her sneakers. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with a million thoughts, none of them coherent. All she knew was that she needed to see you. She needed answers, reassurance—proof that this was all a misunderstanding. You had to be okay.

The drive to the hospital was torturous. Every stoplight seemed longer than usual, every slow car ahead of her made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Her knuckles turned white as she stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched. She barely noticed the December chill in the air, her focus so singular it made the world blur around her.

When Jenna finally walked through the hospital doors, the sterile smell hit her immediately, sharp and unnerving. Her sneakers squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried to the reception desk. An older woman sat there, her glasses perched low on her nose, typing away on her keyboard. Her kind, weathered face didn't ease the tightness in Jenna's chest.

"I'm here to see Y/N Y/L/N," Jenna blurted, her voice tight and trembling. She leaned forward on the counter, her eyes wide and desperate.

The receptionist nodded, her fingers moving across the keyboard. Jenna watched every movement as if it held the answer to everything. She clutched her phone in her hand, her nails pressing into her palm. The seconds dragged, each one heavier than the last.

Then the woman's expression shifted. Her typing stopped, and she looked up at Jenna. The pity in her eyes made Jenna's stomach drop.

"Oh, honey..." The woman's voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid Jenna would shatter if she spoke too loud. "I'm so sorry. She passed earlier this morning. Around four o'clock.”

Jenna blinked, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't understand the words at first; they didn't make sense. Passed? Passed where? The realization hit her all at once, sharp and suffocating.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked, and she could feel the tears rising. "No, you're wrong. I-I talked to her last night. She was fine. She was—"

The receptionist leaned forward slightly, her voice softer now. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. It happened very suddenly."

"No," Jenna said again, louder this time, though it came out more like a plea. Her legs felt weak, and her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes. She clutched the counter, trying to keep herself steady, but nothing felt solid anymore.

Her mind raced, flashes of you from the last time she saw you, the sound of your voice from last night, the messages—everything crashing into her all at once. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be waiting for her.

Jenna's knees nearly buckled, but she caught herself, stumbling back a step. She felt like she was falling, like the entire world was falling. You were gone. Gone before she could tell you how sorry she was. Before she could apologize for everything, for breaking up with you, for not seeing the signs, for not being there when you needed her the most.

She wanted to scream, cry, do anything to release the suffocating weight in her chest, but she couldn't move. Her tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting, as the receptionist gently asked if she needed someone to call. But Jenna barely heard her.

You were gone. You were really gone. And it was too late. Too late for all the things she wanted to say, all the things she should have said.

[sscieloz]

Tell me why

Minatozaki Sana x member!reader

Synopsis: The hate, the pressure, the shows... doing it all while recovering has been getting to you. Yet, you can't seem to rely on your sisters like you used to.

Warnings: reader is recovering from an od episode. mentions of drinking. angst? it sure is something. tw: overd0se, recovery.

Word count: 1.7k

Notes: -

Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 | Pt.5 | Pt.6 | Pt.7

—

“Unnie?” Sana turns and finds you looking at her rather hesitantly, making her heart hurt. You haven’t been talking to each other as much these days… She’s been busy with the crazy routines of the tour and her debut, and just living overall, and you guys were a part of a big group, so it wasn’t odd that you two hadn’t been as close as before. She misses you, though. You’re the maknae, the girls’ little sister. You’re wearing a green dress for today’s event, one Sana knows it’s your favorite. Your hair has been straightened and is falling up to your hips, with big earrings flowing beautifully with your soft makeup and equally enchanting doll eyes. With a traditional green converse on, you look flawless. Yet, you have the resemblance Sana has seen many times before, lips quivering ever so slightly and your gaze never resting on something for more than a few seconds— one of your signs of showing when something’s wrong. “Hi darling. What happened?” Sana asks, tugging your arm and gently scanning you to check on any possible injuries; nothing’s noticeable, though. But again, the main problem has never been your outside.

You look at both sides before taking a step closer, not eyeing her as you speak. With both of you close like this, your height difference is noticeable, as is your attitude. The older, shorter one with assurance and confidence while the tallest, lithe girl stands quietly besides her, shrinking like she wanted to disappear. “I… I don’t feel so good. Perhaps I’ll leave? You can all handle it without me, sure.” Sana knows it’s against the rules to leave you alone, she really does. But you’re her baby sister, and you’ve promised to do no harm to yourself anymore. Your eyes are tired, and you tremble, clinging softly onto her like you were silently saying please. However, the pictures will be taken shortly, and all the girls should be present— you included. The image of the group together— specially after the rumors regarding you, is essential. Image is everything. “Could you wait a bit more? We’ll get the pictures taken soon, then I’ll take you home.” Sana sees it as she gently asks you to stay, the hurt flashing into your eyes. You know she is still wary of leaving you alone, after that night, not trusting you completely. So, you take a step back, nodding delicately. Before Sana can say anything else, someone taps her shoulder. “Sana unnie! I was looking everywhere for you. Where have you been? Come on, the fashion show about to start. I saved you a seat.” It’s Miyeon, smiling at Sana while exhaling in relief. When the older woman looks behind again, you’re gone. She lets her shoulders fall as she allows Miyeon to guide her to their seats, wishing she wasn’t such a failure. What happened to you? You used to be so close, with her taking care of you ever since you’ve first set your foot at JYP— guiding and comforting you whenever things were tough. That was gone long before the… incident, though. Now, you barely see each other, even though you were constantly near because of the tour. Sana misses you. Your sweet smile, your passionate conversations about stuff you both liked, the way you always used to ask to get her makeup done, refusing anyone’s help but hers. All gone now. Sana was such a failure.

— The pictures, both of the group and individuals, will be taken soon, Sana knows it as she observes the sudden movement in front of the fancy stand. She sees the girls not far from her; Jihyo talking to Dahyun on her left, while Momo sits with Mina on her right. Jeongyeon will be here shortly, as she went to greet a friend just before the show ended, and the rest of the girls were near enough that she could see what they were doing, too. You were the only one who was nowhere to be seen. Whose thoughts can be impulsive and too dangerous to be left unsupervised. If you fuck up the photoshoot, your management will be furious, and you’ll be in even more trouble. So, Sana excuses herself from the rest of her bandmates and scans the darkest spots she can observe, walking fast to waste no time. The woman’s phone buzzes brightly, with her leader’s name displayed on the screen. Is Yn with you yet? We’ll take the group pics soon, but I can’t see her.

No signs of her. She can’t be too far, though. It’s not like it’s a massive place anyway.

Want me to go looking for her, too?

I don’t think it’s best; it might overwhelm her.

Wait, I think I’ve seen her, actually. We’ll be back soon.

Text me if you need any extra help, ok?

“Aren’t you coming, Sana? the girls are all together, over there.” She hears her friend, Somi ask as she passes by and sees her worried face, frowning. “I still have to find Y/n. Have you seen her after the fashion show started?” Somi has mischief on her face and giggles a bit before answering. “Yeah, haven’t you? Like always, she was with that shithead as her escort. I seriously don’t know how he does her so good, he’s an asshole. Everybody knows it”. Wait, who was she talking about? You weren’t hooking up with anybody, Sana’s sure of it. She would have noticed it, of course. Right? Or at least heard something about it. Her mouth moved before she could, suddenly forgetting of her shortage of time. “With whom?” Somi opened her eyes as her hand met her mouth, suddenly turning and walking away quickly. Sana managed to hear her mumbling incoherent stuff, but decided to let her go. She’d handle it later, definitely. You owed her some questions. Urgent questions. “Fucker.” Sana cursed, walking in a different direction, hoping to find you soon. — Precious minutes went by and nothing, still.

She could feel her phone vibrating with people demanding her presence at the photoshoot, but she refused to come back without her maknae. It had to be the whole group, or it wouldn’t be the same, even if you were hiding from God knows what. Sana decided to go to the bathroom to wash her face for a bit, since it was ridiculously hot inside the event. Then, she noticed green converse shoes on a cabinet, as if someone was sitting on the ground. Someone wearing a green dress. Ok. “Yn? Is everything okay?” She asked softly, hurrying closer with light steps. An alarm rang in her head and she immediately started breathing fast, thinking of a hundred scenarios. The last time things were similar to this, the ending was not… ideal. The dor opened and revealed you, sitting weakly on the side of the toilet seat, which would be disgusting if you weren’t so pale, your hands shaking much more now and your forehead drenched with sweat. Sana immediately knelt in front of you, noticing your fever. “I didn’t mean to, unnie, I really didn’t. It was just…” Wet tears were running down her baby sister’s sweet face; making her feel like shit. She’d known it. You asked for fucking help, and she ignored it. Setting her heart aside, she gestured for you to take deep breaths, touching your hair affectionately. “It’s okay, darling, it’s okay. Did you take anything? Did you…” She couldn’t say it, still. Thankfully, you got the message and shook your head, making her a tiny bit less worried. She let out a relived sigh. At least you didn’t succumb again. “I ate some chocolate sweets they were having. It was just a bite of one, and they seemed… so good. I thought if I just had a little bite, it’d…. I’d feel better.” Your voice was weak, too, and you let out a dry laugh. “Obviously, it wasn’t the case. My body’s still not ready, I know. I’ll respect my time of recovering. It just, sucks, you know?” You don’t let Sana answer, looking at the ceiling. This time, your voice’s bitter. “What am I saying; of course you don’t. You know nothing of being less than perfect.”

Once again, Sana stopped to focus on her baby maknae. Sana believed her when you had told them the attempt was an accident. She truly did. Not only that, but she also knew of how you were doing everything you could to prove to everyone you were better and recovered. Going to therapy, exercising, eating healthier, being extra patient… almost seeming good, despite people treating you like crystal glass. Because of that, Sana didn’t really wonder about how you still had to be careful about things that were normal to the rest of them. Seeing you crying and being vulnerable like this made her hate herself even more.

“I’m sorry, darling.” It was all she could offer, pulling you for a hug. She was surprised to have you clinging onto her as you burst out crying, like you did as a trainee, after being yelled at by one of your stupid mentors, who were always so hard on you. It felt like millions of knives were entering her heart, and she wished so fucking much that you didn’t have to feel that pain. Wished it was hers instead.

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” She murmured, rocking you back and forth to keep you from shaking. After what seemed like minutes, you did. Then, you dried your tears and looked at her with a faint smile and a long sigh. “I’m sorry for that, unnie. Did the photoshoot happen already?“

Still confused, Sana answered quickly, observing the youngest get up and fix her dress, going to the sink to wash her mouth and hands.

“Huh… no. They’re waiting for us. We’re just a bit late.“ “Perfect. Let’s go?” You went to the door without looking back, and all Sana could do was follow your lead. And blame herself for being such a failure to you.

[fawniified]

this looks too much like rina😭 i’m unwell

[yuki3000-deactivated20240202]

HELPPPP THATS ACTUALLY JIMIN WHAT

[bytemee]

SECOND NATURE 2 — kim minjeong.

synopsis. teasing winter is second nature, sometimes it’s not even intentional.

pairing. winter x added!member!reader

warning(s). fluffy, r is still a big tease tease, possessive winter again!, and let me know if there's more!

words. 1.6k

authors note. i tried to cook, i think i burnt the food

navigation. main masterlist. request. part one.

it’s supposed to be a casual day out, but with you and winter walking through a busy shopping district, it doesn’t take long before fans start gathering. some approach cautiously, others excitedly call your names, and soon, there’s a small crowd forming.

you’re used to it by now, stopping to take quick photos and sign things while winter stands nearby, hands in her pockets, watching you interact.

a fan steps forward, grinning as they hold out a photocard.

you reach for it automatically, but when you see who’s on the card, you pause.

it’s a photocard of winter.

without thinking, you smile, flip it over between your fingers, and—right in front of winter—slip it into your jacket pocket. “oh, nice. thank you!”

winter’s head snaps up instantly.

the fan laughs, covering their mouth before showing you the marker. “y/n, you’re supposed to sign it!”

you glance at winter, your smile widening when you catch the slight furrow in her brow.

“ohhh, you wanted me to sign it?” you take it out of your pocket, brushing nonexistent dust off of it. “my bad, i thought it was a gift.”

winter scoffs under her breath, muttering, “like you don’t already have one of mine.”

you hear it. and so do the fans, judging by the giggles and whispers of “wait, y/n has a winter photocard?” floating through the crowd.

you grin at her, fully enjoying how she’s starting to look a little flustered. “what can i say? i’m a collector.”

winter rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the small, amused smile tugging at her lips.

you finally sign the photocard, handing it back to the fan, who practically bounces with excitement. “thank you! winter, can i get yours too?”

winter obliges, but not before side-eyeing you as she scribbles her signature. when she hands it back, she mumbles just loud enough for you to hear, “i should start taking your photocards too.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you already have them?”

her ears turn pink, and she looks away quickly. “shut up.”

you and winter are sitting next to each other at the fansign event, casually signing albums when a fan asks, "if you had to marry one member of aespa, who would it be?”

it doesn’t surprise you; it's a question the four of you are often asked. you hum in thought, pretending to consider your options as you glance around the table before settling on winter. you grin at her, watching the way she rolls her eyes and shakes her head in exasperation.

“well, that’s easy,” you say smoothly, leaning back in your chair. “i’d marry minjeong.”

you catch winter's sharp inhale and the way she bites her lip to hide a smile. it's a tell-tale sign that she's pleased by your answer. but you know winter too well not to notice the subtle way she shifts in her seat, or the way her gaze lingers on you longer than necessary, or how her expression turns soft when she thinks you aren't looking.

the other members immediately whip their heads toward you.

karina raises an eyebrow. “oh?”

winter clears her throat, trying to act nonchalant. but you know she's secretly glad you picked her. you turn to her, shrugging like it’s nothing. “you’re the perfect choice.”

winter blinks rapidly. “why—”

you start listing on your fingers. “you’re cute, responsible, a great cook—”

giselle laughs at the redness rising to winter's cheeks. she elbows her. "you're blushing!"

"i'm not!" winter retorts, trying to hide her face behind her hand. ningning tries to remove them, but it’s no use.

you nod along, grinning. "you already take care of me anyway; might as well make it official.”

winter's gaze snaps to you, her cheeks still pink but a teasing smile on her lips. she leans in and smacks your arm. "y/n, you're so annoying."

then, to make it worse, you turn back to the fan and seriously ask, “can you be the witness at our wedding?”

winter refuses to sit next to you at the next fansign.

your solo stage comes first, and winter is watching—except she’s barely watching you.

instead, her gaze keeps shifting to your dance partner. the one who places their hand a little too comfortably on your waist during the choreo. the one who leans a little too close.

winter’s arms cross tighter each time. she refuses to let herself react, but it’s impossible to ignore the way her jaw clenches when your partner’s fingers trail along your arm.

by the time her turn comes in the next show, she makes sure to fix the situation.

you’re her partner this time. and she makes sure to dance closer than ever.

there’s no space between you. the choreo never called for it, but she wraps her arms around you a little tighter, her grip a little firmer. she doesn’t take her eyes off you once.

you try your hardest not to laugh or smile during the performance, but it gets difficult with winter pressing against you so much that it feels like you can hardly breathe. you catch her staring at you, and she has the audacity to smirk.

when the song ends and the two of you have to bow, winter does it a little too quickly, her hand finding yours and squeezing. she lets go just as fast, but you quickly pull her back, lacing your fingers together and keeping her close. she glances at you in surprise, and you can see the light blush on her cheeks, but you only grin and squeeze her hand reassuringly.

you’re at the dorms, reaching up to put something on the highest shelf in the kitchen when she walks in.

she pauses. you see her glance at the item before slowly looking at you.

“y/n.”

“hm?” you don’t stop what you’re doing, too focused on stretching as far as you can to reach the shelf.

she glares. “bring that down.”

you tilt your head. “bring what down?”

she scoffs. then, she reaches past you to grab it herself.

except she can't reach it either. she stands on her toes, grunting as she tries to reach it, but it's obvious that it's beyond her reach. "need some help?" you ask, your tone too innocent.

her face flushes red, and she scowls. "i'm perfectly capable of getting it myself," she says firmly, her words coming out more like a warning than an actual statement.

she's so cute. but you know better than to say that, instead leaning in and whispering in her ear, "you're so short."

she snaps her head to you, ready to glare, but her eyes widen when she realizes how close you are. she freezes. "…get out of my ear!"

you laugh, stepping away. "how about i get that for you?"

winter huffs and looks away. "whatever."

you step behind her, and she stiffens when your arms reach around her and grab the item on the shelf. she's so warm. you lean forward, trying not to think about how good she smells. "here," you murmur, handing her the item.

she takes it, still not looking at you. but as soon as you step away, she grabs your sleeve. "hey!" she yells, and you turn around, surprised to find her face even redder than before.

she looks you straight in the eyes, her jaw clenched, and suddenly, you're worried you actually went too far. you open your mouth to apologize, but before you can get a word out, she speaks up again.

"thank you!"

the words come out rushed and high-pitched, and you stare at her in confusion. she still won't meet your eyes, but you can tell she's serious from the way her brow is furrowed.

your chest swells with affection, and you smile. "of course."

life in the dorms with winter was nothing short of a competitive nightmare.

you learned this the hard way when, after a long day, all you wanted to do was kick back on the couch and watch the soccer match you’d been waiting for.

except winter was already there, controller in hand, watching her own show like she owned the place.

you frowned. “move.”

“no.” she didn’t even glance at you, eyes still glued to the screen.

you crossed your arms. “i was literally about to watch the game.”

winter scoffed. “not my problem. i was here first.”

you sighed dramatically before stepping closer, towering over her. then, just because you knew it’d get to her, you reached over and grabbed the remote from her hand effortlessly.

“yah!” winter immediately jumped up, trying to snatch it back, but you held it high above your head.

she reached. she missed.

she reached again. still missed.

“wow,” you mused, grinning down at her. “so small.”

winter glared. “give it back, y/n.”

you waved the remote just out of her reach. “what was that? i can’t hear you from up here.”

she huffed, frustration growing by the second. then, before you could react, she grabbed onto your shirt and pulled—using her entire body weight to wrestle the remote out of your hand.

you yelped as you lost balance, nearly toppling over. “minjeong, what the hell—”

she used the moment to snatch the remote back and immediately ran to the other side of the couch, hugging it to her chest.

“i win,” she said smugly.

you narrowed your eyes at her. “this isn’t over.”

and it wasn't. not when you started kicking her off the couch every time she tried to watch her show, and definitely not when she retaliated by stealing your snacks.

in the end, you both ended up sitting on the floor in front of the couch, each too stubborn to let the other watch their show. and as you watched her get absorbed in whatever drama was playing, you couldn’t help but think:

the sight of winter happily watching her show is worth missing a game.

[yameoto]

Yameoto! Which one of the arcane girlies do you think has a girl dick, my money is on Caitlyn 🥴

girldick caitlyn who can’t control herself around you.

tw: dubcon, cnc.

caitlyn kiramman in that tightass enforcer uniform having to adjust her bulge every so often because it’s getting in the way. caitlyn kiramman having impeccable selfcontrol (as a kiramman should) but she can’t stop her dick from twitching when she sees you, literally doing nothing but yawning—arms stretching up and slipping a sliver of torso—and all of a sudden, she has to excuse herself and palm her cock calm, in the bathroom, eyes rolling backwards as she murmurs your name is hushed breaths.

you’re a liability. because there is a war burgeoning on the horizon, and yet everytime she sees you—her mind narrows into a tunnel, and her one, carnal desire is to sink herself hilt-deep into you. it’s more than debauched—it’s debased. decidedly distracting. caitlyn can’t afford to give in. to the craven, bestial want of hearing her balls slap against your skin as she plunges herself deep enough that her tip thrusts against the spongey slick sweetness of your g-spot as she has you a quivering mess underneath her as she pulls out just in time to paint your stomach with the creamy expanse of her cum—

god, she’s hardening just thinking about it. must you tease her like this? being your beautiful, insufferable, innocuous self?

she holds on. she does. until you’re sparring with caitlyn and you accidentally knee her in the groin and she gasps out loud, has to choke off a moan when her mind just blanks; and you end up pinned to the floor, her body lowered above you, the thick tent in her pants digging, prominent and inevitable. she’s trying. she really is. but she can feel the warmth of your core, right there, and her entire body is screaming for her to just give in. her arms tremble with the effort; and she’s trying really, really hard not to grind against you right now. but at some point she can’t help herself and for a brief moment you’re wondering why she’s not getting off of you and offering your hand for another round, until you realise it’s because she’s too busy rutting up against your knee with her cock pulsing out of her trousers, pushing insistently up against your crotch with desperate pants. her hands fumbling to unbuckle her belt and your mouth goes dry when her dick is suddenly hot and heavy and slapping against your stomach, spilling out an excessive amount of precum against your sweat-slicked skin. she rubs herself sloppily up against you, hands pinning you down as she noses greedily down your neck. “fuck, darling. you drive me crazy.” grunting, teeth pulling at your neck as she just grinds. could come just by the friction alone—but there’s no pride in that. so of course she’s tearing your pants down and pulling your panties aside. doesn’t even bother working you up with her fingers. your tight little cunt is already wet with want, and your eyes blow wide and she savours the pretty little gasp that rips raw from your throat when she drives herself into you with force— pants, in your ear, pressing your back flush against the mat as she thrusts, deep and wanton, your torso sticky with her fluids as she forces you down, with the crushing weight of her body.

she’s a kiramman. she’s the head of house kiramman. except, the only head she’s thinking is the head of her cock as she kisses the tears from your cheeks and rears back, moaning, guttural, as she slips free from your clenched pussy and snaps her hips when she cums on top of you. splattering against your torso, staining your clothes. can’t help herself when she plunges back in. “just one more time.” she hisses, a promise she will break about countless times in just the next hour, fingers pressing your thighs apart, cunt loosened by her rough fucking, lubricated with her own slick.

you make her lose all inhibitions.

[vamvogue]

𝑴𝑨𝑰𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻: 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑭 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑵𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻!

Coping hard after s2 with smut, so—You had long since quit painting, at least, the erotic images your pseudonym is known for. You were quite aware of the disappointment when you stopped publishing, electing to paint for yourself and yourself only in private, banning yourself from drawing that which is deemed unacceptable. For a while, you were sure you were done, until a Noxian warlord, wearing the proud yet horrifying name of "Medarda" distupted your time—near demanding for your artistic talents to be used for her pleasure. ; Otherwise known as—Arcane: Ambessa Medarda x Female Reader (Painter of the Night AU).

Summaries of the next chapter are only posted after the previous has come out, but warnings will be under the chapter name. The chapter names and specific kinks are being worked out, so all of them are not listed, however, I am aiming for 8-12 chapters depending on how much I write. Bolded and underlined tiles are ones that are finished!! While this follows the manwha, this is a parody and details will be changed. Regardless, for general warnings, beware of: Exhibitionism, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Intimidation, Lots of Sex (Hetero and Gay), Anal Sex, Sex toys, Eventual Consensual Primal play, and more BDSM elements.

I. 𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑺𝑬𝑼𝑫𝑶𝑵𝒀𝑴

You were simply enjoying your time alone at a tavern, when Ambessa Medarda struts up to your table with demands. ノ Kidnapping & Intimidation. ノ2k wc.

II. 𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑲𝒀 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳

Your first night at the Medarda household and she's already fucking someone in your presence. But painting that, its not what you wish to do. Or rather what you've been told not to do. ノ Exhibitionism, Lesbian Sex, & Manipulation. ノ 3.7k wc.

III. 𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬𝑺

Having taken something special to you, Ambessa sparked your motivation to finally complete one (against your principles). But, for some reason, you have to have the worst luck on Runeterra. ノ Exhibitionism, Threesome — F/F/M, Pegging, Sex Toy(s) — Strap, A Slap to the Face (Not in the Sexy Way), Degradation, & More May Be Added.

*Ch. 3 should be done by the end of the week!

IV. "𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑻."

ノ Exhibitionism, Lesbian Sex, Teasing, Softer!Ambessa, Masturbation, & More May Be Added.

V. 𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹

ノ Wet Dream + Mentioned Sex/Brief Scene, Drinking/Drunk!Reader, Non-consensual Touching & Kiss, Some Crying, Teasing, & More May Be Added.

More Chapters Loading...

I had to re-read the first 20 chapters of Painter of the Night to remember lmfao. Any information is subject to change, so be aware of that! Anywho, If you wish to be tagged for this little series go ahead and reply here, or tell me in my dms/inbox. :3