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sweetbbarnes · 11 months

Text

GODDESS

postTFATWS!BuckyBarnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re still trying to figure out how a healthy relationship works. Bucky is more than happy to show you.

Warnings: mentions of a past toxic relationship, reader is insecure, feelings (because it’s me), Bucky being the sweetest man possible (yes, he’s a warning), established healthy relationship, a tiny bit of possessive!Bucky (in a healthy way), SMUT, exhibitionism, fingering, talks about birth control, unprotected sex, cum kink (sort of), possessive sex (you have to squint), praise, p in v, let me know if I forgot something.

A/N: I was daydreaming about this yesterday and I just had to write, if you like it please let me know. Also I changed my username ‘cause I didn’t like the old one that much.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY STORIES TRANSLATED, COPIED OR POSTED TO ANY OTHER SITE/APP/ACCOUNT. DO NOT STEAL MY WORK.

You clutch your jacket tightly, your knuckles turning white as you secure the denim fabric around you — a nervous habit you've developed over time. You had intended to change before Bucky arrived, but he showed up earlier than expected, leaving you no time, so you just took the first jacked you saw and covered yourself. Insecurities flood your mind as you open the door for him. He gives you a tight hug that communicates how much he missed you, but instead of embracing him back, you just clutch your jacket harder. A shield, of sorts.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? Are you cold?" Bucky asks, concern etched on his face as he gently rubs your hips with his leather covered thumbs.

"I'm not sure about this dress," you admit, avoiding his gaze.

"Why? Don't you like how you look? Let me see it," he suggests, releasing his grip on you, giving you space to remove your jacket.

Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you summon the courage to reveal yourself. It’s a pretty dress, used to be one of your favorites, actually, but you retired it after it caused your ex to almost hit you for “wearing something so revealing”. Today, as you were searching for an outfit and found it hidden at the bottom of your wardrobe, you couldn’t help but choose it, as you felt an overwhelming sense of freedom after trying it on. Now, though, you’re not so sure anymore.

You feel the cold air touching your bare arms and brace yourself for the harsh words, echoes of your past relationship lingering inside your brain. But Bucky remains silent, intensifying your anxiety. It has only been a few months since you started dating the supersoldier, and while you've seen no signs of violence from him, you're still guarded, prepared if the moment comes. Bucky is a gentleman, but so was your ex at the beginning.

"I can change if you want," you quickly offer, seeking to appease any potential displeasure.

"Why would I want you to change?" Something in his voice prompts you to open your eyes. Rather than the disappointment you were expecting, there’s some kind of amazement and even lust as he looks at you up and down. Not a single trace of anger.

The gentleness of his question gives you enough courage to ask, “don’t you think I look like a slut?”

Bucky's eyes shoot up to meet yours, a little shocked, but upon noticing the fear in them his face softens with understanding, and he steps closer, enfolding you in his arms. “Darlin’, you look like a fucking Goddess.” He gently kisses your forehead. “Absolutely stunning.”

Bucky knows about your past relationship and the emotional scars it left behind. When he met you, you were a mess. He thought that an ex-assassin would be the last person you’d choose to date after everything, but apparently he did something right, and the moment you accepted him in your life he vowed to himself he’d do anything to show you what a genuine, nurturing love feels like.

"Are you sure? You're not... mad? I mean, that other men will look at me.” you ask hesitantly.

"Why would I be mad?" Bucky responds, his voice filled with sincerity. Despite the heartbreak upon seeing you so scared, he manages a tiny smirk. "They can look; only I get to touch."

You remain uncertain. Your previous boyfriend, when he was in a good mood, had also claimed not to care when you dressed like this — until another guy so much as glanced your way.

Sensing your hesitation, Bucky leads you to your bedroom, positioning you in front of the mirror and standing behind you. As you gaze at your reflection, he notices the sparkle in your eyes and the joy that emanates from within. You like how you look in the dress, and that realization instantly makes it Bucky's favorite.

His leather-clad hands gently trail along your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Do you feel beautiful?" he asks, admiring your form as much as you do.

You answer, blushing and avoiding his eyes, "Yes."

"And do you feel comfortable?" he inquires further.

You hesitate, your thoughts momentarily scattered. Then, you consider his words and the scenario he paints.

"I... Well..." you trail off, contemplating the tiny sparkle of confidence starting to bloom inside your chest.

"Forget about me for a moment. Imagine you're single, going out with your girlfriends. Do you feel comfortable then?" Bucky prompts.

You ponder his question, allowing yourself to envision the scenario. After a brief moment, you respond, "Yes, I do.”

Bucky raises his hand, cupping your cheek and tilting your head until your eyes meet in the mirror. A proud smile graces his lips.

"Then that's the outfit you're wearing tonight," he declares, his voice filled with certainty and adoration.

You smile timidly at him, not really sure how to deal with this… respect, coming from a boyfriend. His hand starts to travel down through your stomach.

“When the other dudes look at you, and they will…” Bucky lowers his mouth to the shell of your ear and whispers, “I’ll make sure to show them that you’re mine, alright?”

His words cut straight to your core, and you involuntarily press your ass against him, feeling his already hard length. You gasp. He whispers your name.

“Keep doing this and we’re not gonna leave this bedroom tonight.” He murmurs with a deep tone.

“Would it be so bad?” You fake pout, grinding against him again, on purpose this time.

“Well, I really want to show you off in that outfit, so…” He says, but can’t help himself from lowering his hands to the hem of your dress, leaving goosebumps along the way.

“Bucky…” You sigh when he starts giving lingering kisses along the curve of your neck and the bottom of your earlobe.

“But I suppose we have some time before our lateness becomes socially unacceptable, right?” He whispers, sneaking two fingers under the fabric, millimeters away from where you need his touch the most.

“How much?” You ask, watching as Bucky frees his flesh hand from the glove to let you know what’s about to happen.

“Enough,” he says, dragging one finger along your clothed cunt, and moaning at your drenched panties. “Already, baby?”

You only hum in response. He uses his other hand to pull down your panties and lightly tap on your hip, signaling you to step off of them. You obey. Returning his fingers to where they were before, he drags them along your lips, collecting your wetness, and starts the slow circles on your clit. Mustering that confidence Bucky just unburied from a locked place inside your brain, you cover his hand with yours and guide him to your entrance.

“No teasing,” you plead.

Bucky chuckles. “What a greedy woman you are.”

He circles your entrance for a few moments before slowly inserting two digits all the way up, your wet walls making it easy for him. You moan, relieved, and rest the back of your head on his shoulder.

“That enough to make you roll your eyes, darlin’?”

You try rolling your hips, but Bucky quickly encircles your waist with his metal arm, firming his grip so you remain still.

“Please, Bucky…”

“Oh, baby, you know I can’t resist when you beg,” he kisses and bites your shoulder, then curls his fingers inside of you, his knuckles rubbing on that delicious spot inside your hole as he presses his clothed cock against your ass again, “and look at this dress, see what you do to me?”

You feel a twitch in your stomach when Bucky starts stimulating your clit with his thumb, along with the in-and-out movement of his fingers.

“Open those beautiful eyes for me, would ya’?” He asks softly. “See how pretty you get when you beg like that.”

You silently thank the universe that he’s firmly holding you, because his words make your knees almost give in. Panting, you comply with his request, fixing your gaze in the spot where he’s fingering you under your dress. Just like everything else about you, he notices the direction of your eyes.

“You wanna see it, baby? Wanna watch while I fuck you with my fingers?” He asks carefully, amusement lacing his deep voice.

You whimper, imagining the sight, and nod frantically.

“Go ahead, dirty girl.” He encourages.

Satisfied with the permission, you lift one of your legs and place your foot at the bottom of your bed, granting you two full access to the view. You both watch Bucky’s motions in awe, the wetness that covers his fingers reflecting the dim light of the room, silent except for the squishy noises his fingers make as he fucks them into your pussy. The sight almost makes Bucky drop down to his knees to worship you like the Goddess he honestly thinks you are. Actually, if he didn’t know you’re only standing because of his arm around you, he’d probably do just that.

“Like what you see?” He whispers in your year.

You moan in approval, trying to move your hips, but Bucky’s grip is strong, and he smirks.

“Magic word?”

“Faster.” You demand suddenly.

That’s not quite the word Bucky was expecting, but he’s too stunned by your behavior to care. You two had sex before — as soon as you gave him indication that you wanted it, because how could he resist you? —, but it was always so… loving. I mean, Bucky really wants to show you how tender real love can be, but he’s absolutely relishing this newfound confident side of yours. Never had he imagined you could be so filthy, and he really wants to beat the shit out of your ex for making you think that you have to hide it. Also, as he had already imagined it would, your slight dominance leaves him at your mercy, and he moans as he pleases you, fastening his movements.

That familiar knot starts to build up in your belly, and you try hard not to roll your eyes, not wanting to miss a single moment of the view.

“Bucky…” you call, finding it harder and harder to breathe. “I’m gonna come.”

“Do it, baby. Let go for me.” He whispers next to your ear, satisfied to feel your tight walls clenching his fingers. “You’re such a good girl. So fucking beautiful in this dress.”

With the fog of pleasure taking over your brain as the words hit your ears, you moan loudly and let the overwhelming feeling consume you. Bucky can’t quite keep himself from grinding against your ass as you drench his fingers with your sweet nectar, whimpering while he fingers you all the way through your orgasm. He watches, grunting in pleasure, as you fight your eyelids from closing, until you can’t control yourself anymore, going limp into his arms and rolling your eyes with relief.

Coming down from the high, you look at him through the mirror, smiling sheepishly as you watch him raise the two fingers he just used to make you come and suck them hungrily, licking until there’s no trace of your orgasm anymore. Finding it hard to decide if he should compose himself and drag both your horny asses to the bar or toss you in bed and keep your legs spread open for him to eat out as he pleases until the morning lights, an idea pops into his head.

“You’re on birth control, right?” He asks. He never fucked you bare before, so he never had to ask, but, well… There's a first time for everything, right?

“I am, why?” You ask, still a little dizzy.

He smirks, then gets you by the waist and tosses you in bed unceremoniously, making you gasp in surprise and then giggle.

“Bucky, we have to go.” You remind him, but give no indication that you’ll get up.

You watch as your boyfriend determinedly undresses himself, unashamedly staring at his built up body. The muscles from his abdomen tightens as he bends down to get rid of his jeans, and you lick your lips seeing his long length being freed, already hard with need.

“Sam’s got time. He can wait.” He answers, using his knees to spread your thighs apart as he positions himself right where he belongs: between them.

You make a motion to undress yourself, but when Bucky realizes what you’re doing, he stops you.

“Keep the dress.” He says, and you lay back.

You feel the coldness of Bucky’s dog tags touch the skin of your chest as he towers over you, using his metal hand to support himself and the flesh one to cup your cheek and caress it with his thumb. His expression turns into a soft one.

“When those guys out there look at you dressed like this…” he teases your over sensitive entrance with his tip, the sensation almost too overwhelming. Almost. “They’ll desire you, baby, and they’ll have no clue that you’re walking around with my cum dripping from this pretty pussy.”

With one swift motion, he enters you, unable to contain the pornographic moan that leaves his lips. You gasp in surprise, both from the lack of a condom and from the fact that Bucky never filled you up so abruptly like this. You’re not complaining, though, as you feel his bare skin stretching your soft walls.

“You like that, baby?” He asks when you raise your hands to his short hair and pull it. “Everyone will see you in this beautiful dress and they won’t even imagine that I just fucked the shit out of you in it.”

Bucky slowly – so slowly – takes his cock out of your hole, leaving just the tip, and sharply enters you again, earning an almost scream from your lips.

“Want them to know…” you manage to say hoarsely “Want them to know I’m yours.”

Your words hit Bucky in an instinctive place of his brain, awakening all those raw feelings of protection and possessiveness inside his subconscious, and he almost finishes then and there. He thrusts into you vigorously once again before answering.

“Oh, they will,” if you had the mind to pay attention, you'd notice his voice just got impossibly lower, “we’ll show them, alright? You and me.”

Bucky loses the ability to make coherent sentences as he feels your walls clenching around him, a sign that you’re already getting close again. Without hesitation, he fastens his movements, losing himself in the feeling of your soft interior.

His thrusts are harsh, but still caring in a way, since you know he’s not doing it to hurt you, but to please you. He kisses you passionately, holding your face and licking the inside of your mouth, because if he's being honest with himself, if you keep almost screaming his name like you were, he might as well not last as long as he needs to make you come again.

You wrap your legs around his waist, the new angle making you feel him even deeper inside your cunt, and he almost loses it when he feels you dragging your heels along his lower back.

With one hand, you scratch his back hard enough to feel his warm blood staining your fingers, growing desperate with the tight knot that’s once again forming inside you. Bucky kisses and bites and licks your neck, not giving a damn about the pain — enjoying it, even. Your other hand goes straight to your clit and you start treating yourself with just the right amount of pressure and speed. The action, of course, doesn’t go unnoticed by Bucky, and he grunts in approval.

The headboard slams into the wall as Bucky feels his movements start to become a little sloppy. “Gonna come.” He says, panting “Gonna come inside you, baby. Gonna make you all mine.”

A jolt of electricity travels down your spine, getting you closer and closer to the edge, and you buckle your hips up in excitement.

“Let go, Bucky.” You command, making him roll his eyes. “Fill me up, make me yours.”

“Need you to come first, darlin’. Need to feel you co- Ah” Bucky’s request is interrupted by the loud moan you let out when you finally snap, no longer able to control your second orgasm of the day. He follows you not a long time after, as you can feel his hot seed painting your walls white, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder.

You don’t even have a chance to catch your breath when you feel his thick fingers once again entering your overstimulated pussy. You whimper, holding his wrist.

“Just a little bit, sweetheart,” he coos, “gotta make sure it stays inside.”

You whimper again, but let him do his thing, hearing the squishy noises his fingers make as they shove every drop of his seed all the way up before it slips away. Then he proceeds to get up, put on his clothes and retrieve your panties from the floor.

“Can you lift your legs for me, doll?” He asks, and you obey. “That’s my good girl.”

Bucky slides the piece of lingerie up your legs, until they’re back to their place — securing his cum inside of you — and helps you get up, holding your hips until he’s sure you can still walk.

Just as you were going to comment on the plans you two have, you hear Bucky’s phone ringing from his pocket.

“Hi, Sam.” He answers, staring at you. “We’re on our way. We had a little bit of a… situation.” A playful smirk adorns his lips as he says that. “No, I didn’t make her up, Sam. She’s real, we’re just a little late.”

You chuckle. When Bucky invited you to meet his friend — Bucky calls him a colleague, but you can see by the look on his eyes that he cares about him like a dear friend — Sam Wilson (yes, the Captain America), he warned you Sam would probably question if you’re real, since he can’t believe the “bionic staring machine” could be so charming as to find a girl for himself.

Said staring machine hangs up the phone and gives you a peck on the lips.

“Ready?”

He guides you to the door after you secure him you can walk by yourself, opening it for you like the gentleman he is. However, before you can get out, he stops you.

You look at him questioningly.

“Everyone will know that you’re mine,” he reassures, “and if you behave…” he lowers his head until you can feel his warm breath against the skin of your ear, “when we get back, I’ll make sure to worship you like the fucking Goddess you are.”

masterlist

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky fic #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky x reader smut #marvel x reader #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfic

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msafterhours · 30 days

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Saccharine | Act One

Male Reader x (G)I-DLE Yuqi

Act 1 (~14.5k words) [Act 2] [Act 3]

Song Yuqi (sôNG yo͞o·kē)

media darling.

an unforgettable dream, stealing fan’s hearts with silky smooth singing and sugary sweet smiles.

an idol’s ideal, image unblemished by a single hint, word, or leak implying otherwise.

absolutely spotless.

nothing messy, nothing toxic, nothing wrong with her in the slightest—

What a load of shit.

They say truth is stranger than fiction, but no story from either source could have prepared you for the things you’ve seen over your few months in this industry. Most who put pen to paper from an early age don’t dream of writing news updates, opinion pieces, or reviews for a K-Pop news site, but you’re not the type to pass up any half-decent opportunity. You’ve learned from your father, who brought this family here before you could read in pursuit of a better life than he could find in the U.S. Thus, when a family friend started up this new business and offered you a job despite your lack of experience, the thought of turning it down never even crossed your mind.

You know full well the life you’ve chosen to enter, with the lies and cover-ups and entire careers that get ruined because they didn’t smile at the right sleazy fuck. You’ve adapted fast, steeling your heart and refusing to let it bother you; after all, rules are allegedly meant to be followed. Thus, you’re happy to play their game, so long as it means you’re learning about the lone aspect that captivates you: the power of leverage. You've heard how one call from an executive can change someone’s life or how the demands of fans manifest change, but it's another thing entirely to see the human reactions behind every ripple in this pond. While you'd love to have the best seats in the house to observe from, you’re well aware of what rung you’re on—painfully aware of how low that rung sits. And as much as you’d love to catch a flight to the top, the skies remain clear. You’ll just have to grit your teeth and climb.

As you work, beginning your ascent, you hear stories. Gossip, whispers in passing, those sorts of things—things that provide context and give you power over someone. You’re constantly attuned to them, writing them down and using your contraband knowledge as bargaining power when securing opportunities. A more honest you might view your methods as underhanded, but this you knows that they’re effective. So, you keep your ears perked and remain vigilant.

Things change when you start hearing the rumors about her: some pre-debut idol who’s too small in stature and reputation to talk the way she does but too egotistical and narcissistic to act otherwise. At first glance, they’re anything but surprising and, more damningly, they’re far from fascinating, so why sidetrack yourself by investigating them? Especially since you know that in this industry, the path to the top is paved by the broken hearts of good people and tread by those willing to crush them under heel.

Then another wave of whispers reaches your ears—this second ripple even passing through some circles of importance—so you do what you do best. You start some conversations, get your contacts laughing before asking them questions—the types they won't even remember answering. Ultimately, it’s a win-win; they get to hear the sound of their own voice and you get the information you need; information that you’re more than happy to save for a rainy day.

It’s not long before you make a promise you don’t intend to keep and secure a favor from one of those contacts. You’re eager to cash in, securing an interview with one of their clients in mainland China and starting off the new year right. With an opportunity like this, you’d be a fool not to go, rumors or otherwise. That being said, there’s no reason you can’t keep an ear to the ground; a trip like this can have more than one purpose. Maybe you’ll even find a sliver of that truth people claim to tell.

The flight’s fine, the weather’s bad, and the place you’re staying is even worse, but hey, at least the food’s bearable. The night's young, so are you, and so is your career. There'll be plenty of time for penthouse hot tub parties later. For now, as the storm outside your window creates a percussive backdrop to your nightly preparations, you settle down early. You allow the night to overtake you well before your usual late hour, hoping that a rested mind will serve you well as you grab your metaphorical pickaxe and head into a potential gold mine of information tomorrow.

You dream not of the moisture outside, but of a complete lack thereof. Your dreams enthrall you with heat, flames, and intoxicating agony. With every step forward, you feel the blaze consume more of your essence, but the ecstasy that fills the void drives you ever onward. You're eager to relish the pain, letting it fuel you just as much as the pleasure as you force yourself closer. You nearly make it to the center of the inferno—getting maddeningly close to witnessing its heart—but your screams of frustration break off as your vision burns away, leaving you staring instead at the first hints of sunrise filtering into your shoddy hotel room.

Once you finish capping off this unique experience with a final, frustrated scream, you ready yourself, allowing your morning to pass by in a blink before you arrive at the talent agency. You imitate a warm smile flawlessly, tapping into some of the residual heat within as you carry a friendly conversation with the receptionist while she confirms your interview appointment.

After a quick, silent elevator ride spent rehearsing the questions you’d prepared, the bell chimes and doors part to reveal your destination. As always, you’re early to being early, allowing plenty of time to chat with the makeup artist and peruse her memories for potential ammunition. You place an attentive nod amidst one of her stories, gently touch her arm as you pretend her joke is hilarious, and allow your gleaming smile to keep the conversation lively as you perform the unspoken, crucial responsibilities your job demands of you. While her tales of past encounters barely satiate your desires, her reaction to the sudden outburst in the next room over is another gift entirely.

You can see it in how her shoulders suddenly slump, how her eyes roll with a practiced grace, and how the sigh escapes unprompted. She deflates, and you immediately ascertain that this is far from the first occurrence of its kind. She meets your gaze, and you understand that it won’t be the last. You’ve seen no face nor heard a name, but you know. It’s her.

The malice dripping off her words is matched only by the malevolence in the deep tone of her voice as it quickly grows in both pitch and volume. Her tirade berates not only the hapless victim trapped in the room with her, but also the irreparably damaged ears of every bystander in the vicinity. Even for you, someone seemingly numb to the ever-present abuse within the industry, time slows to a crawl as her verbal onslaught continues for a minute, then three, then ten.

All the while, you know full well your companion is on the verge of exploding with anticipation, wordlessly begging for you to ask what’s going on. So, when a malnourished conscience or guardian angel or maybe just a need for oxygen leads to silence, you oblige. No reason that your pursuits can’t be mutually beneficial. You wrap your words in sympathy as you whisper, wide-eyed and horrified, “Who is she?”

And as the floodgates open and the stylist tells you of the monster known as Song Yuqi, for the first time in a long time, you have to fight to keep the smile off your face rather than having to maintain the joyful facade. But that struggle quickly fades as your moment of wonderful discovery is replaced by genuine, sympathetic horror. Because she isn’t as bad as the rumors or this latest eruption made her out to be. She’s somehow worse.

And it’s not the verbal outbursts nor the sense of entitlement that makes your lip curl. No, it’s the facade she wears so well when she walks on stage. It’s the soft smile shining brightest under the spotlight’s glow. It’s who she is in the dark—who she becomes when untethered from the ramifications of her actions. It’s the diametric opposition between fact and fiction. And the worst part is, her arrogant swagger is justified. You can do nothing about it.

Yet.

The makeup artist’s story ends—as all must—and the clock mercilessly demands that you fulfill your obligations. You bid your companion farewell, surprising yourself with a rare display of kindness as you write down her name and genuinely tell her you hope to see her again someday. The distance to your destination is short; the journey is long. Each step punctuates another sentence, another line amidst the vast chronicle of misdeeds you’re currently composing. Your hands ache with a storyteller’s strain, but you bite back your desires and let the flames simmer down. It’s time to be a professional.

Your interviews tend to go well, especially whenever you control the conversation and ask the type of questions fans pretend to hate but secretly love. But whether it’s something in the water or your mind still reeling from the day’s earlier revelations, you discard the typical formula and enter the room without an agenda in mind. A pair of introductions are made, you compliment her new hair color, and she thanks you for coming all this way to conduct the interview. It’s polite and sterile and quaint—just like all the other interviews she’s done. But when you pull a pair of chairs over to the glass wall and offer her a seat with a view of Beijing, that piques her interest. And once you both sit down and get comfortable, you pull out no notebook or laptop, instead beginning an audio recording on your phone, you heighten her curiosity even further. Finally, when you begin the interview by inviting her to ask any question about you, she’s completely captivated. And you’re just as riveted as you listen to her response.

If a normal interview is a highway—carefully planned and constructed to fulfill a particular purpose—today’s is a river, naturally forming and freely flowing towards its destination. While you’re able to ask her some questions about her time on Produce 101 and her recent re-debut, you also both stray from the intended topic repeatedly, sharing tangents and truths and things you’ll never get to include. All of it should irritate you, but you know full well you’re far too invested to care. You can see how she matches your focus, see it in the way she leans closer—in the way she laughs openly and freely, unafraid of displaying her enjoyment. She sees the same, sees it in the way you join her laughter just as easily and how you intently hold her gaze as you weave a dialogue together with her. For the first time in as long as you can remember, words with meaning are spoken.

The sands of time flow far too swiftly, denying you further opportunity as your time together nears its end. You watch, noting how her eyes fall slightly at the top of the hour; you listen, ears perking up at the honesty in her hopes that you’ll see each other again. You respond, mirroring her sentiment and bidding her a fond farewell; you exit, leaving the room and finding yourself alone with only a recording and your memories to keep you company.

You know—even before listening back to the recording and transcribing her tales—that it truly is something special, something truly memorable. And it terrifies you. Because here, alone in the silence, you feel. A sensation of impending ruination creeps up your spine and shadows you through every twist and turn of this concrete labyrinth.

The vulnerability in memorability. The expectations and ramifications. The thought of seeing her again. The thought of meeting her. It all circulates through your mind, suffocating any further notions as you carefully reconstruct each particular piece of your professional persona. As the elevator descends to your level, you ponder the potential significance of this day. There’s so much to parse through, yet you’re unable to draw even a single conclusion. Perhaps later, you think as you enter the elevator. For now, you have work to do.

-x-

One step. Another. A door. A shudder. The individual pulls their jacket tight against their body, then pushes the heavy glass door open and steps out into the unforgiving Beijing winter. The wind whips through their hair, mercilessly battering their features as they exit the lobby. Many steps are taken, progressing through the journey until a turn is made. Then, a pause. Another turn, back towards the building. Their eyes climb, methodically, one floor at a time, impossibly high until they reach the top. An instant later, they’re back at ground level. Inhaling takes only a moment. Exhaling takes millennia. Their perspective drops further, to the pavement below. Another gust buffets the figure, and a sense of self-preservation sends them begrudgingly back along their way. It’s time for them to pack their things and go. The plane to Korea awaits.

-x-

You've always laughed at the idea that nothing good happens after midnight. As a seasoned writer and chronic procrastinator, you’ve thrived under the pressure of a morning deadline. Yet here you are, months later, staring at a bright screen in a dark room hours before the sun will give life to this particular Friday, agonizing over the task that you’ve been given.

Six names sit on the page in front of you. All of them “should” matter. One of them does. A fresh group has entered the arena, and their debut is as clean as their name is ridiculous. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, each pixel darkening your screen further as you sing stanza after stanza of praises. But instead of thinking of chord progressions or vocal harmonies, your focus lies solely on silence. Not the one you find yourself in now, but the one after her tirade. The one that’s remained in your mind long after your interview had ended; the one that threatened to betray the pounding hearts of every potential victim in the vicinity.

Five sections are completed, each giving well-earned praise to a deserving individual and highlighting their participation in the finished product. But that's not where your eyes fall, where the blinking cursor awaits. No, the subject of your ire is the final section, where your notes contain a few perfectly legitimate reasons to commend her contributions. A superbly safe option … if you choose to take it. But truth be told, you don’t want to. Admittedly, it’s not for the sake of her victims; you’ve never been one willing to take risks for something as worthless as the wellbeing of others. Your mind just can’t seem to disentangle itself from the fact that mere months later, she’s shining under Korea’s brightest lights. Part of you knows that it’s more petty than principled, but you honestly can’t stand the harsh reality of her getting to play by a different rulebook. So, the cursor blinks on.

Four hours remain, and you remain completely unsure of what to do. You’re stuck grasping at straws, knowing what you’d like to say, but treasuring your personal journey far too much to allow something as trivial as the truth to derail it all. You rack your mind, desperately attempting to find a compromise. Eventually, you wonder if perhaps a statement through omission rather than an overt declaration is the correct approach. It’s a risky idea, but one with great potential, especially in the name of generating clicks via controversy. Fuck it, you think to yourself. It’s worth an attempt. You crack your knuckles, lean forward in your chair, and spin gold.

Three members are chosen, highlighted above the rest for one reason or another. The justifications you give are borderline ostentatious, almost comically complimentary towards the contributions of your chosen trio. Somewhere along the way, a sense of confidence grows within you. Your decayed conscience is an entirely different story.

Two others—their praises already penned—are cast aside; forgotten and discarded in an effort to hide your disdain for their coworker and her offenses. Punished for no fault of their own. The notion would make you sick if it weren’t so damned common. At least you can find solace in the fact that you’re giving her exactly as much praise as she deserves.

One email containing your finished article is all that’s sent. Later today, the fuse will run out and your editor will be confronted by the landmine you’ve so kindly delivered to his inbox. But that’s alright. It is—quite literally—his job to deal with it.

Zero sounds pierce the stillness that permeates every nook and cranny of your apartment. Your breath halts, preserving this moment of tranquility within the ever-beating heart of the nation.

A moment passes.

Another.

The sigh that slips out is unintended, but not unexpected. It’s a deep, dejected exhalation that almost makes you wonder which decision drove you to become such fast friends with 4AM. Alas, the conclusions gleaned from that line of thinking can be drawn another day. Right now, you need coffee. It’s going to be a long day. You can only hope it won’t be an even longer night.

That night, you dream. You burn. You squint through the mess of tears protecting your eyes, trying hopelessly to catch even a glimpse of what lies at the heart of the inferno. Each tendril of flame lashes away at your essence, fracturing it into minute fragments as you endeavor to comprehend the importance of this dream and its sudden return after months of darkness. The experience seems to encompass merely a minute of enormous effort, but reality says otherwise as your alarm ruthlessly rouses you from your slumber and into the awaiting morning.

You’re covered in sweat and frustrated as hell, but that’s nothing that a shower hotter than your dream can’t fix. All throughout your morning routine, you make a conscious effort to avoid your phone. Even on a day like this, on a Saturday where most people are enjoying their weekend, you know that there’s no such thing as “off-the-clock” for you. No, on the other side of the glass screen, the ramifications of your actions—a night’s worth of reactions—await you.

The biggest departure from previous generations of written media is, in your opinion, the immediacy and accessibility of reader feedback. So, when you open a certain bird-themed app to see how people responded to your review of (G)I-DLE’s debut, you see some love. You see plenty of hate. You see … not much in between. K-Pop stans do tend towards hyperbole. Unsurprisingly, your decision to only highlight half the members is the primary subject of their ire. The comments are honestly hilarious, with many demanding an edit, others promising to block you, and one particularly invested individual threatening to revoke your access to the English language.

Might as well toss them a pacifier.

You tweet some apologetic bullshit about how you believed that highlighting all the members would diminish the significance of those who you felt contributed the most, expressing regret that the decision might have conveyed a message that you didn’t believe that all the members brought value to the debut. It’s a lovely set of lies, masking your true intentions with no plans for change. Fortunately, your sickly-sweet words and promise to include other members in future reviews seem to calm the upswell of commenters, at least for now.

And it keeps working. Once. Twice. A third time, even as (G)I-DLE nearly sweeps the ��Rookie of the Year” award circuit. Then again, for a fourth time. A fifth. A sixth. Somehow, you get lucky seven times in a row. Somewhere along the path, you’re pretty sure you “should” stop this petty pursuit and play it safe. You don’t. A little further along, you realize you “definitely should” stop and realize what about her makes you feel this way.

You don’t.

There’ll be time for that later. For now, you follow the numbers forward. Along the way, among the complimentary feedback and tearful declarations of love for the group that frequent your comment sections, a slowly growing number of fans begin to notice and call you out for not including her. It adds credence to the argument for stopping, but luckily, they’re lost amongst the sea of engagement, so your growth continues unimpeded.

What isn’t lost to the passage of time are the whispers that continue to reach you, even when she retreats across the pond. The ripples reach you in rapid succession—usually a string of two or more instances where cracks start to show and her unbridled fury bursts forth, burning anyone who dares to get too close. You do your research, but you don’t have to dig very deep to unearth some terrifying truths. One cameraman is more than happy to tell you of the time he saw her punch one of the audio techs because her mic pack short circuited in the rain. A stylist shares a story of her ripping an outfit in half because it was too constrictive. A cup of coffee’s all it takes to convince one Cube employee to expose the eggshells they have to walk on around her and their internal guidelines for how to avoid her bad side. Without even trying, you amass a treasure trove of tales, just waiting to be told to someone who will listen. But you wait, because you know it’s not your time; because you know that you’re building something far too important to risk it all “doing the right thing”.

Growth’s a funny thing, and plenty of it can happen over two years. (G)I-DLE continues their upward trajectory, gaining both domestic and international fame as she becomes their most popular member. Her popularity with the general public is honestly anything but surprising, especially considering her Chinese heritage and English fluency that allow her to tap into two major media markets most groups struggle to find a foothold in. And, of course, there’s her personal appeal. If you had a thousand won for every tweet freaking out about her cute face and shockingly deep voice, you’d be retired before reaching legal drinking age. None of it particularly bothers you—if anything, you can’t help but laugh at the cyclical nature of it all. A comeback will be announced, a significant number of album pre-orders will be purchased by Chinese fans, the promotion cycle will begin, you’ll be told a story of how she lost her mind at some poor member of production, and no one outside of the industry will hear a thing. And most of the time, that’s okay. Until it isn’t.

Until you’re sitting in your apartment transcribing an interview with a nugu group—the type struggling to hit ten thousand views, let alone ten million—because that’s when your conscience crawls back to the forefront of your mind. It’s these moments, the ones where their tears streak down the window to your soul, that nearly make you reconsider your outlook on life. Their tales tug at your heartstrings as you pen them to the page, recounting how they have to work at convenience stores between promotions. It’s so painful to tell their story when they’re doing everything “the right way” while you know that one of the industry’s fastest rising stars is lounging atop a throne built of broken wills and wearing a crown made of crushed dreams. These are the moments where you’d give anything to write the happy ending these hopeful heroines deserve.

But, you know, deep down, that your conscience can’t keep you from doing anything; only keep you from enjoying it. Thus, you calm your heart and carry on. You do as you must, playing by their rules, even if they’re written in ink from bleeding hearts—you learned a long time ago that those with the best intentions leave impact craters, not legacies. So, you continue, because you know there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it.

Yet.

It’s not as if you sit idly during this time, allowing life to pass you by. No, you make the most of your time, fervently penning reviews and posting your thoughts to anyone that will listen. And, unsurprisingly, some do. You manage to carve out a minute slice of the public consciousness to fit your growing personal brand. The company grows alongside you, allowing for more video content that lets people put a face to the name as you interview more idols and grow your following. You know—in heart and mind alike—that it's ultimately just people with too much time on their hands slotting you into their empty schedule. You try not to let it affect you and succeed because they're not the ones you're looking to impress. It might not be ideal, but it’s working. For a while.

Then the world shuts down.

-x-

It’s a bit different the next time her group releases their first single. It’s a bit different when there’s only a pair of shiny new songs to capture the attention of the quarantined addicts. It’s a bit different when the responses grow larger than a vocal minority. It’s a bit different when it’s the eight-ball skirting along the edge of the corner pocket, like a threat from the universe that your luck is running out. It’s definitely different when your CEO calls and asks what exactly is going on. But his fears and fans’ frothing are both addressed with a simple strategy: silence. Less than a week passes before a new, more salacious scandal redirects the focus of the hyperactive hive mind and leaves your DMs deliciously desolate. Soon thereafter, you’re free to announce an upcoming retrospective project you’ve been wanting to start for a while, allowing you to proceed uninhibited. Well, except for your nightmare.

In this period of even further isolation, it’s been your unbidden associate, recurring far more rapidly compared to the previously infrequent incursions. As much as the sustained suffering has indisputably infuriated you, your progress through purgatory has been irrefutably illuminating. At the heart of the inferno, amidst brimstone and blaze, awaits a figure. For once, your headway almost makes you happy; for once, you’re almost anticipating the thought of heading to bed.

Unfortunately, the cruel winds of fate care little for the best laid plans, and the dream disappears less than a week after it reappears. You’re left wanting as one heat abandons you just as another rears its ugly head. It’s a brutal summer, with rising temperatures and quarantine restrictions combining to drive even the most mentally resilient members of society insane. Obviously, it’s even worse for those whose sanity slipped long ago.

Which means it hits a certain someone especially hard. Amid her group’s filming—another freedom she’s offered while you suffer alone—her multitude of misdeeds adds to the growing list of things you can’t escape. You count not one, not two, three, four, five, or even six stories of her wrath being inflicted on the poor production staff working to construct their comeback. Not a single word is whispered of her seven venomous verbal onslaughts. You’d call it unlucky, but years of experience remind you it’s just the norm for people like her.

Fall offers a welcome reprieve as restrictions are loosened, but winter’s arrival and the holiday season lead to an uptick in cases and increased countermeasures. What is often a quiet time for many is a period of ceaseless activity for you as you cover any and every award show related to the industry, capitalizing on any potential opportunity as per usual. It is, unsurprisingly, effective, and you go into the new year with significant progress made and intentions to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

It lasts all of a week before a certain group drops their latest EP.

You can’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. An EP titled “I Burn” right as you’re on the verge of burning out. You’re too tired for innovation. Too exhausted for subtle additions. Just principled enough for a single exclusion. Your formula has driven engagement thus far; no reason to divert from it now. Somehow, some way, you manage to kindle a small spark of motivation and finish your review on time. After a few agonizing hours of anxious anticipation, your editor deems it ready to post with no significant revisions. You head to bed well before your regular hour, silencing your notifications as you pray that a soothing night of rest will revitalize you and grant you the energy necessary to deal with karma's cruel machinations.

As you slip into the silence of slumber, it’s not serenity that awaits, but sparks. An ignition. An inferno. For once, you hesitate. Instead of wading into the flames, you wait. Watch. Lethargy latches onto you, and you lament the lost opportunity as you’re forced to admit you lack the vitality to attempt this trial tonight. You sigh, turn, and begin to walk away.

A single step. A second. A third. Nine. None.

You freeze in place as you feel an icy hand capture your wrist, wrenching you back and whirling you around to face the figure. The silhouette sports a small stature, cropped black hair, and a featureless face that somehow still stares into your soul. The glacial nucleus of the inferno studies you for a moment, tilting its head curiously, then begins to drag you towards the depths of the hellfire. You fight, digging your heels in and desperately attempting to break its hold on you, but your efforts are in vain as it maintains its grasp on you and seals your fate.

You feel the licks of flame lapping away at you long before you see the damage. No, your eyes are locked on your captor and her silent satisfaction—her contentedness to bathe in the inferno as long as you crumble to ash alongside her. This incineration is nothing short of harrowing and hellish as you’re seared into cinders, but the emotion you experience most is helplessness. Your previous attempts to brave the blaze have at least been marked by your determination, your desire to uncover the truths concealed within the core, but this cremation inspires only dread. The last image that flashes across your mind is the scorching stare of a face without eyes.

For the first time in forever, you’re genuinely grateful for the freedom your alarm clock grants you. You immediately vault out of bed, jumping into an arctic shower and casting aside any concerns about doing so during the height of winter. After roughly an hour, equipped with a clear head and a cup of coffee, you confront the consequences of your choice.

Fortunately, the inflammatory comments you receive in response are primarily concentrated within the private space of your DMs rather than in the public view. You cast aside most of the messages without a second thought … until you reach one that’s a bit more interesting.

A forgettable account name? ✔

Zero comments or original posts across its entire existence? ✔

A string of likes on comments and posts singing her praises? ✔

Oh, and of course the message itself:

ASong4You: No but like seriously, what the fuck is your problem?

Check.

Literally any other idol and your mind wouldn’t be going down the path it’s exploring now. But given the rumors … given your history … even though with all those factors, it’s still one hell of a stretch …

No, it has to be her. It's too vague to be anything else.

So, you respond. Not on your main account, of course; you also have a burner. Obviously.

You compose a message to her burner in the bird app, then an identical one to her main account in the picture app, and send them simultaneously:

TurnThePage: I could ask you the same thing

You see her read it on the first account, then the second. A moment passes, allowing you the briefest bit of calm amidst the coming storm, but it’s gone in an instant as she fires another shot.

ASong4You: Seriously dude, your writer is showing, it's honestly unbearable TurnThePage: I’m sorry you don’t have poetry in your heart TurnThePage: But thank you for the compliment, I'm quite proud of my writing ASong4You: You really shouldn't be, I've seen some of the “fascinating findings” you've posted ASong4You: They make a shampoo bottle look like a New York Times bestseller by comparison TurnThePage: You'll have to send me your hair care recommendations! I love a good read :D TurnThePage: And thank you for supporting my work! It's always a pleasure to meet a fan ASong4You: Ahhh, now I see why you have to pay people to talk to you ASong4You: But yeah, before this conversation ruins my appetite, I gotta ask, what's your deal with me? I’ve literally done nothing to you TurnThePage: Like you said, people are usually paid to answer questions like that, but I'm sure we can meet in the middle here TurnThePage: What’s your deal? The people you bring to tears have done nothing but try to make your life easier, yet here you are ASong4You: Haven't you ever heard the saying “don't believe everything you hear”? Chill with the drama, I'm sure whatever you've heard is stupidly overblown ASong4You: Besides, anybody I’ve ever yelled at deserved it TurnThePage: I don’t believe you believe that ASong4You: Fuck you, who do you think you are? You don’t even know me TurnThePage: Maybe not yet, but your actions have spoken even louder than your words, and it’s been hard not to hear the echoes of both ASong4You: Do you ever talk like a normal person? TurnThePage: Maybe TurnThePage: Why, hoping I'll humor you long enough for you to find out? ASong4You: Honestly I kinda just wish you'd die in a fire, but that's neither here nor there ASong4You: Aren't there like, actual global events you could write about instead? Or did you just not make the cut? TurnThePage: Maybe ASong4You: Oh, so now that we're talking about your shortcomings, you finally shut up? ASong4You: Good to know TurnThePage: Maybe I'm trying to preserve your appetite. Unlike you, I can be considerate TurnThePage: Can I honestly just ask why? Like I've never heard anything good about you TurnThePage: It'd be impressive if it weren’t so awful ASong4You: Wouldn't you like to know? Just go ask one of the assholes that's lied about me already, I'm sure they'll make up an answer you like TurnThePage: I just figured it'd be a lot better for your members if they weren't constantly worried about the ticking time bomb standing next to them ASong4You: Don't. ASong4You: Don't bring them into this, you haven't even told me why you're being such an ass for no good reason ASong4You: I kinda think it'd just be best for both of us if you forgot about it all and started giving me the credit I deserve TurnThePage: Surely you can't think you'll be able to hide behind that cute face forever. Karma takes notes in pen, not pencil ASong4You: I'll be sure to let you know if things ever do change, but until then? Might as well just keep doing what's working ASong4You: Also thanks for the compliment ;) TurnThePage: Any time, sweetheart ASong4You: Don't call me that TurnThePage: Okay darling ASong4You: Fuck. ASong4You: You. ASong4You: Tbh I'd love nothing more than to toss a match on your greasy ass and toast marshmallows as you burn TurnThePage: Jokes on you, maybe I like to play with fire ASong4You: Then I hope you dream of something you find hotter than your reflection

You type up a couple of responses, but end up deleting all of them, each feeling inadequate to the discomfort her line makes you feel. Oh well, you think to yourself. Not the worst thing if she thinks she got the last word in, gives me more room to do as I please.

Yet you stay—sitting, staring at the screen, wondering what’s lying beyond the glass that’s captured your attention so intensely. Your gaze occasionally drifts elsewhere, but your focus remains drawn to this singular conversation and a certain someone. Someone no more than a couple dozen kilometers away, someone you should have every reason to despise and avoid, yet someone who you can’t help but wonder about. Wonder what lies behind that smile. Wonder what hides behind those eyes. Wonder if they’re staring right back.

-x-

It’s a lonely night, made even worse by the company of their reflection. Two halves of a whole, on mirrored paths with no sense of purpose or direction.

In this absence of light, all they can see is the whites of their eyes. In this moment of peace, all they can hear is their echoing lies.

Outside these walls, the world knows each as a shining star, floating through an astral sea. But deep within, each keeps their true self hidden away, trapped under lock and key.

In their heart and soul, all that is left is hurt and pain. In the years to come, all that matters is selfish gain.

But that’s a problem for another day, a problem that no storm can wash away, a problem they both know is here to stay.

So here they sit, alone again, so here they sit, wondering when. When will they meet, be face to face, and “will they cause my fall from grace?”.

A long night awaits them, one where their dreams will host a war. A routine recurrence, repeating what they’ve done before. Yet still a welcome sight because both know what they’re in for. The inferno beckons, inviting them to find out more.

And so, despite their best judgement, they each choose to proceed. They go, without a second thought, trying to sate a need.

They yearn. They burn.

-x-

A single day of anticipatory silence ages you far more than the decade of peace that’s preceded it. You can feel it in your heart, in your blood, in the way it slogs through your veins. Your fingers bear a peculiar weight as—instead of dancing gracefully over the keyboard—they stumble and crash through your draft, producing an unrecognizable, unacceptable product. Upon the page, imperfection mocks your brittle mentality, taunting you and inviting you to waste more of your time ignoring the only problem that matters right now.

A brief respite presents a far more welcome sight: a message from the girl from that first interview, asking how your holidays were. The notification grabs your attention and excites you … but not as much as it should. Maybe it's because of what lies below—what you see when your eyes drift down. Maybe it's because of the DM sitting right beneath it, where her accusation awaits. Because that message … it incenses you far more than it should. It isn’t the implication of narcissism that so clearly shines through, but something else lying just below the surface—something barely evading your grasp while beguiling your mind.

It takes the whole day and a dozen more before the thought of her finally fucks off and leaves you with the slightest semblance of some peace and quiet—a dozen nights spent in damned inferno, incinerating any chance you’d have of enjoying a rejuvenating rest. Eventually, the distractions fade and the world settles into an undisturbed quiet, the type you love to find yourself in. The type where you can shroud yourself in silence. The type where whispers punch through peaceful tranquility.

You’re not so vain to assume you’re the first to hear the rumblings, but you are shameless enough to admit you’re probably the first person excited by them. Their spread is contagious, chaotic, and anything but controllable. All that you’re missing is a bowl of popcorn as you sit back and watch the show unfold. Someone somewhere leaks the information on their socials, and you’re more than happy to spectate the storm’s rising tides from your perch atop a higher rung … and oh, what a view.

The primary benefit of being “plugged in” to the industry is, of course, the connections. So, when you receive a message informing you of tomorrow’s upcoming announcement, you thank them and plan accordingly. But then there’s another message. And another. And …

ASong4You: Don’t. ASong4You: I know you think you’re so fucking clever and you know just what to say ASong4You: But for once in your life, shut up. TurnThePage: Have you considered saying “please”? ASong4You: No.

Well, when she fires shots like that, what else is there to do but respond in kind?

The night comes. The flames rise. You open your eyes and are greeted by the gorgeous gleaming sunlight and something even more beautiful awaiting you on your nightstand.

“(G)I-DLE member Soojin announces hiatus from the group following alleged bullying accusations from former classmates.”

You, of course, wrote up your response and scheduled the tweet to be sent within minutes of the announcement. It’s nothing crazy, nothing petty, just something to farm engagement:

“There’ve been serious accusations across a number of idols, many of whom deserve judgement. But until we’ve been presented with undeniable proof, we should be patient & not assume that they’d risk years of training & passion just to demean & belittle others. It’d make no sense.”

Okay, maybe a little petty.

You set your phone down, stretch a bit, go for a short walk, and make sure to grab eye protection before checking on the fireworks going off in your DMs.

ASong4You: All you had to do was nothing, and you couldn’t even manage that ASong4You: Like the bar was so low it was literally in hell ASong4You: Yet here you are, doing the limbo with the fucking devil TurnThePage: That’s far too many words for none of them to be “please” ASong4You: I swear, if I ever get my hands on you, the bruises I’ll leave … TurnThePage: Oh good, I could use a little color in my life

And just like that, the conversation comes to a close. This pair of dialogues contains the last words you say to each other for two entire months, months best spent enjoying a world previously hidden behind doors now unlocked by the vaccinations. The heat on your face, the sounds of travel, the sight of familiar landmarks … all of it is a welcome reprieve from the societal incarceration you’ve been taking part in. You feel truly, thankfully, at peace. But while the winds carry the scents of spring, they also carry whispers of what’s to come. And there’s one whisper in particular—one that stands out. One that results in your forehead becoming warmly acquainted with the wood of your desk.

The newly formed couple aren’t allowed to enjoy each other’s company for long, as destiny arrives all too soon and ushers you into the cab. Into the airport. Into the plane. Into the sky. Into China.

Since your last visit to the country, you’ve grown. You’ve risen. You’ve worked and wrote and watched your former peers fade beneath the cloud line. Since your last visit, you’ve lost count of the dramatic declarations and sunrise submissions that define your professional life. You’ve lost track of any consistent characteristics that define your personal life.

The journey to who and where you are today began in this country nearly four years ago.

The reflection staring back has aged forty.

Hangzhou offers no solace as you depart the airport and are met by the garish glare of the fan-sponsored advertisement for her solo debut. A grimace, glare, and grumble are all you offer in response before turning and merging with the moving mass of travelers dispersing among the city streets. While neither land nor sea seem like enough to escape her reach, maybe you can find a top shelf to hide on.

In the meantime, this’ll be a brief trip, only a couple of days dedicated to as many interviews. The first day is quick and painless—the second is anything but. Free time is to be feared when attempting to keep a mind busy, and the open space in your calendar only allows the laughter of her successes to echo that much louder. Things only worsen when an appointment with a contact falls through because of unexpected rescheduling.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” she says, voice crackling slightly through the tenuous connection. “It’s a shame. I was really looking forward to seeing the performances tonight—wait, do you want my ticket? I got a really good seat, great view of the stage.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” you reply, words escaping before your brighter side can block them. “Who’s performing?”

“It’s a whole bunch of acts, but there was specifically one I wanted to see … it was some K-Pop girl group member you’ve probably heard of,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world; like it isn’t the reason you’re desperately searching around the room for a defibrillator. “I forgot her name, but I’m sure you know who she is.”

“Almost certainly,” you choke out, forcing out a laugh through gritted teeth. “Yeah, if you could email me the ticket, that would be awesome, and we’ll definitely have to make sure we do something the next time I come to China or the next time you visit Nayoung, alright?”

“Great, hope you enjoy! Wish me luck!” she responds, blissfully unaware as she ends the call.

Minutes later, you receive an email confirming your suspicions and your fears. It’s a festival with over a dozen acts, but there’s one that stands out: the first performance of her new solo album.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

There’s no way in hell you’re going there. You’d rather watch paint dry than watch her perform. You’ve avoided listening to her solo songs thus far and you have no intention of changing that—especially by seeing her live and in-person.

It’s a ridiculous notion, you think to yourself as you lay back on the bed, hands behind your head as you consider how you’d like to spend the rest of the day.

…

Fuck, where’s seat 239?

Somewhere amongst the hours of apathy that comprised the afternoon, some dark corner of your brain spawned the idea that this was going to be your best shot at seeing her in-person without financially supporting her. Somehow, that flimsy justification fused with the inexplicable pull you’ve felt and resulted in your decision to show up. Even as you finally find your seat and sit down—just as the lights dim before the first performance—you still don’t know entirely why you’re here.

Luckily, the first couple acts do a wonderful job of distracting you away from overthinking, allowing you to—for the first time since you arrived in the country—relax and enjoy yourself as the true fan of music you’ve always been. That delusion lasts four whole songs before the announcement comes over the loudspeaker and sends a chill down your spine.

She’s next.

You pull out your phone, desperately attempting to draw your eyes anywhere other than the stage. A pair of messages await you and, continuing the trend of bad decisions that’s come to define this particular day, you open them and reveal their contents.

ASong4You: I almost wish you were here to see me perform, hear the roar of the crowd as they scream my name ASong4You: Maybe one day you’ll come to your senses and I’ll make you do the same

The victory lap is … cute. You begin composing a response, but your inner monologue is immediately drowned out by the sounds of screaming as the crowd rumbles to life. You guess, purely based on their reactions, that she’s arrived. You continue your vain quest to refuse to pay her even your attention, instead inspecting the periphery of the stage, where you can see the other participants beginning to appear.

You see the dancers as they dart onto the stage; a dozen join her, then a dozen more. You’re too far to see their eyes, but their bodies tell a sufficient story: one of devotion, determination, and desperation. You wonder what paths their lives have followed—what choices they’ve made to lead them to this place and time. You wonder what they’ve seen, what they’ve heard, what they do when they think of her.

Do they smile? Do they shudder? Does she care if they’ve suffered?

You’ve avoided the inevitable for far too long. You allow your eyes to be drawn to her, pulled in by the magnetism of her performance. You’ve never denied her majesty—never mocked the magic she can create with a microphone. No, it’s her methods, her mentality, her malevolence that’s manifested your misery and madness. The worst part of all is the casual way she carries herself, as if her nationality alone is enough to conceal sins of days long past. It hits particularly close to home for you, especially as you sit here, in a country foreign to the foreign country you reside in. You can’t stop yourself from seething at how she adores the applause, how she cherishes the country and home she holds dear. Any rational thoughts that might have risen to the surface are drowned out by the screams of the fans as they chant her name, cheering for her arrival as she stands atop the stage and the spirits she’s broken.

It’s almost too much. Seeing her here, in her element, shining under the spotlight as she single-handedly inscribes her song into your memories, you’re so close to giving in.

It’d be so much easier to just follow the fantasy, pretend that her performance ends with the final note. It’d be so much easier to assume that her backup dancers are trained to leave the stage that quickly, that their fervor isn’t driven by an acute anxiety at the thought of meeting her eyes. For once, you wish you could do so—wish you could search her soul for the full story. Because here, in this stadium filled with her adoring fans, you can see, hear, feel the passion in her voice.

All you can do is wonder when it began its mutation into malice.

You slip out shortly thereafter, disregarding the remaining acts as you attempt to shake off the unsettling feeling clinging to your bones. It’s a short walk to the hotel, but the climb back up to where you’re staying feels anything but.

It’s somehow worse when you arrive in your room and another message arrives in your inbox. Continuing your streak of bad decisions, you open it as you flip onto the bed, bracing yourself for her latest assault.

ASong4You: Oh, now you have nothing to say? Figures

And that’s all she has to say.

… that’s it? Really?

You’re definitely disappointed and slightly surprised that she didn’t send more. Wait, no, you’re surprisingly disappointed and definitely surprised that … wait … fuck, which bag contains the cure for this headache?

You’re more than familiar with telling stories despite a tired mind—you’ve built your career upon a foundation of fighting against fatigue. The sensation sitting in the pit of your stomach is neither. It’s a weird feeling, somewhere between weariness and wistfulness, but stronger than your feelings of the former and even less justified than an appearance of the latter. A weird feeling for a weird day, one that was filled with nearly nothing except that one thing, but still so exhausting.

It’s a day you’d like to end. Your head hits the pillow, your eyelids flutter closed, and your consciousness fucks off.

And then the sun rises. But its shine paints the sand, not your sheets. You hear not the honking of cars but the crashing of waves; instead of the smell of fresh linens with a hint of lavender, the salty spray of the sea sends its scent straight into your senses. You shift, stand, shuffle, stretch, squint, and search your surroundings. And you see … the sea. Shocker.

But then, just beneath the squawking of the seagulls, you hear it; no, her. It’s the most intimate, unmistakable voice you’d swear you’ve never heard before. Her siren’s song serenades you, showing you the path, inviting you to join her beyond the veil, guiding you past the barrier separating you two. And there’s nothing you’d rather do than follow.

You step forward, feeling the grains of sand shift beneath your feet as you close the distance between you and the shoreline. As you descend the slope further and further—riding the high ever upward—her melody envelops you in its soothing, loving embrace, warding off some of the ocean's chill. You walk until the slope disappears from under your feet, then you swim until the waves settle to reveal a familiar, unrecognizable figure. You swim forth further, closing the distance until you’re face-to-face with the featureless countenance staring back. Even amidst the sway of the sea, the normally harsh pull of the waves seems harmless—almost as if Poseidon himself chose to grant you this moment of privacy.

You see no mouth, but you hear her words all the same—tantalizing whispers of sweet nothings as she asks everything of you. Your attention. Your time. Your heart. Your ambition. For the second time, she touches you. For the first time, she wraps her arms around you and pulls herself against your body. You look down at her, resting her head against your chest as she whispers these words directly into your heart, transcribing these truths upon the strands of your soul as you hold her. Then you look past her and see the endless void of darkness awaiting below the waves.

A chill runs up your already frigid spine, yet despite the overwhelming terror at the possibilities potentially lurking below, you stay. And unlike before, the figure doesn't drag you into the darkened depths, where your shared doom surely awaits. No, she does the same as you. She stays. In your arms, she finds security. In hers, you find solace. You close your eyes, drowning out any sensations other than the sound of her voice.

You open them, and in your empty hotel room, you find silence. You find solitude. And in this darkness, a depraved desire to deliver a response to her gloating drives you back into your DMs.

TurnThePage: I apologize for shattering the illusion that I'm here at your beck & call TurnThePage: But those of us with the unfortunate label of “contributing members of society” have things to do

Fortunately or otherwise, you don't have to wait long for a response:

ASong4You: Oh fuck off, I’m in a good mood this morning and don’t need you ruining it ASong4You: I’d tell you to go hug the ocean floor, but the walk there would be more than you deserve

It’s not the severity of the insult that unnerves you so significantly. It’s the specificity. It’s the timing. It’s honestly just everything about her and even the things tangentially related to her, but mostly those two. It’s an unidentifiable emotion that ends any response you might have had before it even has a chance to manifest, silencing your snark and settling at the forefront of your mind for the rest of the day and beyond, even long after you leave China.

-x-

Silence between you two is undeniably the norm, but even as other projects and commitments sweep you away, you can’t help but feel anxious. Even as you focus on other opportunities, there’s an inevitability ticking away at the back of your mind. So, when the whispers first resurface, you’re not surprised, nor relieved, nor excited. If anything, you’re just intrigued. And you plan accordingly.

This time, when you hear confirmation from your contacts, you’re not surprised to hear nothing from her. This time, there’s no tweaking of the statement—no attempts to squeeze in exactly as many characters as are allowed. This time, you don’t let even a minute pass before responding to the announcement of Soojin’s departure. No, this time, you load only a single shot into the chamber.

This time, you aim for the heart.

"I wish the good-hearted members of (G)I-DLE the best of luck as they navigate the ramifications of their members' actions." (Posted at 8:27 PM)

The tiniest of alterations. The smallest of changes. Seemingly a mistake so inconsequential that even your editor wouldn’t catch it. But for one whose hackles were already raised, that implication of multiple members rather than single outlier is a declaration of war. So, when her message arrives in your inbox, you expect it to burn your eyes with the fury of a thousand suns. What you find is something else entirely.

ASong4You: So, how’s your day going?

Well, that’s unexpected. You know better than to drop your guard, but your curiosity demands that you play along, at least for now.

TurnThePage: Pretty good TurnThePage: Very productive, so that’s always nice TurnThePage: What about yours? ASong4You: Could be better ASong4You: Could be worse TurnThePage: Could it? ASong4You: Probably ASong4You: Not exactly looking to find out TurnThePage: Don’t you want me to at least try? ASong4You: No because I’m quite sure you could easily find a way to make it worse TurnThePage: I was talking about making it better

You watch as she begins typing, then pauses. Assumedly, she changes her mind because her next message surprises you.

ASong4You: You know what? Sure ASong4You: Make my day TurnThePage: I’m pretty confident this’ll work ASong4You: You’re pretty confident about a lot of things TurnThePage: You’re not wrong (Image sent at 8:43PM)

Another pause.

ASong4You: Okay I can’t lie that corgi is pretty cute TurnThePage: I know, right? I've been wanting one for years now, but it doesn't seem fair to leave them locked up when I need to travel for work. ASong4You: It’s nice of you to care TurnThePage: Thanks, I try ASong4You: Do you? TurnThePage: I do! TurnThePage: Sometimes I even succeed

This back and forth continues on for a while, neither of you willing to let the other have the last word. While not stated outright, you’ve realized that she’s somehow found herself with the same goal as you: burning down the walls the other hides behind. It’s honestly pretty cute, but more importantly, it’s genuinely dangerous. Now that the boiling point could be reached at seemingly any moment, you’ve realized that in this rivalry, results matter more than reason.

Thus, the dialogue never dies, ranging from carefully probing questions to mild disagreements to stories about funny occurrences but interestingly, never direct insults or aggression. If anything, as time passes, the frequency increases. The timestamps tell a story of two individuals tied up in ceaseless pursuit, with one message being delivered as the sun descends below the skyline and its response arriving as the following school day begins. The density of messages may be irregular, but the consistency of responses is far from it. Both of you adamantly add to the simmering coals, continuing to fan the flames with your words, gladly accepting the risk of joining the other as a pile of ash.

You want, no, need, her facade to fall. She’ll give anything to “expose” you as the type of villain that frequents Saturday morning cartoons. She’s desperately attempting to maintain her veil of innocence. You’d love nothing more than to see it go up in flames and let the world see the truth as the smoke clears. Neither of you is willing to reveal your hand, and folding isn’t an option. So, this cold war wages on.

It’s an otherwise unremarkable afternoon when the first piece falls into place. You’re scrolling through your timeline, seeking both idle entertainment and diamonds in the rough as you await responses from multiple people. You see one post amongst the sea of several, commenting about (G)I-DLE all getting new phones together because one of them got destroyed. Something about the screen getting shattered when dropped, something that seems insignificant. But you have two eyes for a reason, and what’s the point of having both if you can’t catch double meanings?

So, just in case, you file it away for later, maybe for a rainy day. Three days later, you venture back into your DMs, conversing with her as you hide from the downpour outside.

ASong4You: Honestly I think audio issues are the worst ones to deal with ASong4You: Because usually the people fixing them are using headsets to test everything, so we never have any idea if any progress is being made ASong4You: Like at least with lighting, it’s clear as day when it’s working like it’s supposed to TurnThePage: That makes sense, audio’s always been the type of issue I’m most scared of TurnThePage: Because for interviews, usually I just record the audio and transcribe it later. If the audio is fucked up, I’ve wasted hours, if not days’ worth of time TurnThePage: For me and the client TurnThePage: Luckily, not a very frequent issue, but a concern all the same TurnThePage: Feels like you’ve been hitting a lot of production hiccups recently ASong4You: Yeah, seems like a pretty unlucky streak ASong4You: It’s kinda whatever though, I don’t let little things like that bother me

… but honestly, when she lines it up like that, who could blame you for taking a shot?

TurnThePage: Pretty sure your old phone would say otherwise, but go off ASong4You: Fuck. ASong4You: You. ASong4You: Actually, you know what? Fine. ASong4You: It's been obvious for a while now that you're desperate for attention, so here. I'm listening. ASong4You: What the fuck do you want from me?

It’s such a shame, especially since the conversation was going so nicely. Oh well, you flew too close to the sun and ended up reigniting the blaze between you two. Guess that leaves you with no choice but to fight fire with fire.

TurnThePage: The truth would be too rich for your blood, wouldn’t it? ASong4You: That’s a bit rich coming from you, don’t you think? ASong4You: Considering you’ve never even met me and are just going off of what you’ve heard from rumors TurnThePage: I mean, what else am I supposed to go off of? TurnThePage: We’ve barely talked, but even just based on that, I’m pretty sure meeting you would be detrimental to my health ASong4You: Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re gonna let a little danger get in the way of a date with destiny ASong4You: Aren’t you the type who likes to play with fire? TurnThePage: Aren’t you? ASong4You: Now you’re getting it ASong4You: If you didn’t already have a reason to be backstage at Gayo Daejeon in a few weeks, now you do TurnThePage: What, you’re just expecting me to drop everything and dance with the devil on Christmas of all days? ASong4You: Yes. ASong4You: Come on, it’ll be fun! What’s the worst that could happen?

As much as every part of your mind is screaming that this is a terrible idea, you know that it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.

TurnThePage: Alright, I’ll be there. Just for you TurnThePage: Think of it as an early Christmas present ASong4You: Only if you come gift wrapped with a little bow on top TurnThePage: Only if you ask nicely ASong4You: In your fucking dreams ASong4You: Speaking of, I have to go contribute to society. Until then, enjoy dreaming of me!

You pause, processing the statement for a moment before sending the last thing you'll say to her for quite some time.

TurnThePage: You too

You close the app, discarding your DMs at least for the moment as you allow yourself to reenter the real world—the world where silence awaits, having settled in long before you did. It’s a comfortable silence, the norm you’ve come to rely on when composing messages and emails and blogs and messages and reviews and tweets and captions and messages. It’s an intentional sensation, amplified by the thick walls and specific location away from the chaos of the city you so desperately sought. It’s the warm blanket that wards off the chills creeping in the darkness as you chase the early morning sun. It’s the friend that helped you find yourself.

It’s deafening.

You stand and grab your keys, intent on grabbing some coffee and a bite to eat before the night steals your last chance to do so. As you wait in one line and then another, you plan out your upcoming days, noting openings in your calendar and marking them down for future opportunities. After all, your schedule might already be busy, but that’s no reason it couldn’t be busier. How else would you want to spend your free time?

-x-

The year’s end heralds many things, chief among them the year-end award ceremonies and the annual echoes of insanity you’re forced to subject yourself to once more. One would think that after four iterations of the same song and dance sweeping the circuit, you’d have found a better way to congratulate the usual suspects on their trio of triumphs. While you manage, it’s a slog like nothing you’ve had to fight through since your rookie campaign. The motivation you need to excel always seems to be one cup of coffee or one more procrastinated hour away, yet you continuously fail to muster the energy to snatch it out of the fog afore you.

You somehow manage to write just enough and post it just soon enough to drive the engagement numbers you need to remain ahead of projections for the year. It’s a sigh of relief that’s followed by one of the few exciting traditions amidst an industry filled with formulaic procedures: music festivals.

The KBS Song Festival is a breath of fresh air for you as you go, in-person, for the first time. You’re able to translate your experiences onto the page flawlessly, and the reception to your piece is one of the best yet. It simultaneously excites and pressures you to pay close attention to the next festival you go to in the hopes that you can recreate or even exceed that piece’s success. There’s only one issue.

SBS Gayo Daejun is next.

It’s been complete radio silence since your last message. Two months since she read your response and you each retreated to your bunkers. The war might have grown colder alongside the changing seasons, but you know it’s no less flammable than before. You dress warmly, enough layers to ward off the cold winter air, yet light enough to have options. Just in case.

You arrive early, hours before the event’s 6PM scheduled start time. The Namdong Gymnasium is a massive venue, easily able to seat thousands of rabid fans eager to shake its foundation with their roar. You probably have a press pass somewhere in your email, but you can see the recognition in the eyes of the security when you walk up without a shadow of a doubt; you’ve been to enough of these kinds of events over the past year or so that they’re happy to welcome you in.

Once inside, it takes but a handful of quick conversations over warm handshakes to get a lay of the land and create a mental catalog of where different idols will be waiting and, most importantly, where people won’t be. After all, in life—not just in K-Pop—privacy is priceless. Later, when you find yourself alone, you begin to ponder and plan. You have plenty of time and endless amounts of patience, but not as much of either as you’d like. So, you pull out your phone and do something seemingly detestable. You shatter the silence.

TurnThePage: Tell me when and I’ll tell you where

For once, you’re happy to be swept up into a conversation as the earliest performing groups begin to arrive and greet you warmly. Your ambitions are far too grand to fit within a niche, but as you’ve actively fostered relationships with the brightest rising stars in the business, you’ve kindled a kind of camaraderie over the couple of conversations shared. You wish IVE the best of luck with their upcoming Olympic send-off stage, discuss the remix STAYC will be performing later, and make bets with Aespa whether “Got the Beat” will be weird or wonderful. Of course, the bet ends up being mostly metaphorical since it’s kinda hard to place a wager when all five members of the discussion agree it’ll be the former.

A few hours pass until there’s three until showtime. Your phone vibrates, which could mean many things, but you know what just arrived in your inbox. You allow two more hours to pass before you dip off to the side into a small alcove, allowing you to preview her response in peace.

She sent you a window of time, almost exactly when you’d expected based on the schedule of the performances. You read the message, allow the checkmark to turn blue, then put your phone away. You continue to wait, letting a whole nother hour pass until the broadcast begins, at which point you finally send her your location of choice. It’s an unutilized dressing room about a minute away from where the performers are preparing to go on stage; the perfect spot to find some priceless privacy, leaving you with roughly 10 minutes with which to enjoy it.

As the various artists claim their positions for the opening performance, you decide how best to utilize the upcoming forty minutes. You scope out the scene and develop a plan, starting by targeting those who appear to be anxiously waiting. Those who have a minute to spare, but whose lips are loosened when the second comes around and you’re still asking them to share their story. The hunt pays off, rewarding you with information about Itzy’s upcoming Japan promotions, Oh My Girl’s second album, and Red Velvet’s upcoming concert. You file the information away for later, at the ready just in case it could result in a potential opportunity.

Eventually, your internal clock informs you it’s time. You slip away from the outskirts of the main preparation area, taking a wide berth as you avoid being seen on your way to the intended location. On the way there, you grab a pair of bottles of water, mind already kicking into overdrive as you plan how you want to handle this encounter.

Once you enter the room, you’re pleased to see the mostly bare walls and lack of furnishings aside from a row of mirrors on the far wall and a trio of couches placed around a small table. You note them but disregard them for the moment, instead leaning against one of the smooth concrete walls as you pull out your phone and attempt to respond to a couple of emails. You barely get through one before the turning of a latch and a shock of recently bleached blonde signals her early arrival.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” you say, as if this whole situation were the most casual thing in the world. “Here, catch.”

She deftly snatches the water bottle out of the air, checking the seal immediately as she peers past the plastic with suspicion blatant in her stare. “Thanks, I guess?”

You’re not sure if it’s the room’s acoustics or the unfamiliar lack of a screen or microphone for separation but hearing her voice up close and personal for the first time hits. The sound waves slowly waltz up your spine, sending shockwaves through your synapses as they encircle and entrance your eardrums, then shoot down to the rest of your body and share the sensation. While you smell skepticism coating each third of her trio of words, you also catch something beneath the surface. Intrigue. Amusement. Annoyance. Excitement. And then something else, hidden amongst the huskiest tones of her exhalations. Something even you can’t catch.

You take slow, measured steps as you walk parallel to her, claiming one of the couches as your own as you sit down on one side of the table and she seats herself across from you. “But of course!” you declare jovially, creating an illusion of welcoming even as you reinforce your mental walls. “I can promise it’s not poisoned. There’s far too much I’d love to ask you.”

“Is that so?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow as she puts her feet up on the table. “You seem awfully confident that I’m willing to answer.”

“Can’t help it,” you admit with a shrug, refusing to break eye contact even for a moment as you take a swig of your water. “Side effect of a never-ending streak of successes, I suppose.”

“You’re adorable,” she coos, eyes catching fire for the first time. You watch, gaze unwavering as she leans back, closing her eyes as she takes her own drink of water, then wipes her lips with the back of her hand and holds your eyes once more. “You’re also avoiding the topic at hand.”

“Oh, am I?” you ask, knowing full well what she means but too intrigued to voice the topic yourself. “Please, do tell.”

She leans forward, blowing through any pretense as she demands to know, “Why are you so obsessed with me?”

“Ah, 6:42, starting right on schedule,” you think to yourself, smiling as you shake your head and place your water on the table. “Darling, I love me some self-centeredness, but I think you’ve misunderstood. As much as I refuse to diminish the significance of your sins, I’m nowhere near as invested in your failure as you seem to think. Honestly, if anything, dragging out this ‘drama’ has been great for engagement.”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” she says, hints of a chuckle hidden amongst the darkness in her tone as she stands and uses all 163 centimeters of her figure to barely look down at you. You almost find it ironic that here—in the midst of an argument—is the closest you’ve come to seeing each other eye to eye. “Are you really trying to tell me that the soapbox you preach from was built by the likes, comments, and subscriptions of my stans?”

“I’m not denying that (G)I-DLE’s been a major contributing factor in my growth,” you say, struggling to subdue the smirk attempting to tug at the corner of your lips. “But genuinely, you are just a stepping stone and I’m moving up. It’s nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal?!” she repeats, laughter fully unleashed as she stares at you incredulously. “Stop, it’s so much worse when you lie to both of us.”

“Listen sunshine,” you begin, feeling the smirk seize control as you watch her eye twitch in loathing. “We could have a nice therapeutic conversation where you lie on the big couch between us and I chronicle your odyssey of misdeeds.” You stand, making your way towards the same spot on the wall where you’d waited for her. “Or we could just leave and go back to the silence. Not sure what else we’re here for.”

As you turn and your back hits the wall once more, you see the intensity and intent in her eyes as she closes the distance. You see her muscles tense, you see her arm raise, and you know full well the slap is coming long before it makes contact. But you need no omniscience to identify the most interesting outcome, so you present your left cheek and enjoy the echoes as they reverberate throughout the enclosed space.

“You know, that wasn’t personal,” she says, shaking out her hand like the force of the impact caused her pain too. “Only deserved.”

“Probably,” you admit, savoring the sanguine sensation slowly seeping out behind your smile. “There are probably a couple dozen legitimate reasons to slap me—it’s just a shame that none of them are the one you chose.”

“God fucking damnit,” she growls, low voice dipping even deeper as she clenches her fists. “What do you want from me?”

"What do I want from you?" you repeat, letting the question linger in the air for a moment before meeting her fiery gaze head-on. Your heart pounds at a frantic rate, yet you keep your voice steady and unwavering as you continue. “I want you to drop the act. I want you to stop pretending like you’re some sort of hero when you’re the villain in every story told about you.”

“What did I say about believing everything you hear?” she purrs, bits of that casual confidence resurfacing even as you see your words shake her to her core.

“Then tell me something different,” you demand, teeth grinding as the conversation goes nowhere. “Tell me something I can believe, even better if it’s the truth. Look me in the eyes and tell me—from the heart—that I’m wrong.”

“I … I can’t,” she admits, hints of vulnerability creeping into those eyes that burned so bright mere moments ago.

“God fucking damnit,” you growl, voice dipping lower once more. “Then why should I care about anything you have to say?”

“Why do you care in the first place?” she snaps back, voice rising with anger. “I don’t remember asking you to stick your nose into my life and threaten everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve!”

The silence weighs heavily on you both, growing more and more deafening as each passing second leaves an impact crater on your eardrum. You have so many reasons—all these puzzle pieces within your mind—yet you can’t seem to assemble a decent response. You’re both just stuck here, with all this emotion and no fucking answers to show for it. Instead, you search, staring into those blazing eyes as if the darkness within hides the truths you’ve been searching for. But in this hell you find no revelations, only the pain you’ve only ever found in your reflection. All you see is the slow infusion of crimson into her visage, the part of her lips as her pained exhalations batter your heaving chest. Your eyes never leave hers, and hers nearly mirror yours. Nearly. She cracks for a single moment—a mere second where her stare flicks down unconsciously. And it’s all the signal you need to capitalize on your chosen position.

With her frame, it truly is as easy as playing with a doll to flip your positions, pinning her against the wall as you tower over her. Her eyes widen with surprise, then narrow with expectation. You slam one hand against the wall, granting you additional leverage and knocking her even further off guard as you lean in, cupping her chin with your other hand and tilting her head up. When your lips first meet, there’s no cliches—no fireworks going off and no chorus accompanying the moment. There’s only friction and the insistent sensation of her pillowy lips against the firm control of your own. The kiss is far from gentle; passionate, yes, but not the sensual, romantic passion that others who use that word would think of. Emotions—ones that are similar, not identical—clash against one another as your tongues find each other and she tastes the metallic tang of the blood she’s spilled.

You thank whoever’s listening for well-tailored clothes as your hand leaves her chin and begins to explore, tracing her collarbone before gliding your fingertips across the bare skin of her arm. You leave goosebumps in your wake as you venture further down to her waistline and under her shirt, nails gently dragging across the toned muscles of her abs and the taut skin concealing her ribcage and hammering heart. Your hand doesn’t even have to slide under her bra for you to earn a moan, slipping past her inhibitions and feeding directly into your ego as you graciously decide to grant her request for escalation. You take advantage of your already slightly bent knees as you raise one between her legs, slipping your thigh past her own as you grind it against her sex and send her pleasure receptors into overdrive. So needy, you whisper, lips ghosting over her jawline as your breaths carry the words into her very soul. We’re barely in the opening measure, and you’re nearly ready for a crescendo.

The resentment in her eyes would hit much harder if she could maintain even a modicum of control, but with the way your knee’s grinding against her sopping heat, you almost manage to muster a miniscule smidgen of sympathy. Almost. Maybe you’ll find it elsewhere. You begin your brazen search, sending your second hand under her shirt and beginning to knead at her hints of breasts as you elicit moans so sinful they'd make Lucifer blush. Even as your knee rises further—its grinding growing in intensity as it pushes her onto the tips of her toes and you send her head above the clouds—you can’t seem to ensnare her stare. Despite her delirium, her gaze instead darts literally anywhere else, inspecting the bare walls of the austere dressing room as if they're the adorned walls of the fucking Louvre as she desperately avoids meeting your eyes. Desperately avoids confirming what her moans have already spoiled. Desperately avoids giving you the credit you know damn well you deserve.

“Come on baby, don’t be like this. You should know it’s so much worse when you lie to both of us.”

Her moans morph into growls as she desperately attempts to catch her breath, trying in vain to fuel her fire while still finding a way to respond. Anything to smother your smugness and wipe out the whispers. “F-fuck off, aren’t there more important things that mouth should be doing?”

Your wild smile widens—nearly to the point of lunacy—as you continue to lead her towards the edge. “Maybe if you ask nicely. A princess like you should know how to speak properly.”

“Fuck off you—fuck!”

Any eloquence remaining within her addled mind is whisked away alongside her scraps of breath as your teeth latch into the crook of her neck, biting with just enough force to mark her without actually breaking the skin. Her mewling in response is both maddening and mesmerizing, magnifying both her mania and magnetism as you devour another sensitive area and amplify your assault on her psyche. Simply continuing your current misdeeds is enough to heighten the tension even further, allowing you the freedom to do as you please. You give her everything she wants, and then a bit more. You give her what she didn’t want, remaining silent for countless seconds as you mark her skin and allow her the opportunity to speak. All she can offer in response are gasps and hiccups and moans—anything to stay coherent enough to experience this ecstasy. Interwoven amongst that need is her want, fragments of phrases and fuck and I and you and oh God and I’m and OH GOD and OH GOD FUCK.

“Yes sweetheart, I know just how badly you wish this could last forever, but we’re on the clock for a reason,” you drawl, dragging your incisor along her throbbing vein up to her jawline. “So why don’t you drop the act and be the good little slut you’re dying to be?” The lightest of kisses placed upon her jaw, the type a fool could misinterpret as affectionate. “Babble whatever you like, but we both know that the truth is already stained into my slacks.” Another—upon her cheek this time. “So just do it.” On her earlobe. “Give in.” Behind her ear. “Cum.” Into her heart.

Her eyes flare with fury for the briefest moments before her tremors tell all and her nails dig into your arms. You hear the desperation she’s been choking back this entire time finally break through as her grip on you tightens, her world goes dark, and she sinks her teeth into your shoulder. She sobs, shaking like a lone leaf amidst the storm as you waltz into her vault of core memories and claim your rightful spot atop them all.

In the following moments, the only thing stopping silence from settling in is the intensity of her breathing as she desperately attempts to calm her thunderous heartbeat and collect her thoughts. As for her pride ...

"Fuck."

The lone word lingers in the air, only heightening the tension as mental fog and fatigue prevent her from relighting the fire that had recently burned so bright. You wait as her breath catches once more and she chokes down oxygen, savoring the silence in the interim. While your patience has often paid off, that’s not why you refuse to speak up now. No, it’s because you know the truth that she’ll never admit—the truth that each moment of recovery acts as further recognition of your performance. So yeah, you’re willing to wait. You may be rock hard and yet to be pleasured, but your ego has been stroked sufficiently enough for seventy centuries, so why not bask in the afterglow?

Once she musters enough mettle to match your gaze, you can’t tell whether she wants to murder or mount you immediately. Likely both. She opens her mouth to speak, but you cut her off with a response, showing her the truth—the higher priority. You show her the time: 6:52. Two minutes until she needs to be back. She immediately understands, and you allow her the room to escape the wall she’s been pinned against. As you make sure the room is in order, she utilizes one of the mirrors to craft her best impression of composure. This time, both of you finish simultaneously, and she turns to leave unceremoniously.

“Wait.” Despite having every reason not to, she stops, listening to your command and turning to face you. You have no words that need to be spoken, but you toss her your scarf, just in case. She nods in understanding, then sighs in realization. Because you’ve helped make sure that no one else will find out. But you’ve also reminded her that she’ll never forget what happened here.

“Daejejeon?” she asks, curiosity peeking through as she references the upcoming music festival.

“And the afterparty,” you affirm, confirming her intrigue and your New Year’s Eve plans.

“I’ll see you then,” she declares as she turns to depart.

“I’ll see you then,” you call out to the retreating form. “You’ll see me much sooner than that.”

A lone finger is her only response. The singular nature of the gesture elicits a chuckle as you begin your own exit down a different path, knowing full well that you’ll be monopolizing her dreams for at least a few nights. And as you exit the building to view the vast darkness overhead, you can’t help but wonder what secrets await you in the silent hours of the next six nights.

Only one way to find out.

Continued in Act Two …

(Special shoutouts to @braaan and @passingnotions for their insights and the time they chose to invest into this fic, I will always be so, so thankful for your support. To you, the reader, I offer both my sincerest appreciation for your patience and a promise that there’s much more to come if you’re willing to continue forth. Yuqi shows up far more frequently moving forward, and there might even be a pretty little powder keg to add in a bit of extra color. Only one way to find out.)

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #idol x reader #idol x male reader #yuqi smut #yuqi fanfic #gidle yuqi #gidle #yuqi #song yuqi #slow burn

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buryustogether · 8 months

Text

in the lap of the gods

aziraphale x f!reader x crowley

summary: it’s 1941, and aziraphale is about to perform on the west end stage. he needs an assistant, of course, but you can’t stand the outfit you’re required to wear. your angel and your demon show you just how much they love it.

word count: 3k

warnings/tags: smut and fluff, reader wears a slutty outfit, threesome, thigh riding, semi-public sex, body worship, crowley’s a horny bitch, war violence, bombs, mentions of alcohol, mentions of guns

“I really don’t see why this get-up has got to be so… revealing,” you said. “I look like a harlot.”

“Well,” came a voice from behind the thin paper of the changing screen, “I suppose it’s to entice the strapping young soldiers out there. They do seem to enjoy a bit of… should I say… adultery?”

There came a second voice from further in the room, coiled and slick like a serpent. “Or,” he drawled, “it’s for easy access.”

“Crowley,” chided the first voice, disdain dripping from his tongue.

You gave a silent huff as you adjusted the skimpy little outfit the manager of the West End theater had given you, tugging at the thin material that barely covered your breasts and the thin strap that snaked between your legs. It was a glittery, near-elastic piece of pazazz that was sure to earn you more than a few glances and whistles this evening… something you promised you wouldn’t let get to you. If not for your reputation, for the pair of men on the other side of the changing screen that encased you like a butterfly trapped in a jar.

If you inhaled deep enough, you were still able to smell the smoke that clung to Aziraphale and Crowley’s suits, permeating the air and poisoning their natural musks that you so loved to inhale. You had spent the better part of the evening, as you followed them through London streets and around a magic shop, picking pieces of rubble and dusting traces of the explosion from their backs and shoulders. The bomb had shaken you to your core despite being miles away when it had happened, tucked away safely in the passenger seat of the Bentley.

“Crowley,” you had said as your demon had parked his car between the shadows of two tall, sturdy buildings that still stood against the smoke and destruction of the bombs. “What are we doing here? There’s still planes overhead.”

“Just sit tight for a minute, love,” he’d replied before climbing from the Bentley. “It seems our angel’s got himself in a heap of mess.”

The explosion had rocked the ancient church in the distance like a match igniting a stick of dynamite; fast, and hot, and loud. You waited so long you considered getting out and running to search the site for your lovers before they had come strolling around the corner through the dark, dusting themselves off and murmuring quietly beneath their breaths.

“Aziraphale,” you had said when you climbed from the car to greet them. “What on earth have you done?”

“Good evening to you, as well, my darling,” he had said, then lifted your hand and placed a loving kiss upon your knuckles. “Just got myself a bit caught up. Nothing to worry your head over.”

Crowley had harrumphed slightly as he dropped himself into the driver’s seat once more. “Get in, you two. I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

An appointment had led to forty broken bottles of whiskey. Forty broken bottles of whiskey had led to Aziraphale becoming a magician, and that had led to buying a very real rifle with very real bullets. And the rifle, and the bullets, and the broken bottles of whiskey, and everything else had led to you finding yourself here behind this changing screen, examining the costume of a magician’s assistant who, really, was only there to look pretty and smile when the light panned over her.

Crowley had told you it would be a bit of fun, was all. Aziraphale had assured you no real harm would be done.

Had you not loved them both more than you needed air to breathe, you might have considered saying no, begging your angel to not get up on that stage, dropping to your knees and begging your demon to miracle up a few more bottles of liquor to make up for the whole thing.

But, oh… you loved them far too much.

“Are you about settled, my darling?” came Aziraphale’s voice from deeper in the cramped little dressing room. “It’s ten ‘til, and I would rather not further anger the madame of the theater any more than necessary.”

“She’s a loony old bat,” came Crowley’s quip. “A few minutes won’t hurt her.”

You took one last look down at yourself - at the feathered headband in your grip; the exposed tops of your legs and the plump ‘V’ of your upper thighs that led to their apex just covered by the elastic; the heels that glittered in the dim light; the curves of your breasts, just barely held in place by the haltered neckline of the costume. You looked ridiculous.

With a long, deep breath you felt in your sternum, you placed a hand on the edge of the changing screen. “Don’t you boys poke your fun at me,” you warned them. “I know how I look, I don’t need you both reminding me.”

You pulled back the screen and stepped out, avoiding their eyes as you fiddled with the headband. You expected Crowley to bark out bouts of laughter, for Aziraphale to politely cover his mouth and look away to hide the rosiness of his cheeks as he held back a few giggles. But there came none of that. Instead, you were only met with silence. Hesitantly, you glanced up to meet their gazes.

Crowley and Aziraphale, for once in their eternal lives, looked rather lost for words. You didn’t take too many moments to soak in the way the demon tilted down his shades so he could peer those yellow eyes over the rims, nor how the angel’s back had gone stiff and he clutched his magician’s hat to his chest so tightly his knuckles paled. Instead of entertaining their amusement, you scoffed and clicked over to the vanity illuminated with golden bulbs; funny. Almost all the Watson bulbs had been grinded down for the war efforts. You supposed the West End had a bit of advantage in their supply when it came to things like glass and elastic.

“Yes, yes, gape all you want,” you snipped as you leaned forward to examine your reflection in the mirror; Christ almighty, you looked like a common slut. “Neither of you know how humiliating this is.”

At once, your angel jumped into action. “No, dearest,” he said as he came to stand beside you at the vanity, gently discarding his hat on the countertop. “We’re not poking fun at you, not in the slightest. We’re… well, you simply look…”

You eyed him from the corner of your vision.

“Incredibly doable,” came Crowley’s pitch from where he’d spread himself across the old couch tucked against the wall.

Aziraphale sent him a rather stern glance as you felt your chest drop slightly into your belly. You fixed your reflection with another stare. You looked like a prostitute, all your private planes and surfaces on display for everyone who even glanced in your direction. There was hardly a chance they enjoyed seeing their girl pimped up like this; was there?

“What he’s attempting to say,” said your angel as he reached out a soft, well-manicured hand and rested it respectfully on the middle of your back, “is, well… you do look rather ravishing, is all.”

“Oh, stop it, the both of you. You’re being mean.” Shouldering off his touch, you reached for a bit of the lipstick resting against the vanity and tried to stop your hands from trembling as you pulled off the cap and screwed it up. In all honesty, it still flustered you a bit when they showered you in affection; which they did often. How was it possible that an angel and a demon, in love themselves, who had seen the beginning of the earth and all the beautiful men and women in it, had fallen for you, a mortal, a little bit of soul within this planet full of it?

It didn’t quite make sense to you, but in the moments like these, when you felt yourself growing weak against their words, you cast the thought aside and let sense run rampant.

“After all this time, and you still don’t believe us when we say something nice?” clicked Crowley, reaching up to take the brim of his hat and rest it on the arm of the couch. He tilted his head at you in the reflection of the mirror, his gaze just out of sight behind his shades. “Come here.”

You looked to Aziraphale before blinking a few times, smearing your third layer of lipstick across your mouth. “The show will start soon,” you heard yourself say hesitantly. “I have to go out and announce him to the audience before…”

“Come here.”

Your demon’s sudden drop in tone sent a pang of both anxiety and arousal racing through you like fire dancing along your veins. You set down the tube of lipstick, hearing it clatter slightly from the shaking of your hand, and twisted around on your ridiculous heels to face him. He sat there on the couch, legs spread like he owned the world and arms stretched across the back of the seats like he was waiting for his two favorite people to arrive at his sides. He waited chin held high, finger tapping impatiently on the back. Aziraphale said nothing as you trailed from his side and approached the demon; when he spoke like this, it affected the both of you in the same way.

Crowley adjusted his legs when you came to him, allowing you to tentatively straddle his thighs until your hips were flush against his. A look back in the mirror told you your ass was hanging out of your skimpy little get-up, the leotard-like shape doing nothing to protect your modesty. Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying it quite nicely. You felt long, slender fingers touch your chin and guide your vision back to your demon. With his other hand, he reached up and pulled off his shades so that he could meet your gaze, yellow, slitted eyes boring into yours.

“You really ought to start taking our word for things, love,” Crowley said, and you shivered when his voice retained its deep baritone that only saw the light when there were two things at hand; imminent danger, and the promise of depravity. “‘Cause when we say you look good…” He leaned forward until his thin lips were level with the shell of your ear, his breath fanning across your skin. “We bloody well mean it.”

His hips shallowly bucked up into yours then and the rough material of his trousers rubbed at your clit perfectly through the thin elastic of your costume. You were unable to keep a soft, breathy murmur from escaping your lips at the sudden jolt of feeling, your hands flying up to balance yourself on his broad shoulders.

Behind you, you heard Aziraphale take in a small breath at the sight. He nervously shuffled his weight on his feet, glancing to the door that led to the stage. “Crowley,” he said in what should have been a warning, but it was far too soft to be taken seriously. “Now is… now is certainly not a good time for this.”

Crowley pulled another sound from you, this time a moan, when he held your hips in place and bucked again. “Well, it’s like I said,” he replied, tilting his head so he could look up at you as your hair fell into your face and your eyes began to roll back. “A few minutes won’t hurt them.” The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “Besides, our girl’s nervous. Come and lend a hand, calm her a bit. You know how she likes it.”

You felt your face flush with heat from embarrassment, but you were slowly losing your will to care as Crowley leaned down to attach his lips to the base of your throat. His forked tongue laved across your skin like he was trying to memorize your taste, teeth nipping and fingers tightening around your waist. You were hardly able to notice when a second weight dipped the couch beside him, and your demon patted your thigh to get you to move. You knew just what to do; you always did. Feeling yourself beginning to grow slick between your legs, most assuredly ruining the gusset of this ridiculous outfit, you swung your legs over to kneel across both Crowley and Aziraphale’s thighs, which were pressed together where they sat so close not an inch of light could have separated them.

Aziraphale’s warm hand reached out to gently cup your chin, his thumb brushing lovingly across your jaw. “Forgive our earlier stutter, my darling,” he said, then leaned forward to press his plump lips to the point where your clavicle dipped. “I assume by now you know the effect you have on us.” He kissed you again, this time upon your bare shoulder. “Especially when you present yourself in such an outfit.”

Just a sigh escaped your lips, Crowley’s finger ran along your side, pulling a short yip from your throat that he quickly swallowed by fitting his mouth over yours. From there, they moved like they shared one mind, like they knew you inside and out because, really, they did.

The couch creaked quietly as Crowley dragged your barely-clothed cunt over their thighs, earning them a drawn-out moan like a symphony to their ears, and Aziraphale’s grip came up to hold the back of your neck steady as he pressed kiss after kiss to anywhere he could reach; your throat; your chest; your shoulder; your arm. They moved you about like their own little doll, so familiar and fine tuned with your reactions they knew they would happen before they did. Sparks erupted like flint on stone within the pit of your belly when, eventually, Crowley pulled you forward at a slightly new angle and your clit caught wonderfully upon a hitch in Aziraphale’s trousers. You tilted your head back and released a long moan, barely able to keep yourself up when you were suddenly worked to hit that spot over and over again.

“Ah…!” you mewled as Aziraphale nipped ever so softly at the exposed skin of your shoulder. Your arms trembled as you struggled to keep your hold on their shoulders. “Oh, right there, boys, right there. Keep going, please don’t stop…!”

Crowley’s lips tilted up into a crooked smirk, slitted eyes drinking you in like a forbidden liquor he’d been dying for since he first heard of it. “I hardly think you need to go out there at all, angel,” he said to Aziraphale beside him. “We’ve got our own show right here.”

You worked your hips along with Crowley’s push and pull, offering more and more of your skin to your angel for him to mark and lavish, feeling yourself approach that cliff they so loved to drag you off again and again. You never feared the fall; you knew they would always be waiting to catch you before you hit the bottom.

Small, whimpered noises escaped your throat as you chased your released upon their thighs, your clit rubbing and catching perfectly against their trousers like this was exactly what they were made for. Lips were showering your skin with love and affection. Hands were anchored securely to your waist. You were held so intensely, so beautifully, that it only took a few words from the tip of Crowley’s tongue to send you reeling toward your end.

“Come on and sin for us, love.”

Your orgasm came hard and fast, racking your body with trembles and twitches you couldn’t control, with bursts of color in your vision like fireworks, like guns firing off beside your ears with smoke that would blind you for days. You felt your release stain the fabric of their pants, and it was the last thing you really minded before all but collapsing against the pair. Hands, arms, mouths caught you securely, rubbing along your back, holding you tight, gently kissing along your face. You felt them pull away for just a moment to meet each other for a deep, passionate kiss before returning to smothering you with adoration.

It was an idyllic few seconds, the quiet that came after an explosion of a moment such as that, before there came a sharp, rattling knock against the dressing room door. “Pick up the pace, Mister Fell,” came the voice of the madame of the theater. “We’ve got an audience waiting, and the war’s not getting any better these days!”

You groaned softly, nestling your face into Aziraphale’s neck as he stroked your hair and called in return, “Ah, yes, of course. We’ll be right out!”

You wanted nothing more than to not go up on the damned West End stage, to smile and twist in your glittery costume and tease the soldiers in the audience like you hadn’t just gotten your world rocked within an inch of your life. And yet… everything came to an end. You whimpered again when your angel gently shifted you off of him, placing you temporarily in Crowley’s hold, before getting to his feet and gently snapping his fingers. You felt the dampness across your demon’s thigh fade into nothingness, along with the slick between your legs. Your hair righted itself to its former do, and the smudged lipstick across your mouth was once more perfected. When you lifted your head, however, you noticed Crowley had elected to keep the messy imprint of your lips across the corner of his mouth.

He noticed you looking and gave you a sly, crooked grin. “I like to wear my trophies,” he said before pulling your head close and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Come along now, gorgeous. Don’t want to keep the fans waiting.”

Shakily, you got to your feet, struggling momentarily to stand on your heels. While your heart slowed its racing pulse and the heat gently ebbed from your cheeks, Aziraphale lifted your feathered headband from before and tucked it securely over your hair.

“There’s our darling,” he murmured, smiled softly down at you, then tilted up your chin to press a light, though nonetheless loving kiss upon your swollen lips. “Are you ready?”

You took a breath, straightened yourself out, and nodded your head. “I am now, I think,” you replied.

“Perfect,” said your angel. “Because I’ve got a bullet to catch.”

#good omens #good omens smut #good omens aziraphale #good omens x reader #good omens crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens x you #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale x you #crowley x you #aziraphale #crowley #crowley smut #Aziraphale smut

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juniperskye · 2 months

Text

Begin Again.

Sneak peek: Reader got out of a relationship about eight months ago and was sure love was meant to burn and break and end…but this particular Wednesday made her believe that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again with someone new.

Aaron Hotchner x (Fem) Reader

Angst/Fluff

Word count: 1236

***Flashbacks are indented and in italics – this story flashes from present to past a few times. ***

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, implied age gap (kinda?), anxiety, self-consciousness, Past abusive relationship, explicit LANGUAGE, no use of y/n, mention of Jack, mention of Hotch’s previous relationship, story is guided by begin again by Taylor Swift (lyrics aren’t all directly used), mention of a love of the Beatles. I think that’s all, let me know if I missed any!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror, second guessing your outfit choice. Were the heels too much? Would he comment on them, would he be okay with them? Maybe you should switch to flats, they would be a safer choice.

“Babe seriously. Do you have to wear heels?” He berated you. “These are the shoes she told us to wear. I can’t switch shoes I’m a bridesmaid and were all supposed to look uniform.” You explained. “Really? You’re going to make me look so fucking stupid. Who cares if she chose those, just tell her the didn’t fit or the clasp broke or something.” “I’m not doing that.” You said. “You’re so difficult. Just change your shoes, it’s not a big deal. I just don’t want to look like a fucking idiot because my girlfriend is towering over me.” He continued.

You could remember multiple arguments that went that way. Him yelling at you for dressing how you wanted, so you didn’t. He started picking out your clothes and you complied, because that was easier than having him tear you down.

You smoothed your hands over your clothes and made your way out the door. The drive to the Café was a short one. You parked and made your way across the street, ready to go in and get a table for the two of you, fully expecting to have beaten him there.

To your surprise, when you opened the door, there he was. Aaron stood from his seat and walked toward you. You met him halfway and he pulled you into a gentle embrace. You didn’t fail to notice how he still towered over you despite your heels,

“Hi! It’s so good to see you.” He said pulling out your chair.

“Oh, thank you! It’s good to see you too, I was really glad you called.” You smiled as Aaron returned to his seat across from you.

“Yeah, sorry that it’s a random Wednesday, but with my job it makes it so hard and with us being free today I wanted to take the chance and spend it with you.” Aaron explained.

“I am happy to be here! The day doesn’t matter.” You shot Aaron a shy smile.

“You look beautiful by the way.”

You couldn’t help but blush at Aaron’s words. He had been so kind and gentle with you since you had started seeing one another. You had only gone on a few dates, but things were really good. The two of you had agreed to take things slow, having both gotten out of relationships not too long ago and Aaron also had Jack to think about. You guys had texted and talked on the phone quite a bit. He had gone as far as to call you late one night after a particularly rough case.

The two of you were currently talking about how your respective weeks have gone. Aaron had just gotten back from a case (hence why you were on your date now) and you had just completed a pretty big project at work. In the midst of your conversation, the song playing in the café changed to I Will by the Beatles, one of your favorite songs.

“Oh my god I love this song!” You gushed, quietly humming along.

“You like the Beatles?” Aaron asked.

“I love them! I have every one of their albums on vinyl.” You blushed.

“I don’t think I have ever met a woman with the same level of Beatles obsession as my own.” Aaron smiled at you in admiration.

The two of you ate while quietly enjoying the music and one another’s company.

“For if I ever saw you, I didn’t catch your name. But it never really mattered, I will always feel the same. Love you forever and forever, love you with all my hear- “ “Jesus, can you stop fucking singing that song?” He huffed. “Babe, it’s a really good song, I wish you would just listen to the words.” “I don’t give a shit about your stupid song. I don’t get it anyway.” He shut you down.

Aaron and you continued your conversation upon finishing your meal. You were in pure bliss with how amazing things were going. Aaron was attentive and gave you his full attention. He nodded and responded when it was needed. He also held conversation so well, he gave just enough information about himself in combination with asking you about yourself.

Another thing that had you swooning over Aaron was the fact that he had thrown his head back in laughter a few times throughout your conversation. You truly couldn’t wrap your head around how lucky you had been to have met Aaron. Your ex had never found your sense of humor funny, and it was nice to be in the presence of someone who appreciated it.

“Can you not make jokes like that when we’re in front of my friends? Like seriously what the fuck was that?” He demanded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a joke. Your friends laughed.” You shrugged. “It wasn’t even funny. They just laughed out of pity to save you from the embarrassment of nobody understanding your stupid ass jokes.” He rolled his eyes at you as he stormed off.

Aaron checked his watch and noticed how late it was getting. He looked into your eyes and smiled, neither one of you wanting this day to end. But he needed to go pick up Jack from soccer practice.

“Can I walk you to your car?” Aaron asked.

“That would be great.” You smiled, wrapping your scarf around your neck.

As you made your way over to your car, you thought about talking to Aaron about how your ex had truly broken you, and that part of the reason you’d requested to take things so slowly is because you had to relearn how to accept love from someone. The last eight months had allowed you time to fall in love with yourself again, but loving someone else was a whole new obstacle you were working through.

Aaron’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, he had been talking about how he wanted to introduce you to Jack, not now, but in the near future. He had come up with a nice way to do so.

“So, Jack and I always watch Elf and the Grinch around Christmas, I think it could be nice if one night you came over and watched one of them with us, you know. It gives us a few more weeks to really solidify things between us and by then we will have been seeing each other for four months. What do you say?” Aaron looked hopefully at you.

“Only if it’s the Jim Carrey Grinch movie. That new animated one is cute and all, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the live action.” You smiled back at him.

“Of course, it’s the Jim Carrey one. We take things very seriously at our house.” Aaron smirked at you.

Aaron and you shared a laugh, and then he brushed his hand over your cheek, leaned in, and kissed you gently. December couldn’t come fast enough. Things with your ex had really messed you up, and he’d left you believing that love wasn’t meant to flourish, just burn, and break and end.

But on a Wednesday, in a Café you watched it begin again.

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bg3galore · 3 months

Text

Sleeping headcanons

Wyll

-Will hum you a soft tune and rub shapes into your back, while you're settling down for the night.

-Would definitely tell you stories of his life growing up and about his dreams for the future, while you listen closely to his breathing; until you fall asleep.

-Always kisses your forehead before falling asleep.

-Chuckles softly to himself every time you fall asleep before him and will take it as an opportunity to watch your sweet face sleeping; wondering if you're dreaming and what about.

Karlach

-Is a loud snorer and a very deep sleeper

-The perfect cuddler, especially for a harsh winter night; that infernal engine will actually be put to a good cause- comforting the two of you from the prickle of ice, snow and cold alike.

-During the summer, she tends to smother you a bit so you have to squirm your way out of her hold a few times if you're to get any rest at all

-Gets particularly soft and vulnerable when you tuck her hair behind her ears and tell her every little thing you love about her; it makes her feel like her engine is going to combust on site- but in the best way possible.

Shadowheart

-Plays with your hair and enjoys it when you do too

-She always prays right before and right after sleeping and always mentions you in her prayers; she wants you to be safe and healthy forever and always.

-On rare nights that she does have a nightmare (not doubt featuring wolves) she'll reluctantly wake you up and want you to spoon her and comfort her tenderly with words or reassurance; she knows it's silly that they are just wild dogs with no table manners but they terrify her to her core.

-She takes a couple of hours to fall asleep, so in the meantime she likes to read, meditate and admire every inch of you while you sleep or chill in your shared bedroll; it reminds her how lucky and blessed she is everyday.

Gale

-Snores mildly on nights his orb is particularly vexing but will still insist on you cuddling up together; he will apologise for all the trouble he knows he causes although he knows he can't control his situation or habits.

-You have a nightly ritual where you'll lay adjacent to each other and get lost in each others eyes, which tends to lead Gale to slowly getting flustered and eventually crumbling and being very keen for some sleep- he can't control his love or actions in relation to you very well so having you looking at him like that really switches something in him.

-If you ever have trouble falling or staying asleep he'll cast a sleep spell on you to make sure you will get your well deserved rest, and watch over you for a little while just in case something should happen or change.

-On nights where he struggles to sleep and you have long been taken ahold by sleep, he'll wonder off to a quiet place on the other side of camp and quietly play with his magic.

Lae'zel

-She's the type to kick and move around a lot in her sleep, maybe even growl- although she has no memory or idea about it; she would be too proud to admit it willingly anyways.

-Very light sleeper, from as early as she can remember she never wants to give any potential enemies the upper hand so she applies this too to her sleep- she will be the one with a blade to their throat.

-Initially she's not a huge fan of the cuddling idea but once you've been together for a while she starts warming up to the idea of it, and will try it once everyone is asleep; she's full of a soft joy and ever so slightly god forbid drops her guard.

-Falls asleep very easily despite her guard being up so much, she has a lot of pent up rage, anxiety and just general exhaustion so this wears a toll on her body taking her completely out before you even realize it.

Astarion

-Is prone to frequent nightmares/reliving his past with the Szarr household, which causes him to jolt awake and sometimes cry or scream.

-Otherwise he's a quiet sleeper and a wonderful cuddler, he always wakes up in the same position he fell asleep in.

-His favorite sleeping position is to have his head directly on your chest so he can listen to your heartbeat, he finds it incredibly comforting and reassures him that he's not alone and won't ever have to be again- not at night, not in the day and certainly not against his demons.

-Takes a minimum of 4 hours to fall asleep especially if he's left alone with his thoughts; they eat at him with anxiety and doubt- so he tends to get to bed much earlier than everyone else in camp.

Halsin

-Only tends to snore if he's been in wild shape for too long

-Wonderful big spoon, also loves to hold you against his chest while you lay by the camp fire and watch the stars and reminisce on stories long past.

-Like Astarion he relives/has nightmares about some of his traumatic experiences from his youth but he's much more discreet about it and will do his best not to wake you up; and instead will go for a brief walk to clear his head and take in the scent of nature and all its bounties.

-Adores it when you nuzzle your face into his neck and will absolutely make you lay completely all over him so he can be closer to you; unless it embarrasses you of course.

#astarion #bg3 #gale #halsin #headcanons #karlach #lae'zel #shadowheart #wyll #sleeping

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astercontrol · 2 months

Text

If KOSA passes

Or if any other form of censorship (there are many in the works!) ever succeeds at stepping in to impede our ability to communicate online:

We have to make plans.

Now, I dunno who'll even see this post. The few followers I have are TRON fans (who despite the fantasy we live in, tend to have realistically dismal views IRL about Disney and the various corporate uses of software).

And this fandom, on average, is pretty tech-savvy. It's where I've encountered the most people under 20 years old who actually know how to use a desktop or laptop computer.

So, if there's any hope for what I'm thinking about, this is prolly a good place to start with it.

(As with all my posts, I encourage reblogging and containment-breaching.)

(Gifs are clips from TRON 1982, mainly the "deleted love scene," from the DVD extras.)

Anyway.

Current society has moved online communication much too far onto major social media sites for my comfort. Whoever you communicate with over the internet, chances are you do it through a service owned by a big company: Tumblr, Twitter, Discord, Telegram, Facebook, whatever. Even TikTok (shudder).

These sites, despite their many flaws, can provide experiences that are valuable and hard to get otherwise. And once all your friends are on one site, you can't just leave and stay in touch with them all, not unless they all go the same place. It's easy to see why it's hard to abandon any social media platform.

But a backup plan is important. Because, as we've seen over and over, social media sites can't be relied on. They change their policies suddenly, without good reason-- and are inconsistent, even discriminatory, about enforcing those policies.

If they're funded by ads, the advertisers are their main customers, and your posts are the product. Their goal is that the posts most valuable to the advertisers get seen by people the advertisers consider desirable customers.

Helping you communicate-- making your posts get seen by the people you want to communicate with-- is optional to them.

Not to mention that the whole business model of an ad-funded website is generally unsustainable. Many of these sites are operating at a loss, relying on shareholders in a fragile bubble, doomed to fail soon just from lack of real profit.

And the more restrictions --like KOSA-- that the law puts on freedom of online speech, the likelier they are to go down or just become unusable. Every rule a site is required to follow is another strain on its resources, and most of them are already failing badly at even enforcing their own self-imposed rules.

If we want any control over our continued ability to stay in touch with our online friends-- we need to have a backup plan. Maybe it'll be simple at first, a bare-bones system we cobble together-- but it's gotta be something that will work. For a while at least.

There are lots of really good posts about ways to build your own website, using a service like Neocities. I VERY MUCH recommend learning this skill-- learning to make websites of the very simplest, most stable, glitch-resistant type, made of html pages-- which you can upload to a host while you store backups on your home computer. If you value the writing and art that you put online, this is probably the safest you can keep it.

But that's for making your own creative work public.

As for communicating with others-- for example, receiving and answering other people's comments on your work-- that gets more complex. I personally haven't found it worthwhile to troubleshoot the problems that come with having a system that allows visitors to comment publicly on my website.

But what we do still have-- and likely will for a long time-- is email.

Those of us who came of age before social media's current hold... well, we might take this for granted. Email was the first form of online contact we ever encountered… and thus it can seem to us like the most ordinary, the most boring.

But in the current world, it is a rare and precious thing to find a method of communicating that doesn't require everyone in the chat to be signed on with the same corporation.

Email is, as of now, still perfectly legal-- as much as social media companies have been trying to herd the populace away from it. I'm sure there are other ways to share thoughts online that are not bound by laws. But I am not going to go into that here.

Email service is provided by law-abiding companies, which will comply with subpoenas if law enforcement thinks you are emailing about doing illegal things. So, email is not a surefire way to be safe, if laws become dystopian enough to threaten your freedom to talk about your own life and identity.

But it's safer than posting on a public social media page.

For now.

Email is beautifully decentralized. You can get an email address many different ways-- some reliant on a company like Gmail, others hosted on your own domain. And different people, with all different types of email addresses, hosted in all different ways-- can all communicate together by the same method.

Of course any of these people, individually, can lose their email address for some reason or other, and have to get a new one. But as long as they still know the email addresses of their contacts, they can reconnect and recover from that loss. The structure of a group linked by email is reliant not on a single company-- but on the group itself, the friends you can actually count on.

This is why I am trying to promote the idea of forming email lists, as a backup plan to give people a way to stay in touch as mainstream social media sites prove to be unsustainable.

I'm envisioning a simple system of sending emails to several addresses at once, and making each reply visible to everyone in the chat by using "reply all" (or, if desired, editing the To field to reply to only some).

If enough people get used to using email in this way, it could fill most of the needs met by any other group chat or forum …without depending on a centralized social media company that's taking dystopian measures to try and make the business profitable.

So here are some thoughts about how I personally imagine it could work.

(Feel free to comment and bring up any thoughts I haven't addressed, or suggestions to customize how specific groups could set it up. This is meant as more of a starting point for brainstorming than a catch-all solution.)

As I see it, here are the basics of what you and your friends would each need to start out:

An email address. Any kind, hosted anywhere. You should use a dedicated email account just for this group, one that you do NOT use for other communication. Being in this group will result in things you don't want happening to your main email address-- like getting a TON of email, one for every post and reply. Or someone could get your email address that you really don't want any contact with. Use a burner email account (one that you can easily replace) and change it if needed.

The knowledge of how to "REPLY ALL" in your email. This will be necessary in order to add a comment that everyone in the group can see.

The knowledge of how to EDIT THE "TO" FIELD in your email, and remove addresses from the list of all recipients. This will be necessary if you want to CHANGE WHICH PEOPLE in the group can see your comment.

The knowledge of how to FILTER WORDS in your email. This will be necessary if a topic comes up that you don't want to see any mentions of.

The knowledge of how to BLOCK PEOPLE in your email. This will be very important. If someone joins this email group who you do not want to interact with, it will be up to you to BLOCK them so that you do NOT see their messages. (If they are bad enough to evade the block with multiple burner accounts, that's what you have a burner account for. Change it, and share the new one only with those you trust not to give it to them.)

Every person in the group will be effectively a "moderator" of the group, able to remove people from it by cutting their email addresses out of the "To" field. Members will all have equal "moderator" privileges, each able to tailor the group to their own needs.

This means the group may naturally split, over time, into other groups, each one removing some people and adding others. Some will overlap, some won't. This is good! This is, in my opinion, what online interaction SHOULD be like! There should be MANY groups like this!

In this way, we can keep online discussion alive, no matter WHAT happens to any of the social media websites.

If the dystopia got bad enough to shut down email, we could even continue with postal mail and photocopies, like they did in the days of print-zine fanfiction.

If it looks like the dystopia is gonna come for postal mail too, we'll use the connection we have to preserve whatever contacts we can with people who live near us.

Not saying it's GONNA get that bad. But these steps of preparation are good no matter exactly what kind of bad stuff happens.

As long as some organized form of communication still exists, we'll have a place where it's at least a little safer to be your true self…

to plan events and meetups…

and maybe even activities a little too risque to make the final cut of a 1982 Disney movie.

They're trying to censor us. We want a Free System. So we're gonna fight back.

For the Users. Not the corporations.

Peace out, programs. <3

#tron #tronblr #tron 1982 #userworldproblems #diy punk #censorship #kosa #internet literacy #email #solutions

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ms-demeanor · 8 months

Note

since twitter has become actively hostile to its users, so they came to tumblr, and reddit has become actively hostile to its users, so they came to tumblr, what do we do now that tumblr is becoming (more) actively hostile to its users? i’ve been here for over a decade so i know tumblr users are the type to cling on despite everything and revel in undoing every change, but i’m so tired of the way this website breaks the way it fundamentally works in order to appeal to new users. the twitterfication of the site seems so much worse than when people jumped ship after the porn ban, and even then, only small communities (and twitter) cropped up as solutions. you might not be the person to ask for a definitive answer, but i figured a tech blog might be interested in considering - what do we do when there’s nowhere left to go?

Okay so, I mean this very seriously: how has tumblr meaningfully become like twitter?

I don't personally find the sidebar view obnoxious and it seems to me like just another layout change that's pretty typical to tumblr. New users are getting signed up with a bit more emphasis on algorithmic feeds, but that is still very easy to change (MUCH easier than on any other social platform) and the algorithm has been there for everyone for quite a while, we just typically don't notice it because a lot of long-term tumblr users don't go into the "for you" feed.

I don't think that tumblr *has* fundamentally broken the way that it works to appeal to new users. My dash now is still very much like my dash in 2019, and still very much like my dash in 2018 (though much less pornographic). Reblogs are still reblogs, likes are still likes. Replies, for all that they seem like they've been around forever, are new and good and I think they work well. I'm irritated that the notes menu doesn't have a "view all" option but I think that's a worthwhile tradeoff for an easy way to see tags.

I *do not* understand why tumblr has broken linking back to previous reblogs but I don't think that's out of an effort to act like twitter; it is a bizarre choice that I dislike and don't understand but I also don't think that it has fundamentally changed the way the site works and i mean you've been around long enough that I'm sure you've had the same experience I have of going into the notes of a post and randomly clicking until you found a version that you wanted to reblog without a bunch of bullshit at the bottom. Tumblr has always kind of sucked, this change DOES suck but it doesn't suck in a way that is particularly novel or insurmountable. (For instance, I think this change sucks MUCH LESS than when they made posts with links invisible to the search, that is something that is genuinely bad that has been long lasting but doesn't get brought up much in lists of the ways that tumblr has gone wrong)

Tumblr *is* changing, but I think it is changing more incrementally and less terribly than other parts of the internet. I also hate the floating clown, the login walls, the dash-only view for blogs (you can't archive it and I HATE that), and - to an extent - the new lightbox on mobile. And I dislike that less than I thought I would but I don't think it's a fundamental change that necessarily impacts my interactions with the site - it *adds* a feature that I don't care for but it doesn't *break* anything that I require to have a good time on tumblr - in that way I think of it very much like Live. People hate Live so much and I find that perplexing because it is so easy to simply ignore it.

But that's not really your question; that's just some stuff I want people to think about because as much as tumblr has changed in the last two years it is nowhere near as fucked up as the recent things that twitter and reddit have pulled.

So, as to your question: where do we go?

Well. Not to be an extremely old person on the internet, but damned if I don't miss email lists. And forums. God I miss forums. Neither of those things has all the bonuses of platforms like twitter or reddit or tumblr or facebook, but they were great ways to hang out with people you liked on the internet.

The internet is changing. I can feel it, you can feel it, I'm pretty sure we're all like cattle in a field lifting our noses and hearing some distant rumbling and becoming slowly aware that it's almost time to run. There's a coming stampede and it isn't here yet but you know it's on its way. You're not imagining that, that's how things feel right now and there are a shitload of things contributing to it.

Things like SESTA/FOSTA and KOSA (which has not passed yet but is a big red flag waving on the horizon) have been eroding away the way that users on various platforms can function. Some platforms have consolidated in ways that harm users; some new platforms have popped up and shaken up the map of the internet; some platforms are being torn apart brick by brick by owners who don't care about the users. It kind of seems like people are actually looking up and realizing that advertising is A) bad and B) doesn't actually work and I think we're running straight toward another advertising-based crash like we saw in 2017. It feels like all the desperate things that tumblr is doing is just rearranging deck chairs on the titanic as the internet as a whole starts to sink into the ocean.

Honestly, I don't think it's that bad. I think it *feels* bad, but I think we're looking at a slow whimpering death of the platforms, not a bang. I think tumblr is going to hang on at least for a few years and I think it's going to end up like livejournal and myspace, which both still exist as websites that are recognizable as updated versions of the sites they were in 2004-2010. The thing that I think would really, honestly hurt tumblr in a fundamental way is if it moved to a more algorithmic and data-sales based model of advertising, and I think that's still pretty distant. I think Automattic is aware that killing the chronological feed would be the one unforgivable sin that would cause a mass exodus and a final crash, and I think when we see that, when we can't just scroll through the feed and see what our friends did that day in order of when they did it, that's when the party is over here.

But that's still not answering your question.

So, where do we go? What do we do? Well, for now, I'd say it's a good time to get contact info for your friends across various platforms. Get email addresses, get phone numbers.

Now is also the time for you to set up a personal website. NeoCities is currently the best place to do this, though it takes a lot more effort than just starting a blog on tumblr. I think that various oldschool blogging sites like Wordpress and Blogger/Blogspot/whatever the hell the google one is are a better place to have your emergency backup than a more platform-y platform if you aren't up to doing something with NeoCities.

If you've got the ability to do so and a group of people who are interested in the same core subject, set up a forum. There's a decent amount of off-the-shelf forum software out there and a text-and-small-images forum isn't prohibitively expensive, but it's never going to be huge and you're never going to have the kind of spread and virality and random connections that you would on a platform with millions or billions of users.

If you can't set up a forum, setting up or joining a discord server for your friends is a decent enough option at the moment, and may be a very good option for people who are looking to keep their interactions more private.

But yeah i think right now is a great time for people to start setting up their own personal websites, to start visiting actual webpages again, to start bookmarking their friends' websites, and to start collecting contact info that isn't tied to platforms.

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heartfullofleeches · 5 months

Note

angel darling whos a bit disconnected from modern terms walking up to c.c and saying "yas girl slay. so cunty girlypop" with not contexr because they saw it online and thought it was a normal compliment

Yan Incubus + Angel Darling blurb

The human world is such a fun and interesting place.

Everywhere you look, you learn something new. Things have changed so much since the last time you interacted with the mortal realm, but with the help of the kind demon you met during your travels you've had an easier time at processing everything at a beginner's pace. Your superiors always warned you to steer clear of his kind, but he hardly seemed like a threat. Not only had he given you bed and board, but as an added gift for staying away from humans as he instructed the demon had given you a cellular device to use while he was away.

There was a lengthy list of restrictions on the device, his number was the only one you could call under these boundaries, but that hardly put a damper on your fascination with it. You haven't seen one of these since they were just buttons and dials attached to a cord on the wall. It's amazing how much human technology has advanced in such a short time. Regardless of setbacks you're learning new facts about the modern world left and right, and you owe it all to your new companion.

You felt as if you owed him for his kindness, despite him insisting your company was payment enough. If that truly was the case, what better way to thank him than with gentle adulation using words you've picked up during late night binges scouring the internet. He always teases you for your "grandma speech" when you've complimented him in the past, despite the flush of his cheeks reaching his ears everytime. You wonder what his reaction will be when you call him by terms more fitting to the times.

C.C poses in front of his mirror - balancing on his toes as he bends to get a better look at the curve of his skirt over his rear. "So what do you think, babe? Am I cute enough for your first night out on the town?"

It's about the sixth time he's changed his skirt alone, but you think he's looked lovely in all of them. Nevertheless- it's your time to shine. Clearing your throat, you straighten your back as your eyes meet his from the mirror.

"Slay, Queen - you are serving so much cunt, girlypop."

C.C blinks - expression drain from his face. "What?"

"I said - Sla-"

"No, I heard what you said. Where did you pick up that kind of language?"

"Aside from you, online, I suppose."

C.C rounds the side of the bed, extending his hand with a few dramatic gestures forward. "Gimme your phone."

"Huh?"

He huffs and leans in close. "Now, Y/n."

"Have I don't something to upset you?"

Eyes flashing red, C.C grips your shoulders - hissing through his teeth as he speaks. "You aren't supposed to say things like that. You're supposed to call me beautiful or "a grace among man" or any of that other cute dorky shit you normal call me."

"Oh.... my apologies. I didn't mean to offend."

C.C sighs, throwing his arms around you in a tight hug. "No.. it's alright, I just really like what you use now. It's cheesy, but it's you and you are the most adorable your God ever had a hand in creating." He kisses your cheek, lips curled into that mischievous grin he's known for as they draw up to your ear. "But - I'll gladly be your Queen any day so I don't mind if we keep that one.... I'm still blocking the sites you picked the rest of those words off of."

#yandere #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere x reader #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #male yandere #yandere incubus #C.C my oc

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chochuuya · 6 months

Text

tending to his wounds.

scenario with (a few) tr boys! ヾ(・ω・*)

"no... no it's okay," he reassures quietly.

he doesn't want to complain that you're being a little too rough with his wounds. he's already bothering you enough, he thought. still can't comprehend the fact that you're so nice to him, despite always getting into fights.

he can still remember the first time you tended to his wounds. his heart just flutters every time he thinks of the sweet memory.

you with him? it's almost like a black cat and golden retriever sort of situation. who's who? i don't even know.

"it's okay." you mocked him.

"liar. you're clearly hurt. always fighting and then asking me to patch you up. i already told you to not get into fights, babe. or maybe lessen it a little..?" you rambled on and on while cleaning up the wounds on his knuckles.

"i'm fine," he grumbled back. while it may be true that he's hurting, he's far too stubborn to admit it. he doesn't like showing his weaknesses to anyone, especially not someone as sweet as you.

his mind goes into a frenzy when he hears your pet name for him, causing him to turn an embarrassing shade of red.

"babe..?" he mutters under his breath.

you look up to him with an eyebrow raised. "what's wrong?"

"n-nothing." he quickly changes his facial expression so that he no longer looks all red and flustered. his heart rate immediately slows, although it is still pumping at a much faster rate than before.

"just thinking, that's all," he added.

you thought about it and quickly realized as you pressed your lips together and shutting your eyes in shame.

damn it. why and how did that slipped out?!

"shoot, sorry. it's a habit."

he didn't expect you to apologize. his eyebrows shoot up and he tilts his head slightly.

"sorry... for what exactly? calling me babe?" he asks curiously, taking in the fact that you, in fact, used a nickname for him.

"uh, yeah." you quickly stick on the bandaids and stand up from your chair.

"okay, all done!"

he notices that you don't look nearly as embarrassed as he is. this causes him to blush even harder and his face looks like a tomato. he watches you stand up, not really knowing how to react.

"wait, where are you going?" he asks quietly, not wanting you to leave.

"going home obviously, it's almost 5." you say nonchalantly as you put your backpack on.

"alright.." he mutters as his eyebrows furrow, watching you put your bag on. while he tries to contain his emotions, something slips out.

"do you maybe wanna hangout after school one day..?" he asks in what he thinks is a casual manner, but is actually full of nervous glances your way.

hm, maybe this is the start of something new. wink wonk

RINDOU, chifuyu, mitsuya, inui, BAJI, angry, akkun, draken, your fav ♡

please do not steal, copy, translate, repost to other sites or claim my writings as your own. plagiarism is real!

just imagining rindou acting this way makes my heart ache (-ω-、) i hope you enjoyed reading this~ reblogs & likes are always appreciated!! ♡

#🐯 luna writes #🐯 luna's fics #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers fluff #tokyo revengers scenarios #tokyo revengers imagines #tokyo revengers x reader #x reader #rindou x reader #chifuyu x reader #mitsuya x reader #inui x reader #baji x reader #angry x reader #akkun x reader #draken x reader

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shreddedparchment · 12 days

Text

The Garden Gate

Pairing: Medieval!Loki x Reader Word Count: 6,514

Warnings: smut, mentions of infidelity, language, bodily fluids, jealousy, Loki in a poofy shirt

A/N: Well, I haven't done this in a while. I had to go look for an old post to see how I used to do these openings. LUL Anywho, y'all can thank @darkficsyouneveraskedfor for this one. She sent me a picture and then I asked her for three characters and three scenarios and this one is the one that spoke to me the most. I did put my own spin on it but that's just me. Anywho, I'm not sure how many of my old readers will read this but I hope y'all like it. Anything y'all have to say about it is also greatly appreciated. xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other sites or blogs!!

REBLOGS are always welcome!

Your family’s fall from grace had been nothing short of spectacular.

It had started first with the crumbling of respect from the men and heads of other houses. The gentry had taken offense to the shame of your father and eldest brother’s retreat at the battle for Carmine Valley, so named for the blush of trees that peppered the expanse of lush green and the strange but beautiful red waters of the central lake.

Had Lord Odinson’s own knights not been flanking from the western ridges, the valley would have fallen into the hands of the northern enemy forces. A great loss seeing as the valley was the largest producer of grain and vegetables in the kingdom.

The fallout had been catastrophic. Both your father and brother had been sent to the wild woods to the southernmost parts of the kingdom to work off their shame and languish in the dangerous labor camps where men were said to be torn into shreds by beasts as large as a carriage.

Even though you loved them very much, you couldn’t help the anger within your veins at their betrayal to not only the kingdom, but to your very family. The abandonment that their retreat meant. They knew what doing so would do to you, your mother, and younger brother.

If it were not for the King’s good nature, you’d have no doubt found yourself working in some brothel alongside your mother leaving your younger brother, at the tender age of seven, exposed to the worst parts of society.

The seediest brothels were not above selling children, you knew. No matter that the King had signed a death warrant for anyone known to sell or buy said company. It was the worst of sins and it breaks your heart to know that one man’s generosity saved all three of you from that life when he could have very well condemned it.

Knowing this–knowing how bad it could have been–doesn’t change the fact that your life now is still torture. Torture of a different kind, but torture all the same.

The King’s kindness came in the form of service. While your family was stripped of all titles and wealth, you’d also lost your beloved.

That is the true source of agony in your chest as you struggle with the bucket of waste water you’re holding, trying desperately not to slosh it around too hard. The last thing you want to do is to go to bed smelling of someone else’s bodily fluids.

The thick wool of your simple navy dress and the apron you keep tied over it are both great for absorbing disgusting materials. Already in need of a wash, the white ruffle along the neckline is frayed and yellowing despite the gown being only a few months old.

Edging along the courtyard wall, you try not to rush. The exhaustion in your body begs for sleep. Even months later the labor of working in the castle as a servant to former peers has not grown easier.

Wincing as the rough rope of the bucket burns the center of your palms, you almost sigh but instead freeze at the sight before you.

You’d know his silhouette anywhere.

The light is low here, a small lamp just beyond the open garden gate illuminates them from behind and hides their expressions but you don’t need to see to understand.

Her lips are parted, head pressed back against the door, hand braced against the warm brown and ornately carved wood. Her legs are parted a little too wide, a subtle motion of his left arm and the bunch of fabric around his forearm tell you enough of what you’ve stumbled upon.

You’re embarrassed and try to fade back into the darkness of the small courtyard behind you.

His shoulder length hair, black as a raven’s feather, is disheveled. You notice her hand gripping it tightly as his arm pumps.

A wispy, sultry moan slips through her parted lips and you stumble, gasping your own bit of surprise as you try not to spill the bucket’s contents.

A small splash, luckily away from you but the shuffle of feet and the rustle of fabric tells you that you’ve been noticed.

You look up, Lord Loki stands facing you, hands fisted as she hides behind him quickly adjusting her skirts.

“Oh, it’s you,” Lord Loki says, disdain in his voice.

Everyone here hates you. You already know this. Your father’s sins are your own. Nothing can change that.

“Finally where you belong,” the girl says and you recognize the voice with a small shock of pain in your chest. “You smell like piss.”

Lord Loki chuckles and you shrink just a little. More embarrassed by your own situation than catching them in the act. In fact, you’re disgusted by both of them, not only because of their audacity to do this at all, but because the woman whose fingers Lord Loki were just in is also your once beloved’s fiance.

Your former confidant. Lady Amora Antress. You’d once considered her your closest friend. Now here she stands, betrothed to one brother while fucking the other. The venom she spits at you is also unappreciated and painful to hear.

How long had she hated you before your downfall? How long had she waited before pursuing Thor?

“Aren’t you going to reply to her ladyship, servant?” Lord Loki asks, gleeful mirth in his voice as he takes a step towards you.

You bow your head even more, holding the bucket in your hands as still as you can while your hands struggle with the burn of the rope.

Amora scoff, “Pathetic. Leave her be, Loki. She’s where she deserves to be. She’s not worth the breath in our lungs.”

You don’t mean to cry. The utter betrayal of your once friend hurts more even than the loss of your once future husband.

“Are you crying?” Amora laughs, moving around Lord Loki, her shoes clicking against the brick of the courtyard. She stops in front of you, arms crossed over her ample bosom, still exposed more than it should be from what she and Lord Loki were just about to do. “You’re pathetic. The least you could do is be invisible while you serve.”

You say nothing, fist tightening around the rope. Pain shifts into rage at the cruelty in her words.

The wind blows and you can smell the scent of their near copulation. Luckily, it’s driven away by the vines of jasmine that creep along the tops of the brick wall.

She doesn’t deserve Thor. But you know that he never deserved you either. The rate at which he moved on…

Almost as if she’s sensing your thoughts, she takes a step closer and drops her voice to a whisper. You know Lord Loki will still be able to hear.

“Poor little flower, so careless and trusting.” She smiles. “You know it was so easy to seduce Thor. Even before your disgrace of a father betrayed his kingdom, Thor came to my bed often. Such a chaste little thing you were. You had no idea that every night after he whispered sweet promises in your ear of a happy future, he was burying his cock deep in my cunt, whispering how glorious I felt around him. Promising that even after you married, he would slip away and fuck me because no cunt could be as good as mine.”

Whore. Your heart shattered. Finally your eyes met hers.

She took a slight step back at whatever she saw in them. The hatred coursing through you set your teeth on edge. You wanted so much to rip her hair from its roots. If you could gouge her eyes out with your fingers without the consequence of a beheading, you would.

Perhaps she could see that promise of death in your eyes.

She scoffed, a reaction to whatever fear she felt in that moment.

“Now, now, ladies.” Lord Loki chastised, “Let’s keep things civil.”

“Civility? From a servant?” Amora looked at him then back at you, her hateful smirk twisting her pretty face into an ugly mask.

No…this is her true face. Her long blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes might make her superficially beautiful, but you can see the true ugliness in her now.

“Trash knows no civility.” She spits.

Done with this encounter you make to move around her to finish your duties. You need rest. Body and now soul exhausted, the sanctuary of your quarters beckons like a beacon.

She steps in your way, smiling cruelly as she does.

You make to move around her again. She blocks you once more.

Body shaking with rage, you don’t bother stopping this time as she steps in front of you. Instead you let yourself fall against her, your bucket sloshing loudly as you angle the wide opening towards her.

The smell of piss and shit slices through the scent of sex and jasmine.

Amora screams, stepping back quickly until she bumps into Lord Loki who quickly pushes her away from himself, a wrinkle of disgust on his handsome face.

The green damask pattern of her silk gown grows slowly darker as the piss soaks into the fabric. A dark brown stain sets in towards the bottom.

“You probably should have moved out of my way, my lady.” The casual tone of your voice, the respect you can now fake like a professional grifter sounds so real that your taunt sounds like an apology.

“You bitch!” Amora growls.

Lord Loki catches her by the arm before she can move towards you.

“Perhaps, Lady Antress, you may want to go and change? If what you say is true and my brother will seek you out, I doubt very much he’d desire your company if you smell like shit and piss. No matter how delicious your cunt may be.” Lord Loki’s smirk gives away his delight at Amora’s distress.

Almost as soon as he’s grabbed her, he drops his hand and angles himself away from her slowly to avoid being soiled as well.

“Forgive me, my lady,” you curtsy, a perfect bow. “It was an accident.”

Amora glares at you then looks at Lord Loki who has taken to pressing the fingers of his right hand against his nose to shield from the smell, affixing her with a look of amused disgust.

Amora huffs, “Fuck you.” Then turns and stomps past you across the courtyard and disappears into the castle.

“That was nicely done,” Lord Loki says once you’re alone.

You give him a quick curtsy and move towards the gate to toss the remaining waste where it belongs in the river just past the far end of the large hedged garden.

Ignoring the sound of his following footsteps against the gravel and footstones, you wander through the fragrant rows of flowers.

“If anyone had been watching, no one would have doubted your sincerity with that apology.” He declares, hastening his footsteps to catch up with you, settling in to your right as he matches your pace. “I’m impressed. You never gave me the impression that you even knew how to lie let alone be deceptive.”

Grinding your teeth, you attempt to ignore him. You don’t engage.

He reaches out to grab your arm but you stop and twist away from him, disgust on your face as you stare at his left hand pointedly.

For a moment he looks confused and then laughs once in realization and takes his hand back.

“You won’t tell my brother, will you? About my…meeting with Lady Antress?” Lord Loki doesn’t sound like he actually cares.

You know that he and Thor never truly got along once they were of age. As children they had been inseparable. You’d followed them around and they’d welcomed you into their company as a playmate despite your gender.

Not until you also were of age did you realize that your parents and their parents had seen your friendship as an indicator of good fortune for a future marriage.

As the elder brother, Thor had been chosen. Your heart, having been devoted to Thor even as a girl, had been so full. Eagerly you’d thrown yourself into the arrangement of your marriage. Only now did you begin to realize that perhaps your heart had been the only one truly invested in the promises that Thor had made.

Agony cuts you again, tearing your heart apart a little more as the feeling of stupidity makes your eyes prick with tears again.

“Did you truly not know that Thor and Amora were fucking?” Lord Loki asks, voice devoid of anything but genuine curiosity.

A tear slips down along your cheek as you turn and resume your walk. Lord Loki follows.

“You wound me.” He says, voice low. “Were we not also friends before?”

Scoffing, you readjust the bucket and wince at the pain of the rope as you feel your skin break. You drop it, Lord Loki stepping back quickly but nothing splashes out this time. Most of the contents were currently soaking through Amara’s gown.

You lift your hand up, staring at the peel of skin and the slick of the pink muscle beneath as red begins to pool along the edges of the tear.

Just another wound. It’ll seal and heal and scar, joining the others on your once smooth hands.

The bite of pain gives you a reason to let your tears fall. You don’t hold them back as you sob quietly, uncaring of the audience to your humiliation.

“He’s an asshole,” Lord Loki states, stepping up in front of you. “Always has been. Arrogant, proud, and foolhardy. Thinks with his cock more than his brain.”

Again, you scoff. The irony of Lord Loki, whom you just caught fingering your former best friend in the garden, telling you that Thor thinks first with his cock does not escape you.

Lord Loki clears his throat, embarrassed?

“If I’d been your betrothed,” Lord Loki continues. “I’d have worshiped the ground you walk on.”

“You’re a liar, and just as susceptible to Amara’s games as he apparently is. Does it make you feel happy to sleep with your brother’s fiance? Does it give you pleasure to betray him?” You spit at him, angry at yourself, at Thor, at Amara, at your father and brother.

You’re just so angry. You’re always angry now. Even when you’re sad, you’re angry.

“Are you really worried about my betrayal against him when Amara just exposed him for the hypocrite he is?” Lord Loki demands, a little affronted by your ire.

Biting down hard on your lip, you squeeze around the wound on your hand.

“You’re all hypocrites. All of you deserve each other.” You realize and reach down to take the bucket again but are stopped by Lord Loki’s hand as it takes hold of the bucket for you.

He doesn’t wait for you to say anything and instead moves towards the gate at the end of the garden.

Quickly, you hurry after him, eager to take the bucket from him before anyone might look out onto the grounds and see him interfering with your duties. The punishment you’d receive would be painful.

“My Lord, please,” you finally beg, unable to really catch up with his long legged stride. “I’ll be punished if they find out.”

Lord Loki says nothing but strides out through the gate into the wooded expanse behind the garden.

Expertly, probably from the many hunts he’s gone on around the castle, he winds through the trees towards the rushing river whose roar you begin to hear.

“My Lord,” you hurry after him, nearly catching up but then he turns and disappears behind a tree only to emerge before another one. “Please,” you beg.

Taking a quick glance behind you towards the castle and its countless illuminated windows, you don’t see anyone watching but panic has begun to take hold.

He shifts and turns, stomping over the wild grass, the occasional crack of twig or fallen branch as he steps onto it, eaten by the rush of the water now louder.

You’re almost running now to keep up with him and still you lose sight of him when he turns around a particularly large tree. You stop beside it, scanning the area for him desperately.

The dungeons are so damp this time of year. You don’t want to get locked up if you can help it. Illness is something you don’t have much experience with and with your body weak and unhealthy now compared to the grace and flush of perfection you’d been with money and a constantly full belly, you might succumb to any serious illness.

You don’t want to die, despite the hardships you face.

With no sign of him, you move towards the section of river you always go to empty your buckets.

Minutes later you break through the treeline and spot Lord Loki crouched by the water, damp bucket set beside him now empty and rinsed.

Breathing heavily, you try to catch your breath and press your hand against your thundering heart, forgetting for a moment about the wound there and hiss.

Lord Loki rises, turning to look at you with a furrowed brow as he shakes the water from his hands and dries them on his dark emerald jerkin. He pulls down the puffed sleeves of his black shirt, fastening them around his wrists again but only finishes one before he’s holding his hand out for you.

“Come,” he orders. Not a request.

You don’t move, holding your wounded hand still as you watch him, pale skin nearly glowing in the light of the moon.

“Come here,” he orders again and this time you move towards him only a step. He steps towards you once, his hand held up again with more emphasis. “Shall I say please? Am I wrong? Were we not also friends?”

He smirks, amused by your hesitation for some reason.

Asshole. How dare he throw the past in your face. It’s coercion to remind you of your bond as children.

Unwilling to let him get the satisfaction of seeing you be defiant, you close the distance between you.

He takes your hand, holding it up close so that he can see it clearly. The moon is bright enough that he can and he pulls you towards the river’s edge. Squatting down again, he pulls you down with him.

You kneel, inching towards the edge as he pulls your hand into the water.

A hiss escapes your lips as the water coats the wound, tugging at the bit of skin still holding on until it tears free.

He holds it under the water for a minute then brings it back up to examine, pulling your arm so that you shift to face him and he does the same, kneeling before you.

“It’ll scar,” he realizes, but notes the other small scars that now cover your palm underneath the base of each finger.

You watch him as he traces each scar with his thumb, the golden emerald ring on his finger cool to the touch after being submerged in the cold river water for a bit. It feels nice against the heated skin of your palms. The friction of the rope burning them both.

“I remember when your hands were soft,” he notes.

Self conscious, you make to yank your hand from his grip but he tightens it and meets your eyes in silent order not to try that again.

Holding your gaze, he brings your palm up towards his mouth. Heart hammering against your chest, you try again to yank it from him but his lips close around the wound.

A strange tumble of knots in your stomach work their way up into your chest and constrict your heart.

More strange than that, a shift between your legs has your face and neck burning. Ears so hot that the breeze of the late spring air feels cold in comparison.

“Stop that,” you tell him, voice weak from shock at both his actions and your body’s reaction to it.

He does. Pulling your hand away from his mouth to look the wound over.

“The bleeding stopped,” he states, then reaches for your apron.

The tearing of fabric sends our heart seizing but more arousal pools between your legs. Embarrassed, you look away from him as he wraps your hand tightly. He must have dealt with many small injuries on his hunts because he ties the wrap around your palm securely and nothing save for cutting the fabric away will undo it.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He asks, voice low and deep. Almost dark in the way it slithers across your skin in a sultry embrace.

“No.” You answer honestly. “And it’s probably only because I caught you and you didn’t get to stick it in Amara.”

He releases your hand as you pull against his grip but he reaches forward to place his hand on your cheek. His left hand.

You almost pull away but remember him drying his hands on his vest. He’d deliberately washed both hands. Why?

“I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I would have worshiped the ground you walk on. I still can, if you’ll let me.”

“I’m a servant,” you spit, turning to look at him with anger and betrayal. “Anything you do to me will be forced merely by the fact that I cannot deny you anything you might want.”

Lord Loki frowns.

“You think so badly of me?” He wonders, hurt in his green eyes.

Your mind flashes back to your childhood. You, Thor, and Lord Loki running to the stables of his estate. You fall. Both Thor and Lord Loki stop but it’s Lord Loki that rushes back to you, helping you up and dusting you off as you cry loudly.

Thor rushes away, laughing in his eagerness to mount his horse.

More memories of your childhood assault you with images of Lord Loki and his kindness. Frequent acts of compassion and what you might have once considered friendly love. Thor’s are fewer and mostly contained to the days after your betrothal had been agreed upon.

“You will never be a servant to me,” Lord Loki assures you.

“It is what I am,” you counter. “You cannot simply ignore it.”

Lord Loki sighs, “You’ve always been so stubborn.”

He lets his hand glide down along the side of your neck, over your shoulder, down along your arm, and then he settles it along the side of your waist, the shape stiff thanks to the corset underneath.

It’s almost unbearable that he’s here, in your shame of servitude. His touch is confusing. You almost ask him why it feels so strange but instead focus on what’s most important.

“Is it true?” you ask, voice wary and quiet.

“Is what true?” There are so many things you could mean, you realize.

Part of you almost doesn’t want to know. So you hesitate.

Something softens in Lord Loki’s eyes as if he suddenly knows what you’re going to ask.

“Were…did Thor and Amara…?” You shake your head, trying not to let the pain show.

“Yes,” he answers, voice firm. He wants you to know that it’s true. No hesitation in his answer. “A few times even with you nearby. You almost caught them a handful of times. Were you only a few moments earlier or later.”

Head falling, you can’t help the tears that spring forth. So much of your past had been a lie. The strength of your house. The friendships you held dear. Your betrothed hadn’t truly loved you. If he had, he would not have betrayed you.

“My brother paints a pretty picture. Despite what he wants others to think he is changeable. He is impatient. Clearly that was his undoing with you. He is rash and prideful. He doesn’t think about what he does before he does it and because he would be insulted by it, would it not be sweet revenge to dangle what he wanted most in the open for all to see?” His words are slow and sure.

The last bit of his speech is careful and calculated. You can hear the manipulation in his words even though he tries not to let you. You’ve known him too long. Lord Loki also changed when you were betrothed to Thor. A shift of his usual kindness had taken place and the sneering Lord had been born. Intent on his own machinations to pry forth the dreary truths of his life.

He’d never been cold and harsh but he became so after your engagement. Thor had called him a snake and even then you could see it. The skill with which Lord Loki had developed his manipulating tactics and the precision with which he enabled them are known to you.

So you know what he’s saying even if he won’t say it clearly.

He takes hold of your chin and slowly lifts your head until he can see your eyes. There’s a strange eagerness in his own greens as he tries to read you. There’s a question there, an uncertain probing as his hand at your waist grows tighter, wrapping around to rest on your back, arching your body towards him.

That strange feeling between your legs surges. It’s Amara’s sneering face that breaks down your defenses. It’s the pride in her words as she’d bragged about being with Thor while you were still betrothed to him that shatters your will.

You do want to get revenge. You want Thor to know that you don’t care anymore. That he means as little to you now as you did to him then.

And what better way to show him that than with the one person he’d hate it happening with the most?

He might overlook some random stablehand. He might ignore some merchant’s son, even if he were above your station.

With Lord Loki…the bite would be as harsh as the sting of Amara’s venom was to you.

“Loki…” you whisper and he surges forward.

His lips are over yours, moving and massaging as you at first merely take his kiss.

He hates it. He pulls back and tilts his head the other way, kissing you more enthusiastically, trying to draw some type of reaction from you.

It’s taking you longer to submit than you thought it would take.

He pulls back one final time and tilts his head back again before this time pressing his lips against your own slowly. He doesn’t move then but instead waits, puckering against yours as he tugs you towards him instead of shoving himself onto you.

Strong lithe arms wrap around your waist and pull you up onto your knees and against his chest. He holds you so close, so tight. It isn’t rough or demanding but needy. As if he can’t get you close enough to his own body and he can only draw you closer and closer in the hopes that it’ll fill something in him that needs filling.

You place your hands on his shoulder as you tilt your head back with his kiss.

Finally, you find the strength in your body and pucker your own lips and return this gentle kiss.

Shock flashes in his eyes as he opens them to look at you. You watch the confusion bloom in them but then shut your own and give in.

Loki’s lips part and envelop yours. It shocks you the way it sends those knots back into your stomach. In response you do the same, enveloping his lips with your own.

Loki’s hands splay out against your back and he groans as he opens his mouth and the tip of his tongue slides against the crease of your lip in question.

In answer, you open for him and welcome his searching tongue with your own. The taste of him, the scent of him, it overwhelms and you gasp as you lose yourself in the moment.

You feel his hands drift around to your front, his right sliding up along your bodice until he can cup your breast, a groan slipping through his lips as he breaks your kiss and traces wet open kisses along your jaw, neck, and shoulder.

“Loki…” you gasp without ever having given your mouth permission to speak.

He bites your neck when you say his name. You moan and he licks the spot to soothe it.

“Loki…” You whisper again.

He’s driven mad by it and before your mind can understand what is happening, he’s laying over you, hands moving wildly underneath your back, running along your sides, fumbling around until he finds where your dress is fastened and he pulls at the ties.

“Should I stop?” He asks, breathless and looking as if he would like nothing more than to keep going.

“No.”

“Mm,” he moans and kisses you again, tongue claiming your mouth as his own.

You can feel him tearing away your apron and then your dress. Too eager to pull it off you completely, he merely shoves it down so that he lays spread out along your waist.

He looks down at you, the corset you wear hiding very little of your breasts. He kisses them each in turn, the soft fleshy bits that pool up above your undergarment.

You shudder at the touch of his lips.

“Has anyone kissed you here before?” He wonders. You’re not sure if he wants an answer or not but you shake your head anyway.

As he nuzzles the soft flesh, his hands work on the corset, pulling at strings blindly until it gives way and he pulls it off of you exposing you completely.

The cool air of the night perks your nipples more than his touch already has and he takes both breasts in his hands, pushing them together as he stares to the point of embarrassment.

Before you can cover yourself, he takes one into his mouth, suckling softly to draw soft moans from your open mouth.

He sees it, your gaping mouth, and seals it with his own, his tongue nearly in a frenzy as he devours your whimpers.

Cool air hits your suddenly exposed legs. You gasp sharply as he thrusts suddenly and the hard press of his cock rubs against you, shielded only by the fabric of his pants.

“Shall I stop?” He asks again, hands running down along your torso where he takes each breast in hand, massaging them slowly before rolling each of your nipples in slow deliberate circles.

“Don’t stop.”

It’s almost torture when he removes his hands from your overheated body. But you enjoy the sight as he removes his jerkin, followed shortly by his shirt. His body is sculpted but tight, not bulky. Lithe limbs hard and eager as he reaches down beneath your skirts in search of what he desires.

He hisses when his fingers touch you, soaking wet, and you reach down to hold his wrist not to stop but simply to hold on.

The thought crosses your mind that he’s already had someone else like this tonight and it almost makes you pull away. You’re so close to stopping but he sees the thought in your eyes and leans over you, removing his hand he leans over you, pressing his chest against yours and silencing your thoughts with a slow kiss.

It burns through you, the meaning clear.

“Shall I only touch you from now on, darling?” he whispers, kissing your chin then suckling along your throat.

He’ll leave marks…

“Tell me and I will only touch you.” He promises.

“Don’t make me promises you can’t keep, Loki.” You chastise him, mood nearly breaking again at the memory of the endless promises Thor had made you.

“I will never break a promise to you. Tell me to refrain and I will. I meant what I said,” he kisses his way up to your ear, licking the shell of it before hot breath sends your skin prickling. “I will worship the ground you walk on if you will only let me.”

He thrusts again. You shut your eyes, gasping at the cock straining for freedom.

“H-How do I know I can trust you?” You ask, unintentionally letting him see how desperate you are to do so.

He kisses you again, genuine and hungry for it.

“Give me a week and I shall truly prove it. Trust me until then and you shall see the depths of my willingness and devotion.”

He thrusts again and maybe you’re a fool for allowing yourself to consider this when he’s got you right where he wants you, but you nod.

“Only touch me,” you order him.

He smirks. He reaches down between your legs again and with one finger slowly strokes from the bottom of your cunt to the top, the lurid sounds of your wetness poignant despite the rushing river beside you.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises.

One finger. He uses only one finger and the pressure is intense. Sensations you’ve never felt before awaken every nerve ending in your body. His thumb presses against your clit and you nearly sit up with the shock of pleasure that rushes through you.

He adds a second finger, moving slowly as he pumps them in and out.

“Shall I stop, darling?”

“Never stop,” you gasp, still gripping his wrist.

Another smirk on that handsome face, his green eyes dazzling you as he shifts back to his knees.

He licks his lips as he pulls a tie free at the front of his trousers and slowly pushes them lower and lower until he can kick free of them completely.

The length of him is breathtaking. He reaches down and strokes his cock, slowly running his thumb along the shiny pink head before he scoots closer, your skirt blocking him from view.

He rubs himself against you, slicking himself with your own arousal.

There he waits, watching you as you brace your hands on the soft grass beneath you but open your legs wider.

Your eyes meet and both of you know that there will be no coming back from this choice. Nothing either of you do will ever erase this line you’ve nearly crossed completely.

He pushes in slowly, leaning over you as he gets deeper and deeper until he’s buried completely. Chest to chest. Face to face. He grunts deep, face twitching as he settles within you.

It’s so much pressure it’s painful. The feeling of him is so foreign. You’re not sure whether it feels good or not.

“Fuck,” he whispers and tenses then shudders. You feel a wave of heat within you, followed by the sensation of slow moving drippage. “You feel…”

He seems lost for words. Do you feel terrible?

He pulls his hips back just a bit and pushes back in.

You whimper, pushing against his chest to look down where your bodies connect.

“Loki,” you fret.

“I’ll go slow,” he promises. “Be calm my sweet. I will ease you into this.”

Each thrust into you, his pelvis pushes against your clit and each time you moan, wishing he’d do that more. The feeling of him is filling, strange, but not unpleasant. Just different.

As your body relaxes a bit more, Loki’s thrusts grow faster. You smile unintentionally as he presses against your clit more often.

“You like that?” he wonders, stopping as he pushes all the way in and then rolls his hips against you.

Your responding moan gives him confirmation and he settles himself over you fully.

As he thrusts he presses harder against you, lingering for a moment before doing it again and again. The slap of his skin against yours grows louder and he finds a rhythm that has you both breathless and moaning.

“Loki,” you plead, feeling the build up of tension within your body.

“Come for me, darlin,” he kisses you, subduing your voice as he pumps into you.

You’re unsure for certain what he means but your body seems to listen. You wrap your legs around him, holding him as close as you can as he continues to thrust into you. The sweat of his body glistens in the moonlight. The soft silk of his hair tickles your skin as he arches up slightly so that he can take your breast into his mouth again as he keeps pumping into you.

You feel it…so close.

“Loki,” you whimper, wanting to reach the end of this tightrope.

He growls once and brings his hand down between your connected bodies. His thumb presses against your clit firmly. He presses and presses, rolling it in small circles with such precise pressure.

Your body explodes into endless fuzzy light. You arch into him, trembling as his thumb continues to draw pleasure from you in spasms as he keeps moving his cock in and out.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts and thrusts one final time his whole body tight in its release as that same sensation of heat fills you again.

Both of you seem to have stars in your eyes as he collapses on top of you, kissing you slowly with his eyes wide open to watch the expression of pure bliss on your face.

“I think-” Loki says, pulling back as he slowly helps to pull your dress up a bit to cover your exposed breasts. He kisses each one before he does so. “-it goes without saying that I would appreciate it if I was the only one allowed to touch you.”

You’re floating, swathed in golden light, unable to process anything he’s saying because of the pure escape from and yet complete connection to your body Loki’s cock just gave you.

You hear him chuckle. He pinches your cheek, drawing your attention back to him.

“Agreed?”

“What?” You gasp breathlessly.

“No one may touch but me. And I will touch no one but you.” He declares. “Is that understood?”

The authority in his voice draws your legs wide as that throbbing from before is renewed.

Loki’s face twitches at the movement.

“Show me again,” you plead.

“Tell me no one else will touch you,” he orders.

“No one else will touch me,” you agree.

“If you betray me,” you begin.

Loki’s eyes soften. He leans down to press a kiss to your lips.

“I promised you that I would worship the ground you walk on.”

He kisses you again, slowly, feeling every inch of your mouth against his.

“One week, my darling. I’ll prove to you my devotion.” He promises.

The sincerity in his voice has your legs spreading again and he hisses as you shift. Inside you, you feel him harden.

“Show me…” you beg.

“You’re going to be insatiable.” He realizes.

And revenge against Thor aside, you realize that being with Loki might be the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

“Do you have any idea how long I have waited to make you mine?” Loki wonders, stroking your cheek.

“How long?” You wonder, reaching up to take hold of his hand.

“I’ll show you.”

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