#╰ *:･ﾟthread ──❝ thunder god ❞

[hoondrop]

he is a god carved of divine arrogance — apollo’s grace and ares’ fire stitched into flesh, baring the heart and beauty of aphrodite, the endowment that puts zeus to shame and i, no more than his neokoros, the solemn guardian of his sacred temple, tending to his altar with trembling hands and desperate devotion, offering silent prayers, lighting the eternal flame, sacrificing my sleep, my sanity, my soul. all to keep his name alive in the quiet places of my heart. i worship not in passing reverence, but in obsession, violent, trembling, aching obsession.

and when he descends..

sunghoon himself, god made man, comes down from his marble pedestal with a hunger not even olympus dares to name. he finds me. takes me. renders me a holy thing beneath the weight of him. his chiseled form both punishment and reward. on top of me, beneath me, behind me until the stars grow drunk and collapse from watching, until dawn forgets to rise, until my body remembers no olympian but him. he marks me as his temple, his altar, his offering again and again, until i am no longer mortal, but myth.

and when zeus casts his jealous eye upon me, thinking to strike me with lightning or possess me with thunder, sunghoon roars defiance. he does not yield. he drags me to olympus by the hand, undaunted and ablaze, and in front of every god and every trembling goddess, he takes me shameless and eternal until even the fates forget their threads, and the heavens themselves bow to the magnitude of his claim.

[fantasticfourthwingimagines]

Face the Rolling Thunder Pairing - Dain Aetos x RiorsonSister!Reader Summary - You've done it. You've managed to bond with a dragon, and now you are feeling fearless and eager to celebrate with the person who had helped you get to this point . . . Until you find out what he's done. Word Count - 2k Warnings - None!

Your feet hit the ground much sooner than you anticipated, and the force of it made you stumble forwards, but you caught yourself before you fell on your face. It sure would have been embarrassing if you’d survived Bhaltair’s insane air gymnastics to embarrass yourself back on land. 

“You need to work on your landing.” His flame-hardened voice echoed in your mind, and you jumped. Gods, how did people get used to this? 

“I’ll - uh - add it to the list of things to do?” You said, glancing up at the blue daggertail. 

He snorted, or at least you thought he did. “Go tell the roll keeper my name, and stop bleeding.” He said as if it was that easy. 

You’d forgotten you were. You licked your lips, tasting the blood there. “I - okay?” You let your eyes take him in again, marveling at the blue, battle-worn warrior that stood before you. The dragon that had chosen you as his. You’d never been more proud of yourself than at this moment, because if this dragon saw your potential, surely it was there. “Thank you for choosing me.” You said, every word wrapped in awe and sincerity. 

Bhaltair’s golden eyes studied you, and you got the distinct impression he was sizing you up, debating your words and the meaning behind them. Then a huff of smoke left his nostrils, warming your face. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

Well, it was obvious your dragon was not one for sentimentality. You turned in the direction he was indicating to find Violet waiting nearby with a big grin along with Rhiannon. You couldn’t help but smile back. As soon as you were within distance, Rhiannon spoke up. “He’s a beast, Riorson. Good job.” 

Violet reached for your hands, grabbing them and giving them a squeeze. “Xaden’s going to be so proud.” She told you. 

The relief that those words brought you. The pride. Xaden was the best brother that anyone could ask for, and you’d always tried so hard to be good enough to have the title of his sister. Tears filled up your eyes because the thought of Xaden being proud of you was what you’d always wanted, what you’d always hoped for. 

You should have felt complete. You had just bonded a godsdamn daggertail. Violet was smiling. Rhiannon was grinning. The sun was shining. 

Still, something tugged at your chest like an untied thread. 

You turned toward the role keeper, ready to declare your dragon’s name and bask in this moment the way you were supposed to, but your feet didn’t move. 

Because across the field, half shadowed by the bleachers, stood a familiar figure. 

“I’m going to the roll keeper.” You told Violet and Rhiannon, giving them both a small smile and easing past them. 

Once you’d given the role keeper Bhaltair’s name, you looked to make sure he was still there. He was watching you, a faint smile on his face as he stood, partially hidden by the side of the building. 

You glanced around, making sure no one was watching you, and then you bolted. Dain’s eyes widened as you sprinted toward him, but he didn’t move. He stood there, frozen in place, like he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. 

And then you were in his arms. Or rather, you were around him first. 

You launched yourself at him, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight hug, your momentum nearly knocking him back. You felt him freeze, every muscle in his body locking up, but a heartbeat later . . . he melted.

His arms wrapped around you so fast it made your breath catch. He held you like he didn’t think he’d ever get to hold anyone again, and it was . . . 

It was exactly what you wanted. To celebrate with the person who helped you through this the most. “I did it.” You said. Your voice was still tinged with disbelief, shocked that you had done it. 

“Did you think you wouldn’t?” Dain could have let you go. At any moment, he could have backed away from the hug and took his hands off you, but he didn’t. He held you tighter. Not possessively, desperately. Like he was clinging to something he hadn’t realized he missed until now. 

So you stayed right there, arms looped around his neck, heart pounding against his, because maybe you weren’t the only one who needed this. 

“I thought it was a distinct possibility. Especially when those assholes from second wing tried to kill me.” You admitted. 

Dain’s whole body stiffened in your arms, his fingers digging into your back. “What?” He asked, his voice tense. 

Was that a hint of protectiveness you heard? You pulled back enough to see his face, smiling at the barely concealed anger there. “It’s okay. I kicked their asses with a few moves my wingleader taught me.” 

A smile formed on Dain’s face. 

And you felt the world tilt under your feet. Gods - had you never seen him smile before? You couldn’t have. You would have remembered it. It made him look younger. Softer. It took the hardness out of his jaw and left something almost boyish in its place. And his eyes, gods, his eyes. They didn’t just shine. They lit up. You wanted to memorize every inch of his face at that moment. Burn it into your mind. 

Apparently you weren’t being very subtle with your staring because Dain’s brow furrowed in quiet confusion, but thank the gods his smile didn’t fade. “Why are you staring at me like that?” He asked, a little amused, a little wary.

You shook your head, cheeks burning. “Nothing - um do you want to see what happened? You have to touch my face right?” 

That wiped the smile clean off.  His whole body went rigid, like he was about to take a step back, but the war on his face said he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let you go yet. “You - you know about my signet?” 

This time you were the one frowning. “Yeah - Violet told me.” 

“But . . . you hugged me.” Dain said, like he couldn’t wrap his head around it. 

“I didn’t think . . . I wanted to celebrate with you.” You swallowed, suddenly uncertain. “You’ve helped me so much. It’s not like you’d take something from me, and-”

His whole body tensed as if your words had struck him. He didn’t say a word though, just stared at you with almost a haunting look in his eyes, and you got the distinct impression he was holding something back from you. Before you could probe further though, his thumb brushed your lip, and you flinched at the spot of pain. “Did they do this?” Dain asked, his voice low and dangerous. 

You shook your head, even as your heart pounded at his touch. “Bhaltair.” 

He nodded. “Come on, I’ll get you cleaned up.” 

Even as you stepped back to let him lead you to the healers tent, he didn’t stop touching you. His hand stayed on the small of your back, an almost . . . possessive touch. When a healer stepped forward, Dain brushed him off without a word. He took the cloth and tincture, then turned back to you, fingers gentle as they tilted your chin up so he could clean the cut himself. 

“It’s going to scar,” he murmured, eyes on your lip, while yours couldn’t leave his face. 

Why had he reacted like that? You couldn’t get his face out of your mind, the pain there. The pain he was attempting to hide from you. “What are you not telling me?” 

Dain’s eyes closed, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you for another moment. “Please don’t ask me that.” 

Gods, you thought the way he looked at Violet was sad, but this, this was devastating. His whole face twisted like he was bracing for something he couldn’t stop. There was nothing but regret in his eyes as he opened them again and looked at you, and you knew it was something bad. Something you’d never be able to unhear. “It’s that bad?” You whispered. 

Dain hesitated, then nodded. Heat radiated from his touch as his thumb brushed the new cut on your lip again. “I don’t want you to look at me like they do.” 

You didn’t have to ask who he was referring to. Violet, Sloane, his former squad, the rest of the marked ones . . . They all had a grudge. You would’ve had to be blind to miss it. A part of you had been too scared to ask, not wanting to lose this Dain, the one who taught you how to fight, how to be more confident, who looked at you like you were the only one in the room, who tended your wounds with the utmost care, and replace him with the one everyone hated. 

But today you had bonded a dragon. Today you were going to be fearless. You were going to ask the question you were scared of. “I need to know. I need to know why everyone wants me to stay away from you.” 

His face, the soft version that you had come to know, shifted into something resigned, like he’d already decided how this conversation was going to go. Then he spoke. 

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.” 

Of all the things that you’d expected Dain to say, those hadn’t even crossed your mind as a possibility. “I . . . What?” Your voice barely registered. It didn’t feel real. None of this did. You couldn’t have heard him right. 

He didn’t look away, not even once. 

Even as pieces of your heart splintered, one by one. 

“I looked at Violet’s memories. I saw Xaden tell her he went to Athbyne. Somewhere he never should have been. I told my Dad.” 

You shook your head as memories crashed through your mind. Xaden, the most distraught you’d ever seen him, carrying an almost dead Violet in his arms. Garrick pulling you aside to tell you what happened. Imogen and Bodhi, bruised and bloody, not saying a word. The grief that surrounded them had been a palpable thing. Suffocating. 

And Dain had been responsible for that. “No,” it escaped as a breath, small and trembling. Not him. Anyone but him. 

“With my information he set them up. With my information Soleil and Liam were killed.”

“Stop talking.” You repeated, putting your hand on his chest to keep some distance between the two of you. You couldn’t hear this. Not from him. Not from the person who held you like you were precious moments ago. 

But Dain didn’t stop. He took a step back, and gone was the easy smile and soft eyes. Now his face was stoic, almost blank as he kept talking. “It was my fault. I take full responsibility for their deaths-”

“I said stop!” Your voice broke on the last word, and you took another step away from him. You felt like you were going to be sick. Like the whole world was spinning out from under you, leaving you unsteady and dizzy. “You . . . You almost killed Violet. You almost killed Xaden, and Liam-” 

You looked up at Dain, tears blurring your vision. “He was like my brother.” The words were ripped from you, raw, half-formed, like something breaking loose inside your chest.  

Dain didn’t drop your gaze, but you could see the hurt in his eyes. The guilt, the pain that he had buried inside. 

The familiarity of it made your breath catch. 

It was the same look you saw in your own eyes. 

When you stared into the mirror and tried to breathe past the guilt. 

When you remembered the flames. The screams. 

When you thought about how your mother had died, because of you. 

Dain must have seen something on your face, because he took a tentative step forward. 

“Don’t - just stay away from me.” You muttered, dropping your gaze from him and grabbing your things. You couldn’t be around him right now. You were never able to sort out your thoughts when he was near, and you were scrambling to get a hold on your emotions. 

He didn’t follow. 

But you still felt him, those haunted brown eyes, watching you the whole way out. 

And gods help you . . . you almost looked back.

[invigouros]

"SPEAK YOUR TERMS, SON OF DEAD-KING." He speaks it into being, he knows what's to come. The hate is built in his bones. In his maw, in his fur. The black is all-consuming, as if devouring light. The massive beast, waits. Just barely.           FENRIR for THOR    ...   @panthaeons.

thor ignored the disrespect thrown at him, and stepped forward into what little light is cast into the prison of the great wolf.           even if the wolf didn't speak, he could feel it: the hate that seemed to emanate from him, even in his bound state. he could still remember the laughs and the words they've slung to the wolf when they first bound him there.

he remembered they have justified it as an act to save the nine realms, and not as what it truly was-- just fear for a monster that they can't control. and during the first ragnarok, they have seen how wrong they were for it. now, he will make sure it will not happen again.    "   great wolf. i did not come here to fight you.   "    he begins, raising his hands to show they were empty. to show that he is just as himself.    "   i only wish to prevent ragnarok. are you not tired of dying?   "

"   there must be something that can be done here. tell me your wishes and i will do my best to fulfill it.   "

[bluggluglfgh]

so i found my lost fountain pen

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 1

Parts: Characterizations | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, soulbonding without full consent, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, non-graphic threats of harm from a third party (Gwi Ma).

Author's notes: Hey guys! My first fic on Tumblr. I've been deep in a hole for Saja boys x Reader fics and have been inspired by all the ones currently out. Thought I'd give it a go and make my own. This is also just me purely projecting my fantasies (lol). But will post more on this story and will make more parts!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

A Sudden Encounter

You’re just… tired.

You work long shifts at a cramped little gallery café in Hongdae. Your boss forgets to pay you on time. Rent’s due. Your roommate’s a ghost (figuratively). Your family doesn’t call.

It’s not tragic. Just quietly heavy. Most days are filled with the same mundane routine. The stress of adulting weighs in on you most nights making you feel more fatigued than you should.

Your art is the only thing that feels like yours—until it doesn’t. Lately, even your sketches look like someone else’s memories. The past few weeks of downtime have been spent sketching images you vaguely recognize from dreams you forgot you even had. 

You walk through life like it’s background noise.

Then, one afternoon, on the way to grab milk and instant ramen…you hear music on the street.

Lugging your grocery trolley (because god knows you don’t have the strength to carry a week’s worth of grocery bags on your arms), you spot that a crowd has gathered in the plaza. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement. People are pushing each other to get a view of whatever it was that was making the crowd go nuts. Curiosity gets the best of you, and next thing you know you’re walking towards the center of the square. Grocery trolley rolling behind you. Someone steps on it, warranting a quick “Sorry” and they scurry to the front. You turn your head forward to see whatever it was they desperately wanted to see.

You stop.

Up on a raised platform, five boys move like a single body—synchronized, supernatural, magnetic. Their colorful outfits shimmer under the lights, a kaleidoscope of sugar-rush perfection. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the song—“Soda Pop”—sickeningly sweet and pulsing like thunder in your chest.

You don’t recognize them.

Were they new? A secret debut? A niche group you missed? 

And then you see them.

The Saja Boys. Five gorgeous faces, carved out of dreams and danger, singing like they already know you.

Your heart stutters.

Front and center is the one with the jet-black hair and fire behind his smile. His eyes sweep the crowd like he owns it—until they lock on you. And then it’s like the world tips sideways.

You can’t breathe.

Something ancient uncoils in your ribcage—a thread pulling taut, like it’s found its anchor.

The stage beneath them morphs—no, rises—into a giant soda can, and the absurdity nearly makes you laugh, but the pressure in your chest is louder.

The song ends. The crowd erupts. They strike their final poses like gods frozen mid-conquest. And still—he’s looking at you. Right at you.

He lifts a hand, brushes off his shoulder like he’s dusting you into place. “That’s it for now,” he says to the crowd.

His speaking voice slides down your spine like silk dipped in fire. Familiar. Impossible.

“See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show…” His gaze doesn’t waver.  “Saja Boys love you!”

You don’t know how you’re still standing. The other members turn too—one by one, their expressions shifting. Eyes no longer playful. They’re looking at you like they remember something you haven’t yet.

And then—pink smoke.

They vanish.

You’re left in a sea of people, lungs hollow, skin prickling like it’s just been marked.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what just happened. But your hands are shaking on the trolley handle. And you’re sprinting home like something inside you just woke up and started screaming.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

They apparated back into the apartment in a burst of cold smoke.

Jinu collapsed first.

Not into a chair. Not onto the couch. He sank straight to the floor.

Hands tangled in his hair, breath shallow. Like the air couldn’t reach deep enough. Like he’d been holding it for centuries. His voice cracked like something ancient being unearthed.

“It’s her.”

Romance was already pacing the length of the living room, long strides restless, fingers tugging at his shirt collar like it was choking him. “I—I thought I was hallucinating,” he muttered. “Some kind of cruel glamour. A mirage. But the bond—” His voice shook. “The bond snapped tight.”

Abby dropped into the couch, the cushions barely softening the weight of his frame. His knuckles were white, gripping his thighs. “I felt her heartbeat.” He looked up, dazed. Wild. “During the bridge—our hearts matched. I know it was her.”

Mystery hadn’t moved. He stood near the window, face shadowed, fists clenched so tight his nails carved into skin. His lips were moving in a near-silent whisper—over and over like a broken prayer.

“She’s scared… she doesn’t remember… but she felt it. She felt it.”

Baby sat furthest from them all, on the floor beside the armchair.  Blood dripped from his palm—he didn’t seem to notice. Eyes wide. Hollow. Haunted.

Like seeing you broke the silence inside him. Like he’d finally found the ghost that’d been crawling under his skin for lifetimes.

No one breathed. The room felt cracked. Like a single touch would shatter it.

Abby ran a hand down his face. “What do we do?” He was still staring at his hands. Still disbelieving. “Is this a trick? Is Gwi Ma playing with us again? Using her face to haunt us?”

Jinu looked up slowly, lashes damp, lips pale. He bit the nail of his thumb, the taste of anxiety sharp on his tongue.

“We wait,” he said softly. “We plan.”

Romance scoffed, but there was no humor in it. He was trembling as he smiled.

“We charm.”

Mystery let out a low snarl. “We go to her. She’s alone. She’s hurting. I can feel her.”

And then—finally—Baby spoke. Just one line.

Quiet. Final. Unshakable.

“We take her back.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curl up on your couch with a microwaved dinner, phone propped up on a cushion. You don’t normally watch idol shows. But…

You press play.

They’re charming. Playful. Competitive. Too beautiful. Too perfect. You watch them struggle with the hot sauce challenge, lips curling upwards at some of the boys’ faces. 

Your chest aches.

You don’t know them. But you can’t look away.

When they joke, you laugh. When they flirt with the camera, your stomach flips. When Baby stares dead into the lens, you freeze. 

You watch as Baby wins the spicy challenge, somehow a part of you knew he would. You couldn’t explain why. You watch as Huntrix makes a surprise appearance. You weren’t a crazed fanatic or anything, but you did enjoy their music. When they bowed at each other, a part of your chest ached. You don’t know why, but something didn’t sit well with you seeing the boys interact with the girl group. Why? You had no claim over them. You felt like you were going crazy.

You don’t sleep that night.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Later that night, after filming wraps…

The Saja Boys find themselves ambushed by Huntrix—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—demon-hunting girls who are too fast, too smart, and too close to the truth.

The boys run, Jinu being caught into a fight with Rumi which leads to him finding out her secret. A Hunter who’s part demon. He gives it some thought as he walks out of the bath house. Then, his thoughts shift to you.

Did you watch the show tonight? What were you doing right now? Did you remember him at all?

Then suddenly he’s pulled into Gwi Ma’s chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams locked in stone. The demons are cheering for the boys, now in their demon forms. Gwi Ma sings the chorus of Soda Pop. 

“It’s catchy” 

He brings up Rumi- the hunter who bears his mark. He tells Jinu he has no control over her. Jinu remains curious, telling him that he can find out her shame and use it against her to bring the Hunters down. 

Then, Gwi Ma’s flames rise. The tension in the air thickens as the four other boys on the ground below are brought to stand next to Jinu before the Demon King.

“However, I sense that you’ve lost your focus,” the Demon king hisses. His flames grow —and conjures a mirage image of you, asleep in bed, cheek pressed to your pillow. The boys tense at the sight of you. 

Their anger rises. They don’t like that you’re being presented to them like this- in front of all demons to see. Of course- everyone else in the Demon realm had an inkling- an idea of what you were to the five. It was unspoken, a rumor that spread throughout the years - that they had tied their ancient souls to a human hundreds of years ago. But no details of that pact had been known. And now, the boys were livid as every demon knew your face.

Abby grit his teeth, immediately standing and stepping forward. He didn’t want any other demons seeing you, gazing at what was his. “Don’t-!”

Jinu grabbed his shoulder back, willing his friend to calm down, even though he was struggling to contain his own anger. 

“That girl... is she going to be a problem? A… distraction?” His voice was teasing. A sickeningly playful tone meant to mock them.

The boys bristle, their jaws clenched as they see the demon king’s image of you. You- who was so precious to them. Jinu steps forward, eyes hard. “She is ours. You made it so. The pact cannot be undone.”

Gwi Ma’s image of you faded and the boys all visibly relaxed, though still tense.

Gwi Ma spoke once again, voice teasing. “You remember, don’t you, Jinu? How you came crawling to me, weeping like a child the moment she died in your arms.”

Jinu’s eyes widened, haunted at the memory.

Gwi Ma continued. “You begged me to bring her back. But I gave you something better.

A deal.

Bind four others to her soul. Trap their power. Anchor her across lifetimes—and I’d let her return.

And you did it.

You found them. Broken little things. Monsters like you. You forced the bond. You made her the center of your madness.

You cursed her to be wanted. Needed. Torn apart by obsession.

All for what?

To share her?

To watch her slip through your fingers again and again?”

The boys visibly grew more tense with every word he uttered. Romance grit his teeth, and Baby’s nails dug so deep into his palms they began to bleed again. They were monsters who desperately clung to the only light they had. Demons who tainted the purest thing they had ever laid eyes on. The guilt. The shame. All weigh heavy on their hearts, but not as heavy as their deep desire for you. 

Gwi Ma continued. “No matter how close she gets… she’ll never truly be yours.

But if you succeed—if you finish what I told you to—maybe I’ll give her to you.

All of you.

For good.”

Their heads snapped up at that. Disbelief and false hope gleaming in their yellow demon eyes. 

Gwi Ma’s flames shift to a smile as he saw their non-subtle desperation. “Then here’s my offer.”

“Succeed. Harvest the souls before the Honmoon seals, bring down the hunters. Do your job. And I’ll let her live.”

“Fail… and I rip her from the cycle. She’ll never be reborn again.”

The boys snap their heads up. Shock, desperation, and fury ablaze on their faces. He wouldn’t dare. The boys don’t speak. But silent thoughts race through their heads. They wouldn’t have to wait centuries for you? All the endless years of loneliness and suffering… if they succeeded, they’d be gone. And you would be theirs. Fully. No more dying, no more waiting. Theirs, for all eternity. 

The offer was weighing heavy in their minds. But it wasn’t even a question. How far would they go to have you? The answer was that there were no limits. No lines they wouldn’t cross. No world they wouldn’t burn to keep you.

They just kneel, a silent agreement. 

They’ve waited centuries. They can wait a little longer.

But this time, they won’t just protect you.

They’ll possess you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys apparated back to their apartment in silence.

No music. No lights. Just the faint, cold glow of Seoul’s skyline spilling through the penthouse glass like a wound that never closed.

They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. The memory of Gwi Ma’s offer still echoed like ash in their throats. The price was steep, yes—but the reward?

You. Untouched by his claws. Unwatched. Unmanipulated. Free.

If they could ensure your soul was yours—and theirs—forever… they would pay that price a thousand times over. So they agreed. Without hesitation. Without question. Now they sat in the dark, five demons and the shape of a girl in their hearts.

It was Abby who cracked first. “She looked cold,” he muttered.

His elbows rested on his knees, large hands clenched together so tightly the skin over his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t looking at the others. Just the floor. Somewhere past it. Somewhere where you had been.

“She looked cold in that vision. Like she hadn’t been held in years.” He swallowed thickly. “I’d keep her warm. She’d never feel cold again. Not even for a second.” His voice broke near the end.

“She should’ve been with us.” Romance was standing by the tall windows, framed in moonlight, arms crossed tight like he was holding his chest together. “She doesn’t even remember us,” he said softly. “We’re strangers again.”

He tried to sound nonchalant—but his voice cracked on ‘again’.

Baby didn’t move from the couch. His legs were crossed, jaw tight, nails digging crescent moons into his thigh. “Then we make her remember.” He looked up. Eyes black.

“Tie her down if we have to.”

No one told him to take it back. Because all of them had thought it.

From the corner, curled on a throw blanket like a resting animal, Mystery breathed out a long, aching sigh. He was clutching something close to his chest. Your scarf. One from a lifetime ago. The threadbare edges frayed, carrying a scent only he still recognized. He’d stolen it then, kept it hidden through each century. He never let it burn.

“She cried last night,” he whispered. The room went still. “I felt it.”

They turned.

“She misses us,” he said. His voice was too soft for the size of his pain. “Even if she doesn’t know why. Even if her brain doesn’t remember—her soul does. She sees us in dreams. She reaches out.”

No one doubted him. Mystery had always been the tether. The first to feel you across lives. The first to know. He curled tighter around the scarf like it could bring you back. “She reaches,” he whispered. “But we’re not there.”

Silence again.

Then Jinu stood. The weight of four centuries in every breath he took. He moved like a monarch of grief—shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes dark and steady.

“We need a plan,” he said. The words dropped like stone. “No chaos. No claiming. Not yet.” His gaze passed over each of them, firm.

“We woo her. Win her. Make her feel safe.”

Abby let out a bitter snarl. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to take her.”

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

“So do I,” he said. “But not if it means she runs. Not if she thinks we’re monsters.”

“Are we not?” Baby asked coldly. But it wasn’t really a challenge. It was despair.

“We’re hers,” Jinu replied. “That’s all that matters.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick with agreement. Each boy looked down. And one by one, they nodded. For now, they’d wait. But not forever.

You would remember.

You would come back.

And when you did— You’d never be allowed to leave again.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You didn’t know why you were out this late.

You told yourself it was for a snack. The cold night air. The glow of convenience store signs. But the truth was burrowed beneath your ribs—tight, restless, and waiting. Something inside you itched, tugged. Like an invisible string pulling you down familiar streets.

You turned the corner and froze.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft, velvety, soaked in a sadness you didn’t understand. You looked up.

Jinu.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight like a secret carved out of the night. Hoodie loose over his frame. Hair tousled, moonlight catching in the strands. His eyes locked with yours. 

Your breath caught.

He took a step forward, hands raised slightly—like approaching a wounded animal. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently. “I just… recognized you.”

Recognized? Your heart began to pound. Hard. “How do you know my name?” you asked.

Jinu smiled. But it wasn’t cocky or flirty. It was aching. “Because it’s the only name that ever mattered to me.”

And that’s when it happened. A flicker behind your eyes. No—it wasn’t a flicker.

It was a memory. A feeling. A lifetime cracking through your skull like thunder.

You saw him.

Not here. Not in this hoodie, not on this street. But in crimson silk beneath a palace moon. A hanbok embroidered in gold, eyes lined with kohl. He reached for you across a garden of foxglove. Your name spilled from his lips like scripture.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Another voice. Close. Too close. Romance stepped beside you, holding a book. One from your wishlist. The exact one you’d looked at two days ago online and never bought.

You took it in trembling hands. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Because I’ve been whispering it for hundreds of years.”

The world spun.

Another vision. His fingers on yours. A past version of you, crying. Him kissing your knuckles in the candlelight.

“Because I’ve never stopped saying it,” Abby said now, appearing at your side, holding— Your scarf. The one that went missing days ago. “Even when you weren’t alive to hear it.”

FLASH. There was blood on his hands. A blade meant for you. Abby standing between it and your body, screaming your name.

Your knees went weak. You staggered. The breath in your lungs turned jagged. 

A gentle touch. Behind you.

Mystery. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Fingertips brushing the sleeve of your coat like he was afraid you’d dissolve.

“I’ve known your name longer than you have,” he whispered.

You blinked—

And you were in the mountains. Your hands small. Younger. A fox curled against your legs. You were humming. He was warm. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Across the street— Baby. Still. Watching. Eyes black as obsidian. And then—

The fire.

A palace burning. Bodies. You, screaming. Baby dragging corpses away with one hand while shielding you with the other.

You gasped. Your vision blurred. Your hands shook. You didn’t know if you were crying. But you felt like you were breaking.

Romance reached out, arm around your shoulders, steadying your frame.

“She’s remembering,” Mystery said, voice trembling. “She’s starting to remember.”

You didn’t hear them clearly. Your ears rang. Your body pulsed like a struck bell. Romance’s forehead pressed to yours, voice like velvet and ashes. “We missed you,” he breathed. “So much it drove us mad.”

Abby was pacing now, unable to stay still. His eyes burned. “You smell like home,” he choked. “I forgot what that felt like.”

Baby hadn’t moved, but he looked like he might lunge. His fists were clenched. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.

His eyes were nothing but shadow.

He wanted you.

Jinu stepped forward, palm raised like a commandment. “Stop,” he said. Sharp. Firm. “She’s scared.”

He was right. You were. Tears blurred your eyes. The world spun again. “Who… who are you?” you asked, barely a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

Abby took one step. “We’re yours,” he said, voice low.

Jinu caught his arm. “Abby—”

“You were ours,” Romance added, lips brushing your temple. “You will be again.”

“No—no, this isn’t real—this can’t be—” You backed up. “You’re crazy.”

You looked into their eyes for the first time. And your blood ran cold. 

Not human.

They were glowing. Amber. Topaz. Garnet. Glasses of gold and rage and want. 

You didn’t think—you ran. Your footsteps slammed into the alleyway pavement. Breath heaving. Vision swimming. You ran like your soul was on fire.

And behind you— They didn’t follow.

They stood, the five of them, like statues in mourning. Longing. Rage. Grief. Hunger.

Mystery whimpered once.

Baby’s fists dripped blood from his own grip.

“We scared her,” Jinu muttered, teeth grit. Shame painting his face. “We were supposed to make her feel safe.” His voice was raw.

“She looked at us like we were monsters.” Abby slammed a fist into the wall. “She didn’t even recognize me.” 

Romance still watched the alley’s end where your shadow had vanished. His lips curled into something bittersweet. “Not yet,” he said. “But she will.”

The other boys turned. He smiled wider. Devastating. Determined. “Now?”

His voice dropped.

“We seduce her.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t remember getting home. One moment you were running. The next, your apartment door slammed shut behind you. You locked it. Bolted it. Double-checked it.

Then you fell.

Not gracefully—like a collapse, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. You’re curled on the floor now, your fingers tangled in the hem of your clothes, your back pressed to the side of the bed. Shaking. Silent. Your chest is heaving, but the air doesn’t reach your lungs. You’re not crying because you’re sad.

You’re crying because you’re losing your mind. Every time you close your eyes… they’re there.

Jinu in royal silk, kneeling in the blood-soaked courtyard of a Joseon palace—his eyes hollow, your lifeless hand in his lap.

Romance cradling your head by a lake turned black from poison—screaming into your mouth like he could breathe life back into you.

Abby roaring over a field of corpses—his armor cracked, clutching you as smoke swallowed the sky.

Mystery baring his fangs at priests dragging you away—his form shifting between beast and boy, voice howling your name like a prayer.

And Baby—oh god.

Baby in a burning chamber, crawling toward your corpse through ash. His smile was carved wrong, twitching, shattered—his arms cradling your body like a doll as fire devoured the world around him.

You cover your ears. You curl tighter. Your bones ache. “These aren’t mine,” you whisper. “They aren’t mine—”

But they feel like they are.

The grief. The rage. The longing. The love. Too much love. It presses against your ribs like a dam waiting to crack. And deep—deep—within your chest… something stirs. Something ancient. Something hungry.

You drag yourself under the blankets. Trembling. Numb. You don’t sleep. Sleep claims you.

And you never hear the figures outside your window. Five of them. Silent on the balcony.

Jinu’s hand is on the glass, forehead pressed lightly to the cold. His eyes are shut, breath fogging the surface. He had to see you. Just once more. Even if it killed him.

Romance stands beside him, one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressed to his lips like he might say something—but doesn’t. He just watches. Unblinking.

Abby paces behind them, boots scuffing against concrete. Every noise inside your room makes his head whip toward the door. He wants to kick it down. Drag you into his arms. Keep you warm. Keep you close.

Mystery is curled beside the potted plants. His ears twitch. His claws dig into the concrete. He hears your breathing. He knows when your sleep shifts. He knows you’re dreaming.

And Baby— Baby stands furthest from the glass. He doesn't move.Just stares at your sleeping form through the sheer curtain. His eyes are too wide. His hands are in his pockets, but the blood dripping from them gives him away. He clenches his jaw. He had wanted to go after you. To hold you. To punish anyone who scared you. But Jinu made them promise.

No chaos. Not yet. They all told themselves they were here to make sure you got home safe. But deep down, none of them believed that. They were here because they needed to see you one last time. Because you were in their veins now.

Because the bond was waking.

And soon—you’d be theirs again.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── Author's note: Let me know if you guys enjoyed this? I plan to expand more into the backstories as their relationship develops. I've got characterizations up just for a teaser that I might post tonight. :) With love,Willa x.

[whimsicalwritersstuff]

ok I don’t know what kind of au this would be in but I had a fantasy/vision this morning and I need to share it with SOMEONE. kinda freaky so bear with me.

picture this: maybe joel and reader have a couple kids. maybe he’s been feeling a bit insecure lately about him getting older, feeling self conscious about his tummy and his grey hair and maybe the fact that he’s losing a bit of stamina oops. then one day the kids are being badly behaved and he puts his foot down and reader gets so hot and bothered by him being discipline daddy and she knows he’s been feeling a lil insecure so later when they’re alone she lets him know that the things that make him look like a full blown dad are the things that make her the horniest and she says something like “when you put your foot down with the kids… it reminded me of the days when you used to punish me” and they do sex to one another and she gets spankings and light chokes and wifey reminds him she’ll always be his bad girl and he reminds her how bad girls get punished and hey by the way take my phone away

── Put your foot down.

no outbreak.

Pairing: Oldman!Joel Miller x wife!Reader

Content warnings: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI. age gap (60s/20s), pet names, Daddy kink, aging insecurity, emotional reassurance, spanking, possessive/domestic sex, light chocking, praise & dirty talk, soft obsession, dom!Joel, sub!reader, Established Relationship

Word count: 1.194

The kitchen was chaos.

Markers rolled across the floor, spilled juice dripping down the cabinets and your oldest, six going on sixteen. Was currently screaming because her sister dare to touch her stuffed racoon. Again.

You were one second from crying or laughing, you weren't sure which, when Joel's boots thudded against the wood floor.

"Enough," came the voice. The one that vibrated from the chest.

You stilled. So did the kids.

That voice was rare. That tone. Rough. Stern. Low like thunder before a storm.

It made both girls freeze on instinct and your youngest even dropped the raccoon like it had burned her.

Joel looked tired, his flannel half buttoned, a little sweat at his temples from fixing the damn leaky sink.

"Pick up the mess," he ordered. "Say sorry to your mama. Then go sit on the couch. No cartoons."

Both the kids shuffled off with quite little sorrys. No sass, no backtalk.

You leaned on the counter, biting your cheek to suppress a smile. Joel turned towards you, rubbing his neck, and muttered. "Sorry 'bout all that. They were bouncin' off the walls while I was under the sink.. just lost my patience, I guess."

But all you could do was stare.

At the way he stood, shoulders broad, hands dirty, jaw clenched just so. The silver threading through his curls, the soft curve of his belly pushing slightly against his shirt.

The voice. The authority. The way the girls obeyedhim like he was the law of the land.

And suddenly, your thighs clenched.

He caught your look. Brows furrowed.

"What?"

You crossed the kitchen slowly, thudding your fingers through the collar of his shirt, letting your eyes move over every weathered, perfect part of him.. "I'm so fucking turned on right now..." You whispered.

Joel blinked. "...what?"

You leaned closer, voiceowr. "When you used that voice? When you put your foot down with the girls? I swear to God, Joel, it reminded me of the days when you used to punish me." Joel's face went from confused to wrecked in half a second.

"Jesus," he murmured. "You serious."

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his middle, under the softness of of his flannel, resting your head against that cheat you loved so much.

"I know you've been feeling self conscious," you murmured. "About the gray. The belly. Getting winded.. but all of that? Joel, it makes me want to climb into your lap and beg for it..."

He let out a shaly breath, arms tightening around your waist.

"Goddamn, baby..."

"You're sexy, Joel," you whispered. "You're a full blown dad. You fix shit with one hand, discipline with the other. You wear those stupid reading glasses and your flannels don't button right over your tummy and it makes me wanna ride you until you stop me."

Joel was hard.

You could feel it against your hip.

He grabbed your jaw gently, tilting your chin up.

"Bedroom. Now."

~~~

By the time you were lajd out across the bed, shirt peeled off, shorts shoved aside, Joel's flannel was half off, boxers pushed just far enough to let his thick cock slap heavy between your thighs.

He stared down at you like he was starving. Like you hard the answers to every doubt in his head. "You still daddy's girl?" He asked, sliding his fingers through your slick folds. "Even after all these years?"

You nodded, gasping. "Always.."

"You still need reminders?" His voice dropped, that gravelly tone making your stomach flip.

"Yes. Please,' you begged.

He smirked, older, slower but still lethal.

One sharp spank landed on your ass, then another.

You cried out, arching into him.

He wrapped one hand lightly around your throat, the other gripping your hip as he lined up and pushed in, deep and slow until he bottomed out and groaned like it hurt to feel that good.

"Fuck,"he rasped. "So fuckin' tight."

You clung to him arm. "Still all yours."

His thrusts were heavy, deepz measured.

"I got older," he muttered. "But I never got soft on you."

You didn't,' you moaned. "You're so good,.Joel... So deep, god, daddy..." He focked out a moan and leaned in, hand braced beside your head, mouth dragging along your neck.

You whispered, "use me."

And he did.

He flipped you on your stomach, your thighs were already trembling, and Joel hadn't even started fucking you properly yet.

His hand slid up your spine, slow and warm, making you arch like instinct. His breath hit your shoulder, heavy and uneven.

His soft stomach pressed against your lower back, grounding you to the bed. He guided his cock through your soaked folds, the head thick and hard, teasing your entrance.

Joel then grabbed your hips and sank into you with one deep, controlled thrust. You gasped, loud and startled. Hands scrambling to brace against the mattress as he filled you up to the hilt.

You couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel him..he filled every inch like he is as carved to fit you, his hips flush with your ass, his cock pulsing thick and hot inside you.

He didn't move yet. He held himself ther, buried deep, hands gripping your tiny waist hard enough to leave marks. "You want daddy to ruin you tonight?" Be asked softly, voice all whiskey and hunger.

"Y-Yes, please. Daddy."

Joel pulled out nearly to the tip and then slammed back in with a low grunt. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the room.

Obscene and wet and perfect. He kept thrusting into you, he kept his thrusts steady, not rushed, not frantic, just hard. Possessive.

You couldn't stop moaning.

Every thrust hit deep, dragging against your walls, your body clenching tighter each time he pressed that soft tummy against your back.

"Fuck- fuck-" you sobbed. "You feel so good, daddy.." he leaned down , wrapped his hand around your throat gently, lips brushing your ear. "Don't forget who this pussy belongs to."

"You, daddy." You bewthed. "Always. It's yours."

"You think anyone else could ever fuck you like this, fill you up this deep?" You shopl your head, "no, no one...just you."

Joel pulled you upright onto your knees, your back against his chest , his hand still right at your neck, the other one on your clit now, circling slowly while his cock kept pounding up into you. "Show me, he whispered. "Cum on daddy's cock."

You shattered.

Your pussy clenching around him so hard it made him curse, your body going limp in his arms. He cought you with a growl, held you in place, still thrusting through the after shocks.

And then he followed.

He buried himself deep and stayed there, pulsing inside you, thick ropes of heat flooding you full while he panted into your slick neck..

"God damn, baby..." He muttered, "ain't never gonna get over you.

You reached up, threaded your fingers through his greying curls, "still god it, daddy." Joel laughed low against your skin and pulled out slwly, watching the mess spill down your thighs with a satisfied smirk.

"You're gonna be Feelin' me all day tomorrow."

You smiled, breathless.

"That's the point."

[phantomrose96]

God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

[monstersholygrail]

Not to Borrow but to Keep

Shadow Monster x fem!reader— possessiveness, shadow tentacles, suspension, restraints, sex in a public but empty space, sensory deprivation, multiple orgasms, and creampie

It was always hard for Shadow Monster Captain to share you. Even though it was pretty inevitable given you were the only human in the Monster Apocalypse who could actually see them. They all wanted your attention, but no one needed it like he did.

Yet somehow he was the one standing guard at the abandoned library’s entrance, watching from afar as you give all of your affections to the dark gargantuan spirit who inhabits the library and is its sole reason for its withering state. No matter that it was he who offered, no insisted, he be on guard duty.

Seeing you give the other monsters the attention he so desperately craves has something dark swirling in his gut. It weakens his hold on his powers and the library grows darker as his shadows slip and begin to creep in.

The other spirits that rest on the floor and large plush chairs all waiting for their turn begin to chitter and chirp nervously. All of them speaking over the other before hesitantly turning to meet his thundering gaze.

Though you don’t appear to notice, getting up off your chair and heading toward a nearby bookshelf. Shadow Monster Captain glares back at the spirits and they immediately scatter like cowardly rats, shrieking their displeasure even as they run out of the room. Leaving him completely alone with you.

His shadows become darker by the minute, swallowing up the entire room to the point where you’re surrounded by him. Only him. It’s still not close enough. He walks over to you, his shadows coming off of him in waves. The moment you’re in reach his arms are curling around you and he’s tugging you into his chest.

A loud gasp echos against his shadows and your hands jump to the bookshelf to help steady you. Pleasure bursts in tiny shocks as you caress his shadows, an extension of himself.

“What’re you doing?” You ask breathlessly, not wanting to admit how fucking hot his silent dominance is. The things it does to you, you’re barely hanging on by a thread.

“Mine. You’re Mine,” he snarls, nuzzling into your neck.

You can feel each sharp tooth against your flesh and it only makes you that much more hotter for him. Your back arches into him on its own, pressing your ass into his growing erection. He snarls again, snapping his jaw at you in warning of encouragement you aren’t sure. Either way you don’t listen.

“Who says I’m yours?” You ask, practically moaning it you’re so turned on. Wanting so badly to finally push him over the edge.

And it does as his last flicker of restraint snaps and a fierce roar shakes the walls of the library you can no longer see clearly. He gives you no time to catch your breath as he pushes you against the bookshelf and reaches a hand between your thighs.

It takes you a moment to register the sound of tearing fabric as he rips your jeans and panties to shreds, exposing your dripping folds to the air, and not even bothering to fully undress you. It doesn’t matter, none of it does.

All he cares about is being able to sink into your tight cunt, and god, that’s the hottest thing anyones ever done to you. Reducing you to nothing but your sweet holes. And knowing how much he truly cherishes you only makes it that much hotter, his desperation for you has you gushing and making a mess of your thighs.

His thick clawed fingers push through your folds, spreading you open for him so pretty and you mewl, angling your hips and begging for him to take you. But he never touches where you need him most, claws barely just ghosting over your clit before falling back to tease your entrance.

“I say your mine, little human. And I think she does too, eh?” He rasps in your ear.

As if to prove his point he slowly pushes two of his digits in your sopping cunt. Your stomach burns in humiliation as a loud squelch pierces through the simmering tension. You can’t believe you’re so turned on, the need to curl into yourself and disappear into his shadows claws at you. But he’s making you feel so good with every torturous pump of his fingers you can’t imagine moving right now.

But just as your eyes start to flutter, ready to get lost in the sensation, he’s pulling back. The sudden emptiness has you whining without meaning to and you buck back, craving his long fingers back inside of you.

You go to say something, to beg and plead for more, when you then feel his big throbbing tip circle around your needy entrance. Every nerve in your body goes tight and you gasp, wanting so back to rock back and slam down on his cock.

His breath hits the shell of your ear and you swear you’re about to fall apart before he even gets inside of you. As if to ground yourself your nails dig into the shadows on the bookshelf and he hisses, hips jumping forward instinctively as he starts to push into you. But he quickly stops himself, panting as heavily as you are.

“Tell me. Tell me you’re mine,” he demands, tone as dark as his shadows.

You nod frantically but already you know it won’t be enough. He growls in response, putting just the tip in and your pussy immediately clenches around him, trying to suck him in. He just won’t budge, not until you say it. So you gather all the strength you have left and finally admit it.

“I-I’m yours— Fuck— I’m yours!”

Your fierce shout fades into a vulgar scream as Shadow Monster Captain slams the rest of his massive cock inside you in one long stroke. His fierce growls vibrate against your back as he doesn’t hesitate you plunge into your tight hot pussy like a feral beast.

All you can do is hold onto the bookshelf with all you have as he fucks you within an inch of your life. The power of his thrusts force you up against the shelf with each snap of his hips. All the air is forced from your lungs, leaving only the feeling of his length filling you over and over again.

Moans spill from your lips in an endless stream as so much pleasure courses through you, you can’t even contain it. And your encouragement only seems to spur him on further, his claws sinking into your wide waist and jackhammering his cock into your perfect pussy.

He fucks you so hard your feet don’t even touch the ground anymore, his hands and his shadows suspending you in the air and allowing him to bury himself inside of you as hard as he desires.

“All mine. Finally. All mine,” he growls, his voice slipping as he forgets your language completely. Though he doesn’t stop rambling praises you don’t understand in his native demonic tongue.

His shadows tighten around your body and quiver against you, sending bolts of arousal straight to your core. Your cries grow louder with each drag of his length along your warm walls and you know you won’t be able to last much longer.

“Yes, oh my— nngh!— yes I’m yours, I swear it!” You shriek in response, vision flashing white at the intensity of your impending orgasm.

Just then you feel the tiniest tendril of a shadow rub against your clit just right and it sends you hurtling over the edge. A loud ringing fills your ears and you’re only barely aware it’s your own screams as you shake through the most mindblowing orgasm of your life.

If Shadow Monster Captain wasn’t holding you up your body would’ve given out by now. All you can do is shake, unable to move away from the overwhelming pleasure as he works you through it. Even as you clamp down around him he keeps going, unknowingly rambling about how perfect you feel around him and how gorgeous you look when you cum on his dick.

He can sense your next orgasm building so he clenches his teeth and keeps on going, already addicted to the feeling of you squeezing him. It’s only when you’re thrown into your second orgasm does he finally join you. Burying himself inside of you to the hilt, once, twice, and three more times before letting himself cum. A deep rumble builds in his chest as he pumps you full to the brim with his hot seed.

His shadows remain around your limbs possessively, unwilling to let you go. Shadow Monster Captain sags against your back, nuzzling into your neck again, and remaining as deep inside of you as he can be.

Slowly but surely his shadows recede and the light from the library windows trickle back in. But still he doesn’t let you go and you know he’s still thinking about his claim on you. You are too but his next words are what finally take you out.

“And I’m yours.”

[arixella]

"I wanna see your face when I fill you up"

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x female! reader

a/n: um atp i just post randomly now

summary: After a battle, you catch yourself openly admiring Luffy’s now-ripped physique — and he totally notices. Flirty teasing turns into a steamy, passionate moment where Luffy confesses he’s wanted you for a long time. Things quickly heat up on the deck, and by the end, it’s clear neither of you plans to stop at just one night.

wc: 2.2k

contains: smut! (18+) semi-public but private setting (upper deck at night), rougher pace, dom-ish Luffy, possessiveness, light manhandling, marking, dirty talk, cocky Luffy losing his control, creampie, aftercare.

The sun was dipping low, casting a golden sheen across the deck of the Sunny. The crew buzzed around, cleaning up after the latest island showdown — weapons being stowed, bandages wrapped, bruises proudly shown off like trophies.

And then there was him.

Monkey D. Luffy. Bare-chested, grinning, still buzzing with energy as if he hadn’t just wiped the floor with a Warlord and his army.

You stood frozen by the mast, a rag in your hand and absolutely no thoughts in your brain except:

“Holy hell. When did he get so ripped?”

Luffy’s torso glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, muscles tight and cut like they were sculpted from sun-kissed stone. His abs flexed every time he laughed — and oh, he laughed a lot — and his biceps looked like they could casually throw a mountain or two if you asked nicely.

You were not drooling.

Not literally.

“You okay over there?” Luffy’s voice cut through your mental spiraling, and when you looked up, he was staring at you — eyes wide, cheeks a little pink.

Busted.

“I—uh, yeah. Just—cleaning,” you said, waving the rag like an idiot and definitely not staring at the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

He tilted his head, still grinning, but his flush deepened. “You’re lookin’ real hard, y’know.”

You almost choked on your own tongue. “What?”

“Your face’s all red,” he said, stepping closer, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, I get it. I am kinda awesome.” He flexed an arm half-jokingly, then dropped it when he caught you actually checking it out.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, covering your face with both hands.

Luffy laughed, the sound bubbling like soda. “You do think I’m hot!”

You groaned. “Luffy—”

“No, no, wait, I like it!” he said quickly, his voice getting higher, his own face nearly glowing with how flustered he was. “I mean—you always look cute when you’re all bossy and mad, but now you’re like—squirmy and pink and kinda…kinda kissable.”

That shut you up real quick.

He blinked. “Was that too much?”

“No,” you said, heart hammering in your chest, “but if you say ‘kissable’ again I might actually pass out.”

He stepped closer, until his toes nearly touched yours, his breath warm against your cheek. “Wanna try it? Just so I know what it’s like?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You serious?”

Luffy gave you a grin that was almost shy — almost. “Been thinking about it since before the fight. Now I feel strong and you look all shiny-eyed. Feels like a good time.”

You barely managed a nod before his lips brushed yours — soft, sun-warmed, a little clumsy, but so Luffy. His hands landed at your hips, warm and grounding, and you sighed into him, threading your fingers through his messy hair.

When you pulled back, both of you looked dazed.

“…Wanna help me clean up?” you teased, voice breathy.

He smirked, muscles flexing just a little. “Nah. I wanna make you red again.”

--

The deck was quiet now.

The rest of the crew had cleared out, most asleep or below deck, leaving only the soft sway of the sea and the lingering heat between you and Luffy.

Your back pressed against the wood of the mast, heart thundering in your chest as Luffy’s fingers ghosted over your skin — featherlight, curious, hungry.

“I really like when you look at me like that,” he murmured, voice lower, rougher than usual. He leaned in, brushing his lips against your neck, sucking lightly until your knees nearly buckled.

“Luffy—” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.

“Hmm?” he hummed against your skin. “You looked like you wanted to eat me earlier. Thought I’d return the favor.”

You gasped as his hand slid up under your shirt, palms rough from battle but his touch soft — reverent, even. He pulled the fabric over your head with a gentle kind of urgency, eyes flicking down over your body like he’d just found treasure more valuable than any One Piece.

“Whoa…” he whispered, dazed. “You’re so pretty.”

The way he said it — genuine, like he was seeing you for the first time — made heat bloom between your thighs. He bent down slightly, mouth brushing the top of your chest, teeth grazing as he teased.

“You always act all cool,” he said between kisses, “but you’re squirming so bad right now.”

“Shut up—”

“Nope,” he grinned, lips trailing down your stomach. “Not when you’re about to beg.”

You opened your mouth to argue — then yelped when he dropped to his knees and pulled your bottoms down with one smooth motion, tongue flicking out to tease right where you needed it most.

Your hand flew to his hair, gripping tight. “Luffy—! Wait, you don’t have to—”

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes half-lidded, cocky smirk on his face.

“I want to.”

And with that, he buried his face in you, tongue warm, wet, relentless.

His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you steady as he sucked and licked, building you up fast — too fast — and yet not enough. His nose brushed sensitive skin, his tongue working in maddening patterns, switching between deep licks and soft flicks that made your hips twitch.

“Y-You’re good at this—” you panted.

“Rubber tongue,” he murmured smugly against you. “Told you I’d make you red again.”

You came with a cry, head thrown back, thighs trembling against his shoulders.

But he didn’t stop.

You whimpered, twitching, the overstimulation making your whole body jolt.

“L-Luffy—!”

He looked up again, glistening lips, eyes glazed with lust and pride. “One more. Just one more. Then I’ll let you make me squirm.”

You didn’t even have the strength to argue — not when he leaned in again with that damn smile.

Your legs were still shaking when he stood.

Luffy’s mouth glistened with the aftermath of your first orgasm, and yet the look in his eyes said one thing: he wasn't nearly done.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand — then leaned in to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss was deeper now, messier, full of unspoken hunger.

“You okay?” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

You nodded, dazed. “More than.”

His grin turned wolfish. “Good. ‘Cause I need you. Now.”

You didn’t even get a warning before he hoisted you up by the thighs, pinning your back to the mast. His strength — casual, overwhelming — made your breath catch as your legs wrapped around his waist out of instinct.

“Didn’t know you could carry me like that—”

He pressed his hips against yours, and you felt him — hard, thick, twitching through his pants. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.”

“Show me,” you whispered.

That was it. His restraint snapped.

He yanked his pants low enough to free himself, letting his cock slap against your thigh, hot and heavy. You barely had time to brace before he lined himself up and pushed in — slowly, but not gently.

“Shit—Luffy—!”

“Feel that?” he hissed, head falling against your shoulder as he bottomed out, his hips flush with yours. “Fuck—you’re tight.”

You gasped at the stretch, the heat, the way his voice sounded — deeper, raspier, needy in a way you hadn’t heard before.

He pulled back almost completely, then slammed in again, hard enough to make the mast behind you creak.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he groaned, hips snapping into you at a quickening pace. “Since Alabasta. Since Water 7. Since forever. Wanted you—so bad.”

Your nails dug into his back as he fucked you harder, the raw sound of skin slapping skin mixing with the crashing waves below. He was moaning openly now, whimpering your name between thrusts like a man possessed.

“Look at me,” he panted, grabbing your chin. “I wanna see your face when I fill you up.”

You bit your lip, nearly sobbing from the intensity — the way he hit just right, the way his voice cracked with every needy thrust.

“Gonna cum inside you,” he muttered, mouth by your ear. “Wanna see it drip out. Wanna stay inside, keep it warm.”

You clenched around him at the words, and he felt it.

“Oh fuck, you like that?” His voice broke into a breathless laugh. “You want me that bad, huh?”

You barely had time to answer before he was pounding into you like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t even think. His grip bruised into your thighs, his thrusts erratic now, desperate.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You nodded, your own orgasm building again, faster than you expected.

“Do it,” you whispered. “Come inside, Luffy.”

His whole body shuddered. With a low, wrecked moan, he buried himself deep and spilled into you, his hips stuttering as he came hard — warm, endless, claiming you in the most primal way possible.

You followed right after, clenching tight around him as your second climax hit, nails raking down his back.

For a long second, the world was just heartbeats and shaky breath.

Then his head dropped to your shoulder again, body still twitching with the aftershocks.

“…shit,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “That was way better than meat.”

You laughed breathlessly. “High praise, Captain.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you — eyes soft, cheeks still flushed. “Hope you’re ready for more. ‘Cause now I know what you feel like, I don’t think I can stop.”

You leaned in, kissing him slow this time. “Good. I don’t want you to.”

♡♡♡

© 2025 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[ramp-it-up]

FMK

Summary: Bucky takes you for a ride, extending the game you introduced him to.

Word count: 2.8 K

Pairing: Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Even though I've done Congressman Bucky, I feel like this is my first Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes. I think I love him. Give me all the feedback, good, bad, or ugly! Reblog, comment, and like.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Thunderbolts* Bucky, Bucky on his bike (Y'all know that's a warning), man out of time, Bucky and his staring problem, picnic, semi-public sex, sloppy oral (m receiving) grinding, woman on top, raw p in v, praise kink, SIZE KINK, Doll as a nickname. This is basically porn with plot.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

Bucky stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the collar of his worn leather jacket for the third time. But it wasn’t the fabric bothering him; it was the twitch in his fingers.

Combat never rattled him like this.

Underneath the black leather and tousled hair, beneath the facade of calm and control, was a man barely holding it together. He was chaos underneath the restraint on the outside.

Because this wasn’t just any day.

He’d been planning this for weeks. Quietly tucking away ideas and perfect details. Not to impress you, not exactly. But because you deserved perfect.

And because for the first time in his life, he wanted to be perfect. For someone.

For you.

Two months. That’s all it took. Two months since he asked you out, and you’d already rewired him. Threaded yourself through his bloodstream. Burned through walls he didn’t even know he’d built.

You saw past the metal, past the missions, past the wreckage of who he used to be. When he was with you, the blood stopped screaming in his ears. You weren’t just his safe place. You were his secret.

The one thing he didn’t report back to Valentina, or anyone.

Even though some of the first words out of your mouth to him were, “.... fuck... me?” you were surprisingly sweet. And good.

He didn’t want to get you dirty.

But lately, when you kissed him, it wasn’t sweet anymore.

It was desperate.

Your sweet mouth had turned to molten honey. Your hands held on to him like you were afraid he’d vanish, the kind of touches that said, I need you. The kind that made him ache to give in.

And every time, he restrained himself. You were worth waiting for. But God, he was unraveling. One touch, one look from you, and he was on fire.

He grabbed the helmet he bought for you, ran a hand through his hair, and said to himself, “You’ve got this, Barnes.”

Then he tried, and failed, to ignore how your needy little sounds haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

The night before was just supposed to be an innocent movie night. But you ended up in his lap, grinding that hot little pussy on his thigh, your jeans soaked through while he sat there hard as a rock, hands clenched around your thighs, jaw tight to keep from begging for mercy. He’d almost snapped.

Almost.

But you deserved more than almost. And today, he was going to take you somewhere no one else could find you. Feed you, hold you, maybe fuck you until you forgot your own name.

—

The low, thunderous purr of his bike echoed down your street, and your pulse picked up before you even saw him. The sound of Bucky on his bike always sent a rush straight between your thighs.

You’d barely made it to the door before he was pulling up, black leather, sinful jeans, and sunglasses hiding those sky-blue eyes made you want to get undressed before a word left your mouth.

You first saw him on that bike two months ago. He pulled up to your neighborhood gas station while you were filling up. You lived quite a ways from the city, and you imagined that he had ridden until he ran out of gas.

You’d imagined quite a few things about Bucky Barnes, as hot as he was, but you never thought you’d actually be in the same space as him. 

You tried not to stare. But when you looked up, he was staring at you. His eyes were locked on you, steady and unblinking. And it wasn’t a passing glance. It was full on distracted, intense staring.

Truth was, Bucky was already gone for you. You just didn’t know it yet.

You swallowed your nervousness and decided to shoot your shot. You tilted your head playfully. 

“Should I be worried? You look like you’re trying to decide whether to fuck, marry, or kill me.”

It short-circuited him. He blinked and stammered as his cheeks flushed.

“Uh… definitely not kill,” he managed, voice rough.

“Maybe marry… one day.”

He’d looked away like he’d said too much. 

You grinned. “So that leaves fuck.”

His throat bobbed.

“Yeah. Probably that too. But I’m gonna need to work for it.”

You’d liked that answer. Liked it too much. You laughed, shaking your head.

“Glad to hear it.”

Bucky looked cool on the surface, but inside he was raw as hell. He was acutely aware of how little he really knew, how much he wanted to catch up, to be able to be with you in every sense. 

It was insane, he just met you, but inside, he thought: I want you to fuck me, marry me, and kill me with your love. He wondered if you would agree to that, one day.

He wondered if you knew who you were talking to.

Bucky opened his mouth like he wanted to say more but settled for a shy smile instead. 

Then, lowering his voice just enough, he murmured, “You know who I am, right?”

You shrugged, not scared of him. “Who doesn’t?”

His smile softened.  

“Still. Thanks for talking to the guy who stared at you for a full minute like a dumbass at a Shell station.”

You leaned against your car, sipping your coffee. 

“Well, dumbass or not... I like the view.”

Bucky chuckled, summoned pre-war James Barnes, then pulled out his phone. 

“Can I have your number, Doll?”

You grinned and took another sip, his sudden panty-dropping look doing something to you.

“Aren’t you a super hero or something with unlimited resources?”

Bucky’s eyes scanned your form, then back up to your face.

“You know what…?”

He narrowed his eyes at you, went around your car and typed in your license plate. Within a minute, his phone buzzed and then turned it to you to show your contact information on his screen.

“Impressive.”

“Yeah. Guess I don’t need to kill or marry you to get your number.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Wait. What about fuck? You just left that one out.”

Bucky blinked.

“Uh... yeah. Forgot that one.”

No he didn't. Not by a longshot.

You grinned and got into your car, rolling down the window before you drove off.

“If you use that number, maybe I’ll remind you of it one day.”

—--

After a week of texting, and two months of dating, along with a night of will he? or won’t he?, Bucky showed up at your front door. The question of if last night affected him was suddenly answered. 

Bucky Barnes was your wet dream. The actual wet dream you had last night after he pulled away yet again. And now, he was leaning against his bike like he owned the world and all your future orgasms.

“Hey, Doll,” he rumbled, voice deep and sexy.

Your smile grew. 

“Hey yourself. What’s the occasion?”

He stepped close, like he couldn’t not touch you.

“Thought I’d steal you for a bit. Got a spot. No one around. Pretty view.” 

He lifted a saddlebag.

“Packed us a picnic.”

Your brow rose.

“A picnic? A ride on your bike? You trying to kill me?”

He gave you that rare laugh that he told you only you could pull from him. 

“No, ma’am. Got you a helmet. You’re safe with me.”

The look he gave you made you think otherwise. 

“I just thought maybe we could use some sunshine, some food, and some time alone.”

The way he said that last word nearly made your knees buckle.

You swallowed.

“I’d like that a lot.”

Bucky’s smile turned soft, but the heat behind his eyes said otherwise. Then he pulled out the helmet. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, stepping close enough to buckle it for you himself. 

“Let me take you somewhere I don’t gotta share you with the rest of the world.”

—

You clung to Bucky like you'd been riding with him for years, your thighs pressed flush against his hips, your chest pressed to his back. Every bump in the road made your clit pulse. Every lean into a curve made you press tighter, grinding down just enough to feel it where you needed it.

The growl of the bike between your legs had you aching and needy. He wasn’t even touching you, but you were already soaked. When he finally turned off-road into a secluded clearing overlooking a still lake, you were seconds from begging.

The engine cut. Silence fell. He turned to you, voice husky.

“Still with me?”

You nodded, breathless.

“Definitely.”

He helped you off the bike, hands dragging a little longer over your hips. You felt the heat in his touch, the restraint in his muscles. Then he grabbed the basket and blanket, heading toward the overlook.

“Promise it’s worth it,” he said over his shoulder, but his eyes were already locked on you, not the view.

You sat close. Too close. His thigh against yours. His fingers brushing yours as he handed over a drink. His knuckles grazed your knee. Every contact was a tease and a promise.

“This really is perfect,” you murmured. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Was saving it for you.”

Your heart flipped. The air thickened. 

“So what now? You charm me with snacks and sunlight? Then kill me?”

“Why do you keep going with that option?” he asked with another low laugh.

His eyes dropped  to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“What about the other two?”

You had thoroughly explained the game to Bucky using him, Walker, and Bob, and Bucky hadn’t seemed to like those examples. You’d said Fuck Walker, Marry Bob and kill Bucky, just so you could say you defeated the Winter Soldier. You were teasing, but Bucky hadn’t thought it was funny.

Especially the part about Walker. You had to kiss him for a half hour before he forgave you.

But now you smiled at him angelically.

“You wanna marry me, Bucky?”

Bucky got serious. 

“Yeah, but that’s beside the point.”

He reached for you and pulled you onto his lap and kissed you as your mouth dropped open in surprise. He didn’t let you dwell on his statement for long.

“Let’s stop pretendin’ we haven’t been thinkin’ the same damn thing for weeks, Doll.”

And what’s that?” you whispered, already knowing.

His hand came up to trace your jaw and draw you even closer.

“You. Me.” 

His lips brushed your throat. 

“The way you sound when I touch you…” 

A kiss, lower now. 

“...the way you taste when I get my tongue in your mouth...” 

Another kiss, higher. 

“...and the way you ride my thigh like you’re tryin’ to make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

You whimpered and rolled your hips instinctively against the solid ridge under you. He felt massive.

“Bucky…” 

The way you said his name broke him.

When he laid back, you climbed over him, his cock thick and hard beneath his jeans, throbbing under you. You ground against it, chasing friction, and Bucky growled.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You feel that, Doll? That’s what you do to me.”

His hands found your waist, sliding under your shirt. When he cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, you arched into him with a broken gasp.

“All those nights,” he rasped, “I went home and fucked my fist thinking about the way you sound.”

You whimpered. 

“I did worse.”

He stopped moving, your words were getting him close and he didn’t want to cum in his pants like a schoolboy.

“I touched myself the second the door closed. Couldn’t wait. I was dripping for you, Bucky.”

He groaned like it hurt. “Jesus, Doll.

Your fingers shook as you freed him, thick and leaking, the head flushed. You lowered your head, kissed the thick, hot tip, and licked slowly up his shaft.

He cursed, hand flying to your hair.

“Fuck. You're gonna kill me.”

You took him deeper, sucked harder and watched him lose composure with every flick of your tongue.

Bucky watched you with hooded eyes.

“Been a long time, Doll. ‘M sensitive. If you dont want- fuckkkk!”

When you gagged just a little, he growled and came hard, jerking in your mouth, spilling super soldier cum on your tongue, your lips, and down your chin.

His body trembled beneath you and his chest heaved. He looked up at you, eyes glassy.

“Oh, you’re so getting fucked.”

He pulled you up, wiped your chin, and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. Then he slid his hand into your leggings and cupped your soaked pussy. 

“You’re fuckin’ drenched, Doll,” he rasped. “Is this all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky,” you gasped. “Please.”

His fingers played, skating in your warm, slick folds. Bucky groaned, his cock waking up again. He looked down at you and chuckled. 

“Apparently, there’s no down time with you. You’re gonna be the death of me, Doll.”

You got each other naked, not rushing now. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered.

He flushed, but his hands found your waist again.

Golden hour spilled across the clearing as he lay back and pulled you over him.

And when you started to move, he murmured, “Ride me, sweetheart. Don’t hold back.”

You started writhing softly, teasing your slick folds over the hard line of him, letting your arousal coat him as your hips rolled. It wasn't exactly where he wanted to be, which was buried deep inside you, but just feeling your wet pussy lips slide over his cock caused Bucky’s breath to leave him. His hands gripped your waist like he needed something to anchor him, like he might float away if he didn’t hold you tight.

Bucky was so close, so soon. He could so easily position you to slide his hot cock right on into that juicy nirvana that was your cunt and which was leaking deliciously all over him. 

“Doll,” he warned, voice hoarse, barely tethered. “You keep that up, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirked down at him and leaned in to whisper against his mouth, “That’s the point.”

Then you shifted, one slow, aching glide down, taking him inside inch by thick inch. His jaw locked. His eyes rolled back. And then they snapped open to watch you, stunned.

“Fuck me,” he gasped, hands sliding to your hips, desperate now. 

“You feel…Christ…you feel like heaven.”

You rocked your hips, just enough to test the stretch, which was glorious, and Bucky groaned, head dropping back as his metal hand flexed, then clutched your hip with bruising pressure. The veins in his neck stood out. His thighs trembled under you.

He was gorgeous.

You moved slowly at first, watching him come undone beneath you, every stuttered breath, every low, broken sound, your reward. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and heavy, and the friction was maddening. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him, grinding down until your clit brushed the coarse hair at the base of him, until the pressure coiled sharp and tight in your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasped, and when you met his eyes, wild and so blue and so wrecked, something inside you shattered.

Because it wasn’t just lust. It was everything. Want and need and wonder mixed with a little desperation. 

And something like love.

His voice dropped to a whisper, “Been dreamin’ about this. Every night. You on top of me, takin’ what you want. Drippin’ all over me.”

You whimpered, angling your hips to take him deeper, and when he felt it, he grunted like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Just like that, baby. That’s it.”

The praise made you clench around him. You moved faster, chasing it, and Bucky met your rhythm, fucking up into you, hard and deep. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet clearing and neither of you cared if anyone heard.

Your orgasm hit fast and hard, curling your spine as your cunt fluttered around him, and Bucky cursed, holding you through it, grounding you with one hand on the small of your back and the other tangled in your hair as he sat up, mouth crashing to yours in a bruising kiss.

“Mine,” he growled against your lips. “You hear me, Doll? Mine.”

Then he flipped you, laying you gently on the blanket as he drove into you again with slow, brutal thrusts, dragging every ounce of pleasure from your oversensitive body.

You were still panting when he buried his face in your neck, groaning as he pulsed inside you. His release was fierce and deep, hips grinding into yours like he didn’t want to leave your body, like he wanted to stay buried in you forever.

After a long moment, Bucky kissed your temple.

“Well, sweetheart,” he rasped, “you killed me.”

You laughed, breathless. “You fucked me.”

He looked up at you, utterly ruined, utterly yours.

“There’s only one thing left, Doll.”

His smile blinded you as your heart leapt.

---

Let me know how you feel! :)

[blood-smiles]

𝐈’𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐅! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 . MDNI . gore . blood brought up very often. sexual assault attempt towards reader (not by yandere) . wounds

જ⁀➴ Your legs burned, limbs clearly unprepared as you sprinted out into the field like a wild gazelle. You hadn’t even begun to work, all you could feel was the sting in your chest, your heart brimming with adrenaline.

Your heart thundered in your ears, you could feel the vibrations of the organ in the right of your chest. Sweat dribbled down your back, mixing with the rain sprinkling from above, bullets zipped past your form just narrowly missing you by a silk thread.

You didn’t know where you were running to, you just were. You were quick and lithe, not a single bullet or stray piece of debris grazed you.

You slid to a stop, the muddy ground underneath your combat boots squelching under your weight. A man, clearly a soldier, judging by his camo uniform and badge, clutched his side while crying out in pain, he kicked his feet on the ground in a way to try and release some of the pain.

He got mud and rainwater all over you but that wasn’t important, you had to help this man, somehow. You studied his wound with the focus of a scholar, features taut with anxiety and the slightest hint of foreboding.

This was the hardest part of your job. Not the blood and bodily fluids, not the close monitoring of wounds, not the procedure but this— Knowing that the decision of letting this man live was in your hands, that a single mistake could send this man to his early grave.

You applied pressure with a cloth you had in tucked in your cargo pockets, your palm firmly pressing against the gaping hole in his side. 

You watched how the once white fabric turned a murky scarlet color, warmth seeped underneath your palm and soaked your hands.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe, you’re going to be okay.” You reassured the injured fellow, making sure to keep a calm, even tone of voice. 

You seemed sure and collected on the outside, like you had everything coldly calculated, almost as if you had already saved this man.

But the truth was far from it. You were a nervous wreck inside, tears pricked your vision, your throat burned and closed in with the need to weep for this man. Your knees were shaking even though you weren’t the one in pain, you allowed him to softly place his hand on your forearm.

“Please stay awake, I need you to stay awake.” You implored, your mind working like a tiny machine, an encyclopedia of methods and practices you had done in the past opening inside your brain.

You carefully planned your next action, his hand tightened on your arm, his dirty nails digging into your skin as he gave a weak cry, you pinched your eyebrows together in deep confusion.

“Sir. Sir? What’s happening?” You asked frantically, finally, panic seeping into your tone. He mouthed something, his whole body shuddering as he tried to muster the last of his strength to point at something behind you.

You read his bloody lips.

‘BEHIND YOU.’

You didn’t even have time to blink, because as soon as you opened your mouth to speak to the soldier, he was already dead.

BANG!

A bullet was planted between his brows, from

how loud the gun sounded it was like someone had shot him almost face to face.

Warm blood sprayed across your face, someone was behind you. Someone was behind you. Someone was behind you.

You breathed in, but you couldn’t move. There was nowhere to go anymore. You were stuck between the sword and the wall. Cornered like a lamb at the mercy of a vicious wolf.

The tears you had been battling against drained out your eyes, and as soon as the first salty droplet could hit the ground a boisterous sound filled your ears.

Before you could formulate your last words pain ripped through you endlessly, with no warning or hesitation. It shot you in the side, you could feel the foreign capsule burying itself in your guts.

The metal felt hot, god. It felt so hot. It felt like you were forced to touch boiling iron, but you weren’t allowed to pull away. There was nowhere way to escape the scalding heat of the bullet because it was inside you.

You had never screamed so loudly in your life, you hit the ground with an ear splitting wail, you curled in on yourself next to the deceased soldier. 

 IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts IthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurtsIthurts

You let out a choked sob, something between a cry of pain and a scream. 

A grand man chuckled at your pain, you could see the vague outline of his body out of the corner of your eye. He was large, built like a ravenous wolf, his teeth were bared, sharp and crooked like daggers as he bent down beside you.

His cold hands took a careless grip on your ankles, a new feeling arose, fear. Raw, primal fear. 

His grip was so tight and hurtful that he might have shattered your bones without even noticing— But it wasn’t like he even cared.

What was he going to do to you? You screamed and kicked in desperation, his hands creeped higher up to your knees.

Were you going to die like this? Why? What did you do wrong? You did everything they told you to.

Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?

Tears didn’t stop, the dam behind your eyes broke. The walls of the well had ruptured, it held years upon years of hate and suffering, and now that it had burst a tidal wave, one with the height of a tsunami had left nothing in its wake.

Your throat felt stuffed with rocks, your vocal cords strained inside you, clawing at the ground, soil settling underneath your nails.

You had tried to fight, you really did but blood was starting to settle in a pool underneath you. Your hair had chunks of dirt and blood, your skin had small cuts and was debauched by debris and flesh that wasn’t yours.

The clouds had parted, a single beam of light pushing through the skies and falling on the burly figure of a soldier with hair as golden as the sun.

Was that an angel? Was he here for you?

Peace at last, why did you feel peace? As soon as you caught a glimpse of those cold, steel blue eyes you felt.. free.

The fight inside had left you.

Like you could rest, maybe it was the blood loss getting to you. The ground underneath suddenly felt warm and comfortable, like the dreamiest of beds, the ones filled with swan feathers that only royals had the luxury of using.

Your eyes fluttered closed, a soft exhale leaving your lips. Blood and rainwater soaked your clothing, you lost consciousness with a small smile.

It was a blessing that you had closed your eyes, because at the least that had protected you from the carnage and absolute inhumane cruelty that would exhibited in front of your unconscious body.

The so called angel was no divine being, but the infamous lieutenant who had his sights set on you, perhaps too closely.

He didn’t hesitate to take the other man from his throat, his thick fingers wrapped around the rugged man’s neck, his nails dug into the thick muscles like the teeth of a bear trap.

The separation of meat from muscle was quick and brutal, Marcelle’s hand ripped the man’s throat out like tearing fat from a chicken leg. It was a disgusting show of force and power, and it was all done for some girl.

Marcelle’s chest heaved, pure rage ran through his veins like adrenaline, his nose was scrunched up like a rabid bear’s would. Someone had hurt you, the light to his darkness, the moon among so many stars.

They tried to tear you from his arms, tried to take advantage of your weak build and gentle heart.

Hate wasn’t an adequate word for what he really felt, it was an understatement of what was going through his twisted head.

The wolf-like man’s larynx dropped on the floor with a wet splat, blood rushed out of the exposed maw that once used to be his throat.

Marcelle was nowhere done with him though. 

A tactical knife strapped on his thigh was dislodged, then driven into the wolf’s stomach, the blonde pressed the blade so tight against his flesh that the peritoneum had been torn apart like a bag of candy on the hallow’s eve.

Guts spilled everywhere, slimy sausage shaped innards were the first to go, unfurling from his stomach like climbing rope.

Everything dropped down at his feet, contaminated filth mixed with blood and mud. Marcelle scoffed at how easy it was to kill this one, it wasn’t a big show of strength to pull this guy apart like tender teriyaki.

The mangled one lost his balance, falling onto his knees while choking on carmine, it sprayed everywhere along with chunks of meat, or what was left of it.

The blonde bear grabbed the disfigured man by his hair, then pressed a dirty boot onto the small of his back. He yanked with vigor at the other’s scalp while maintaining hard pressure on his back.

Then a sick crack came from the crumpled’s spine, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, swollen with blood and severed capillaries.

His spine had been severed in two, cleanly snapped like a toothpick.

The man bent backwards in the fashion of an arc, the cadaver looked like it was doing gymnastics, but really his body was so greatly damaged that his spine couldn’t maintain his weight, he was bent at such an unnatural extent it hurt just by looking at  him.

Marcelle kicked away the body and its innards, sending what was of a man into a puddle, leaving his organs and blood to mingle with the water.

He saw you, curled up like a kitten. But blood streamed out your side like a river, it wouldn’t stop, he panicked.

He dropped beside you, picking you up with the gentleness of what could only be compared to picking up an injured baby bird. He touched your face with the delicate touch of a feather, your face was dirty, streaked with dirt and crimson. 

He pressed his ear against your chest, the soft thump of your heart whispering that you had limited time.

His breath caught in his throat.

He was taught to never cry. That a man should never cry in the presence of anyone, but in this moment, this miserable and unfortunate situation he could do no less than weep.

All he could see was the tiny smile on your lips, your precious visage ruined by destruction of war. You didn’t stop bleeding, you can’t stop. His eyes watered, for the first time in decades he allowed himself to shed a tear.

“No.. No— You can’t.. You won’t leave me!” He yelled to your unconscious form, his dirtied hand grasping your limp one. He squeezed tightly, hoping that if he gripped hard enough you would react, that those pretty (e/c) eyes would look up at him one last time.

His distress was heard, a group of young soldiers trotted over to him, finding their great lieutenant distraught over the soon to be corpse of a nurse.

He hugged the body close to his chest, trying to share warmth to the wounded girl, his chin rested over her head, his thick fingers smoothing over her filthy hair, they weren’t sure if he was trying to soothe the injured woman or himself.

They came up to him, touching his shoulder and trying to reach the nurse in his arms. He didn’t take well to that.

He snapped at them, snarling like a furious bear protecting his young. He clawed at them, finding a discarded gun somewhere, it shook in his hands as he aimed at them. His finger looped into the trigger, only to hear a click.

Blank.

Blank.

Blank.

The gun was empty of bullets, so he took the next alternative, the only thing he knew to do, fight with his fists.

There was no one that could go up against him, they knew that Marcelle could divorce their head from their shoulders clean.

“You are not going to take her.” He rasped, putting himself between you and the men. Now they all looked like enemies, like big red training targets with white swirls. 

The cadets glanced at each other, just barely noticing the lifeless bodies surrounding the blonde and the wounded girl in his arms.

“Holy shit..” one of them murmured as he looked around, Marcelle had gone berserk, especially on this man at his feet, completely disemboweled— Where was his throat? 

He stared at the human remains on the floor, feeling the urge to vomit his stomach out right here and there.

A new voice pushed through, the head nurse shouldered men away as she jogged towards the pair of bloodied lovers.

“Look. I don’t care who you are or what your rank is—“ she began, walking towards Marcelle with no fear whatsoever.

“But that girl is going to die if you keep hoarding her like an aggressive mutt!” She yelled, beads of sweat collecting on her brow, she plowed through the mud and dirt just to make it to you.

Marcelle stared at her with a vacant look in his eyes, he didn’t have it in him to touch a woman with intent of harm.

His grip tightened as she approached, water dripped now his face, sweat and rain soaked his uniform. He wasn’t about to let her tug you away, over his dead body.

She tried to pull you away, her hands gripping your forearms as hard as she could but Marcelle’s hold was unrelenting and soon she would have to call herself defeated in the strength game.

“Fine. You can carry her.” She said with an edge to her voice, she took the collar of her uniform in her hands and pulled him up how a dog would pick up a puppy by its scruff.

“But she is going to to live and you are going to take her back now.” She demanded it like his first drill sergeant, he listened to that one order, he slowly ascended from the ground and followed the nurse.

He stared at your face the whole way he walked, his finger curved gently, his pad brushing away your hair behind your ear.

You’re going to be okay, you’re going to live.

His jaw tensed as a new wave of emotions ran over him, he couldn’t break down, not yet. He had to be strong for you.

He gently pressed his forehead against yours, his palm gently residing over your chest, feeling the soft thump of your heart under his hand.

He didn’t remember clearly when but he got ushered out of a room, he woke up in a sterile area surrounded by other people in what seemed to be a waiting room.

He vaguely recalled that he had to be restrained by four men, he got stabbed with a tranquilizer and that’s when everything went dark.

Where were you? His heart picked up in his chest, what had happened? Were you alive?

With a sudden movement he got up from his seat, a clipboard fell from his lap onto the ground. It held only a blank paper, with a single room number in it written in blue ink.

Marcelle had never ran faster in his life, he didn’t know or care how many people he knocked down as he sprinted through the halls. Nurses and doctors turned their heads at breakneck speeds as he zipped past them like a wild animal.

He opened your room door with a bang, sweat gathered on his forehead and his body burned, there you rested.

You, covered in bandages, body clean of dirt and blood, your hair looking soft like nothing had ever touched it. Soft morning light entered through the window, you glowed under the sun like a white dove.

You were hooked up to a monitor, constant beeping telling him you were still alive, it seemed you were breathing on your own, judging by the way your chest slowly rose and fell.

He was filthy with grime and sweat, he could never touch you, afraid he would taint you he stood back. He wanted nothing more than to touch your face, to see your smile again.

It wasn’t long until he was unceremoniously kicked out your room by your main caregiver. 

Marcelle came back the day after, and the day after and the days following that. He kneeled beside your bed like a puppy nudging his owner’s hand with its muzzle.

His hand gently held yours, he placed it over his head, on his cheek, just to feel your touch again. Just to feel the way your fingers would run through his hair again, to feel your fingers curing his wounds again.

He weeped more in that hospital than he had cried in his whole life. He was sure that he would drown in his own tears if he kept it up, he missed you so much, he wouldn��t leave your side for a moment.

There were times he would refuse to leave your room at all, security was forced to tranquilize him and at one point threatened to place a restraining order if he didn’t abide by their rules.

Then that day came, he sat by your bed, holding your hand to his heart, praying to whatever was up there to bring his baby back to him. 

He had never been a faithful man, but if that’s what it took to make you wake up, he would pray all day, everyday no matter the hour or situation.

The slightest twitch from your fingers made him jump, a glimmer in his grey eyes showed that he had hope. He stared at your hand, waiting for that little movement to come back.

Your eyelids moved, your facial muscles twitched, Marcelle stood from his chair abruptly, the furniture scratching the floor and making an unpleasant screech.

You opened your eyes, your beautiful (e/c) hues flitted around the room with confusion, the grogginess of consciousness filling you again.

You looked through your blurry memories, it felt like looking through frosted glass but you remembered a few things, the one that stood out to you most was the blonde angel.

There he was again. 

Why was he crying? You wondered, trying to sit up only to give up when the pain was too unbearable, the man pushed you back down, scolding you and forcing you back into the bed.

You recognized him, your first patient ever. Marcelle.

Just when you were about to speak he basically pounced, he hugged you like you would disappear in that moment. He felt warm and comfortable, you could barely bring your hands to wrap around him.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs, he couldn’t stop crying again, but this time it wasn’t out of sorrow but happiness.

You were back. You were alive and in his arms.

He pulled away, looking you in the face as if this was all a dream, he touched your every feature, trying to re assure himself that this was no fantasy.

“I love you.” Were the first words he said when you woke up, that might have sent you to another coma in that moment.

The blood from your wound had rushed up to your cheeks, you searched his face for any trace of a joke but then remembered.

Marcelle doesn’t do jokes.

He kissed your hand softly, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t kiss you yet, you were healing and could catch sicknesses especially quickly.

So he would wait, wait until you were ready.

“I think.. I love you too.” You shyly smiled, fingers trembling with embarrassment.

To Marcelle, waiting would prove to be more difficult than he thought.

[bvrnesher]

❝ Jealous headcanons ! ❞ ― jason grace !

tap here for chb masterlist ! here for reqs info

warnings: nsfw/sfw content.

— ✦ pairing: Jason grace ! reader.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ꪆ ✦ 𑊁 ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

— ୨ৎㅤ˳ NSFW

Jason doesn’t know what to do with his jealousy. He was trained to lead, to protect, to stay composed. So when he feels that sharp, ugly twist in his gut because someone else touched you, looked at you, laughed too long at your joke? He just… shuts down. Goes quiet. Withdraws.

He’s not loud about it—he’s intense. His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. He watches you with that controlled Roman stillness, eyes like a brewing storm. When you ask what’s wrong? He lies. “Nothing.” But his hands are clenched into fists and he keeps checking where you are in the room.

It festers. And later, alone with you, it snaps. His fingers wrap around your waist harder than usual. His kisses are hungrier, rougher—uncharacteristically so. His voice is low when he says “Mine, okay? You’re… you’re mine.” And he hates how desperate he sounds.

He’s not used to feeling this out of control. So when he finally pushes you against the wall, panting, rutting against you like he’s trying to claim every inch—you realize: he’s embarrassed by how much he wants you. By how easily you make him fall apart.

He’s still Jason, though. He still asks. Even when he’s jealous, even when he’s already inside you—he pauses. Whispers, breathless, “Tell me you want this.” Because he has to hear it. He needs to know you’re choosing him. Not just because he’s strong or golden or “praetor.” But because he’s Jason.

You notice he gets more vocal in bed when he’s jealous. Not dirty talk—reassurance. He calls you “baby,” “sweetheart,” “mine.” He moans your name like a mantra, like he's trying to bury it in your skin with every thrust. His forehead presses to yours, lightning humming under his skin, and he begs: “Stay with me. Please.”

He holds you tighter. Kisses you deeper. After he comes—usually deep inside you, as close as he can get—he doesn’t move. He stays on top of you, arms wrapped around you like he’s scared you’ll slip away the second he lets go. His heart thunders against your chest.

And later, in the dark? He admits it. Not easily. Not without guilt. But you hear him whisper, raw and ashamed: “I got jealous. I know it’s stupid. I trust you. I just—” His voice breaks. “I want you so much it hurts.”

It’s not dominance with Jason—it’s devotion. He doesn’t fuck you because he’s possessive. He fucks you because he loves you too much and doesn’t know how else to cope. You make him feel—and that terrifies him. But gods, he wants more.

He kisses like he’s drowning. When the jealousy’s fresh in his chest, when he’s still shaken from the idea of losing you, Jason doesn’t ease into the moment—he dives. Mouth hot and open against yours, tongue sliding in with a soft groan, like he needs to prove something. His fingers thread into your hair. His chest is heaving. He doesn’t come up for air until he’s breathless and dazed.

His hands roam like he’s mapping your body. Every dip, every scar, every place you gasp when he touches it. He presses kisses to your sternum, trails them down your stomach. He pauses at your hips—just holding them for a second like he’s grounding himself—before pulling your underwear down slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

Jason eats you out like it’s redemption. Face buried between your thighs, arms wrapped under your legs to keep you close. He licks slow at first, savoring every moan you make like it’s permission. But when you tug his hair or roll your hips against his face? He groans low, tongue stroking deeper, more desperate. You come with your thighs trembling around his ears, and he doesn’t stop. He keeps going like he wants to prove you belong to him—through pleasure.

He gets painfully hard from giving. When he’s focused on you—kissing you open, feeling you writhe under his mouth—his cock aches untouched against the bed, leaking into his boxers. He ruts into the sheets a little, barely aware he’s doing it, because the sound of you falling apart is enough to push him right to the edge.

He makes the softest, filthiest sounds when he’s inside you. Not cocky. Not performative. Just breathy, vulnerable little gasps every time you tighten around him. His voice cracks when he moans. His fingers shake where they’re tangled with yours. When you whisper his name, he chokes on a curse and thrusts deeper, like his whole body is pleading—don’t let go.

Jason fucks like he’s making love even when he’s jealous. Especially when he’s jealous. He’s not trying to prove he’s better than anyone. He’s trying to show you that no one else would care this much. His thrusts are slow but hard, grinding deep with every movement, foreheads pressed together, lips brushing, hands clinging like he can’t stand an inch of space between you.

He loves when you touch his chest while he’s inside you. Fingertips brushing his collarbone, nails dragging lightly down his stomach. You call him beautiful, and he blushes so hard it hits his ears, hips stuttering while he presses deeper into you, like he needs to feel all of you in return.

He falls apart when you squeeze around him. You clench, whisper how good he feels, and Jason breaks. He groans into your neck, thrusts turning messy, his whole body trembling with the effort of not coming. “I-I can’t—” he gasps, voice wrecked, burying himself deep one last time as he spills, pulsing inside you with a strangled cry.

He loves to stay inside you after. He softens slowly, but he doesn’t pull out. Not right away. He kisses your cheeks, your jaw, your chest. Whispers how much he loves you. You feel him twitch every time you clench around him again—sensitive, overstimulated, but so content to be as close as possible.

He wants to mark you—but gently. He won’t leave bruises unless you ask. But he’ll suck kisses into your inner thighs. He’ll bite lightly at your shoulder while you ride him. His fingers will linger on the curve of your hips where he gripped you during the worst of his jealousy, eyes locked on the faint red marks with a possessive sort of awe.

Jason gets the most intense afterglow when he’s worked up. He’s floaty. Warm. Smiling in that dazed, lovesick way while he pulls you to his chest. He’ll stroke your hair, kiss your temples, whisper “Thank you” over and over because he’s not used to being allowed to need this much. To be jealous. To feel everything.

He gets a little shy about how desperate he was. Once he’s calmed down, he buries his face in your neck and groans. “I don’t know what got into me.” You tell him you liked it, and he flushes all over again—grinning, but a little overwhelmed that you want him like this. Still.

He’ll go down on you again if he’s still feeling insecure. You tease him, say he doesn’t have to. But he insists, kissing his way between your legs, eyes soft and burning with love. “I just want to take care of you.” And he does. Slowly, with tongue and fingers, until you’re begging, shaking, pulling him up for a kiss as you fall apart.

Jason is feral for praise in the moment. Not dominance—praise. Tell him he’s making you feel good. That no one else could ever touch you like this. That you love how deep he is, how gentle, how intense. His eyes flutter shut, his pace falters, and he whispers something like “I love you so much” just as he starts to come again—hard, full-body spasms, head thrown back, moaning into your name like it’s grace.

He doesn’t want to be your only—he wants to be your favorite. That’s where the jealousy lives. Not in control, but in fear. And when you let him love you through it? When you show him that he is enough, with your hands and your moans and your body trembling under his? That’s when he truly, finally believes it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ꪆ ✦ 𑊁 ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

— ୨ৎㅤ˳ SFW ㅤ

He tries to be the "good guy" about it. Jason’s first instinct when he’s jealous is to keep it together, to act like it doesn’t bother him. He’s used to being the leader, the protector—the one who’s supposed to have his emotions in check. But if someone else gets too close to you, it eats at him. He might stay quiet, but you can tell he’s a little more tense, a little more rigid.

Internal conflict: He wants to trust, but it’s hard. Jason is a natural protector, and his jealousy often comes from a place of wanting to make sure you're safe and cared for. He doesn’t want to doubt you, but when someone else makes a move, it stirs up that feeling of not being enough. He can’t help but wonder, What if they’re better for you? This internal battle is what causes the most strain on him. He wants to be the hero, but he doesn’t always feel like he’s your hero.

Subtle actions to “claim” you. When Jason’s jealous, he might not say much, but he becomes possessive in small ways. He’ll wrap his arm around your waist when someone else is getting too close, or his hand will rest on the small of your back—almost like he’s trying to anchor you to him without saying a word. His touch is subtle, but the meaning behind it is clear: You’re mine.

He becomes quieter. When jealousy strikes, Jason tends to withdraw a little. He might not snap at the person who’s making him uncomfortable, but he’ll give short answers or focus on something else, like the task at hand. His mind is racing, and he’s trying to push those thoughts down, but they always come bubbling up. You’ll notice the sudden shift in his demeanor: the way he zones out or his quick, clipped responses.

He’s hard on himself. Jason’s jealousy triggers feelings of inadequacy. He’s constantly questioning himself: Am I enough for you? Do I measure up to the other heroes around you? This self-doubt can cause him to retreat into himself, especially if he feels like someone else is offering something he can’t. He won’t admit it easily, but it’s there—the constant battle in his mind.

Protective, but not overbearing. Jason’s protective nature comes out more intensely when he’s jealous. If someone flirts with you or makes a comment about how great you are, he might find an excuse to put himself between you two. He won’t start a fight, but his presence becomes like a shield. His stance will shift—more rigid, more authoritative—making it clear that he’s the one who gets to be close to you.

He tries to hide it, but the little things give him away. Jason’s not one to show his jealousy outwardly, but you can tell by his body language. He might look at you a little too long when someone else is talking to you, or his gaze will flicker to the other person before returning to you, almost like he’s making sure he has your attention. He might fidget with his sword or tap his fingers against his thigh, a sign that his mind is racing.

He needs reassurance, but he won’t ask for it directly. After a jealous moment, Jason will likely withdraw, not wanting to admit his feelings. But he’ll need you to remind him that he’s your choice. He won’t say it outright, but you’ll notice him seeking small moments of closeness—lingering touches, quiet words, a soft look that says more than he’s willing to say aloud. He needs to hear that you chose him.

He’ll confront it, but only when it’s overwhelming. If his jealousy goes unchecked for too long, Jason’s emotions might come to a boiling point. He won’t get angry or yell, but he’ll pull you aside and quietly tell you that he’s feeling a little insecure, not knowing if he’s measuring up to what you need. It’s not a confrontation; it’s a vulnerable confession. He’s asking for reassurance without demanding it, and he’s trusting you to help him work through it.

His jealousy isn’t about control—it’s about fear of loss. Unlike like Leo, whose jealousy often comes from his own insecurities and need for validation, Jason’s jealousy is more about the fear of losing you. He doesn’t want to control you, but the thought of someone else stealing your attention, making you feel seen in ways he can't, hurts him deeply. He doesn’t want to be possessive, but sometimes the fear of losing you overrides his rational thoughts.

[cupidsworstcrime]

Knight!John Price x Princess!reader

inspo - honestly shameless , i wanted this

werewolf smut werewolf smut

contains chasing to fuck , monster fucking , cnc (if you squint) & knotting

The moonlight slashes through the dense treeline like a blade, silver and cold and watching.

Sir John Price, noble knight captain and sworn protector of your kingdom’s bloodline, stumbles against a tree, his breathing ragged, uneven. His armored gauntlet splits against bark as claws push through, twisting bone and sinew. His growl isn’t human anymore.

You shouldn't be watching.

But gods, you are.

“My lady,” he rasps, voice strangled and wet with the growl curling in his throat. “Run.”

You don’t. Can’t. Your eyes are locked on the way his jaw cracks open, lengthening, sharpening, his teeth catching the moonlight. His armor creaks and groans under the pressure of his expanding body, the beast beneath the steel.

He snarls, turning away from you, fangs bared to the forest, to anything that might distract him from the scent of you.

“I said run,” he growls again, lower this time, desperate, trembling. “I won’t be able to stop. If you stay—if I catch your scent again—I’ll take you.”

There’s a flash in his eyes. Hunger.

Your heart slams in your chest. You take a step back.

His ears twitch.

“I need you to run,” he groans, clawed hand gripping his chest, as though he could anchor the man inside a body that’s no longer his. “Please, princess. You need to run.”

You whisper his name.

His eyes snap to you. Glowing. Predatory. Wicked.

Another heartbeat, and you’re sprinting through the trees.

Behind you, metal crashes to the ground, followed by a guttural howl that shatters the stillness. The kind of sound that promises teeth on your throat and hands gripping your hips.

You don’t dare look back.

Because if he catches you—

—no knight in the world could save you from what he’s about to become.

And he will catch you.

Of course he will.

You're fast—gods, you're fast—but you're not him. Not with your skirts bunched in your fists, breath burning your throat, heart thundering like war drums in your chest.

The woods blur, and still you run.

But you feel it when he gets close.

The heat of him. The thudding weight of paws behind you, impossibly silent for how large he must be now. The low growl that slips into the wind and curls around your spine like a hand.

And then—

You're gone from the ground.

A cry tears from your throat as you're swept off your feet, tackled into the moss with shocking gentleness for something that had sounded like a monster moments ago. You're caged beneath him—bigger now, broader, his skin half-shifted, half-wolf, glowing eyes staring down at you as his claws press into the earth on either side of your head.

He pants above you, chest heaving, sweat and fur and musk curling thick in the air. Drool drips from his snarl onto your cheek.

"You should've run faster," he growls, voice rougher now, lined with hunger, with need.

"Y-you caught me..." you whisper, breathless, trembling beneath the weight of him.

He leans down, nuzzles his nose to your throat, a low, rumbling growl vibrating through your skin.

"You wanted me to."

And gods help you—

—you did.

There's no pretending anymore—not for him.

Not with the way he snarls low against your throat, like he's trying to taste your pulse before he even sinks his teeth in. Not with the way his claws dig into the dirt, holding himself back by a thread, trembling from the effort. He's not even fully shifted—can't be, not with how badly he wants to feel you with his hands, not paws. Not with how badly he wants your skin on his, not fur.

He’s not gentle. Not after all that. Not after the chase.

He ruts against you, desperate, grinding hard through the layers between you, shuddering when you squirm—when you press your hands against his chest, not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

"Tell me no," he growls, but his hips say something else entirely—rolling down slow, then slamming forward hard enough to make you gasp.

You whimper something—maybe “stop,” maybe “don’t,”—but your legs are already spreading, traitorous, trembling, welcoming.

Your nails bite into his arms. You turn your face like you don't want this—but your body arches into him, not away.

"Don't lie to me," he snarls, voice shaking with the strain of holding back. His fangs are bared, but his mouth is at your ear, and you whimper when his breath hits your skin. "You're mine, princess. Say it."

You don't. Not with words. But your hips tilt, just enough, just right.

He growls like something unholy.

You love this. Even when you act like you don’t. Even when you cry and whine and call him a monster.

Because you're the one who's still clinging to him.

You're the one who's dripping before he even claims you.

He’s got you flat beneath him, skirts shoved up around your waist, your thighs trembling against his sides. His hands are huge, rough from years of sword and steel, and now they’re claiming every inch of you like you’re a battlefield he owns. One stays planted on your hip, the other cradling your jaw, thumb dragging over your lip like he's daring you to bite.

"You're gonna scream for me, sweet thing," he mutters, voice rough and ragged, half-man, half-creature. "Not because you're scared—because you're mine."

He starts slow, grinding against your slick heat through your ruined underthings, just to feel the tremble, the way your breath catches. Then he pulls away—and spits in his hand, like a brute, slicking himself up before dragging the head of his cock along your folds.

Not pushing in. Not yet. Just teasing.

“You’re gonna remember this, princess. Every. Fuckin'. Inch.”

And when he does finally sink into you?

He’s ruthless. Long, hard thrusts that force breathy gasps out of your throat. No soft kisses. No gentle words. Just the slap of skin, the growl in his chest, and the slick wet sounds of him fucking you like he was meant to.

He uses one hand to pin both your wrists above your head, the other sliding down between your thighs—finding your clit with practiced fingers.

And when he hits just the right spot, when you squirm and cry out and your walls clench tight around him, he leans down, growling into your mouth:

“There she is. There’s my good girl. Scream for your captain.”

And god, you do. You scream his name like it’s the only thing you know.

Which, by the time he’s done with you, it just might be.

"What would the king think? Seeing his little princess be such a whore?"

He’s not asking—he’s taking, like his body’s driven by instinct and the only thing it wants is you.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, dragging you down onto his cock with a growl that rumbles through his chest. You’ll feel him for days, the deep ache between your legs, the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin. When you cry out, he smirks, and his hand slides up your throat, thumb pressed gently beneath your jaw, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control.

“Look at you,” he rasps, hips snapping into yours so hard that you swore the earth would split beneath you. “Takin’ it so well. So desperate for your captain’s cock, aren’t you?”

You nod, gasping, but it’s not enough for him.

“Say it. Say you want me to ruin you.”

And when you do—when you whimper out that you want him to break you—he fucks you for real. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your thigh and pressing your knees back, folding you open for him.

“You’re mine,” he snarls into your ear. “Say it again. Say it while I breed you full.”

And you do, because how can you not? When he’s buried so deep, when every thrust punches the air from your lungs, when your entire body is his—yeah, it’s rough, claiming, filthy. And you love it. Even if you act like you don’t. Even if you cry a little. Even if you’re already begging him not to stop.

He doesn’t just want to make you scream, sweetheart. He wants to make you remember.

When it happens—when the last shred of control slips and the shift fully takes him—it’s violent. Bones crack, skin tears, fur bursts across his body like wildfire. His snarl becomes a growl, low and guttural, vibrating through your chest as you lay beneath him. His eyes glow gold now, no trace of the man you once knew… but gods, he’s still inside there. Still watching you. Still wanting you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He’s bigger now. Stronger. His claws scrape the ground on either side of your head, holding himself over you, caging you in like prey. His muzzle brushes your throat, and you feel the heat of his breath, the tension in his jaw as he fights not to bite—not yet. Not until he’s claimed you properly.

His thrusts are deeper, more forceful, hips snapping into you with inhuman power. You cry out, nails digging into whatever part of him you can reach, but he just growls in approval. The slick, obscene sounds of him inside you echo louder now, more primal, more filthy. Every motion screams mine.

“You should’ve run faster,” he huffs, voice distorted and monstrous but still his. “Would’ve probably gotten away.”

But he doesn’t regret that you didn’t. Not one bit.

Because now? He can knot you. Fill you. Mark you inside and out until there’s no question who you belong to.

And when you sob his name—when your body breaks open for him again and again—he howls, the sound shaking the trees, the sky, you.

You're his. Forever now. And he’s going to make damn sure everyone knows it.

At first, you think he’s done. His pace slows, almost tender for a fleeting second as he pants above you, still trembling with the aftershock of the shift. But then—then—you feel it. That slow, thick swell at the base of him starting to press insistently against you.

He growls when your body tries to resist it, claws digging into the earth beside your head as he forces himself deeper. You cry out, overwhelmed, stretched too wide, and he groans—deep, guttural—as the knot pops inside. Locked. Stuffed. Filled.

“Shhh,” he rumbles, voice animal-thick, muzzle nudging at your cheek, “s’alright. You’ll take it. Gonna keep it all in, yeah?”

The stretch, the burn, the way your walls flutter helplessly around him—it’s too much, too perfect. He can feel everything, and so can you. That throbbing knot pulsing against your insides, his release locked deep where it’s meant to stay.

No escaping now. Not for hours.

You whimper his name, and his voice rumbles with satisfaction: “Good girl. That’s it. Take my knot, princess. Take every bloody drop.”

And you do. You have to.

tagging my favorite sicko - @goatgoesmbe

[petalbcrnes]

✫ㅤ𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐄ㅤㅤ𝑜𝑓.ㅤㅤ𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆ㅤׁ . °ㅤ

𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 ㅤ＼ 𝓙𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 ’n shazam!reader

♡ · REQUEST — Could I please request a Jason Todd X Shazam!reader? Reader has the same powers and Shazam and she looks damn good in her suit, Jason and her are the chaotic couple everyone in the Justice League and their side kicks are jealous of, and they get fan edits made of them lmao

⊹ �� · my knowledge of the Justice League is vvv limited so i apologise if they’re a bit to ooc, i did all the research i could to fully understand this req (forever a tattooed jay truther so don’t mind the moodboard lol)〟

ഒ DIRECTORY⠀’N⠀RULES.

Before Jason, the Justice League headquarters felt isolating for you. Which sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

You, who’s blessed with the gifts of gods from the very mountain of Olympus. You, a hero intertwined with the same golden threads that make up demigods. The world could be so small under your fingertips—wisdom, strength, stamina, speed and courage—you’re supposed to have it all. And somehow, it feels like you keep nothing at all.

Being at the top of the world is truly a lonely feeling. You experience it everyday with the other heroes between these walls. They don’t necessarily do it on purpose. You’re just so painstakingly different. Off. Something they haven’t dealt with before.

Before Jason, that is.

You’ve had lightning dance across your fingertips, bend to your will and strike along the sky for you. But Jason Todd was something else. Something else with his sharp sea-green eyes. Something else with his stupidly charming grin. Something else with the way he’d find you every time in this labyrinth of a building and untangle the knots in your body with his quips, mean and handsome face, sparkling eyes—he is thunder in front of you—unbowed, unbroken, unshakable, perfectly imperfect and for some reason he’d started directing his stupidly charming grins at you.

Wandering the halls with your shoulders stiff, walk hurried, eyes cast to your feet and nervous of every word said to you—never mind if it was kind—was a draining ritual you bonded yourself to.

Falling for him was too easy. It was natural how you’d seek him out too. It spurred you even more when there was a flush on his cheeks after seeing how you’d call out his name in a crowd of other shining heroes. You two got drunk off of each other like the very presence of one another was ambrosia—golden life ichor sent by the gods.

They’d truly blessed you this time. You’d never give this up. The way the relationship you two had actually grew into a real relationship. How you’d have your hand in his and he’d trace circles on your palm and how he’d kiss your shoulders and fingertips, claiming you needed to be taken care of. He understood that isolation. Jason Todd understood and changed it all to a fairy tale.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Even now, sitting with him in one of the many common rooms the headquarters has, bodies pressed close, head on his shoulder and his arm playing with a strand of your hair. His head is tilted back against the cushions, a rare, soft smirk on his lips as he mutters something that makes you laugh quietly.

He smelled like smoke and leather and warmth.

You could’ve stayed like that forever.

It hadn’t dawned on either of you that the relationship wasn’t exactly public yet.

Most of the League is returning from a late mission. They’re tired, soot-streaked, and ready to debrief and crash. The doors slide open with a familiar mechanical hiss as Diana, Barry, Hal, and Bruce step in—talking quietly among themselves.

But the chatter halts.

You two absolutely, undeniably comfortable. Domestic, even.

And in public.

Barry stares wide-eyed, as if there was a comically big light bulb above his head that just lit up.

“Are you guys—? Wait. Is this—? Are you two—?”

Jason didn’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

“Seriously?” Hal sounded like he was choking. “You’re dating Red Hood? Jason Todd? Are we just letting anyone into cuddle territory now?”

You sighed, not moving. “He passed every test I gave him.”

“I barely passed,” Jason added, smug. “Or maybe I’m just effortlessly charming.”

“Are you kidding me?” Barry blinked between the two of you. “You’re like—lightning bolts and golden capes! And he’s—he’s literal Gotham crime trauma incarnate—no offense.”

“None taken, I guess?” Jason said, finally glancing up. “We make sense in a messed-up but perfect way.”

There was a pause. Even Diana didn’t say anything at first. Just observed them, the way you leaned into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way Jason’s hand never stopped tracing soft, lazy circles on your side.

“You look happy,” Diana said after a moment.

“I am,” you replied simply.

That was something you were sure of. The happiest, the purest joy had threaded itself into your being when you were with this man.

Diana nodded once, apparently satisfied. “Then that is all I need to know.”

Bruce was silent. No one expected anything else.

“Still feels illegal,” Hal muttered, grabbing a drink from the nearby fridge. “Like, morally. Cuddling with Jason Todd in the Watchtower.”

Jason gave him a lazy grin. “Then close your eyes next time.”

“I am texting Clark,” Barry announced. “Power Couple status: officially threatened.”

You finally cracked a smile. “Tell him we’ll duel him and Lois any day.”

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

Seeing you two cuddling on the couch was a shock. But fighting side by side? That was truly a sight.

The ground shook with the force of the blast. Smoke curled upward in jagged columns as buildings groaned, half-toppled. Civilians were still evacuating, but the League was already deep in the mess—and so were you and Jason.

Jason reloaded without missing a step, ducking beneath a burst of plasma that barely missed his head. “Three on the left, armored. One's got a cannon.”

“A cannon, seriously?” you deadpanned, eyes glowing gold as static crackled along your skin. “Cannon first?”

“Cannon first.”

You launched into the sky with a thunderclap, a streak of white lightning behind you. The cannon-wielding merc didn't even have time to flinch before a bolt ripped through the clouds and slammed him back into the earth, smoking.

Jason whistled low. “Damn. I don’t think that I need to tell you how attractive that was.”

“Focus, Hood.”

“I am,” he muttered, firing three quick rounds into the knee joints of the other armored targets. “Deadly attractive and helpful.”

Roy and Kori are perched on a broken wall, watching as Jason and you tear through another group of enemies with terrifying precision.

Roy let out a low whistle. “Okay, I’ll say it—hot.”

Koriand’r smiled brightly. “They are very passionate! It is nice.”

Back on the ground, Jason threw a smoke pellet, vanishing into the haze just as another unit arrived. The moment they were disoriented, you flew in from above—fist-first—sending shockwaves that scattered the troops like dominos.

Then came the lightning—pure, radiant energy arcing from your hands, guided by Jason’s markers, precise as a sniper.

He appeared beside you again just in time to catch your elbow, steadying you.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Never better.”

Jason grinned. “Then let’s end this.”

© petalbcrnes | all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are not allowed to be reposted, translated, or modified. viewer discretion is advised.

[syoddeye]

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part three, final part two cw: dubcon, noncon, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome (kind of), endearments, vague/implied first time, grief, guilt, mild body horror, pregnancy mention a/n: many thanks again to the anon who originally suggested this. part one | part two | masterlist 🦢

The lake is choppy the day John marries you, its surface churned by a coming storm.

Cold water laps at your ankles, bare feet numb in the shallows. The hem of your dress drinks deep from the surface. Soaking up what memories it can before you're further bound to man.

John says marriage is sacred, unbreakable. A higher purpose. It's a slap in the face to what you lost.

The nameless friend he brought stands smirking between you, reciting empty words. Invoking a god you do not recognize, but curse all the same. You answer only when John squeezes your hands. The veil, stitched from your ruin, is a mockery. A whisper-thin shield.

John lifts it with reverence, eyes bluer with the lake beside him, darkening at the edges where clouds gather. He looks at you the way he did that night. Hungry and triumphant.

After slipping a thin gold band on your finger, he kisses you, deepening it until his friend chuckles. Holds your face as if you are delicate and cherished. And for one fleeting second, you hate him less for it.

But when his lips leave yours, you feel it. That hollow space. The sore spots between your shoulder blades. A rift not easily mended.

His friend claps him on the shoulder, bids you both well, and winks as John steals another kiss.

Thunder rolls over the water, threading through and shaking the trees in warning. You doubt he hears it that way. To him, it's nothing but weather. 

The first drops hit before you reach the cabin, cool pinpricks that swell into a downpour. John's grip tightens, tugging you along as the storm swallows you both. He laughs as you stumble inside, slamming the door behind him, bracing against it like you've outrun something wicked.  

His laughter fades as his eyes rake over you. Your dress clinging, veil slick to your skull. Shivering. He watches for a breath too long before turning toward the hearth.

"Strip," he says, kneeling to coax the fire back to life. "You'll catch your death."

He tells you he overspent on dinner, whatever that means.

The honeycomb drips viscous gold, pooling in the flat of a salted biscuit before spilling over your lips. John hums, pleased, pressing the next bite to your mouth. You chew, tasting the wildflowers.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, solid and warm, still slightly damp. Tracing whorls of hair with your eyes. His arm is heavy around you, holding you firm in his lap, as if you might slip away between bites. He feeds you another, thumb brushing your lips.

With the fire and rain pattering the roof, it's almost tolerable. Nice. 

Then his fingers bump against your lips, sticky and insistent. The last of the honey, scooped up and offered. You hesitate. He does not. Two fingers slip past your lips, pressing sweet and heavy against your tongue.

You suck them clean, head buzzing as he pets your tongue. Their rhythmic draw over the muscle elicits a ghostly tug at your nethers. A string of spit breaks and splatters on your breasts when he extracts them. He gathers it as he did the honey, then drags them between your legs.

Outside, the storm howls. The cabin groans under the wind, trees clawing at its walls. Rain batters the roof, thunder cracks, lightning splits the dark.

He puts you on your back. It's only proper, he says as he climbs over you, for a man to first lie with his woman this way. Separates them from the animal.

You don't bother pointing out that it's foolish, him justifying his acts. That you expect him to do whatever he damn well pleases.

Your tongue stays fastened to the roof of your mouth, holding back words that wouldn't change a thing. Self-loathing leaking out with every pulse of your puffy, needy cunt, your feathers soaked from his attentions.

What a creature he's reduced you to.

You go rigid when it's clear he's done playing around, that there will be no more easing you into it. You fold your arms tight, the same as when he sets down a plate of something unappetizing and expects gratitude.

John merely exhales through his nose, a near-silent huff, and keeps on. He grabs an ankle, yanking you closer with an unbroken focus. Your display is nothing more than a child's sulk.

"This was meant to be, honey," he muses, tucking his hands under your knees and opening them. "You and me, right here." 

A heavy, hot weight slots into the crease of your thigh, and your head jerks up, unable to stop yourself from looking. It's flushed, redder than you imagined. Thicker, too. Crowned with a thatch of coarse, wiry hair that looks like it'll pull at your feathers.

He strokes himself, fist tight enough to push pearls from the tip, dribbling them over your swollen clit. You shudder, torn between repulsion and enthrallment, each equally strong and disorienting.

John licks his lip. "Arms around me."

You hug yourself tighter on instinct now that you've seen, up close, what he intends to shove inside you. He bristles.

"Fine. Be difficult." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't force the issue, but—

"No matter how you deny it or fight it, this is where you belong." His jaw clenches, fingers flexing on your hips like he's barely keeping himself together, thumb pressing a shade too firmly into your skin. Like the fact of finally having you underneath him is almost too much. "Me and you. Me and my wife."

He nudges your lips apart with his length, exposing the core of your heat to it, and glides through until you're squirming. He keeps bumping your clit, purposely nudging the rim he worked open by the fireside. Then it catches for real, and the head alone makes you dizzy. Much bigger than his fingers. A blunter, harsher pressure. 

You fought him on that third finger, back on his lap. You regret it now.

When he starts to push in, you picture egrets skewering fish. Impalement. Gasping, wide-eyed, and belly-up. Your arms fly open, startling a laugh out of him, abruptly cutting into a grunt as your nails sink deep into his furry chest.

John exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip, palms slick with sweat as he pulls at your hips. "Hell's sake, Shy," he mutters, voice threaded with frustration, but he tamps it down quick, replacing it with something softer and meant to soothe.

A hand lifts, and his thumb strokes over the hinge of your jaw, coaxing it loose. You're tense all over. His eyes are darker now, a thin ring of blue around the black swell of his pupils. The coldest part of the lake, where the light can't reach.

"Ain't doin' yourself any favors, it'll feel good, promise," he says, bracing an arm beside your head. Crushing your chest with his for another kiss. "Relax."

A deafening crack of lightning follows his words. A tree could come down on the cabin right this second, but he wouldn't even blink. Nothing would draw his attention away. That's obvious when he raises slightly and starts again with renewed purpose. 

"John," His name cast as a lifeline. Desperate, grasping. "Too big."

"You're alright," he grits out, voice tight, breath uneven. His cheeks, florid beneath his whiskers, lift in a grin when he takes another inch. "That's a girl."

You hiss angrily, spitting mad. Pinned and helpless. Humiliated even as your heels jam into the small of his back.

It keeps doing that, your body. Moving of its own accord, traitorous thing. Clinging when it should let go, leaning in when it should recoil. Caught between the urge to shove him off and the quiet, irksome need to let him in deep.

In, in, in. Your head presses into the pillow beneath it, mouth falling open as he makes a place for himself in your body. 

The pain blurs at the edges, numbing into something almost unrecognizable. No, unfathomable. A creeping, repugnant pleasure germinates where his cock drags. And just when your toes start to curl, coming around to the idea of it, to acceptance—he stops.

Confusion fizzes and pops between your ears, leaking steadily through the sieve he's punched in your skull. You slur the beginnings of a question, but the words sharpen, solidifying when he withdraws too suddenly. Something within stirs, sensing his intent, desperate to intervene.

"S-Said you'd take care of me," you choke out. "Be nice. Be nice." 

John falters, swallowing hard. He stares down at you, so intensely you think he'll lash out, every bit of him flexed.

"This you saying you'll behave?"

You don't answer right away, breath hitching when his thumb drags over your ribs, just shy of tender.

"Well?" His patience draws taut over the word, a fraying thread poised to snap like his hips. "Say it, honey."

There's but one answer he'll accept.

"Yes," you lick your lips. "Yes, John. Please."

He waits a moment, waiting for you to take it back, then tests: "Arms around me."

This time, you oblige.

How kindly he keeps this promise. The minute shake in his arm from the restraint he shows from not simply barging in. Sweat sluices over the swell of his bicep, tracing the ridges of muscle and the veins pulsing beneath the hair on his arm.

His eyes brighten—just barely. A flicker of tenderness, the same glint you've caught in stolen moments. The longing he's kept at arm's length, from across the table, from the beam outside the cabin, from the doorway. Burned into the back of your neck at night where he confesses but never apologizes.

This time, he unhurriedly feeds you his cock again, bottoming out with a groan, and rubs a circle into your hip.

"This is where you belong," He echoes, half-growling the sentiment with a grind that has you noiselessly pulling him closer. "Not in the muck, not in the grass. Bet you were a pretty thing with wings, but as a woman?"

John doesn't finish the thought, instead fixing his gaze to where you're stretched around him, silently deeming you acclimated. He kept his word, now to keep the others. It's like he said—he'll teach you every little thing you need to know. He'll make it good.

You're not naive about what's happening when he begins to move. Apart from the men you've spied on, you've seen wild animals. But knowing doesn't stop your breath from catching in your throat or the moans that follow.

Noises indecent enough to heat your face, each languid thrust finding its mark. They'd scald you with white-hot shame if emptiness didn't seem so awful a notion now. His cock jerks at a particularly sweet sound that stutters and skips like a stone over water and ends with his name on a sigh.

His fingers dig in, guiding the roll of your pelvis to meet his, grunting out filth. How wet you are, how right you feel.

"Don't even understand what you do to me, do you?"

You don't. Haven't since you arrived. It's still a mystery why he chose your dress from the dozen on the shore. Surely, he hadn't known it was yours. Hadn't picked you especially, hadn't spied you before—your mind severs the thought at the root, a little hysterically.

John switches arms, planting the other elbow beside your head to bear his weight. The other disappears, but you don't follow its path. His breath grows rough, eyes half-lidded and weighted with devotion and its twin. He picks up the pace, rolling his hips harder, bludgeoning his thick cock into you with urgency.

He surprises you by wedging his hand between your bodies, trapping it on the feathered slope of your cunt. He thumbs your pearled clit, stroking over it in tight circles. It makes you clench down greedily, rewarding you with a roll of his eyes and flash of gritted teeth.

It's—He's—

You've no point of reference for this turmoil.

The closest thing is the storm outside, wild and unrelenting. Rain pelting the earth, flooding the soil, swelling the lake beyond its banks. A force that drowns and nourishes in equal measure, tangling ruin and rebirth.

And under your skin, your blood simmers into a rolling boil. It spreads, curling through every inch, pooling under your navel and tightening.

"Give it, honey. C'mon, can feel it," He rasps, punctuating his demands with an ungentle grind of his cock and a quick succession of firm pats to your clit. "C'mon, on my cock, now, Shy."

You don't fight him, but you don't make it easy either. 

When you come, euphoria wrestles with doubt. A current that sweeps you away from him, tumbling hard and fast, only to throw you back, gasping for air. And through it all, John's voice, steady as the shore.

"That's it," he rasps, preening, "Knew you had it in you. My good girl."

Your vision returns in fragments, palms sliding from his shoulders, falling limp to either side of your head. He's still moving, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh and squelching loud in your ears. He's fully abandoned his earlier pledge, any pretense erased. Rutting and battering your walls with a singular goal. Exploiting how you've unraveled beneath him. Gives him the perfect excuse to unleash weeks of pent-up frustration, you think hazily.

He bears down on you when he gets close, breath heaving against your neck, your forehead. Chasing his release with such an effort, part of you understands why he must've played the waiting game with you. He's saved his fury, all of it, for this.

John finally follows with a prolonged groan, head tilted back, sinking to the hilt to spill deep. Cheek to cheek, whiskers scraping and sopping up stray tears. Shuddering above you, crushing until your ankles unhook from his back. Until the tension bleeds out of him, freeing him to move. Sated at last.

He lifts enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes tiredly twinkling as he drinks in whatever stupefied expression you must be wearing. Then, with a sigh, he finds your mouth. 

"Did so good, honey," he murmurs, "Knew you'd be perfect."

He lies with you for a couple minutes, humming at how you tremble around his softening cock as it drags out of you. Pulling out spend which he gingerly pushes back in, mouth twitching at the quivering of your thighs. He stands, wipes his hand on his flank, then staggers away, knees popping, to fetch a towel.

He cleans his excess spend from your thighs and lips, then tends carefully to your feathers. Though in the lantern light, it's as if a different veil has been lifted. All you have is the aftermath. 

A belly full of cum. Finger-shaped bruises. A fierce ache. The spell breaks, and whatever idea of romance you had vanishes.

He stole your dress. Plucked and stripped you of your feathers, offering no alternative but the cage of his arms. Earthbound and alone, save for him. You're not yourself and never will be again.

Outside, the night hangs unnaturally still. You know it's a false hope. That this is just the eye of the storm.

When John crawls back into bed, his hand finds your stomach. He murmurs about the future—how fine a wife you'll become, how fine a mother you'll be.  

His breath stirs your hair as he chuckles. 

What'll it be, honey? A baby or an egg?

You nearly break apart all over again.

Babies. Cygnets. You don't know if it's possible. This union, this wretched coupling, is the first of its kind that you know of.

But from how he takes you again in the morning, nesting within you until he softens, if there is one man who could make it happen—

It's John.

You don't know what you want. Maybe you never did. The thought of leaving gnaws at you in the quiet moments when the fire is low and John's asleep, one heavy arm slung over your waist.

You could slip away. You could try. 

But then what? 

The forest is vast. The lake depressingly empty. The town full of strangers. And you are neither swan nor woman, not truly. There's no going back to your sisters, no wings to carry you home, wherever that is now. And even if there were—would you take them?

Would you abandon the warmth of his hands, the way he looks at you like you belong to him, like you belong somewhere at all? More precious than the matching gold on your fingers or the money hidden beneath a floorboard.

The guilt coils tight, constricts your ribs. You shouldn't hesitate. Shouldn't find comfort in the rough edges of this man, in the way he steadies you, feeds you, calls you honey and darling like he means it. 

He stole from you. He broke you open and reshaped you into something else that fits into his world, not yours. He doesn't even know your true name.

And yet, when his fingers trace lazy circles against your skin, when he murmurs Shy in the dark, you wonder—if you had the choice, would you take it?

It's best to tuck away your past life. Fold it like the lace in the trunk beneath your marriage bed. Shove it into a dark corner and relegate it to a memory to take out on rare occasions, softened with time. Best to recall the sweetness and not let the bitter ruin it.

Months later, you wake from a nap and find feathers strewn across the bed. Your heart stops.

With a trembling hand, you reach for the small of your back, and feel smooth, bare skin.

A wail rises in your throat, but then a tiny kick flutters deep in your belly.

You swallow the grief.

[https-bobreynolds]

enter the sun and the spell

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds/sentry x enchantress! reader

summary: wouldn’t be a part of a superhero team without dramatic, grand entrances.

author’s note: AAAAAAAA I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ACTION SEQUENCE FICS!!! let me know if i should do more of it🥺

everything’s chaos.

ava is down, shorting out and twitching. alexei is half-buried under a collapsed steel beam, protecting yelena beneath him. walker shielding himself with the last flicker of his strength, teeth grit.

red light flashes from every direction. sirens screaming. drones whirring overhead. and in the center of it all, a towering mech-god hybrid bristling with stark-grade weaponry, absorbing every hit like it’s nothing.

“we could use a little help here.” bucky growls into comms, ducking behind a crumbling pillar as plasma sears past.

another blast hits. the concrete buckles.

he mutters, “where the hell are-“

THUNDER.

not from the sky but from the air itself. like the world just inhaled.

crack. the clouds ripple apart.

light splits open the sky like a curtain tearing in reverse, golden, searing, white-hot, as a figure descends from the clouds at terminal velocity.

THE SENTRY.

glowing like a second sun. a comet wrapped in fire.

his landing impact cracks the street, sends shockwaves through the block. cars rattle. the mech stumbles. dust spirals. a sonic boom follows an instant later, late, like the world needed a second to catch up.

from the rubble, yelena groans, shielding her eyes.

walker mutters, “show-off.”

bob sentry lifts his head, eyes blazing pure energy. “heard you guys were in trouble.”

ava starts, “and where the hell’s-“

green lightning splits the ground.

it starts as a low hum, a spell igniting in the marrow of the world. runes spiral across cracked pavement in a circle, glowing from beneath.

the mech rears back, some internal system detecting something wrong, before you rise from the glowing runic seal like mist made solid.

cloak fluttering. eyes lit green-gold. hair lifted in wind that isn’t there.

your boots hit the ground with a light click.

you lift a single hand.

a chain of burning sigils erupts from your palm, wrapping around the mech’s limbs mid-strike, not restraining, but binding, with magic that whines like a violin at its limit. arcane energy threads through the metal plating like vines through stone.

the thing roars.

you cock your head slightly.

“shh,” you murmur. “the adults are talking.”

with a twist of your wrist, the bindings explode, taking both arms with them.

yelena stares. “okay, how did she just…”

“she’s channeling her,” sentry murmurs, stepping forward beside you. “just a fraction of her power.”

“yeah, well,” bucky pants, “someone better tell the bad guy it’s just a fraction, cause-“

before he finishes, you leap.

a golden platform blooms under your foot midair, you vault off it, conjure another beneath you, dancing across sigils in midair as you rain enchanted fire down from your palms. green bolts crash into the mech’s core. you flip backward through burning smoke and land beside sentry.

the mech lurches, failing.

sentry floats up again, his voice low, “you wanna finish it?”

you nod, breathless. “together?”

he offers you his hand.

magic coils around your forearm as you take it. his energy glows hot and gold.

and in one perfect motion, you and sentry lift into the sky like a rising myth, and on his count…

“now.”

he hurls you like a spell itself.

you’re a streak of emerald fire across the sky, spinning, brimming with wrath and elegance, before slamming down into the mech’s core, carving a runed spear from your palm midair and driving it straight through.

impact.

time slows.

the mech goes still, then detonates inward in a rush of imploding magic and machine.

silence.

the dust clears.

the rest of the thunderbolts* stagger to their feet.

you’re standing in the crater, one hand extended, panting, glowing. your eyes slowly dim. the runes fade. the storm calms.

and then, “still a show-off.” walker calls, brushing dust off his jacket.

you smirk as sentry lands beside you. “wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.”

he glances at you, smiling. “you okay?”

you nod. “i didn’t burn out. not this time.”

his hand brushes yours, a moment, subtle.

“good,” he says, quietly. “i like seeing you light up the sky.”

you don’t say anything back. but your fingers curl into his just enough.

the others gather, limping, groaning, swearing.

and from the wreckage, the team walks off slowly, war-torn, victorious.

part two

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