#(and there's more to it; but it still needs more developing)

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 4

I wanted to write more events for this part, but there’s a limit sadly and I underestimated it waaay too much. Anyways, shit starts to get intimate in the sweet way.

cw: physical fights, cursing, still a lot of sexual themes, Stockholm Syndrome developing, dumbass men

The thing is, the girls want their assistant back.

And not just because you’re important. Not just because you know the girls’ patterns, where Rumi stashes her favorite backup daggers, Mira’s real name (which nobody is supposed to know), or Zoey’s weaknesses. It’s not even about strategy anymore. They want you back because you’re theirs. Their little right-hand angel. You brought them tea before demon hunts, patched up wounds, stayed up researching until your eyes burned and your hands shook.

Now you’re gone.

Yeah, turns out, you had them all wrapped around your little finger, and never even tried.

It’s been—what? A month? Two? You stopped counting after the second week because time gets weird when you’re basically a prisoner in a loft that has seven bedrooms and zero privacy. They’ve all got supernatural senses, so nothing is secret. Jinu can sense your mood from down the hall. Abby can hear your heartbeat spike if you so much as think of escape. Romance just…knows. You have no idea how. But he knows when you’re lying, when you’re sad, when you’re lowkey horny (which is so annoying, because he acts like it’s about him—it’s not). Even Baby—little brat Baby who looks like he should be in detention—is constantly sniffing around, only to get bored and poke your shoulder like a child just to piss you off. Mystery doesn’t note on anything he can feel about you, but once he growled at Romance once when he tried to kiss your hand.

But somehow, despite the kidnapping, the light torture, and being the world’s prettiest emotional support hostage—you’ve… adjusted. Kind of.

Even though Romance tried to woo you with supernatural roses he bought up to the human world that screamed when they died.

Even though Baby offered to kill Bobby for you, said it like he was asking if you wanted fries.

Even though Abby carried you to the roof one night—literally picked you up—just so you could watch the stars, and said, “Don’t say I never do anything romantic.” Then promptly tried to kiss you.

Even though Jinu is worse. Gentle. Careful. Never tries anything. Just exists near you like he’s waiting for your soul to recognize his.

Even though Mystery… Mystery claps when Abby does a flip and also claps when you squeeze a lemon into Romance’s eyes

You know they like you.

You know. You’re not an idiot. Not blind, either.

You don’t need a vision from the heavens or a love confession, though you got many of that already. You’re not fourteen. You see the way they look at you. The way they move around you.

You’ve known for a while.

God, you remember when Jinu simply told you he’s interested. Just the truth.

He didn’t even touch you. Just stared across the battlefield of little black and white pieces and laid his feelings down like a move. Your hands were trembling so slightly then, you thought he might’ve noticed. Of course he did. They all do. There’s no hiding in a place where you can’t even sneeze without someone five rooms down saying “bless you” and be so proud of themselves too for knowing human things like this.

And then there’s Romance. Gods, Romance. Subtlety? He doesn’t know her.

You could be brushing your teeth, and he’ll walk in all dressed up, acting like he’s there to borrow toothpaste when everyone knows he’s just there to be seen. The man purrs. He purrs. That’s not a metaphor. He’ll lean against the doorframe, arms folded, voice dropping just low enough to be illegal in several countries, and say something like—

“Let me know if you ever get lonely at night. I don’t snore. Much.”

He doesn’t even care if you roll your eyes. He loves the chase. Loves when you tell him off gently, when you glare at him across the kitchen counter or throw a pillow at his head.

Abby’s not much better.

He’s the type to act like he’s not even trying. Just walks around shirtless, flexing. Pretends not to notice when you do notice. Every touch is casual, but not casual. Every time he calls you sweetheart or cupcake or worse—good girl—you want to set something on fire. Preferably his abs. For the greater good.

But you’ve caught him staring when you aren’t looking. He tries to laugh it off, but it cracks something behind his eyes. There’s real shit going on under that cocky exterior, and it wants you.

Even Baby, for all his “I’m too cool for this” energy, is obvious in the way that makes you want to scream into a pillow. He’s horrible. Picks fights with you over the dumbest things. Snaps gum in your ear when you’re trying to read. But he’s always around.

You’ll sit down in one of the ridiculously plush armchairs, and within five minutes, he’s there. Perched on the armrest, legs dangling, pretending to be bored. If you ignore him, he sighs dramatically. If you look at him, he sighs as if you’re annoying him.

You almost punched him. You also almost kissed him. Which is… terrifying.

And then there’s Mystery. The flower. Him trying at small talk, opening towards you, no more needed to say.

So yeah.

You know they like you. Every last one of them.

And what the fuck are you supposed to do about that?

Because it’s not just harmless flirting. Not just attention.

It’s heavy. It’s real. It’s aching.

They’re not playing games, not really. They don’t have time. They’ve seen too much, lost too much, been used too much.

You’re their first love in centuries. And it’s not a soft thing. It’s a suffocating thing. A hungry, endless, terrifying thing. They want you in ways that have nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with fate.

You miss the girls.

You miss freedom.

You miss peace.

But every time you think about leaving, there’s a tug in your chest.

What’s happening now?

Mira’s blade slashes through the air. Jinu blocks it with one arm like he means to get cut—show-off. Sparks fly. The wind howls. The rooftop is chaos.

Three girls against five ancient, demon-marked, cocky-as-fuck man-children who just will not die. Or stop talking.

“God, you’re all so loud.” Zoey huffs, leaping back from Mystery’s claws. She lands with a spin, barely catching her breath before going in again.

Mystery doesn’t say a word, so she obviously wasn’t talking to him. He just growls low in his throat, eyes glinting. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smirk.

Because Zoey’s been giggling. She tries to swing at him, dead serious—and still, still she giggles when she misses. Every time.

Mira’s faring better. She’s relentless. Precise.

Jinu is not even trying. His shirt’s half-torn open (like he planned it, asshole), and his arms are crossed while dodging. Calm. Elegant. Smiling. He doesn’t block—he flows.

Mira screams something wordless and furious at him, and he bows. Actually bows. Then catches her blade mid-swing with two fingers.

“Careful.” he says, voice syrupy smooth. “You’ll chip it.”

Abby is doing what Abby does.

He’s shirtless. Obviously. Gleaming with sweat. Just flexing and dodging, muscles moving under skin.

Baby is on his phone??

Well, he was, until Rumi noticed him and took the chance to attack. Suddenly Baby’s behind Rumi now, twirling a blade like it’s a fidget toy, expression completely blank.

Unbothered. Unbothered like he didn’t just try to stab her ribs. Unbothered like he didn’t vanish and reappear behind her within half a second.

“You’re so slow.” Baby says, like he’s disappointed in her for being mortal.

Rumi snarls, swings at his neck, and he disappears again, laughing quietly—more breath than sound. But Rumi ducks past Baby and nearly lands a hit on him.

He hums. “Almost.”

Now Mira’s holding her own with Abby—barely. Mira actually snarled the first time he winked at her mid-swing. (He’s winked three more times since. She’s missed twice.)

Zoey’s tangled up with Mystery. Which is a sentence that sounds more sexual than it should, but really it’s just fast, brutal, and completely quiet—except for Zoey’s occasional giggle, just again.

Romance, unbothered to help, rolls his shoulders. “Can’t we just agree you all missed us? You clearly came looking for a reason to see us again.”

“No, we came to end you.” Rumi hisses, cutting through the air with a blade that actually manages to scrape Jinu’s cheek.

“Mm. You always say that.” Jinu murmurs.

Romance pushes off the wall, finally stepping into the fight with a little spin. “You act like you don’t love playing with us. But you do. I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just Y/N rubbing off on us.”

Everything stops.

Everything.

A beat.

Rumi drops her blade an inch. Mira’s punch falters mid-air. Zoey—giggles stop.

“What,” Rumi says slowly. “did you just say?”

Romance freezes. Looks at the girls. Then at the boys.

“…What? I’m just saying she’s rubbing off on us. Her little quirks. The sighing. The eyerolls. The way she complains when we track mud into the—”

“YOU DICK.” Abby snarls, charging at him and shoving his shoulder hard.

“Are you stupid?” Baby mutters.

Mystery hisses. Not growls—hisses—like he’s ready to physically maul Romance on the spot.

Jinu grabs Romance by the collar, dragging him a step back like they’re not in the middle of whatever this is. His voice is low, barely audible. “Do you want her taken from us?”

Romance blinks, realizing a half-second too late that he just lit the wrong fuse.

“Oh.” he says. “Oh.”

Mira steps toward them, blade dropped at her side, forgotten.

Zoey’s hand trembles near her belt. “She’s alive?”

“No.” Rumi says, almost choking. “She’s there. She’s with them.”

Mira looks at each of them. Her face is unreadable. Flat and dangerous. “You kidnapped her.”

None of the boys speak.

Romance swallows.

Baby won’t meet their eyes. Not because he feels bad, just the little bird on that lamppost is way more interesting.

Abby’s mouth opens, then closes. Then he mutters, “Fucking idiot.” and punches Romance in the gut. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to say you fucked up.

“She was ours,” Zoey whispers, eyes glassy. “She’s—she’s ours.”

And maybe that’s the thing the boys didn’t calculate properly. Because in their little yearning hearts, they thought they were the only ones who needed you. But the girls? The girls have bled with you. They’ve cried in your arms. They had done this and that and whatnot and everything that makes them want you back.

Romance opens his mouth. Mystery kicks him in the shin. “OW! What?!”

“They didn’t know.” Mystery says flatly. First words of the night.

Romance finally glances at the girls properly, face sobering as reality sets in. “…Okay, yeah, we should go.”

“Now you think that?” Baby snaps, turning on his heel.

“She knows we’re coming.” Mira growls, stepping forward.

“Knew that already.” Baby mumbles. “She’s not stupid.”

Zoey finally cracks. “Is she okay?! You took her, and now you want us to believe—”

“Shut up.” Jinu says. (AN: guys I’m cackling up at myself it’s fucking HILARIOUS that he’s mean like that)

Abby looks at Romance. “You’re such a dick, bro.”

“I’m not leaving.” Baby says, crossing his arms. “Not after all that. Now I wanna see what happens next.”

“What happens next,” Jinu says like he’s talking to a child. “is we get killed.”

“I kinda like those odds.” Mystery says darkly.

Of course he does.

Then Zoey speaks, voice shaking just slightly—“Did she… did she say anything about us?”

Rumi doesn’t wait for a cue. Doesn’t wait for answers. Just screams bloody rage and grief and fuck you forever and charges.

Mira follows instantly, eyes flaming.

Zoey’s scream is less words and more war cry.

And suddenly the girls are everywhere.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” Romance blurts, eyes going wide. “Okay okay OKAY—”

“I TOLD YOU.” Abby roars, grabbing his wrist.

Jinu steps back with perfect posture, calmly cracking his neck like it’s just time to clock out of work. “Let’s go.”

Mystery doesn’t even blink. Just vanishes—one blink and he’s gone.

“Are we teleporting or running?!” Romance yells, backpedaling fast as Mira’s blade nearly takes his face.

“YES.” Jinu shouts over the wind.

Abby grabs Baby by the collar. “We’ll go—NOW—”

“I CAN DO IT MYSELF—”

“DON’T CARE—”

Romance grabs onto Abby with one hand. “CAN WE ALL AGREE THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT—”

“IT WAS ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT—”

And just like that, the rooftop is silent. Boys gone.

The wind dies.

The girls stand alone.

Fuming.

Abour an hour later, the door bursts open.

They’re loud. They’re bleeding. They smell like smoke and wet asphalt and one of them is holding something wrapped in someone’s jacket sleeve.

You blink. Petting the tiger, sitting on the carpet. Its tail swishes once. “Hi.” you say, not looking up.

You feel the way the boys freeze in the doorway. There’s a split-second of silent debate, like someone might just back out and pretend they walked into the wrong house. But then—

“Heyyyy.” Abby drawls, walking forward like he hasn’t got a cut across his cheek. “Look at you, still awake. Missed us?”

You hum. “Something like that.”

Romance appears behind him next, limping slightly but smiling. "You would not believe what just happened to us. Jinu?”

Jinu sighs, so fucking done with Romance starting shit and Jinu having to finish it. Not even only in this scenario. Then, he quickly makes something up. “We saved a kid. From a burning building.”

Abby waves his hands. “A dog! It was a dog. A whole dog shelter. We saved like… twenty-five dogs.”

Romance nods. “There was an alien. I swear. This thing came outta the sewer, babe, big eyes, like wet beach balls, all like blee-blop, and I—“ he points to himself “—punched it.”

They all pause. Realize. They just said completely different things.

You stare at them for a beat. “That’s the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”

Jinu rolls his eyes at the other two then keeps going. “Okay, technically it was a burning animal shelter. So Abby isn’t wrong. You’re not wrong, Abby. But the fire started ’cause someone knocked over a candle. There was a candle. For the dogs.” Jinu is such a loser. Such a loser, god. And he’s supposed to be better than the others.

Abby nods quickly, walking towards the kitchen already. “Yeah! Candle dogs. Like aromatherapy. For their nerves. They were…” he squints, struggling for words. “stressed dogs.”

Romance raises his brows at you. “You should’ve seen me. Shirt off—obviously. Fire blazing behind me. I had this kitten in one arm—little guy was shaking, scared shitless—and I look back, flames in my eyes, and I saved it.”

“Sure you did.” you say dryly, watching as the tiger-cat leans its entire head into your hand. “Is that why Abby looks like he got tackled by a lawnmower?”

“I’m fine.” Abby calls from the kitchen, already chugging on something.

Then Baby walks in, dead silent. Expression bored. Disinterested. Pacing straight past you toward the fridge.

You say nothing. He says less.

Which means: he’s really happy to see you.

“—and I was nearly kissed by a banshee.” Romance continues, “but I told her I was taken. She screamed anyway. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re fine. You should’ve seen us. Heroes. Real shit.“

You finally glance at him. “Romance.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Shut up.”

Abby snorts into his shaker bottle.

While Mystery just lowers himself slowly, settling beside you on the floor. His shoulder brushes your thigh. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But his head tilts just slightly toward your hand as it runs over the tiger-cat’s fur.

Abby’s voice comes from the kitchen. “And I kicked a dude. In the head! Like whack! His whole tooth came out. Might’ve been mine. But still.“

Jinu sighs. “That wasn’t a dude. That was a fence post. You roundhouse-kicked a fence post. And then apologized to it. There was no dude.”

“Not with that attitude.” Baby mutters, digging out a can of something vaguely carbonated.

Romance doesn’t listen to you telling him to shut up. Why would he? “Listen. What we went through tonight… I looked death in the eye. But I thought of you. I said, “No. I gotta get back to her. Can’t die here. Not like this. Not with this much chest out.””

You turn to look at them fully now, petting slowing. Brows raised. “So let me get this straight. You all went to the same place. Fought the same thing. And yet every single one of you has a different version of events?”

Romance: “Multiverse?”

Jinu: “We split up.”

Baby: “Can you stop talking to us?”

Abby: “I peed in a bush.”

That’s not a lie.

You sigh.

God. You should care more. You should press. You should catch the lies and squeeze the truth out of their cocky throats. But… You don’t. You don’t even suspect what actually happened out there. You don’t see the bruises for what they are. Don’t notice the way Jinu keeps glancing at you to see if you believed the lie. Don’t hear the way Baby breathes a little easier the longer you sit next to them. Don’t realize Mystery’s quiet lean is the closest he’s come to comfort in centuries.

Because all you see are idiots. Sexy, beat-up, broken-nosed idiots trying to lie their way through an obvious catastrophe.

All five of them? Tripping over each other’s fake stories? Really?

You lean back into the couch, pretending you believe them. Just for tonight.

Because they came home.

They came home to you.

And even if they’re lying bastards with god complexes and way too many abs between them…you’re still glad they did.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re all wrong for what they’ve done. You know that. You never forget it. They held you against your will. They kept you from the girls—your girls—who would’ve torn the world open to find you if they knew where to look. And now they do. (You don’t know that yet. But they do.)

And still…

You don’t even try to leave anymore.

But they changed, too. Not all the way. Not enough. Not where it counts, but… enough.

So yeah. They’re wrong. They’re still lying to you—badly, tonight—but it’s desperation. It’s fear. It’s the only way they know how to keep you.

Because they know—they know—that if you had the chance, the real chance, the safe one…

You’d leave.

You’d go running back to Mira, Rumi, Zoey. You’d take the hand they offered and vanish into the night with them, never once looking back.

So they lie.

They lie like children.

They lie with the panic of five lonely immortals who got one taste of softness and can’t stand the thought of going back to their hell without it.

You never asked for this. You didn’t want to be their comfort, their strange little mercy. You were supposed to be their enemy. A little help then a soul taken. And now you’re sitting in their living room, heart thudding slow, steady, full of goddamn dread because you caught yourself thinking—

“I’m glad they came back safe.”

You are.

You’re not okay with this. You’re not forgiving them. They’re still dangerous. They’re still wrong. They still can’t let you go.

But…

But.

Mystery’s shoulder is pressed into yours.

Romance is humming something low. Abby’s looking at himself in the hallway mirror. Baby’s doesn’t put gum in your hair anymore. Jinu is mostly an asshole to everyone except you, you just don’t know that.

You don’t move.

You don’t run.

You don’t cry.

You just sit.

You’re still not free. And you’re still staying.

Jinu disappears toward the hallway, muttering something about a shower.

Romance follows, winking at you before you can say anything. “Don’t miss me too much, sweet girl.”

“I never do.”

“You doooo.” he sings from down the hall.

It’s been two months.

Two whole months.

Which meant when you ovulated, Romance went feral. (AN: y’all asked for it)

Not in a hot way. In a “we’re going to need a spray bottle” kind of way. He followed you around the entire apartment with dilated pupils and this low, mewling sound in his throat. At one point, he sat on the floor of the laundry room with his forehead pressed to the dryer whispering, “Just one bite. Just one little bite.”

You had to barricade yourself in your room for the day. Abby called him a pervert. Baby told him to go jack off and shut the fuck up. Mystery stared at the wall and didn’t come near you. Jinu rolled his eyes at Romance but listened to him talk about you anyway. Abby kept offering to “get it out of your system.” whatever the fuck that meant.

Back around your first period here, you cried once. Just once. Just out of nowhere. Sat on the floor in your bathroom with that aching pressure in your back, and your hormones all upside down and stupid, and cried.

And Romance—that sick son of a bitch—moaned through the wall. Actually moaned. “Are you crying? Is that real? Oh my GOD, she’s crying, this is the best day of my death, I’m gonna cum—”

So yeah.

Now, though?

Now you’re back to the start of the cycle. The cramps hit yesterday. The bloating. The grump.

Which brings you to the current situation:

Period cramps. Nothing world-ending, just enough to ruin your posture, your mood, and your ability to trust god.

So you’re in the kitchen. Fruit salad. It’s pretty. You’re pretty. The knife glides across strawberries, the lemon juice stings your fingers. It’s quiet. Almost peaceful.

“Yooo.” Abby calls, walking in. “What’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Fruit.” you mutter. “Your brain would reject it.”

“Ouch.” he raises an eyebrow, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t just at the gym bench pressing Jinu. “Also, that’s not cooking.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.”

You don’t even look at him. Just cut another kiwi slice. You feel like shit. Your lower stomach’s twisting. Your back’s sore. But instead of anyone doing something nice like shutting the fuck up, you get Abby.

He reaches for a piece of mango.

You smack his hand with the flat of the knife.

“WHOOOO!!” he hollers. (Just hootin n hollerin🥀)

“Don’t touch my shit.”

“It’s our kitchen.”

“It’s my bowl.”

“You’re being kinda gatekeepy right now.” God, he looks so proud that he knows that word.

“You’re being kinda concussed in two seconds if you don’t leave me alone.”

He grabs a strawberry anyway.

You flick a piece of orange peel at him. He dodges, but still yells “AHHHH!” like you just shot him.

“You’re a child.” you mutter.

“Sexy child.” he replies instantly.

You grimace. “That came out so wrong.”

You resist the urge to throw the fruit bowl. Mostly because it’s your fruit bowl and you like it.

“Baby’s a fucking nightmare, by the way.”

“Oh?” Abby leans on the counter, brutal forearms btw.

“He unplugged my fan while I was sleeping. Then tried to gaslight me into thinking it was never plugged in.”

Abby snorts. Like, whole chest laugh. Head thrown back. Bastard.

“What’s he even doing right now?” you mumble, cradling your chin in your palm.

With zero hesitation, he starts making the wanking gesture with one hand, raises his brows, then adds the second hand for emphasis—like it’s a two-person job—and finishes it off with a dumb throat-clearing groan.

“Abby.”

He does it harder.

You close your eyes.

He adds a grunt.

You slam the knife on the cutting board. “Shut up.”

“Hand against the wall. One leg up. Really getting into it.”

“Abby.”

You hear him moving closer behind you. Not too close—he’s not completely suicidal—but enough that you feel the vibration of his voice when he speaks again.

“…You alright though?”

You stiffen.

He doesn’t say what he means. Doesn’t say you smell like pain today or your uterus is screaming, or I can hear your joints aching from three rooms away.

He just says that. You alright.

You nod. Quiet. Focused on blueberries now.

Warm hands land on your shoulders.

You tense.

Because—what the fuck.

They’re big. Warm. Too warm. You forget, sometimes, how hot their bodies run. It seeps through the fabric of your shirt.

You don’t move.

Because oh god.

He’s massaging you.

“Jesus Christ.” you breathe, not even meaning to say it.

Abby laughs, low, smug, voice too close to your ear now.

You glare at the cutting board. “Why are you touching me.”

“Just shut up, baby.”

God.

You hate that he’s good at this.

Not in a professional way, you can feel he’s rusty. His rhythm is weird, uneven. He clearly hasn’t given a massage in like three hundred years. He’s doing that thing where one thumb pushes too hard and the other forgets it’s supposed to help. But even so…

You sigh, soft. Accidentally. Almost a moan.

“Yeah.” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Say please.”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

He snorts. Adjusts his grip. Presses the heel of his palm into the meat of your shoulder. It hurts. In that good way.

You mutter something between a groan and a prayer.

Abby’s hands move lower. Carefully. Slowly. Like he knows he’s testing your limits but doesn’t want to scare you off. Which is shocking, honestly. He’s not exactly known for tact. More known for shirtlessness, swearing, and shoulder-checking Mystery into walls when bored.

But now? Now he’s… being good. Well. As good as he gets.

“I’m genuinely impressed.” you say flatly, staring at your half-finished fruit bowl. “You haven’t tried to motorboat me once.”

“Tempting.” he says. “But I’m saving that for when you cry at a movie and need comforting.”

He doesn’t know what MySpace is but knows what motorboating someone means, fantastic.

“Do you even know how to comfort someone?”

“Yeah.” he says, dragging his thumbs down your spine, making something in you flinch and melt at the same time. “Like this.”

You let out a bark of laughter. Can’t help it. You tilt your head back a little and look up at him.

He’s already watching you.

That cocky little smirk still on his lips, but softer now. Faint. Barely there.

His eyes flick over your face, quick, like a scan. He sees the flush. The tiredness. The pain you’re trying not to show. He always does.

And for once—he doesn’t tease. He just keeps massaging. Hands steady. Fingers firm. Breaths slow.

You look away first.

His hands trail back up, thumbs circling behind your neck again. Your eyes flutter. You hate that it feels good. Hate that it’s him giving it to you.

But hate isn’t the right word anymore.

It hasn’t been for weeks.

He’s evil, sure. Still cocky, still loud, still dumb as a sack of rocks when it comes to boundaries. But he touches you like… like this. And right now? He’s the only thing keeping the pain at bay. So you don’t stop him. You don’t ask him to let go. You just let yourself be. For once.

Until he ruins it.

“You know,” he says suddenly, breath hot against your neck. “if you need me to help alleviate the cramps—”

You elbow him in the stomach. Hard. He laughs through it, wheezing a little. Still proud.

Still a fucking idiot.

And yet—his hands never leave you.

And then, there’s that weird, tight ache like a sob forming out of nowhere. The stinging behind your eyes. A single sniffle that escapes before you can catch it.

“Hey.” Abby says quietly, still behind you, still massaging. “…What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens. But you can’t talk. Not really.

He takes his and off you and turns you around by the shoulders, and god, you’re crying.

“I’m fine.”

“No, no, no.” he says, voice going from smug to soft in a heartbeat. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that—what’s going on? Did I hurt you? Are you—”

You hiccup. “Noooo—You’re—” you choke out. “You’re just—!”

Abby blinks. “I’m just…?”

“You’re so—” your hands flap uselessly near your chest. “You’re just—!”

He stares. “…I’m what?”

“Nice!” you sob

“…Nice.” Even he doesn’t believe that.

You nod violently. A hiccup punches out of your lungs. “You’re so nice to me, and—and—and you were massaging me and you didn’t even try anything and, and you’re such an angel, and I don’t deserve—”

You’re a mess. Shaking and clutching your little fruit bowl like it’s a teddy bear. Cheeks blotchy. Mouth open and useless. Hormones and hunger and affection all conspiring to break your soul.

You’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen kittens. This is worse.

“I—I just touched your back, man.” he says, holding up his hands like they’re evidence. “It wasn’t that deep.” He takes one hesitant step toward you, then takes it back like he’s afraid you’ll cry harder.

Which—you do. Wipe at your cheeks with the back of your wrist. Nose red, eyes glossy, lips wobbling. You are so, so done.

That’s when Jinu walks in.

Buttoning his crisp shirt. He opens his mouth to ask something—maybe about the smell of fruit or where Baby put the remote—and immediately freezes.

Because there you are. Crying in the kitchen. Smelling like fruit. Looking like an angel.

And Abby looks like he just got caught breaking a fucking law.

“…What happened?” Jinu asks, slowly, stepping into the room.

You spin toward him.

“Jinu.” you sob. “He’s so nice.”

Jinu’s brows draw together. “Who?”

“HIM.” You point to Abby like you’re accusing him of murder. “He massaged me. And didn’t even grope me! And he was helping and he’s an angel and I just—!”

You hiccup. Sniffle. Blubber. You’re basically melting into your own hands now. Entire body trembling.

“He’s so nice, Jinu.” you whisper.

Jinu glances at Abby.

Abby stares back at him, mouth agape. Then he gestures helplessly, mouthing I didn’t do anything!!

Jinu blinks, then takes a single step closer to you, reaching slowly.

“Y/N…” he says gently. “It’s okay. Come here.”

You don’t hesitate.

You launch yourself into his arms.

Jinu freezes. Then gently wraps his arms around you, wide-eyed, careful, calm. One hand rubs your back like he’s petting something small and traumatized. The other hovers awkwardly for a second before settling on your waist. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing into his shirt, while he strokes your hair and murmurs something soft in a language you don’t understand.

And behind you, Abby is standing completely frozen. Still gaping. Mouth open. Eyes wide. One hand still in midair like he forgot what hands even do.

What the fuck is happening.

What the FUCK is happening.

He’s not built for this. He’s not equipped. This is an emotional boss battle and he’s only got a sword made of dick jokes and gym stats.

Jinu, to his credit, is the picture of calm. Even when you start babbling he just shushes you, nods, murmurs soft encouragement like it’s nothing. You’re mumbling shit into his shirt that don’t make sense at all.

Jinu leans down a little. “…What’s that?”

“Bleeeehhh.”

He nods, seriously. “Okay. Okay.”

Your words are incomprehensible.

“B-but h-he—and—and th-the thing with his—shoulders—and he’s like—rrghhhhhh—and now—bweeeeeh—”

“I know.” Jinu says softly, glancing at Abby in complete shock. “I know.”

Abby just stares.

Mouth open.

Hands on hips.

A man defeated.

He mouths: what the fuck did I do.

Jinu shakes his head.

He pulls back after a minute to check your face.

“Do you want water?” he asks.

You nod.

Abby finally speaks. “Can I—can I get it—?”

“No.” you and Jinu both say in perfect unison.

Jinu leads you gently to the stools, arms still loose around you, like he’s worried if he lets go, you’ll evaporate or explode into more bleh noises, then he presses a glass of water into your hand. He does it slowly. Gently. Like the water might tip and you might tip with it. And honestly? Not far off.

Your hands are trembling. Eyes still leaking. You take it.

“Thank you.” you whisper through your snot, voice wrecked and watery, and then—oh, for fuck’s sake—you immediately burst into another wave of silent, gasping sobs right onto the rim of the glass.

Water splashes onto your chest. You don’t even care. You don’t even notice.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, standing beside you like he’s ready to catch you if gravity wins. “There we go.”

You try to drink it.

You fail.

It’s like you forgot how to swallow. You’re crying while sipping and your throat closes halfway through and it becomes a horrifying hiccup-gulp-weep hybrid. Abby winces.

“You good?” he asks, mostly because your entire body just twitched.

“Yuh.” you manage, half-drowning in your emotions and saliva.

You try to set the glass down. Miss the counter. Abby catches it mid-air, miraculously. You make a pitiful noise.

You sniff, loudly. “It’s so cold.” you whimper. “It’s such a good temperature, Jinu—do you even know—?”

“I do.” he says.

“You’re so good at everything.” you sob, wiping your face with your sleeve. “And he’s such a bitch.”

Abby blinks. “Still me?”

“Always you.”

“It’s okay.” Jinu says again, doing that thing where he shhh-es you without making a sound. His hand’s back on your upper back. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you be.

And be, you do.

“Oh god.” you sob, eyes wide and staring at the cabinets. “I miss Rumi’s braids.”

Abby drags his mouth. “That’s specific.”

“And I—I miss the girls.” you sob. “I miss Rumi’s ugly-ass laugh. I miss Zoey stealing my lip balm. I miss Mira calling me a bitch when she means ‘I love you.’”

Jinu nods slowly. Abby freezes, looking vaguely guilty for the first time in… ever.

“I’m sure they miss you too.” Jinu says gently.

You sniff hard, face splotchy and eyes red, then lift the glass of water again, holding it with two hands. You squint at it, voice going high and tired and miserable: “Why do I cry like thisssss.”

Jinu leans closer and gently pushes a bit of hair off your face. You flinch, not from fear, but because you didn’t expect it.

Being a demon and living in shame sucks, but they’re kinda grateful that they’re not human girls at this moment.

Abby clears his throat, then walks over to the counter where your abandoned bowl sits, glistening with juice and slices of something soft and pink. He picks it up carefully. Offers it.

“I didn’t spit in it.” he says, smiling. “Yet.”

You blink at him through your tears. Sniffle once. “You can eat it.”

His eyes light up.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” he mutters, already reaching for a fork. “Best day ever.”

Jinu stays close. Doesn’t leave your side. Just watches you with a quiet patience that you never asked for and desperately needed.

“You cried because I was nice.” Abby says, grinning. “That’s actually the sickest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sniff hard. “Don’t talk to me.”

“I’m a hero.” he mutters under his breath.

You lift your teary eyes to Jinu, lip wobbling. “You’re the only normal one.”

Jinu pats your hand. “That’s what I keep telling them.”

“I’m just so tired, Jinu,” you say. “and there’s fruit and a bird with six eyes and someone keeps putting their used straw in my skincare draweeeeeer.”

“That was Baby.” Abby mutters.

“He found my lip tint.” you mumble.

“Yeah. He liked the color.”

You make a mournful little noise and stare down at the water again like it’s supposed to fix any of this.

Jinu’s still beside you, hands on the counter, watching you. Abby is now licking the juice off his fork and humming something in a… in a beautiful voice, fuck, okay. He’s in his own world—shirtless, sticky, glowing.

Movement.

You glance up toward the arch into the hallway, and—

Oh.

Mystery.

Peeking in, barely visible through the shadows and his hair.

He’s not saying anything. Just watching. His head’s tilted slightly. Half-hiding behind the doorframe, strands of hair in his mouth, his eyes peeking out like he’s shy—which, in some ways, he is.

Until he sees you looking.

And he smiles.

Sweet and genuine. His cheeks barely move, but it’s so cute, so soft, so rare, that it takes the breath straight out of your throat.

You smile back.

“Ohhh shit, MYSTO!” Abby shouts, talking through peach chunks. “Get your ass in here, bro! Look what Y/N made. It’s got strawberries and whatever the fuck this thing is—” he holds up a piece of dragon fruit.

Abby sets the bowl down. Leans a hip against the counter. And slaps the back of his own hand loudly against his thigh before striding over and giving Mystery a massive clap between the shoulder blades like he’s trying to knock him through the wall.

You hear the clap of skin on skin. Mystery stumbles half a step back.

Mystery laughs.

Like laughs-laughs.

A sound you barely ever get to hear—soft and breathy and unreal. And then he reaches out, and slaps Abby right back. Mystery’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing. A full, real sound. They’re having fun.

It’s so… sweet.

So boyish.

So dumb.

So—fuck.

You sniff.

It’s because they’re friends. Because they’re evil little shitheads who keep you kidnapped and lie about things and slap each other for fun and still—somehow—you can see the real thing underneath.

You see it.

How Mystery’s face softens when Abby laughs too hard and bumps his head into the cabinet. How Abby nudges Mystery like “don’t be shy bro” and Mystery doesn’t even growl. How boys are so dumb and stupid and ridiculous but also how boys love. How they show it through violence and bad jokes and too-hard pats on the back.

You start sobbing. Loudly.

They enjoy each other. They make each other laugh. They’re idiots together. They fight like wolves and then joke like kids, and there’s something… pure about it.

Something devastatingly human.

You’re hiccuping.

“Okay—okay.” Jinu says, head turning like a hound the second your breathing skips. He’s beside you instantly, crouching slightly, rubbing your arm like he’s done this before, even if he hasn’t. “What happened? What happened now?”

“Nuh-nothing, I just—” you hiccup through the words, trying to explain, trying to form a sentence that matches the mess in your head. “They’re s-sooo cuuuuteee.”

Jinu blinks.

Abby blinks too, fork in mid-air.

“They’re so—” your voice breaks, chest heaving. “They’re such boys, Jinuuuu.”

“Yeah.” Jinu murmurs. “We are.”

“They keep—touching—and yelling—and laughing, and they don’t even know how to do it right, and it’s still cute!” You sob harder. “Oh god,” you gasp. “they like each other. They like each other and they like me, and they’re demons and they’re so stupid, and I l-live here now, and I miss my g-girls and I’m bleeding and I didn’t even finish my f-fruit, and—Jinuuuuuu—”

Jinu steps in. Hands up, palms out, the calmest in this deranged storm.

“Okay.” Jinu says, stepping in front of you and gently taking the water glass. “Okay, let’s—let’s not drown right here in the kitchen, yeah?”

“But it’s—so sweet.” you squeak, tears rolling down your face. “I never see them laugh like that—he smiled—Mystery smiled—and I can’t h-handle it—”

He takes your arm gently. “I know, I know.”

“I—” you hiccup, voice warbling. “They like each other.”

“Okay. We’re gonna take a little walk now, yeah?”

“Nooo—”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

Holding your shoulders, he drags you up from your seat and starts pushing you out of the kitchen softly.

You protest. Weakly. “I—I was watching them—”

“You can watch them later.” Jinu says.

Abby calls out from the kitchen behind you, voice loud and teasing: “Hey, if you guys are gonna make out, just say so! We’ll leave!”

Mystery chuckles.

Jinu just rolls his eyes. He walks slow. No rush. When he gets to your room, he pushes the door open with his foot and steps inside with you.

He sits you down on your bed, tucks a pillow behind your back. Your face is red and miserable and soaked in saltwater and hormones, and still, still, when you look at him? You manage a watery little: “They’re such good boys…”

Jinu presses a hand to his forehead. Breathes in like he’s praying to some god that hasn’t answered in centuries.

“Sure, Y/N.” he says softly, sitting on the edge of your bed. “They’re angels.”

From the kitchen, you can still hear Abby yelling.

You laugh. Sputter. Cry again.

You can’t help it.

It’s all too much.

And yet somehow…

Not enough.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches. Listens. Breathes with you. And it’s weird, because he’s not trying to be a prince right now. He’s not trying to seduce or coax or manipulate or even soothe, not really. He’s just here. Present. And that… is so rare. Especially in this place. With these boys.

He glances over at you again. You’re rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm, smearing saltwater across your cheekbones, your mouth wobbling in the most adorable little way.

And Jinu—more than four hundred years old, the favorite of Gwi-Ma ever and the most selfish person probably—feels his chest ache.

It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. Not even fascination.

It’s… awe.

Because you feel everything.

Because you can’t help it.

And you don’t even hide it.

He thinks of how it started. And now… this.

Jinu’s not naïve. He knows you’re not safe here. Not really. Not emotionally, not spiritually, maybe not even physically. They’re demons. They’re wrong. They lie to you. Trap you. Keep you like something precious locked in a chest with no key. Because if they let you go—

They know they’ll never see you again.

That’s how much you matter. That’s what they can’t stand.

You breathe in.

And somehow, it’s not awkward.

Even though you rejected him before. Well, didn’t straight up reject, just didn’t say anything when he told you he was interested. Even though he’s Jinu. The leader of the demons who kidnapped you. Even though he wants you in ways that stretch centuries deep and he could have any soul in the underworld if he wanted—and still he’s sitting on your bed like the wind might break you.

Because he knows. Somewhere deep in his demon marrow. This isn’t about romance. It’s not about him. It’s about you. And what it takes to simply be you right now.

He studies you again, quietly. Takes in the red blotches under your eyes. The slow, sleepy shiver in your breath. The way your hair’s tangled at the nape of your neck and the blanket is half tucked under your leg and you’ve still got a little piece of strawberry stuck on your cheek.

Humans are so ridiculous.

So soft and loud and inconvenient. So emotional.

And so fucking magnetic.

He leans back slightly, resting one ankle over the other, posture lazy but gaze sharp. He doesn’t say it—but he’s thinking it:

What would they do, those girls of yours, if they knew how you are here? That you’re being cared for by the enemy. That you cried into my shirt. That you call Abby evil and still let him eat your little salad. That they like you here.

He exhales slowly.

Because he knows what he’d do.

He’d tear the sky open to keep you.

And he’s not alone. Behind every sarcastic quip, behind every stupid grin and ridiculous flex and forced “unbothered” act, they all feel it.

They ache for you.

They know what they did was wrong.

But that doesn’t stop them.

Because wrong is all they’ve ever known.

And you’re the only thing that’s ever felt right.

Jinu doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing for a full five seconds until your fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket, barely shifting, barely there—and something in his chest pulls.

Not tears this time. Not pity. Just want. Heavy and sinking, like it’s dragging him under the floorboards.

He can’t stand it.

He wants to protect you, yeah. Wants to shield you from the noise, the blood, the fire in his head, the guilt that gnaws through the others, the ache that claws up their spines every time they think about you going back to your team.

But more than that?

He wants to touch you.

To press his mouth to that pretty little throat and see if you’ll make a sound. To slide his hands over your hips and feel you tremble. To pin you down, gently—never forcefully, never—but completely, utterly, so you remember what it feels like to belong to someone ancient and aching and full of things you’ll never understand.

He wants to ruin you softly.

Break you open with worship.

Leave his mark in a way that isn’t demonic but still damn near holy.

He wants you to choose them.

To say fuck the girls, fuck the hunters, fuck everyone—and stay. With them. With him.

Even if it’s not just him.

Even if he has to share.

Because Jinu is a demon—but not the possessive kind. He knows Romance would kill to get his tongue on you. That Abby would go feral if you ever so much as asked for him. That Baby would climb into your lap like the little terror he is and Mystery would melt against you, desperate and dangerous and way too quiet about the way he worships you already.

Jinu would let them.

He’d step back, even. Watch, even. His spine would go stiff, and his fists would clench, and jealousy would rise—but he’d still let it happen.

Because as long as it’s you—alive, warm, touched with love, and not gone—

Then fuck it. That’s a victory.

That’s enough.

He clears his throat suddenly, head dropping, gaze dragging toward the floor, he just caught himself fantasizing.

So instead of saying any of it, instead of giving in to the rot twisting low in his gut or the softness that makes his ribs ache, he just stands up.

“I’ll go now.” he says simply.

Your eyes blink open in the most precious way—like you forgot he was even there, like he’s not the reason you’re calm again.

“If something else is up…” He keeps his tone neutral, easy. “You can find me.”

You nod.

He hesitates at the door.

Because what he wants to do is crawl back into bed with you and bury his face into your neck and tell you he’s so, so glad he met you. That he’s glad they kidnapped you. That you’re the worst sin he’s ever committed and he’d do it all over again if it meant holding you like this once.

But all he does is let the door close softly behind him and walk through the hall. His steps are soft. Bare feet against the cold hardwood. Dim lights glowing overhead. He drags a hand down his face, exhales slow.

He opens the door to his room quietly. Steps inside. Doesn’t turn on the light. Just moves to the edge of the massive platform bed and sits down, rolling his shoulders, bones heavy from centuries of guilt and something else. Something new. The tiger is already there, curled up in the corner, watching. Its eyes glowing. It stretches when it sees him, as if sensing Jinu’s energy, the way his heartbeat isn’t steady.

He lifts a hand and the beast crosses the room without hesitation. Its massive head lowers into his lap, pressing there, warm and heavy. Jinu rests a hand on its fur. The other hand curls into the dense muscle of its back, smoothing down along its shoulder.

He doesn’t speak. He just stares into the dark, breathing slow. Thinking about you. Your eyes. Your puffy cheeks. Your dumb little sleepy bleats of “blehhh” and “he’s so nice” and “I just—I just—bweehhh—”

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

He wants you.

So bad it makes him sick.

And not just to touch you—though, god, he does. Not just to pin you to a wall or get on his knees or bite your lip and leave it swollen just so you’d remember it was him.

He wants the other stuff.

He wants to know what your first thought is in the morning. Wants to hear your opinion on dumb, mundane shit like oranges or show reruns. Wants to know how you hold your toothbrush and which songs you hate and why you keep rearranging the throw pillows even though you act like you hate the place.

He wants time with you.

He wants a life with you.

He smooths his hand again over the beast’s shoulder. The fur ripples under his palm. Then he leans back against the bedframe, lets his head drop, staring at the ceiling.

He’s glad he met you.

Even if you destroy them.

Even if you leave.

Even if you never look at him that way.

He’s so fucking glad.

Meanwhile, Romance is a mess.

A hot, sweaty, brain-rotted mess sprawled across his bed. His shirt’s been discarded somewhere (he genuinely doesn’t know where—it might be on the lamp) Just breathing hard, a hand resting dramatically over his chest like he just ran a goddamn marathon—and not, you know, jacked off to the memory of you saying his name once while you were annoyed.

Yeah, his hand was just down his pants five minutes ago.

For the fifth time today.

He had to stop himself—again—not because he’s shy or ashamed(not of this, at least), but because it’s starting to feel pathetic. Like he can’t go five goddamn minutes without thinking about you.

“Fuck.” he mutters to no one, arm flung over his face. His voice is hoarse. Disgusted. Still dark with that voice he only ever uses on his worst days. “Fuuuck, you’re killing me, pretty girl.”

He’s obsessed. It’s terminal.

And it’s not just the sex stuff, either.

Okay, it’s mostly the sex stuff. He’s made up so many scenarios. Some of them are honestly creative—like, he’s impressed with himself. There was one where he runs into you during a thunderstorm and you’re soaking wet in white linen and begging to be touched. Another one where he wakes you up from a nightmare and comforts you with something far more intense than a lullaby.

And then there’s the really deranged ones. The domestic ones. He made one up earlier where you were brushing your teeth beside him, hair messy, shirt too big, and you handed him the toothpaste wordlessly. That fantasy made him whimper. WHIMPER. Out loud.

He’s always been a flirt. That’s just the role. A wink, a purr, a little brush of his thumb on a lower lip—he’s been doing that for literal centuries. He’s good at it. It’s a performance.

But with you? It’s not a performance anymore.

It’s sick.

You don’t even let him kiss your cheek, and he’s still acting like he’s in heat every time you say his name. He tried to casually lean against the fridge next to you a few days ago and almost broke it because he slipped on condensation and nearly fell into the fruit drawer.

You didn’t even laugh. You just looked at him, blinked, and said, “You good?”

He pulls the crook of his arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling. His painted nails dig into the pillow under his head. Then he sits up with a grunt, dragging his hand through his hair until it flops back into his eyes.

He doesn’t want just your body. He wants your yes. He wants you to choose him. He wants to hear you say it. That you like him. That he makes you feel good. That you want him back.

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead like that’ll squash the yearning down. It doesn’t. It just makes his head hurt more.

God, he’s a boy. He’s such a dumb boy. He’s writing love letters in his head like you’ll ever want him. You’re too good. Too nice. He tortured you, kind of, in the beginning. All of them did. You shouldn’t want him. He wouldn’t blame you if you hated him forever.

He groans again.

He misses you.

And you’re just down the hall.

If he knocks on your door now, what’ll happen? Will you scream? Will you sigh? Will you let him lay on your floor like a kicked dog and read you poetry in a see-through robe?

(He does have one. Just in case.)

God. He needs help.

But also… maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he just needs you.

He lies there now in the afterglow of his own depravity, legs twitching occasionally, eyes open and glazed, like he’s astral projecting into a parallel universe where you actually want him, not tolerate him. Where you’re touching him instead of the tiger that Jinu keeps feeding better cuts of meat than the rest of them get. Where you’re whining for him instead of Jinu.

(Not that he’s bitter. That would imply he didn’t just make up a full-fledged fantasy about you licking honey off his fingers in the middle of that kitchen. So, yeah. He’s fine.)

He shifts slightly, makes a disgusted sound.

Not because he regrets it. Hell no. He’s a demon, not a fucking monk. And he’s been around long enough to know there’s no shame in need. In want. He wants you in every way a boy could want a girl—yes, even though he’s centuries old, he’s a boy about it. He’s so stupid. So obvious. So pathetic.

Would you braid his hair if he sat real still? Would you lean your head on his shoulder if he shut the fuck up for once? Would you kiss him if he asked nicely for once in his goddamn life?

He’s never been this bad. Not even in the 1800s when he accidentally got obsessed with a courtesan who spat on him in public. (Okay, not accidentally, he chased her halfway across Europe, but that’s not the point.)

The point is, you’re so good. He wants your mouth. Wants your laugh. Wants your moods, your messes, your little mumbles when you’re in pain or pissed. He wants to taste your tears and your gum and your shampoo. He wants to ruin you, yeah—but only because you’ve already ruined him.

And worst of all? He’s romantic about it.

He’s not just jerking off to your face. He’s imagining stupid, soft, idiotic scenarios. Like you pulling him by the wrist into your room and saying something like “I guess you’re not the worst.” Or you sleeping on his chest and drooling a little and him being honored to be the one you chose to lean on.

It’s humiliating.

He would rather be smited by an archangel than admit this to anyone.

He hears movement down the hall—maybe Jinu’s footsteps—and snorts out loud.

Romance is full filth and desperate little poems that he scrawls mentally with your name tucked into every line. Romance wants to spit you open and slow dance with you in a rainstorm. He wants to fuck you on the couch and send you letters. He wants you, in every version, in every mood, even the ones that slam doors and roll their eyes.

You’re in his nonexistent soul and it’s driving him fucking nuts.

He’s going to combust.

He’s going to write you poetry and never let you read it and also try to get his hand under your shirt while you’re complaining about cramps. He’s going to lose his mind over you and still act like it’s your fault.

Because he’s the worst.

And also because he’s hopelessly, brutally, comically in love with you.

And you don’t even know it yet.

Romance rolls over, half-naked and fully rotted from the inside out. Not from lust, not even from longing—but from something far worse.

Shame.

“Ohh, what’s this now?” Gwi-Ma’s voice. “Crying again because the little human won’t kiss you?” “Can’t even lie to her right without your voice shaking.” “You should see yourself.”

Romance presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. Like maybe if he just squishes his own brain for a second, the thoughts will settle.

“Let me tell her what you really are. I’ll show her.”

Romance chokes out a bitter laugh. He swings his legs off the bed, leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands like someone two seconds from praying even though there’s no god left who listens to demons.

He’s full of feelings. A disgusting soup of them. Sloshing around in his stomach with nowhere to go.

Horny? Yes, of course. But he’s also so tired. It doesn’t help that Gwi-Ma claws at the weak spots. Knows where to press.

“You’ll rip her apart. She’ll hate you for it.”“Oh, is this the one you think will save you? You pathetic little mutt.”

“Shut up.” Romance mutters under his breath.

No one’s around. Just him and the slow drip of his own humiliation. The weight of everything he wants and doesn’t deserve pressing in on his temples like a migraine.

“Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the—”

His voice cuts off.

His jaw clenches.

He hates this. Hates that he has someone to lose now. That he cares. That he walks past your bedroom and slows down like a coward, just to hear you snoring softly, to feel the low tug of comfort knowing you’re behind that door, safe.

What is he even doing?

He’s a fucking demon. A creature made of sin. He’s killed people for less than the flutter he feels when you hand him a spoon and say, “Don’t eat it with your fingers, you animal.”

God.

God, he loves you.

“You missed your chance.” Gwi-Ma hisses, voice thick with smugness. “The ‘nice one’ has her wrapped up. You think she’ll ever want the loud-mouthed pervert?”

Romance lifts his head and hisses, low and sharp. “Go haunt a cliff.”

But the truth is? Gwi-Ma isn’t wrong. He is the loud-mouthed pervert. The ridiculous one. The one who flirts all the time.

You probably do think he’s a joke.

You probably don’t take him seriously.

And he doesn’t blame you. Not when he can’t even sit still with himself without having emotions like this. Not when his chest feels like it’s full of razor wire and honey and rage. Rage at himself. At his body for betraying him. At Gwi-Ma for always being there.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, like that’ll clean out the thoughts too.

He knows sleep isn’t coming tonight. But maybe if he lays there long enough, staring at the ceiling, he’ll finally shut his brain off. Maybe if he listens closely enough, he’ll hear you breathe through your bedroom door again. Maybe that’ll be enough to survive another night like this.

As this is going on with Romance, Baby sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor, one knee bouncing absently while he pinches sunflower seeds between his fingers and offers them to Jinu’s bird. The bird chirps with exactly one ounce of gratitude and a shit-ton of judgment. Baby glares at it.

“Eat it or don’t.”

The bird hops closer. It does eat it.

Baby leans back on his hands, smirking.

He wins. Always.

He looks bored. The usual. But it’s not fair how fucked you’ve made his brain. And it’s not just the usual dumbass guy shit. It’s more. It’s worse. It’s not just boobs and voice and legs and eyes and the way you hum under your breath when cutting things.

It’s the fact that he remembers everything about you. And he likes remembering it. He’s holding onto it like a sick little freak. Like it’s his.

He shifts, drags the bag of bird seed toward himself again. Tosses a few seeds at the dumb hat-bird without even looking. Nails it. Obviously.

What a shame you can’t see how cool he is.

But behind the fuck-you energy and the smug one-liners and the absolute feral desire to shove Romance down every single flight of stairs in the building?

There’s a mess.

A massive, sticky, snarled-up mess of a crush that started the second he laid eyes on you and has been crawling deeper into his nonexistent soul every single second since.

He knows he’s an asshole. He’s a bitch. He’s awful. He literally threatened to lock Abby in the dryer last week because he said “Y/N’s cute today.” He pushed Romance into a bookshelf yesterday just for breathing weird around you. Tripped Jinu six times a day and didn’t listen to shit he said. Mystery is the only one Baby doesn’t throw hands with, because Mystery will literally bite. But still. Baby side-eyes him when he gets too close to you, and once even fake-fell just to crash between you and him.

He’s so fucking annoying.

But then again… so are you.

So are you with your sleepy face and your tiny gasps and your fruit salads and your long stares and your petty silent treatments. You stomp past him and he acts like it’s nothing, but damn.

He flops back against the floor now, arms spread. Looks like he’s relaxing. He’s not.

You make him insane. INSANE.

And he hates that he likes it. It’s like this cursed, fucked-up dopamine hit. He likes being mean. He likes being him. But somehow you just… fit in there.

He doesn’t want to be a better person.

But he’d let you put a leash on him.

And not in a normal way.

(Or maybe in a very normal way, depending on who you ask.)

He snorts at his own thoughts. Catches the bird staring. Stares back. “What.” he mutters, deadpan.

The bird chirps once, like judged.

Baby kicks the bird seed bag away lazily, smirking at nothing.

This is hell.

And he’s gonna enjoy being the brat of it as long as you keep stomping around in your dumb slippers, scowling at him, smelling like sweet soap.

Evil. He’s evil. Like, unapologetically, certifiably, Olympic-grade evil. He steals things he doesn’t need. He breaks things just to watch someone cry. He lies for fun. He once slipped Romance sleep poison for no other reason than the guy looked too happy.

That’s normal for Baby.

What’s not normal? Liking you this much. Liking anything this much.

It makes him want to throw up and kiss the floor and set it on fire all at once.

You… you’re a mess. So annoyingly good and soft and real. You don’t beg for his attention like a fan. You don’t worship the dirt he walks on. You reject him.

Which is hilarious.

Because you totally like him.

You must.

He’s too hot. Too cute. Too Baby. You’ve got to be frontin’. You’re just playing hard to get. Classic. (You literally don’t. You don’t like him like that I’m not even kidding)

But in his head, you think about him late at night. In his head, you’re in your bed, rolling over and giggling his name into your pillow. He bets you dream about him. About his mouth. His hands. Things he does to piss Jinu off.

Yeah.

You’re down bad.

(You’re not.)

He rolls over, lets his head loll onto his arm like he’s about to take a nap, and then—

“Wow.” It’s in his brain. Inside it.

“Fuck off.” Baby mutters instantly, eyes shut.

“No, really, I just… I’m in awe.” Gwi-Ma’s voice says, slow and cruel and dripping sarcasm. “This is truly pathetic. And I’ve seen Romance hump a pillow.”

“You sound jealous.” Baby says, unbothered, even though his stomach’s doing flips. “You wouldn’t get it, I do.”

“You’ve got nothing but your face, no worth at all, that’s what you get.”

Baby kicks at the air.

“Listen, child—“

“I’m three hundred and seventeen.”

“Then act like it.” Gwi-Ma hisses.

Just to make it clear, Baby doesn’t keep track of things most of the time. But he always, always keeps track of how old he is, hurts or not.

Baby gets up. No, he launches upright like a demon possessed (which he is, technically), and shakes out his limbs with an annoyed little growl. His hair’s a mess. He doesn’t fix it. That’s the charm. He stomps to the mirror just to look at himself.

He’s flawless.

“Can’t blame her.” he says to his own reflection. “I wouldn’t survive me either.”

Gwi-Ma hums darkly, slipping back into his own world and out of Baby’s head.

Baby glares at himself for another five seconds, then slowly—painfully slowly—lets the grin slide back into place.

Evil. Evil down to the bones. A menace. A psycho. A brat.

And somehow, somehow, you’ve got his entire demonic heart in your pretty little hands.

He hopes you never figure it out.

Or worse…

He hopes you do.

As we’re talking, I have to note that Mystery doesn’t look in mirrors very often.

Not because he doesn’t like what he sees, no, quite the opposite. He’s just not… interested in himself. Not the way Romance is, always adjusting his collar, biting his own lip in the reflection like he’s flirting with himself. Not like Abby either, who flexes abs in passing windows. Baby straight up glares at mirrors until they crack. Jinu doesn’t like looking at himself.

Mystery just doesn’t see the point.

But tonight… tonight, he stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom. He combs his fingers through his hair slowly, pushing it out of his face. He could cut it, but he doesn’t. He likes it. He smiles at his reflection—and fuck, he’s beautiful. A face sculpted by hands that wanted him to ruin people. Something about his features makes it hard to tell if he’s about to kiss you or kill you.

He raises a brow at himself, tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, then lets it fall again. His lips are slightly parted. Always are. The reason fans scream when he glances up mid-performance. The reason girls can’t get enough of him. The reason HUNTR/X gets so pissed when their fans drift toward Saja.

He’s not sorry.

He didn’t ask for his voice to sound like that, either. But he’s used to it now. Used to stealing hearts like it’s nothing. Used to being a weapon.

He leans in closer. Blinks once. Stares himself down.

And then thinks about you.

He bites his bottom lip without meaning to.

You’re cute. Always trying to stay mad at them. Always failing. Your little hands balling into fists when you tell him off, your voice all shaky when you’re tired or hormonal, the way you tuck your knees up when you sit on the couch. Your smell in the hallway.

He likes you.

He turns away from the mirror but doesn’t leave the bathroom. Just leans against the cold tile wall, crossing his arms, letting his hair fall back over his face. He doesn’t move for a long time.

Mystery is not sweet. He breaks fingers. He growls in fights and kicks people in the teeth. He lets Gwi-Ma feed on people’s dreams just to quiet the voices in his own head. He’s a bad person.

But you smiled at him today like he’s not.

He likes liking you.

He likes that he doesn’t understand it.

He’d gut the whole world for you if it meant seeing you laugh just once.

Mystery giggles. He giggles like he heard a really funny secret. One that only he gets. A little sway in his step. He doesn’t even look like himself when he’s like this—so damn… boyish. So not the feral menace that people see in the spotlight or in battle.

When he gets to his room, he shuts the door with the softest click. The kind that lets everyone know he’s done being social. If any of the others knock, he’ll kill them. Not metaphorically. The lights are off. He yanks his shirt off over his head in one go, ruffling his already-messy hair more, then lets it fall somewhere by the bed. Doesn’t even care where.

He plops onto the mattress like he’s been out in a war.

But the battlefield isn’t where he got hit.

It’s you.

Been a while since he talked to a girl who wasn’t a fan. God. That alone is enough to make him laugh again. The fans all scream and cry and faint like they know him. They don’t. They know the makeup. The voice. The poses. They don’t know that he used to stutter in front of mirrors. That he still chews on the drawstrings of his hoodie when he’s nervous.

Been a while since he made friends. Jinu, maybe, is closest.

Been a while since he had sex.

He won’t lie. That one kinda hurts.

Long since he had sex that didn’t end in some kind of bite. Not that he minds bites. Or scratching. Or being called names. But he hasn’t liked someone in… how long? A hundred years? More?

Been a while since he had a thing with a girl. Long time. Longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Even before the demon thing, he was never good at love. Too awkward. Too distracted. Too intense. He always came off cold or wrong or creepy. So he stopped trying. Let the stage version of himself flirt and play and pretend. The real version? Locked up. Silent. Hands in pockets. Heart in mouth.

Been a while. Been a while. Been a while.

And now you’re here.

He just needs you to like him. That’s all. Then maybe everything else will follow. The closeness. The talking. The touching.

But he’s not the best at communication.

He’s actually horrible.

He tries. He does. But most of the time it comes out in shrugs. In soft grunts. Growls. In too-long stares across the room that you either ignore or don’t see. He doesn’t know how to tell you “I think you’re the best” without sounding like a complete psychopath. So he just… doesn’t.

And he thinks he might die for you if it came down to it. But for now, he just giggles again.

Abby in the shower is one of the most ridiculous sights in the multiverse. Let’s just get that out of the way.

While the others have these little mental fucks, the water is running hot—too hot, probably—but Abby doesn’t turn it down. It’s pounding down his back, his neck, his shoulders, and he’s just standing there with both hands on the tiled wall, head down, drenched, steaming. The mirror across the room is fully fogged, but if it wasn’t, he’d probably flex at himself out of muscle memory.

Because here’s the truth:

He’s a whore.

Like, clinically. Professionally. Spiritually. To make that clear, right now, he has one palm dragging over the slick plane of his stomach, just because he can. His hand slides over the ridges of muscle like he’s proud of them. (He is.) A thumb glides up the V of his hip, not even sexually—just admiring the structure.

Abby thinks he’s a masterpiece. A hot one. A mean one. A very evil one.

But then… then there’s the second truth. There’s the one that hits a little lower in his chest. The one that won’t get the fuck out of his head. The one that’s got nothing to do with his abs, or his power, or his demonic charms.

The one that starts and ends with you.

“Fuuuuuuck.” he breathes out, forehead thunking against the wet tile like it owes him money. “Get outta my head.”

You’re not listening.

You’re everywhere in there.

And that massage earlier? Holy shit.

He didn’t even think. He just saw you slumped and pissed off and bleeding, and his brain went, be useful, dumbass. So he put his hands on your shoulders and dug in. And you… you melted. You fucking melted under his hands. He felt your whole body shift like a sigh, and he knew he was doing good—but it wasn’t until you started crying that he froze.

You said he was nice.

Nice.

What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He didn’t mean to be nice. He didn’t try to be. That was just his dumb, big-handed, hot-bodied brain doing something functional for once. And now here he is, in the shower, water running down his back and steam curling around him, thinking about the way your voice broke when you said it.

“You’re so nice.”

Bitch, no he’s not!

He’s mean. He steals. He punches. He calls Baby a bitch three times before breakfast and once more before bed. He leaves empty chip bags in the couch cushions and plays music at 2am just to see who snaps first.

But he was nice to you.

And you cried about it.

Now his whole chest is tightening in this horrible way, and his hand has not moved off his abs. He clenches his jaw. He’s got his hips angled into the wall like the devil himself might come slap him for his thoughts. Which are… filthy. They always are, when it’s you. Because you’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re weird. And when you looked up at him earlier, lip trembling, voice soft—

He had to physically bite his tongue.

And now he’s hard.

“Fucking hell.” he hisses, slamming a fist against the tile like it’ll knock the heat out of him. (It doesn’t. If anything, it just makes him harder. He’s an idiot.)

He angles his body away from the spray, breathing heavy. He’s still got your face in his mind, your voice, your whole tiny form leaning back into his hands like you needed him.

And that—that’s the thing, isn’t it?

You needed him.

You trusted him for a split second.

And Abby? Abby hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

It’s not just about wanting to get you under him anymore. He wants that, sure, but it’s not the only thing. He wants to make you smile. He wants to pull your hair just to hear the sound you make when you’re mad. He wants to carry you around the apartment and not explain why. He wants you to lean on him again. Cry again. Breathe against him like you trust him.

Fuck.

He palms a hand over his face. Then braces that same arm above his head, steam curling around his arm, the other resting loosely on his hip—because if he touches himself now, he’ll never recover. Like, ever. His brain will shut down. He’ll combust. They’ll find him in the morning curled up in the drain, dead from horny.

And it’s all because of you.

He glances down at himself and sighs. “Look at you.” he mutters, grinning like the fool he is. “Pathetic.”

It’s not even bad pathetic. It’s adorable pathetic. And he knows it. He even flexes a little just to show off to nobody. Watches water track down the curve of his stomach and thinks, She’d like this. Right? She’d stare.

He leans back against the tile with a dopey, crooked grin, water dragging through his hair. The heat’s still in his body, but the urgency’s softened into something almost sweet. Almost painful.

You’d kill him if you saw him right now—naked, proud of his own dick, giggling like a dumbass, cheeks flushed and grinning at nothing like a lovesick idiot.

And he is. He is a lovesick idiot.

An evil one. A demon. A bastard.

Maybe he’ll go eat another of your fruit salads the next time you make one.

Because that, at least, will give him a reason to see you again.

And steal another smile.

He thunks his head lightly against the wall again, because what is he supposed to do?

You’re in the other room, probably curled up, probably crying into a pillow because of your weird little hormone breakdown—which was adorable, by the way. You full-on melted in Jinu’s arms, oh his god.

And now he’s here. With a problem. And that problem is that he really likes you. Like a lot. Which is a huge problem. Also the one between his legs, but that’s another case.

Abby is a man of extreme talents. He can scale a wall with his bare hands, snap a demon in half like a glow stick, flash a smile and have fans screaming for mercy—and still somehow, somehow, fuck up taking care of his own goddamn boner in the shower. Because as soon as he handled business—loud, desperate, gritted-teeth, thinking-of-you kind of business—he’s already broken three things. First, the glass bottle of Jinu’s fancy cologne he “borrowed” (read: stole) last week—the one with the scent so ridiculously good it made Baby sniff the air like a feral dog. Yeah. That’s on the floor now. Shattered. Perfume everywhere.

Second, the towel rack. Don’t ask. It was already loose. Maybe. Whatever.

Third, his pride.

Because listen: Abby’s done this before. Plenty of times. Hundreds of years. His own hand, a nice daydream, sometimes a mirror if he was really in love with himself (he usually is). But this? This was different. Messier. More intense. Like the very idea of you was wired into his nerves—his body reacting faster than his thoughts could catch up.

It was too fast. It was too much.

You should hate him. You probably do. But he’s clinging to every moment that says otherwise.

And that’s why the cologne bottle is on the floor in glassy shards.

That’s why his knees knocked into the bathroom counter when he tried to stabilize himself and sent a bunch of skincare products tumbling.

Abby slaps off the water and yanks the curtain back like it insulted his mother. Then he rubs the towel roughly over his head, mussing his hair, then knots it around his waist and steps out of the steam.

He walks down the hall, not bothering to hide the low, frustrated grunt he lets out when the perfume stench follows him. Baby makes a gagging noise as he passes by. Abby flips him off without looking.

“Tell Jinu his perfume has no structural integrity.” he mutters. “Broke the moment I looked at it wrong.”

“You broke it.” Baby calls back from somewhere, not even needing to see it to know.

“No, I didn’t.”

He walks back to his room, water dripping onto the hardwood as he goes, still thinking about you. Still hearing the way you whispered, like he’d just handed you the stars instead of touched your shoulder blades for two minutes and called it a day. Still seeing the way your eyes welled up before you could say anything. Still remembering how warm you were when you leaned back into him. Like your little body just knew his touch was safe.

Which it’s not.

Let’s be so fucking clear: it’s not.

He could crush bone with a single hand. Could flip a car. Could eat someone whole, metaphorically or not. He’s a monster. He lies. He manipulates. He steals and fights and flirts because it’s funny, not because he cares.

But with you?

He cares.

He throws the door to his room open, steps inside, and exhales like he’s been holding it in since he left you in the kitchen. His bedroom door slams. The tiger in Jinu’s room huffs like it’s annoyed. Abby doesn’t care.

Because he has a crush, okay?

A massive, stomach-churning, lip-biting, idiot-making crush. And he’s not gonna apologize for it, even if it means stepping on broken glass and breaking a second perfume bottle by accident later.

You’re not even being nice to him most of the time. You try to act like you don’t even like him.

(But you do, right? Right?)

Abby’s convinced. He has to be right.

That’s what makes this worse. You’re nice, yeah—but you’ve got this bite. You’re sweet and smart and helpful and tiny and annoyed all the time, and he swears if you really didn’t like him, you wouldn’t let him breathe down your neck every chance he got.

You’d scream. You’d slap him. You’d tell Jinu. You’d stab him. (He’d let you.) But you don’t. You sigh. You roll your eyes. You tell him to fuck off, but gently. You let him sit too close. You give him your fruit salad and tell him to eat it.

And he does. Because it came from you.

He throws himself down onto the bed face-first—hard—like he’s trying to break the mattress with his skull. The second bounce nearly knocks his towel off, but he slaps a hand over his ass just in time.

Now he’s stomach down, ass up (well, towel-wrapped), legs swinging in the air.

If anyone walked in right now, he’d die on the spot.

He should be ashamed. But no—he’s just lying there on his stomach, grinning like an idiot, face buried in the sheets. Kicking his feet in the air like a teenage girl.

He tries to stop.

He can’t.

Fuuuuck, you’re so pretty. Like. So. Fucking. Pretty. Jesus.

Abby’s in love.

“Jesus Christ.” he mutters to himself. “I need to get laid.”

He probably won’t, though.

Because he only wants you. And you’re a problem. You’re good and soft and quiet and mean in this really, really pretty way. You make his skin crawl with the need to bite something. Preferably you. Not hard. But, like… enough.

He flips onto his side, towel slipping, and clutches a pillow to his chest like it’s his girlfriend. It’s not. But in his delusional little mind? That’s you. That’s you sobbing against his chest, your voice breaking because he was nice and massaged you and didn’t make a single joke about it except seventeen.

The towel falls halfway down his ass.

He doesn’t even bother pulling it up. Because what’s the point? His brain’s too full of you to function.

So he lies there, cheek to pillow, one leg hooked over the other, thinking about your dumb cute face, your voice, the way you whispered you’re so nice through a tear.

He wants to make you laugh.

He wants to make you scream.

He wants to make you cry again but in the good way.

He wants to give you a massage and hear that little sound you made when he hit the spot near your neck again and again and again.

He wants everything.

But he has nothing.

Just a memory. A moment. Your voice in his head like a fever dream.

Fuckin’ angel girl, you’re going to kill him with a simple look if not break a plate on his head the next time you see him.

He smiles.

Because wouldn’t that be a good way to go.

“Ohh, Abby.” Gwi-Ma.

Abby doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just sighs against the sheets. “Sleeping.” he mumbles. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re thinking about that girl.”

No shit.

“I said I’m fucking sleeping.” Abby grunts louder this time, face still planted in the pillow. “Go harass Romance.”

Gwi-Ma pauses. “You dare speak to me like that?”

Abby doesn’t even get the chance to roll his eyes before it hits him, unbearable pain and loud, loud noises echoing inside his little head.

He flinches so hard he slams his knee into the bedframe, rips the pillow off his face, throws it across the room, and then just grabs his skull with both hands, teeth clenched so tight it feels like his molars might crack.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck you, man—!” he shouts into the mattress, voice hoarse and breaking.

“I don’t take disrespect, Abraham.”

Gwi-Ma is ridiculously funny because both of them know Abraham is not Abby’s name. Just making fun of the boy at this point.

It’s not just a headache, it’s a punishment. It’s like having sirens screeching directly into his temporal lobes, every nerve in his skull having reaction. He kicks his legs, fists knotted in his hair, chest heaving.

He will never learn.

“How do you like that, my prince?” Gwi-Ma purrs, fucking gleeful now. “Next time, think before you cum and get cocky.”

And to make it worse—to really just put a cherry on top of the pain sundae—another boner, because Gwi-Ma is an asshole.

Abby lets out an actual, guttural groan—not sexy, not tortured in a good way, just miserable. He rolls onto his side, pressing his forehead into the mattress.

“Dude,” he gasps out. “you’re so fucking weird.” His whole back is sweaty now, his hair sticking to his temples, muscles tensed. He lifts his face just barely, panting, eyes red.

“And you’re so fucking pathetic. If I could put your little angel in your lap right now, I would. Just to watch you explode like a virgin.”

The sudden slap of arousal. Unwanted. Forced. Embarrassing. Immediate. Abby lets out an inhuman noise, part-choke, part-growl, part a whispered “fuck me” that he doesn’t even mean to say out loud.

His voice cracks before he can yell. He’s breathing heavy, sweating through the towel, red in the face, head pounding, body betraying him entirely.

“Sleep tight.” Gwi-Ma whispers, fading from his mind with one final twist of something sharp in Abby’s temple.

And then… silence.

Finally.

But Abby’s still clutching his head, naked except for the towel that’s mostly around his thigh now, on the verge of crying, hard again, and thinking about you.

What a loser.

What a fucking loser.

He drags a hand over his face, groans one more time into the empty room, then mutters like a deathbed confession:

“…worth it.”

Because you always are.

The boys all went to bed thinking about you.

No—obsessing. Stomach-knotting, aching, stupid-boy obsessing.

That was the truth of it.

They each had their little ways, their little styles, their private rituals of shame and longing and delusion, but it all ended the same: a pillow, a room, a mind full of you.

Jinu, for example, is lying with his back against the mountain of soft fur that was his tiger, stroking its ears absentmindedly, eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved much.

He kept replaying it all. Your tears. How you’d hugged him. You’d buried your face in his chest and mumbled gibberish at him, and it had been the most sacred moment he’d had in four hundred years.

And you don’t even know.

He wants you so much it’s starting to embarrass even him.

And you don’t even know. He’d told you, calmly, clearly, over the chessboard weeks ago. But that was nothing. That wasn’t this.

This is need. This is yearning. This is waking up in a cold sweat because he dreamt of your smile fading.

Meanwhile, a few doors over, Romance is suffering. Lying face down on the bed, pillow over his head, trying not to feel the ache in his gut that came with thinking about your smile.

He’s making up scenarios. Like a high schooler. In one, you knocked on his door late at night in nothing but a hoodie and socks and whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. Can I stay with you?” In another, you leaned into him on the couch while watching a dumb movie and said, “You know you’re my favorite, right?” In another—the best and worst one—you kissed him just to shut him up.

He rolls over with a groan, fist his hands in his own hair, and hiss into the dark. He doesn’t even know what he wants more, to be alone with you or to scream into the void. Both felt necessary. And all this over a girl who doesn’t even know how bad he has it.

And Gwi-Ma’s taunts only made it worse. That sick fuck in his head laughed at him. Mocked him. Fed on his shame.

Still, he can’t stop.

He fell asleep eventually. Arms over his head. A little drool on the pillow. Dreaming of you laughing at his jokes and maybe, just maybe, calling him baby.

Now that I said Baby, let’s talk about the one who’s in the house.

He’d fallen asleep sideways across his bed, birdseed still on his shirt from earlier, hand tangled in a notebook full of angry scribbles and lazily drawn boobs. Your name is in there too, like five times. With different handwriting. Some of it looks like it was written by his left hand.

He’d never admit it. Not even under torture. But he was thinking about you. Always does. Even now, drooling onto his pillow, hair a mess, one sock halfway off, he’s dreaming of you laughing at one of his asshole jokes and maybe calling him mean but smiling anyway. That’s all he needs.

He doesn’t know what he’d do if you actually gave in. If you liked him back. Probably explode. Or pass out. Or cry in a way that no one would ever hear about, or he’d kill them.

Mystery’s not sleeping at all. He’s lying in bed, touching the ends of his hair, staring at the ceiling. Not even blinking much.

He doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand himself around you either. But he likes it. He likes you. The way you smile. The way you praised him back when he shot his shot in small talk.

And he likes that you didn’t know.

Abby’s still recovering from the post-shower brain-damage Gwi-Ma blessed him with, ass half out the towel, lying face down on his mattress like a dead fish. His head hurts. His dick hurts. His pride hurts. He doesn’t deserve you. But he’s obsessed. And he’s still kicking his legs a little.

While the five ancient, tortured, overpowered, emotionally constipated men are individually spiraling into full-blown madness over you—hands down their pants, heads in their hands, boners under their blankets, Gwi-Ma in their ears—you’re standing in front of your mirror in a giant t-shirt, drawing something with a pen that was almost out of ink, looking at yourself occasionally, twerking a little maybe.

No idea. None. Not a single goddamn clue about the chaos you’d left in your wake.

You know they’re interested. But you don’t know… You don’t know what it’s doing to them.

You don’t know that while you’re staring into the mirror making kissy faces at yourself, Romance is dreaming about it and completely destroyed by the fact he can’t have you. In his dream you just snuck into his room and crawled into bed with him just to tell him you liked his voice. In his sleep, he whispered a fake “I like you too” to no one.

Mystery has absolutely no game, doesn’t know how to talk to you, but he wants you anyway. Desperately. Silently. Painfully.

Baby is still asleep, but I’ll talk about him anyway. You’re the only person he thinks about when he’s not thinking about himself. You’re soft, and pretty, and a bitch, and he loves it. He’s convinced you have to like him. You must like him. You’re obsessed. He has to believe that, because if you don’t like him, then he’s nothing.

Jinu’s still up, though his eyes are closed. His tiger’s breathing slow with him. He hasn’t moved. But he’s not sleeping either. He’s thinking of your soft voice. The way you leaned into him. The way you melted. The way you didn’t flinch when his arms came around you. He tells himself it’s because he’s the only one who treats you gently. But he’s wrong. It’s because you trust him. And he’ll burn down cities for that. He’ll kill gods for it.

Abby fell asleep by now. He calmed down. Probably dreaming about you.

And here you are. In your room. Still twerking. Drawing little doodles in your sketchbook. Chewing on your pen. Thinking about if you should eat cereal or a granola bar. Blinking at your reflection and wondering why your nose looks uneven from this angle.

You have no idea what you’re doing to them.

No idea that your little human feelings and hormone meltdowns and random soft sniffling has broken five men who’ve been alive for over 300 years. No clue that you’ve taken root in the marrow of their bones.

My ass timeskip contains hours, and it’s morning now. You’d think, after all the thirst, shame, fantasy, masturbation, crying, brain trauma, demonic torment, friendship bonding, and twerking-in-the-mirror that happened just last night…there’d be tension in the air. But no. These assholes are actors. Pop stars. Demons. They’ve been lying professionally for centuries. They do this thing, all five of them, where no matter what happened the night before—whether they’re screaming inside, plotting world domination, or jerking off to the thought of you crying—they still get up like everything’s fine.

Jinu’s getting ready to go. Romance has sunglasses on. Abby’s already taken his shirt off again for absolutely no reason. Baby’s slouched against the kitchen island with a banana in his mouth, the slowest chewing on the planet. Mystery has Abby’s shirt in his hand.

So normal.

And then you walk in. Sleep shirt, mismatched socks, and a war-torn look on your face like you’ve just crawled out of a time hole. You stayed up too late. You haven’t even brushed your hair.

And all five boys look at you. Just a glance. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s the same way they’d look at the mailman.

And you—grumpy and still a little puffy-eyed from the emotions of yesterday—just whisper, “By the way. What happened yesterday between us?” You point at Jinu and Abby specifically, each one receiving a cold, squinty stare. “Didn’t happen. I don’t ever wanna hear about it again. That shit? Deleted. Erased. Nonexistent.”

Jinu just raises his eyebrows at you and sips from his matte black mug. Doesn’t even argue. “Understood.” he says. “Wiped from memory.”

“Gone.” Abby nods, already opening the fridge. “Never happened. Who even are you, anyway?”

“Great.” you nod. “Good.”

“What’s this?” Romance purrs. “Something happened yesterday? With you three?”

Your eye twitches. “Romance—”

“Y/N,” he murmurs. “tell me what happened. I’ll trade you. You can spank me if it’s embarrassing.”

Abby just grins like a smug piece of shit and keeps digging in the fridge. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be shy, baby.” he says, grinning down at you. “I think it’s beautiful that you’re finally cracking. You held on so tight for two months. But it’s okay to want us. I’d cry too if I wanted me.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Tell me what happened. Come on, sweetheart. I’m gonna be thinking about it all day now. Was it something… scandalous? Did one of us make your heart go pitter-patter~?” he says, using that hot voice, swiping a berry from the bird’s dish and tossing it in his mouth.

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

You glare at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Why can’t I ever get anything good?” he goes on, dramatically throwing himself around. “What’s Abby got that I don’t?! I’m just as hot! I’m—more hot! I even smell good!”

“No, you don’t.” Baby says around a mouthful of banana.

Romance flips him off, not even looking.

You try to walk away. You genuinely try. You even make it two feet toward the hallway before Romance grabs your wrist—not hard, not mean, but persistent. Desperate.

“Y/N. Come on. Tell me. What happened? What did Abby do? Did he—what did he doooo, beautiful? I can take it. I need to know. Come on, baby. Don’t be shy. I know everythingp about you. You always say no—but you want to tell me. I can see it. Look at you. You’re practically vibrating with guilt.” He takes a step forward. His tone’s way too soft. Way too slow. The kind of slow that melts girls. A voice that makes people confess. Die. Orgasm. Or all three. He takes a step forward. “I’ll listen real close. I’ll keep it between us. Just whisper it into my—”

“Nothing happened.” Mystery. He says it calmly. From across the room.

Romance freezes. And for a full beat, the whole room goes silent.

Mystery???

Romance turns slowly toward him, eyes squinted, mouth curled into the most suspicious grimace you’ve ever seen. “What do you mean ‘nothing happened?’ Were you there?”

“I was close enough.” Mystery shrugs. Which is both a lie and not a lie, knowing how he always lurks.

Romance stares at him. He’s clearly trying to calculate if this is a genuine answer or some mind-game trick, but Mystery doesn’t give much away.

Grumbling under his breath, Romance is muttering, “Y’all are so secretive. No one loves me.”

You glance toward Mystery.

He glances back with the smallest smile. One that says you’re welcome.

He saved your ass.

From Romance of all people.

“I would’ve kept it secret, too.” Romance sulks. “I’m so good at secrets. Ask Baby. I know everything about his porn stash.”

“Shut up, dude.”

But they’re already grabbing bags and keys and jackets. They’re getting ready to leave. Showtime. Another appearance. Another day to be evil, cocky, and extremely fine in public.

You watch them go. Just sit back down at the counter. Pour your cereal. Pop your feet up.

My pathetic time skip later, the backstage smells like ego.

Too many colognes. Too much energy bottled in glittering outfits, half-finished soundchecks and makeup chairs abandoned mid-brushstroke. The Saja boys were already bored, leaning against the sleek black walls of the green room, sprawled on couches, chewing on toothpicks and smug silence. But they can feel it, people approaching. Three of them, actually.

“Oh,” Abby says, mouth curling into something cocky. “hi.”

The HUNTR/X girls walk in. Rumi’s blade is already out, Mira has that look she got right before punching someone in the throat, and Zoey is practically vibrating.

Abby just folds his arms. Romance tilts his head, so pretty. Jinu smiles the way only someone invincible can. Mystery steps slightly behind them, silently. And Baby, chewing gum, doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Rumi is the first to talk. “Where is she?”

Romance laughs.

Mira’s blade is up in half a second. “Don’t be stupid.”

“We’re never stupid,” Jinu says, serene. “Just better.”

“You kidnapped our assistant.” Zoey hisses, like she can’t understand it. Because she can’t, not really.

“You lost your assistant.” Baby corrects, finally looking up.

That nearly got him stabbed.

Romance, ever the showman, steps forward, both hands raised like peace signs, though there isn’t a single peaceful thing about his expression. “Let’s not do this here, ladies.” he purrs. “You’re gonna crease your cute little stage outfits.”

Zoey makes a sharp step forward, and that’s enough for Mystery to growl.

And we know that the boys can feel this and that. Perhaps the changes in human body when you talk or think about someone you really really like.

Romance blinks. His nostrils flare. His grin slides sideways.

Abby cocks his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

They sensed it. The girls’ bodies—changing. The tiny, unspoken betrayals of physical attraction. The flush, the pulse, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

The crushes.

The desire.

The way they feel about you.

“Ohhh nooo.” Romance says, one hand over his heart, pretending to faint. “Girls—how cliché.”

“Shut up.” Mira snaps, swinging her blade.

“We understand.” Jinu says, calm but so obviously not taking the girls seriously. “You want Y/N back.”

“And we want her now.” Mira hisses.

Mystery growles. Not at the girls. At Romance.(??)

Abby smacks Mystery’s chest “Bro. Chill. You’re gonna pop a fang.”

“I like her.” Zoey says suddenly, a little too loud, a little too honest.

All five boys paused.

“You’re so late.” Abby mutters.

Romance collapses into Jinu’s shoulder like he’s fainting. Jinu steps away so Romance nearly falls over.

“We’re done here.” Baby says, brushing past, utterly bored.

Uhuh, no they’re not, the girls attack them. But Romance is laughing, ducking and weaving and dodging blades and yelling over his shoulder: “Y/N has options, ladies!”

Abby blocks a swing and winks. “Don’t worry, we take good care of her.”

“You kidnapped her!”

“Same thing.”

The lights backstage are flickering now, disturbed by the energy in the room. And the boys are laughing. It’s like they’re drunk on the moment, hyped up on adrenaline and too many centuries of not giving a fuck. Abby takes a hit to the shoulder and doesn’t even grunt. Just spins backward, and grins at Romance. “She wants to fight.” he says, clearly delighted. “She’s mad-mad.”

Romance, breathless from laughter and dodging Mira’s blade, nearly falls into the wall as he slaps Abby on the back. “Bro, she said ‘You kidnapped her.’ Like we didn’t know!”

Even Jinu cracks a smile. Zoey throws a knife at him. He catches it mid-air. And just gently… drops it. Baby isn’t even fighting anymore. He’d stopped in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the cut on his lip. Mira tries to strike him again and he dodges, still looking at his reflection. Mystery hid in the fucking shadows?? Asshole. But the smile he wears as he watches Zoey scream? He’d missed this. Missed watching people care this much.

Because they do. The girls care. Zoey has tears in her eyes. Mira’s fists tremble harder than they need to from just combat. And Rumi, god, Rumi looks horrible.

“She helped us.” she says, voice hoarse, blade still raised. “She loved us. And you took her.”

Romance tilts his head. “You ever tell her that?”

Silence.

He smiles. “Didn’t think so.”

“Tell me this isn’t funny.” Abby says, still grinning, rubbing his bruised jaw.

But the girls aren’t stupid. They see it. The way the boys react when they said your name. The twitch in Jinu’s jaw. The split-second flinch on Mystery’s mouth. They know now.

Abby grabs his pecs—yes, full-on cups them—and squishes them together, doing that exaggerated little bounce like he’s got a push-up bra on. Then he lifts his chin, throws his voice a whole octave higher, and croons: “Bring her back… she was, like, our little sunshine… our moral compass…” He fans his face. “Y/NNNN!”

Romance collapses onto Mystery’s back, wheezing, holding his gut like he’s about to die. Even Baby, who hasn’t laughed in a week and a half, snorts and turns to the wall to hide it, shoulders shaking like he can’t help it.

Rumi actually growls. Growls. Zoey throws a blade. Romance catches it and spins it in one hand, still grinning, smug as hell. “Look at ‘em. All protective now. Little too late, don’t you think? You should’ve put a ring on it.”

Mystery doesn’t say a word, but his smirk says plenty. Thriving. His smile only widens when Zoey catches his gaze and freezes for just a second. The tiniest flinch. She’s always flinched when he looked straight at her. That shit is better than drugs.

“Seriously,” Romance says, fake-exasperated, looking between the girls. “you’re all jealous because we’re funnier. And hotter.”

“I’m not jealous.” Rumi snaps, shaking. “I’m angry.”

“Same thing.” Abby shrugs, still jiggling his chest just to be a dick. “We win.”

Suddenly, a headset-wearing staff member pokes his head in through the door, looking very much like someone who had to scream over ten security guards just to get here. “Uh—Saja boys? You’re needed onstage. Now.”

Jinu looks at him. “Already?”

Mystery peels off the wall, calm as ever. Jinu’s already brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves and walking like the hallway is a runway.

And as the boys walk off, shoving each other in that obnoxious way only boys can, still laughing, the girls are left in a storm of fury, desperation… and something they hate more than anything:

Jealousy.

Because the boys don’t just have you. They know it. They revel in it. And worst of all? They’re so fucking funny about it.

Hours later, the front door slammed open like someone kicked it. Laughter exploded down the hall. Loud, messy, boy laughter. Shoes thudded against the hardwood, someone bumped into the wall (probably Abby) Romance is laughing so hard he’s leaning on Baby, who is not laughing. Just smirking a little while elbowing him in the ribs. Abby’s halfway shirtless again, sweat still drying on his skin, flipping a bottle of water upside down over his head like he thinks it’s hot. Jinu looks calm as ever, but his sleeves are a little too perfectly rolled and there’s a gash on his shoulder. Not much to say about Mystery, what do we expect?

You’re on the rug. Some huge designer monstrosity, handwoven by someone who probably had no idea it would become the lounging spot for a tiger the size of a bathtub and even bigger because I’m bad at comparing sizes okay the fuck am I kidding a big cat okay?!

You’re sitting cross-legged, humming to yourself while scratching under his monstrous chin. His tail thumps once. Twice.

“—AND THEN SHE THREW THE DAGGER AT ME,” Romance is shouting. “AND I CAUGHT IT WITH MY MOUTH—”

“No, you didn’t.” Abby interrupts, throwing the bottle across the room(?? asshole). “You screamed like a child and Baby had to teleport you out.”

“I choked on it!” Romance snaps back. “That’s basically the same thing as catching it! Besides, Baby’s obsessed with me, that wasn’t a rescue, it was a kidnapping—”

Baby trips Romance.

You glance up lazily, still scratching Derpy’s jaw. He purrs. The floor vibrates. “Hey.”

They all greet you back at once. A useless, overlapping chorus of:

“Hey, princess.”

“Hi.”

“Yo.”

“Wassup.”

“I missed youuuuuu.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop petting the tiger. He lifts his head and rests it against your shoulder like a house cat. You smile a little. He’s warm. Your eyes flick up. And boy, they’re beat the fuck up.

Mystery’s knuckles are cut. Romance has a split lip. Jinu’s shirt has three claw marks across the back like someone raked through it (Zoey, probably). Abby’s hair is still slick with sweat, and Baby’s shirt is literally smoking.

Do they say anything about what happened? No.

Abby starts pushing Mystery’s shoulder. “Come on, leg day. You promised.”

But then you get up. Smoothly. Without warning. Grabbing Mystery’s hand.

Deadass.

Your fingers close around his wrist. Warm. Gentle.

“Mm-mm.” you say sweetly. “Mystery’s hanging out with me.”

…to be continued ❤︎︎

Thank you babeee💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[rhube]

Am wondering how you plagiarise a PhD, though. Like. They quiz you on that. That's the whole point of a viva. You have to know that shit and have opinions about it. And the people who quiz you are experts who have read most of the same shit you have read. Who would recognise the passages if they were skimmed from elsewhere. And your supervisor would have seen multiple drafts as you develop your thesis over the course of years.

And it would still need to add something that experts judged to be an original (or at least independent) contribution to human knowledge.

What kind of bum-arse university would you have to go to to be able to plagiarise a PhD?

Like, I don't want to call this guy a liar just in case it's true and it gets back to him. But plagiarising a PhD seems like something that would be really hard to do? Like a lot of effort to not put the effort into doing it yourself??

[Edit because someone put the name of the superintendent in the notes:] The University of Houston is that kind of bum-arse university; although the allegations were never properly investigated because he'd got all the teachers in the area a huge pay rise, which ultimately meant there was no rigorous attempt to prove they were true.

The account suggests he copied from a student at another university, which I admit is more feasible than copying passages from books and not being caught, but it does suggest quite a laxness on the part of the institution, and his supervisor in particular. (Note: all of this happened way before 'AI'.)

[buckets-and-trees]

What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

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[jingerpi]

"Revolution hasn't happened because the imperial core is too privileged" "Imperial core proletarians aren't actually too privileged, they haven't revolted because of failures of organizing" I hate to be a pedant but unfortunately theres really not one simple, single reason for not having revolution in the imperial core yet. I definitely think the idea that imperial core proletarians have no revolutionary potential is wrong. They have more privileges, especially in relation to cheaper consumer luxury and entertainment goods, like games and cars for example, but they still hold a proletarian relation to the means of production, and they're still in direct conflict with the bourgeoisie and suffer massively from this. That being said, the idea that theres been no revolution purely because of tactical failures, and no structural incentives, is also pretty silly. Being in the imperial core will necessarily give rise to different perspectives than being outside it. Even simply the currency itself being more stable gives imperial core proles a level of privilege not really seen in any countries which have had revolutions historically. This privilege wont magically put up a wall stopping everyone from revolution, but it will again, necessarily effect peoples incentives, ideologies, and actions. Its absolutely makes the tasks of communists more difficult and has been a significant barrier to the communist project. These things work together to make revolution difficult, but its also by no mean limited to these factors alone. there are many many factors that go into causing a revolution, and just as many go into stopping it. There's no one easy answer for why things haven't gone our way. Proletarians need incentives to organize, they need community among each other to facilitate the development of proletarian ideas, they need the resources and training to carry out actions effectively, they need a correct ideological line, and more. My general view is that crisis will necessitate socialism or barbarism, and class consciousness and organizing will determine which we get. We've not yet achieved the level of crisis to where we'll reach that tipping point, but we've also not yet reached the level of class consciousness and organization to ensure we actually end up with the socialist outcome. These things tend to grow together, as things get worse incentives for revolution increase, and this naturally leads to more class consciousness, but this is by no means an automatic or all encompassing development. We have to actually do revolution, lead the people, educate and agitate the masses. If I think we can do revolution and we need to organize and criticize our mistakes, why then do I care about these privileges and other barriers to revolution? Well, if we want to actually analyze our mistakes, understand why and where they've gone wrong, we have to recognize the situations we're dealing with, and yes, that includes acknowledging the challenges faced in getting imperial core proletarians to give up their relative privilege and join in revolution, and that will be a real barrier to organizing in many ways! We cant ignore that barrier, but we have to fight against it, we have to keep trying.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

I Wish You Would

John Walker x New Avenger!Reader

Summary: While the rest of the team is gone, Reader is excited to have the screening room to herself for the usual group movie night. Until she walks in and finds her night of freedom interrupted.

CW: Thunderbolts* Spoilers, teasing, mutual pining, makeout, handjob, some choking, John’s obvious praise kink, p in v, creampie,

a/n: im about to start my period so my hormones are everywhere, and all I want is to ride John Walker until he forgets his name lol um happy birthday Wyatt Russell

title track 🎶🎞️

~~~

Movie night.

Normally something you dreaded worse than any mission. Having to sit through Alexei’s loud chewing, Ava and John’s arguing, and Yelena having to explain every joke to Bob. Poor sweet Bob, sometimes not completely aware of references due to his amnesiac state.

But tonight was almost perfectly laid out by the Gods for you.

Most of your team was dispersed all over the country. Alexei, Yelena, and Ava off on some undercover mission. States and timezones away from the Tower. Getting some intel hidden down floors below a far too fancy government building. Infected with H.Y.D.R.A. scum. Ava was perfect for such a task. Assisted by the perfect distractions that were Yelena and Alexei. Bucky, Bob, and John were all out at a secluded training facility. If Bob was unable to use his powers without the fear of Sentry and the Void returning, they needed to teach him the physicality. How to keep a cool head even when people were charging you. You were always outnumbered by enemies, everyone needed to be able to fight.

Lucky for you, Valentina had sent you off on a mission that was an easy resolve. An interview with a well known journalist. Having to save face for your entire team after a rather eventful, and damaging, brawl. Some delinquents got their hands on weapons sold under the table by an old site cleaner. Advanced with alien technology. Extra hard to stop. Which resulted in a good lot of the city being trashed. Citizens were rightfully angry. John’s pompous attitude and Alexei’s casual behavior hammering the final nail into the coffin.

You were the member with the cleanest record. Presentable and approachable. A known former Avenger before the Battle with Thanos. Advocating very publicly for housing reform and a change in the way foreign threats were handled. A pivotal part of restoring the world’s faith in supers. Your public image was, for the most part, clean and beloved.

While everything was still so different and new, you loved your team. They were more of a family than you had found with anyone before. Bonding and developing routines. Traditions. Much like tonight.

You wore your oversized pajamas. Long sleeves and shorts. Perfect to tuck yourself under the blanket and keep warm. You walked into the living room with your favorite blanket in hand. The one you hid in your room just to make sure no one else claimed it. Excited for a night in the big screening room. All alone. Finally able to watch one of the new releases you had been waiting on.

Until you rounded the corner and saw a movie already in progress. Some shitty cop-duo comedy. Where they go undercover looking for a drug dealer around a college campus. More crude humor than not. It was older, you remembered the commercials for it that aired back when it came out.

Who the hell was here? None of your teammates were supposed to be here. It was going to be your one chance for some quality alone time.

You rounded the leather chairs, eyebrows already arched. Frustrated beyond belief before even knowing who the culprit of your interruption was.

And there he was. Slumped down in the chair with a bowl of popcorn resting on his stomach. Legs spread wide, arms positioned so he only had to twist his wrist to reach his mouth with a handful of popcorn. Tight fitted t-shirt and lounge pants.

John F. Walker.

Your lip twitched. Blinking over and over to try and relax the harsh expression that tugged at your muscles. You barely caught his attention. Completely lost in the illuminated screen. Before turning his gaze to you.

“What’sup, Y/N,” he casually said with a mouthful of popcorn. Crunching and wet mouth sounds mushing his words together.

“Thought you were with Bob..?”

John shrugged his shoulders, “Buck got mad at how I was trying to train him.”

You knew what that meant. John always had a tendency to take training too far. Shouting like the drill sergeants that had trained him. Bordering on the lines of degrading. Especially for someone like Bob. He needed a special, calm touch. Clear instructions and understanding, that was what made him learn best. Which was why he was rarely sent off on missions to begin with. The risk of a disaster returning was too high. Maybe one day he would learn to control his powers. Powers forced on him. Something many of you could sympathize with, unlike John. He chose the super soldier serum. Willingly burdening himself with power. So you guess it was hard for him to understand this struggle, or maybe he was just in denial about it. Assuming if he could handle it, so could everyone else.

“Barking again?”

John scoffed, rolling his eyes at you, “No.”

There was a silence. One of your eyebrows raised as you crossed your arms over your chest. Leg cocked to the side, trying to get him to admit the truth.

“Okay— maybe a little barking,” John sighed.

You dropped your arms back at your sides. Motioning towards him with a nod that said ‘I knew it’. Earning a disapproving grunt from him as he focused back on the screen.

That silence returned. It was common between the two of you. A certain level of awkwardness that neither of you could overcome. Something you could not explain. Always seeming to find yourselves tangled in the other’s business. Whether it be bumping into each other during a stealthy mission, leading to you both being pressed together against a wall as to hide from the enemy. Or reaching for the same thing in the cabinet or at a restaurant at the same time. Or even seeing each other out and about when you were on a date. Always ending with you having to explain to your suitor that he was your coworker. It usually turned them away from you. Never being able to escape work and all. Your lives were always overlapping in such strange and unexpected ways.

And you liked it. Never would you give him the satisfaction of knowing you enjoyed his company. It would go straight to his head if you ever told him. Tell him how you loved getting sent off on missions together. Alone time was sparse, so you liked getting to know him. Or tell him that you subconsciously saved him a spot next to you on the Quin Jet every time. The feeling of his leg resting so casually against yours would have your ears burning and heart pounding. Or even that you would vote for whatever movie he suggested just to see him smile when it won.

It was embarrassing. You were a hero. Having such a strong crush for your coworker made your stomach knot and palms sweat. How could you let him consume you this way? Which was why you had to overcompensate for your feelings. Picking on and teasing John came naturally to you. It was a customary practice between the two of you.

Yet all insults left you right now. Swallowing the lump in your throat as the voices of college age football players blurred together in your ears. Taking a final deep breath.

“I was going to watch a movie,” you said as if he should have known.

“Yeah? Well, I’m like almost done with this one,” John gestured with his hand, “You can finish it with me.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek. Fighting off the voices in your head telling you to blurt out your problem. It was childish to a certain extent. But not to you.

“You… you’re in my seat,” you admitted.

“Your seat?”

“I always sit there when we have movie nights,” you sighed, getting a little annoyed with the devious smirk on his lips. When an amused chuckle bubbled out of his chest, it only made you angrier.

“First come first serve,” he shrugged, shifting his body up in the seat a little more, “But you can always come join me.”

John patted his lap. Hand suggestively pointing. Clearly mocking you.

But it made something switch inside you.

Your entire face flushed immediately. You were sure if someone had cracked an egg on your face, it would have fried.

He caught on to your awkwardness immediately. Based solely off your silence. Normally, you were quick with a comeback. It was something he admired about you. Your ability to joke along with him. Usually you had the best roasts of the group. To see you crumble so easy made a mischievous light click behind his eyes.

You stammered. Noises that could not even begin to resemble words. And it only made you flush more. Flirting was never new. Usually so natural that no one even pointed it out anymore.

He was smug. Rolling his hips to make sure that your eyes were drawn there. Softly grunting as he faked readjustment, “Suite yourself. Movie should be over in thirty.”

You growled. Fists clinching tightly together as your teeth ground down. He was such an ass. Full of himself. Far too confident. Always able to keep his composure and cool. It drove you insane.

And you loved it.

You began to stomp away when John called out to you once more, “Oh, and Y/N. I’m a big boy, I promise you won’t break me.”

Well if this was the game he was playing… you could play along.

You stepped directly in front of him. Blocking his view of the large screen behind you. Shadowed blue eyes looked up at you. Rolling his eyes as he stiffened his spine along the chair. Hands gripping the arm rests preparing to push himself out of the chair. Until you stepped forward. Wedging your knee between his and the arm rest. One hand resting on his shoulder to stabilize yourself.

John was flabbergasted. Eyes unable to leave your waist and how you straddled him now. The feeling of both your hands on his shoulders. Wide eyes looked up at you. His large hands awkwardly hovered at either side of your waist. Like he was too scared to touch you. Your head was tilted to the side. Hooded, sultry eyes scanned his face. One of your arms began to arch behind his neck, nuzzling your face into the crook between his shoulder and pulse. Relaxing so that your ass laid against his thighs. Cores barely inches from one another.

As if he had been holding it without knowing, John finally took a deep breath. Lungs refilling so desperately. The feeling of his chest rising and falling was comforting. The tip of your nose rested against his jugular. Strong musky scent filled your senses. It had your insides sloshing and tying themselves together.

While he could still see the screen, the stupid buddy comedy was the farthest thing from his mind. Lump choking him in his throat. Face flushed and hot to the touch. Knowing he probably felt like a heater with how molten his veins ran. He closed his eyes trying to stabilize himself. No one had touched him in so long. Let alone so casually.

Finally willing to take the plunge, he rested his hands on your sides. Low, directly about the curve of your hips. One of them softly running up and down the curve of your body. His heart was racing. As if he had been training for a marathon.

You were beautiful. He would be a fool to not admit that. And he would be a liar to say he had never caught himself staring at you. Or that sometimes he did snoop around when you were going around town with some stranger you met on the internet. He was overprotective of you. Even though he knew you could protect yourself. Adoring how you held yourself. Well spoken and independent.

John would never admit how much he thought about you. In situations similar to this. Pressed together and intimate.

“Is it good?”

“W-What?” he choked, blinking rapidly.

“The movie?”

John blew his breath out, “Yeah. It’s… real funny. Real, real good.”

You smiled against his throat. Able to hear how loudly he was swallowing. Anxiety was not something you often saw on him. Even when you had went through the void, he had appeared more depressed and disappointed in himself. Normally, he had nerves of steel. Years of rejection and public mockery toughening him up. Military had trained him to be quick on his feet. Able to change plans on a dime.

But this was something he could have never prepared for.

John was a flirt. Popular in High School. Star of the Football Team. Multi-decorated soldier. He was used to women throwing themselves at him. Hell, he liked getting attention. Or atleast he used to. Before his public image got burnt so badly that even the mention of his name made people cringe or scoff or laugh. His failure as Captain America had been internationally broadcasted. There was not anyone who particularly wanted to be seen with him. No one usually wanted to be around him either.

Yet here you were curled up in his lap. Breath fanning down his neck and bodies pressed together. Fitting him like you were molded together. Meant to be like this.

He was alluring. Making you want to run your hands all over his body. Wanting to touch and feel any bit of him you could. But you knew you had to play the game.

You tested it at first. A quick peck. Something that could have been written off as you readjusting and your lips just so happened to touch his neck. John’s hand gripped on your side firmer than before. Barely giving him anything, and he already felt like he could fall apart. So you continued. Kisses turning more sensual when you planted an opened mouth kiss to his pulse. Continuing to slowly grow more and more hungry with each passing kiss. Tongue involving itself. Teeth grazing against his blooming skin. Finally pulling his flesh between your teeth to leave a mark.

John groaned. Head falling back against the chair. Simply enjoying the feeling of your lips all over him. Focusing entirely on not allowing his cock to pitch itself underneath you. If you were just teasing, you would never let him live it down if he popped a boner from some basic neck kissing. It’s not like either of you were teenagers. Still, he had not had anyone like this in years. His ex-wife and himself had long since given up in the bedroom. Only having his fist and some porno magazine one of the boys in boot camp had given him. He kept it because he refused to buy any of it. And those videos on Twitter were too creepy for him. A little unethical.

So the brush of lips on skin, the weight of you in his lap, the soft breaths that came from your nose; it all had him so wound up. Eyes forcing themself shut.

You began to run one of your hands down his chest. Fingertips barely catching the fabric of his t-shirt. Outlining his muscular physique as you continued your trek further and further down. Palm flattening at his navel so that your fingertips teased the edge of his waistband. Running them underneath the elastic. Fingers playing with the thin hairs of his happy trail. Earning a shaky breath from the super soldier between your legs. Your lips traveled up his throat to the soft space where his ear and jaw met. Your hand dared to dip deeper into his pants, under the elastic of his underwear, so that fingertips grazed the soft hair along his pubic bone. Painfully close to the base of his cock.

Training took over. Instinct to protect himself. Anxiety and fear bubbling at the back of his throat, “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we… we’re on a team together. Not supposed to fraternize,” John’s voice betrayed him. The words were wrong as soon as they left his tongue. Throat clearly tight as he tried to squeeze the words out.

You did not move. Frozen by his words. He had a point. How would Valentina react? How would your teammates react? It was all common knowledge that you were not supposed to fool around with your coworkers.

And if there was one thing about you and John: you liked to follow the rules.

You began to remove your hand from beneath his clothing. Respecting his decision, but still teasing your way out.

John’s hand suddenly wrapped around your wrist like a vice. Shocking you with pure force. His hand was shaking as it held yours where it had gone.

“But, you said…”

“I know… Doesn’t mean I don’t want it,” John grumbled against your scalp.

You smiled. Hiding your face in his neck. Not wanting to reveal how truly excited you were for this. For him. Knowing his tendency to tease could possibly ruin whatever this was blossoming between you. John’s other hand cupped the back of your head. Leaning you so that he could see your face. Reading for any sign of hesitation. Only finding your pupils matching his own. Blown with pure want. Fluttering lashes adding a beautiful accent.

You stared at one another in silence. John’s mouth was parted in a semi-pant, as if he could not breathe properly. His body moved on its own, pushing himself forward and beginning to close the gap between your mouths. Being cut off by you.

“Tell me you want this,” you whispered, “I’ll leave if you want me to. We can go back to flirting, nothing more. I don’t want you to regret this.”

A beat. Like he was taken aback by your blunt wording.

“I could never regret you,” John breathlessly said, finally planting his lips to yours. Gentle. Still experimental. Turning hungry rather quickly. Both his palms cupped the side of your face. Tongue darting between your lips. Lapping over and over to get your taste on his pallet. Teeth clanked together. Sloppy, but heated.

Lips trailed down your throat. Kissing against your rapid heartbeat. Canines nipping skin, causing you to gasp. One of his hands splayed along your lower back. Fingertips bunching up the back of your shirt. Pinky and ring finger touching your skin. His other hand ventured down to your breast. Massaging the mound between desperate fingers. Thumb swiping across your nipple. The bulb perked at his touch. Showing off the fact you had no bra on.

“You always walk around with no bra on when you’re home alone?” John smirked, continuing to kiss you between words.

You giggled. A sound that was for the most part foreign to you. Giggling with the intent of flirting. John had successfully gotten under your skin in the best way. Bringing out a side of you that you thought was long gone. No one had sparked such a feeling inside you in years.

Slowly, your hand hooked under the band of his shirt. Beginning to tug it over his head so you could get a full look at his bare chest. Muscles and scars decorating it beautifully. Dirty blonde hair cascading a trail around his pecs and belly button. You flattened your hands along his torso. Able to feel his heartbeat below the surface.

John’s eyes doed up at you. Innocence and nerves behind his wide oceanic stare. Lips were on yours once again. Finally able to slip your hand back down the band of his soft, cotton pants. Nails catching against his elastic underwear. A not-so-hidden bulge pressed against the fabric. It was big. You could tell by how it strained the material under your fingertips.

“Please,” John choked with a loud gulp, “Touch me.”

Your stomach did a flip. Temperature inside you spiking, causing your throat to run dry. You did as he asked, guiding him to lift his hips so you could pull his pants down to his mid thighs. Easier to access like this. You sat a little further back on his legs. Gawking down at his groin. Thick and swollen. Tip blushing a red similar to his kiss swollen lips. It craved you. He craved you.

Hesitantly, you wrapped a hand around him. John shuttered, nails digging into the armrest. You tried to be gentle. Stroking him slow with a borderline limp grip. His hips rutted upward chasing after your hand.

You grinned. Looking back up at John. Head thrown back and sweat beaming along his brow. It turned you on to see such a strong man weak from your touch. One of his hands gripped your hip as you began to twist your wrist. Pinching tighter around the tip causing some pre-cum to bead up. Swiping over it with your thumb.

John groaned. Eyes falling shut as he tried to stabilize himself. Cock twitching from your touch. Slickness formed between your legs. He was gorgeous, it made you sick. How could someone as cocky as him be this pretty?

You leaned forward, kissing up his jaw to his ear. Pulling his earlobe between your teeth. Quickening the speed of your hand around his cock, “Talk to me, soldier boy.”

His mouth twitched. Nostrils flaring as he locked his jaw. Your voice melted like honey across his skin. Unable to form words, he was lost in pleasure. Trying to focus so he did not blow his load right away.

John’s hand grabbed your throat, guiding you back. Soft squeeze of fingers causing your mouth to fall open. His lips were sewn shut as his body jerked with each breath. Soft shake to his hand around your throat. Your face was flushing. Eyes hooded as you stared into his oceanic gaze.

“Feel s-so good you forgot- forgot how to run your mou-mouth?” you chastised with a smile, struggling around his grip.

John’s brows contorted. Baring his teeth for a moment. Roughly, he pulled you flush against him. Kissing you harder than you had ever been kissed. Releasing his hold on your jugular, hand venturing down to tug at your shorts. Getting them half way down your thighs when he decided to run a finger up your slit. His eyes widened immediately. Capturing you in a kiss once more.

“You’re so warm,” he muttered like he was trying to catch his breath.

You shifted all your weight to one side and pulled your shorts and panties down so that they dangled from your calf. Bare against his thighs. Slowly, you began to grind down on his length. Pinning it between your bodies as you coated it with your slick.

John’s jaw hung open as he stared at where you sat. Transfixed my the soft squelch of your body. His eyes were glossy and drool dared to drip out of the corner of his mouth.

You leaned down so your lips were against his ear, “Want me to ride you?”

John gasped, “Fuck.”

Eager hands curled around your thighs, helping you rise above him. Making sure to line himself up with your entrance before allowing you to sink down. It took a moment of adjusting, but you were sat flush against his lap. Cock stretching you with a slight burning sensation. Curve causing it to graze against one of your more sensitive spots. Your throat tightened. Swallowing loudly as you hesitated to move.

You fell forward. Wrapping your arms around his neck. Giving you both some time to refill your lungs. Already panting from the pure adrenaline rush. Fear of someone catching you prominent at the front of his mind. Thrilling him. He would love to see the looks on the faces of your teammates.

“What if I just stay like this? Let you finish your movie,” your tone was sultry.

John quickly thrusted upward. Super soldier strength lifting you like it was nothing. Arms wrapping around your back to make sure you could not abruptly leave him. Fucking into you like someone was going to rip you away from him. Panting into your ear as the sound of skin smacking together filled the room.

You whined and moaned with each brutal piston. His name was a mantra on your lips. But you wanted control. Needed to be the one in charge right now. Used to getting bossed around by him, it was finally your turn. Gathering up all your strength, you pushed John away from you. Still connected at your cores, but his back was now against the seat. His eyebrows arched in confusions and frustration. Hands flattened along his shoulders, tilting your head to the side with a smile.

You hooked a finger under his jaw, “Let me do it. Okay? Just watch your movie and I’ll make you feel real good.”

John growled in disapproval. Trying to force himself forward to kiss you again, but you kept him back. “Johnny,” you chastised with a coo.

That had him melting. A nickname he normally refused to let people use. It made him feel weak. Powerless, like he was some softie. But when you said it, it made his insides get all gooey. Warm with want for you.

He ceded. Huffing when you clenched around him.

You smirked devilishly, “That’s it, John. Now, watch the movie.”

You guided him so that he could watch the screen behind you. His cerulean eyes wanted to watch you. Give his full attention to you, but anytime he looked back at you your hips would stop. He was growing enraged. Becoming more needy and whiny than normal.

“Please, baby. Just let me watch you,” John begged.

“Soon as the movie is over. Can you last that long?”

John cussed under his breath. Blinking rapidly hoping maybe it would make his peripheral widen so that he could watch you and the movie at the same time. The roll of your hips had his vision blurring. Grunting each time you took him completely inside. Hands piercing tiny moons into your hips. Unable to focus on the hijinx that was the over the top ending of the, now to him, idiotic movie. Throb of his cock making his heartbeat hammer against his eardrums.

And he felt so good. The way his hips barely rolled to meet your every move. How black his pupils had become. You got your chance to admire him now. Looking at his chiseled jaw and blonde hair. Stubble perfectly accenting his chin. His lips were swollen as he breathed loudly. Watching one of his hands mindlessly wander up to hold your breast. Under your shirt so that he could feel it in his palm.

“Think you deserve to play with my tits?”

John nodded, eyes locked firmly into the screen. A breathy ‘uh-huh’ rolling from his tongue.

You giggled, “Yeah. Guess you’ve been well behaved.”

John’s breath hitched in his throat. Eyebrows furrowing at the compliment. It made his dick flex inside your walls. Hand on your breast firming its hold.

It went on like this for a few minutes. Riding him while the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter. John never looked away from the screen, promise of an end so close that he could practically taste it. His balls tightened when you circled your hips. Getting him far too close to the end.

Credits began rolling.

John sighed, smiling his bright white teeth at you. Lust filled eyes finally darting to meet your flushed face. Your lips were parted as you arched a brow at him. His other hand found your clit immediately. Swirling his digit around it caused your hips to lock up.

“Can’t wait anymore,” John rushed his sentence, pressing forward to encapsulate your lips in his. Once again, starting his relentless pace inside you. Your body bounced up and down. Chasing both your highs that were practically a breath away.

You grasped him for stability. Your walls were tightening. Every inch of you was electric, orgasm knocking on the door. “John, it’s so fucking good,” you moaned, throwing your head back.

“More,” John demanded, “Tell me more.”

“Perfect cock,” you whimpered, “I want you to fill me up. Please, John. I wanna cum on your dick.”

John’s eyes shot up to yours. Inquisitive brow asking if you really meant it. Your eyes gave him the answer. And he smiled. Wide. Like a kid opening a present on Christmas.

“Yeah. I can fill up your tight cunt,” John huffed, hips slowly becoming erratic as his finger applied more pressure to your nub, “Make you walk around for the next couple of days with me leaking out this perfect pussy. That way you remember who made you feel this good. Huh? What’doya think of that?”

You nodded, feeling your floodgates burst. Walls spasmed around him. Massaging his aching cock guiding him to his own finish. He held onto you tightly as his entire body twitched. Ropes of thick cum coated your insides. Both of you moaned in harmony. Resting your foreheads against one another as you tried to catch your breath. Breathing the same hot air from the other.

Silence filled the room as some soft melodic song played over the final credits. Neither of you moved. Too afraid to let the moment pass. It was all so surreal. You could feel him slowly going soft inside you, small amounts of your mixed releases pooling around the base of his cock. Still having waves of aftershock which would cause him to perk back up.

Without a word, John pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose. You collapsed into him. Mouth against his neck. Arms limp at your sides. His large hand rubbed up and down your spine. Occasionally pressing rather intimate kisses to the side of your head. His smile was palpable even in the silence.

“Wanna watch your movie now?”

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately when it comes to writing and being creative. Probably from the stress of moving for the first time ever. I appreciate everyone’s patience with me, and the continuous love I’ve been receiving on my other fics. As always, my tag list and inbox is open. I’d love to hear from you! Love ya! //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @person-005 ~ @somemadart ~ @witchygagirl ~ @illyrianbrat ~ @fire-joestar

[protectoroffaeries]

I've mentioned this story in various tags before but the whole thing is a little long for that, and relevant enough (I hope) to warrant a rare reply from me.

So I'm a trans man, but I'm also very likely intersex. I know this because as a teenager (16), I started growing a ton of hair everywhere (hirsuitism), and my parents were worried I might have PCOS, though I don't have any other indicators of that. Nor was I complaining about the hirsuitism - I had a beard LONG before I got access to T, and that worked for me. But they explained PCOS to me, and I was like well, I'll do the tests for that because if I do have it, I want to treat it. So I do ALL sorts of really invasive medical testing, during which 1) I develop a complex about how my genitals look because of how the doctor described them (combined with the hirsuitism, this is what makes me think I'm intersex) and 2) I learn I do not have PCOS.

Still, there was a lot of hullabaloo about the hair, especially the facial hair. So, even though I was not having sex and expressed zero desire to start hormonal birth control, I was prescribed it because literally everyone in my life except me was Worried About The Thick Dark Hair On My Face And Body. And like, okay, my parents have their flaws (more on that later), but they did what they thought was best for me, so I was like if they are so worried about this, I will try it.

And it did soften, lighten, and minimize the hair growth! But it also exacerbated my severe anxiety and depression in two separate ways: 1) it intensified what I now know is gender dysphoria, and 2) it literally altered the way my thought patterns function. It's hard to describe, but basically, my mind is very active, very chaotic, and very "loud". I am always thinking about a dozen different things, jumping around, visualizing words and images a lot. When I was on BC, all of that disappeared. It was silent. When I wasn't actively doing something, my brain felt turned off. It was uncanny and uncomfortable for me, and as a creative writer, it made it impossible for me to mentally work on writing projects in the background of day-to-day life.

I knew my parents would not understand either of these things (I never received any mental health care as a minor either, despite desperately needing it since I was a young teen), so I just stopped taking them. Just got rid of them in secret.

(I want to pause and say I am very pro birth control and birth control access. Even though it was bad for me, I know many people who use it treat chronic health conditions of their own, which is not even mentioning the way that being able to have sex without the risk of pregnancy is life-changing for the better. I believe it improves the quality of life for people who have an informed choice and the ability to go on and off it as they so require.)

Now, I have a younger sister who is also trans. She has known she's trans since she was very young. She tried to come out multiple times throughout her preteen and teen years before our parents acknowledged that she was serious. When she was 16, she begged them to let her go on estrogen. And they told her no. Even though the psychiatrist they got her straight up told them they'd be bad parents not to (my sister is still understandably mad about this tactless approach, but I can't say they were wrong).

They said they were worried she would regret it, that it was an adult decision, that she should wait and make it on her own, that they didn't want to be responsible for it if she changed her mind later, etc. etc. And I've always found this argument fascinating because I was like well. You put me on estrogen when I was 16 even though I was neutral to it, and then you created an environment where I felt like I couldn't be honest about how badly it was hurting me. And they have always staunchly maintained that was different. Which it was! My sister had been telling them for like half a decade she was a girl. And I told them I wasn't bothered by the fucking beard.

And so like, circling back to the children's rights and trans rights point - we were both sixteen. It was the same hormone. But the anti-trans fearmongering and parents' rights rule of law made it so that they had the power to choose to hurt us both in order to make us conform to our assigned sexes, even though we directly told them what our concerns were and weren't.

And look, I love my parents, I don't think they're like, demons or anything - I think they were ignorant and extremely scared about how the world would treat their queer children. But I will say, that also, they were not that interested in medical care beyond preventative care. Acute issues were handled at home. Chronic issues weren't treated at all - and I spent a decade self-managing severe, untreated OCD that makes me a bit resentful of that.

Like I'm in my mid-20s now. I've spent my entire adulthood thus far trying to make up for these parents' rights medical assertions that were wrong for me. That I conveyed, in all the ways a kid who loves their parents and is subjected to their control can, were wrong for me. And my sister's in the same boat. It's absolutely the same fight, trans rights and childrens' rights.

in a world where a prominent branch of anti-trans activism focuses on fearmongering about "parents' rights," trans rights and youth rights become inextricable.

trans kids deserve to be called the right pronouns and the right name by schools and doctor's offices, regardless of "parental consent." trans kids deserve to undergo the right puberty at the same time as their cis peers, regardless of "parental consent."

the very concept of "parents' rights" is a smokescreen that enables the abuse and dehumanization of children by adults. this is bad for cis kids, too.

[puprdou]

things that the bllk boys love—that they only love with you. ♡

ft. rin itoshi, sae itoshi, yoichi isagi, shidou ryusei.

RIN ITOSHI loves the physical touch. he was never the type to allow himself to be truly seen, to let down the walls he’d built up over the years, to allow someone to be close to him.

but when it came to you, who came running into his life like it was a marathon—smiles gracing your lips, laughter sweet as honey, the patience of a saint only you could have with him—it was special. it was different.

he was scared.

but for the first time in a long while within his life, he was safe.

he was safe when he had the ability to escape the empty reality of his life by falling for your spell—and for a moment, he realizes—he didn’t break down those walls for you.

you climbed over them.

you climbed over the tough brick wall that littered with scars—the claw marks in the pavements of his heart—he was broken free from the prison bars enclosing himself when you saved him with your touch.

your arms, soft as the pillow he needs to sleep at night, your eyes, glistening with the bright sparkle of care he had never once recieved in his life, was the hope to his dim light.

you never gave up.

never gave up on him.

no matter how much he pushed you away, how much he closed himself away from falling, he still tripped over the curve of love. the veil he placed over himself—the veil that blocks himself away from the reality of your relationship as just mere friends—shatters away in an instant when you hold his hand, touch his arm, merely graze your finger over his own when handing him his water bottle after practice, and he knows he’s fallen.

he’s fallen hard into your arms, and he can’t get away from you now—because the second he allowed himself to be seen, to be touched, to be held—was the second that he saw a future outside a football.

a future with you. ♡

SAE ITOSHI loves the subtle signs or changes. he notices things most wouldn’t be able to, and he remembers them. even if he could care less about what they are, they still vacated his memory because it was you they came from.

he doesn’t try to notice them, but if you try a new perfume, switch conditioners, merely change the makeup you use, he’ll notice. he’ll notice the different scent. he’ll notice the difference in texture of your hair after changing soaps. he’ll notice the slight differences in the texture of your makeup when he sees you, even so little and unnoticeable as such.

so when your feeling down, insecure, or holding something back, he notices.

he can see it—the tap of your index finger against your hip, the way you fidgeted with your clothes, your eyes blinking sharply with each quick switch of your gaze in a different direction—he can simply sense whenever you’re feeling uncomfortable.

he won’t say anything about it unless it’s truly bothering him. he won’t say he cares. but he does. he wants to know what made you change—he wants to understand himself as to why this change upsets him so.

but for some reason, he likes that he can sense these things about you, even if they upset him.

he likes the fact that he can sense your mood with just a few mere glances at your stature, likes that he can notice small things you change without word.

perhaps it’s because when he notices these changes in your nature, he develops more care than he thought he had in himself when it comes to you.

perhaps he likes the fact that he has the ability to make you feel safer when something is wrong by noticing these little changes.

it’s “here, put my coat over you.” when he notices that you’re feeling uncomfortable in public with people staring at your body.

it’s “eat. you haven’t been eating enough lately.” with handmade meals when he notices, even with his busy, away-from-home schedule, that you’re starving yourself, stressing about your body and your weight.

it’s “sleep. i’m not letting go until you fall asleep.” when he notices the dark, rough bags under your eyes with obvious notice of little sleep, with nothing but tight hugs and cuddles until the moment you fall asleep—yet even after, he still doesn’t let go.

it’s “wanna watch cat videos?” with the most nonchalant voice he can muster when he notices your on your period and in need of comfort or distractions.

it’s nothing.

he always says it’s nothing.

but he realizes that it’s not the fact he can make you feel safer by noticing these things with his actions that makes him love it so much.

it’s the smile you give him when he does.

that is why he loves it. ♡

YOICHI ISAGI loves the praise you give him. sure, others praising him feels great, especially when it’s about his skills in football, but when it comes from you.. oh it’s on a whole different league. when you tell him he did amazing in his last match or in practice, that he’s improving, that he did a good job, it’s so over for him.

cause he melts.

his shoulders relax, his features soften. his eyes shine with with pride and happiness immediately after, tail wagging like an excited puppy if he had one when you praise him.

he doesn’t know how to explain it. doesn’t understand why he acts this way when it’s with you and only you.

but fuck, he loves it. he can’t get enough of it.

even if it’s embarrassing when he’s a sweating mess after practice, in front of the others, he’d still do it.

he’d get on his knees if he had to on the uncomfortable grass if it meant you’d give him headpats and tell him in detail how good he did and how well he’s improving.

he does it because it’s what keeps him going.

he does it because he knows that after every game, every practice, every dribble of the ball, he knows that if he does good, you’ll make sure that he knows with a simple ’i’m proud of you.’

the lengths he would go if it was you he had to prove weren’t on the scale.

he would break the scale if it was for you. if it was to hear your voice praising him once more, he would fight like a monster to prove he deserves it.

SHIDOU RYUSEI loves the thrill he gets when he’s with you. whether or not you’re doing something mundane, or something fun, when it was you, his heart was set ablaze with excitement.

merely painting your nails, choosing your outfit for the day, doing your hair, even merely watching tv, was fun when it was with you.

it wasn’t the same with anyone else, nor was it the same when he’s alone.

knowing that he gets to see your smile afterwards, hear your cheeky comebacks to his comments, or even playfight depending on how a conversation goes, he’s excited to be within your reach.

his eyes get wide with shining excitement running through his veins whenever you challenge him originally boring things like who can do what faster, becomes fun.

because he’s going against you. because he has to prove that your challenge is nothing to him.

he’s shidou goddamn ryusei! he isn’t gonna lose to a dumb challenge like that!

he especially loves it when you can counterattack his hyped up attitude with your own comebacks and quick wit. it makes everything more fun than having someone boring who just accepts it all.

oh, and don’t think you can escape his pervy sense of nature. that’s just who he is.

but that’s what exciting to him—the fact that you manuever his pervy demeanor and keep him on a tight leash that’s gripped within your fist.

your the only person that can really excite him like that.

well, aside from sae.

but. it’s not the same with sae that it is with you.

and he likes it that way.

© 2025 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔, all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, steal or translate my works onto other social media platforms.

ᥫ᭡. @sephiquehearts ㅤ⎯⎯⎯╋⎯⎯⎯ㅤ taglist.

[cupidstrace]

Sukuna knows he's the main event, the picture perfect idol. He's arrogant. He's a little bit sleazy. And he's really, really hard to resist.

Idol!Sukuna who’s let the fame get to his head. He thinks he’s a god, and his fans enable that behavior. Not to mention he's a pretty well loved public figure – so the company treats him like a porcelain doll, the staff wait on his every command, and production completely relies on his word to start.

Idol!Sukuna who only does concerts when he’s in the mood. He’s popular enough to flash sale tickets an hour before and have a full crowd turn up for the performance.

Idol!Sukuna who literally doesn’t have a persona. It’s just who he is. Cocky and arrogant and a little bit sleazy, but who’s going to figure out that last part? He’s so handsome and charismatic! He’s allowed to be a little audacious about it.

Idol!Sukuna who wasn’t always this famous. Who used to perform in small venues as a trainee, pride hurt and ego bruised when he realized only a small percentage of those watching actually knew his name.

Idol!Sukuna who can recognize you at a glance. He’s seen you in every crowd since those little bars in Shibuya, with those same starry eyes and that same awe-filled smile.

Idol!Sukuna who calls you his “number one fan.” But only to his manager. Who is pissed off at this point by the constant requests for “random” tickets to be sent to your address (because yes, Sukuna has found your social media, your LinkedIn, ran a background check, and learned almost everything about you. What, you thought a pristine idol wasn’t capable of a little stalking?).

Idol!Sukuna who sees you at a meet and greet, and for once in his life, doesn’t need to put on a smirk. It blooms by itself, curling his lips as he takes the photocard from you. Same wide eyes and hopeful smile as always, asking for his autograph. He writes his number down right above the printed picture of his abs and hands it back to you with a sly grin.

Idol!Sukuna who gets a text from you introducing yourself and asking how his day went (which is adorable in itself. You think you can develop some sort of friendship with him? Of course not. You’re beneath him). He responds with his address, and before he knows it, you’re at his door with a flush on your cheeks and eyes struck wide like it’s some sort of blessing he’s taken an interest in you. It is. You should feel blessed.

Idol!Sukuna who opens the door shirtless, half-lidded eyes dragging up and down your figure like he’s already imagining you spread out for him. Your lips part to utter some sort of greeting, and his hand finds the back of your neck as the other pulls you into the house and shuts the door behind you.

Idol!Sukuna who kisses you slow. But not sweet, never that. Like he owns your time, your breath, your body, and in his mind, he does. Because you’re his fan. He’s your number one, right?

Idol!Sukuna who drags you to the hallway mirror, pulls you into his lap, and presses you down against the bulge in his sweats with a satisfied grunt. One hand slips up your skirt, and the other curls around your waist, locking you in.

Idol!Sukuna who doesn’t waste time. His fingers push under your panties, two sliding in at once, hot and deep and ruthlessly deliberate. You gasp, and his smirk flashes in the mirror as he mutters, “already soaked? Knew you were waiting for this.”

Idol!Sukuna who you should really be more grateful to. Not only did he make the first move and invite you to his house (big no no for idols, but he doesn't want to go through the effort of finding a different place), but he’s even being gentle! He’s not slamming you down on the desk and covering your face or fucking you against the window like the sky owes him something, and hey, that’s privilege in his book. But it’s not because he loves you. You’re cute, he’ll give you that. But no way in hell would you be that special.

Idol!Sukuna who holds you still when your hips jerk, palm grinding slow against your clit, fingers knuckle deep in your fluttering cunt. You can hear the sneer in his drawl before you look at the mirror. “Don’t move. Lemme feel all of it, pretty girl.”

Idol!Sukuna who watches your expression in the mirror as your thighs start to shake, who doesn’t even blink as you clench around his fingers and tremble in his lap.

Idol!Sukuna who tells you to cum, and watches with mild interest as you do. Silent, body twitching, lips parted as you soak his fingers. Your eyes are glossy, his name caught in your throat, but you’re still looking at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky, and shit, he thinks he’s found an all time high in that.

Idol!Sukuna who leaves you quivering on the floor afterwards, wiping his hand down your thigh and checking his phone. He answers a call from one of the girls he’s been fucking around with, some sort of third-generation-wealth-I-deserve-everything type that he really wouldn’t bother with if she didn’t have your hair color. Not that looking like you is a requirement for his fuckbuddies, or anything. “Yeah, yeah. Be there in ten, babe.”

Idol!Sukuna who cuts the call, looks down at you, then shrugs as he slips on a shirt.

“Shower’s on the right if you wanna clean yourself up, pretty girl. See yourself out when you’re done.”

[mona-risms]

Demon eyes, GOTTA talk about it. The Saja Boys have (what seem to be) cat eyes when they're in their unrestrained demon forms.

(Using them as reference since they're the only other demons that appear to be more human than not.)

Now, Rumi goes through something quite similar, of course, but with one eye instead of both. Additionally, her pupil seems to more rounded while retaining the feline look. I'm not sure if that's just because she's sad the whole time her demon side is 'out' or just because she's a hybrid and the human round pupil is counter-acting the slitted appearance, but damn that's hot-

Baby don't look at me with those that eye.. Don't look at me like that.. Baby I'm gonna bend you over and make that adorable little pupil of yours dilate so big it's going to be like staring into a starless night with rain crashing down because of those tears of yours🤭

Off-topic, but what if her canines suddenly growing in feels like teething to her? She starts using you as a chew toy, unironically not being able to stop herself. She's like a puppy. You're able to tell when she's about to absolutely take a chunk out of you.

"Rumi"

*Suspiciously attempting to look unsuspicious while staring intently at your arm.* "Hm?"

"Rumi."

"What?"

"No." 😐

"I'm not an animal 😑 I know how to control myse-" *Leans in slightly.*

"NO."

"What, I'm literally not doing anything ?!" *quickly chomps you*

"STOP 😡"

"WHY?"

*Holding up arm that's already littered with mini puncture wounds.*

"😔"

It's YOU people who make me wonder why I write I swear YOU'RE SO RIGHT ANON BUT GODDAMN

I'm inclined to agree that Rumi's demon eye would be much more rounded than the Sajas' tbf bc even when Jinu was particularly emotional, his eyes were still much more slitted if you compare it to Rumi's. But they still glow, they're still sort of narrow and by GOD I wish I could make them dilate even further by eating her out and fingering her at the same time to the point where she's SHAKING!!!! They most definitely glow brighter the more intense the feeling she's experiencing too, with her default just being her normal eyes

I've already discussed about her being a HUGE biter with her canines getting longer and sharper as a development so therefore I will add a counteroffer: her claws. It's VERY noticeable how her hand goes into a gradient from being human hands to the demon claws that Jinu has, and considering how her entire demon transformation seems to be heavily linked to her emotions 😋😋😋 imagine not only is she teething, but she's also scratching and stuff. It's HELPFUL, esp when she needs to cut smth down, but it's also unintentional so if she ever gets upset or emotional her claws just elongate

Get her either a scratching post or VOLUNTEER to be the scratching post. She'll TRY to be careful, especially when she's grazing her claws enough for her to trace visible lines but not actually cut into you, but when you're making her feel so unbelievably overwhelmed and fucked out and all she feels is just a hot haze, her claws may Scratch! Or dig in! She'll apologise and feel bad but at least yk you did a REALLY good job with fucking her 😄 and you get a really cool scar maybe!

The furniture might not be spared though watch her accidentally scratch up the sofa just cuz she's idly focusing 😭

.......another feature COULD be her tongue 🙂‍↕️

[mayax81]

I've noticed this, as well.

My hypothesis is that Onliners tend to be Fandomers (myself included), and as such are used to consuming digital media through their favorite shows and games. So, they develop an aesthetic preference for flat, solid colors. The only forms of modern animation that use traditional methods are rare, niche, and expensive to make.

Additionally, the translation of color, texture, etc. from physical to digital (whether photographing or scanning) subtracts much of the original work's substance by flattening it, thus robbing it of some of its aesthetic value.

The result is that, even if your works were created using a ton of skill, time, and effort, Onliners have still developed this kind of… unconscious preference for things that look like cartoons--smooth/flat-colored sections, lines and shapes that don't blend together but are, instead, solid and uniform (to the point where even the skrumpliest, plainest MSP doodle receives thousands more notes than a mixed media piece with tons of shading and layering, even after saturation/contrast-adjusting in GIMP. Of course, you need to first scan the thing in, too, make sure the formatting is compatible with upload, etc.)

Then, sadly, the more people who notice this, the more switch over to digital art, thus relegating traditional art to a continuously rarer (and thus ever-less-appreciated) artform.

(My latest fandom batches, for example, have caused me to wonder if, perhaps, I've created some unspeakable abomination that's not even worth a reprimand 😅 You are not alone, OP.)

This site (and social media in general tbh) has a negative bias towards traditional artists; we have to work way harder and jump through more hoops for the same amount of engagement and recognition or be extremely specific with our art style and posting to be noticed compared to digital artists. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise.

[librarygarten]

Saja Boys - General Headcanons

I’m trying to figure out how to write these guys. I’ve been rewatching the film and studying every scene they’re in because we literally have NOTHING about these guys.

Jinu

He gets the fewest headcanons because we know the most about him lol

I know a lot of people like to theorize that he somehow recruited a failing K Pop band from the present day (because of the doctor’s office pictures), but I 1) don’t think any new demons were created after the creation of the Honmoon and 2) think’s it’s way funnier if he recruited four random demons to his boy band

With that last point, I think he was one of the last demons created, as we can see his mom and sister present when the Honmoon was created. This also technically makes him the youngest in the group.

Also, Jinu fully expected to die and never come back when he gave Rumi his soul. It was his first (and last) selfless act.

HOWEVER, I hate that. So, after the movie (maybe a week) Rumi summons her sword and instead of her weapon, Jinu just poofs into existence near her and faceplants onto the ground. Hooray :D

Abby

Look at that face. That is the face of an asshole.

He’s the cockiest of the group members.

Like, some of the other Saja Boys aren’t fans of the way they need to pretend to be K Pop stereotypes, but Abby is 1000% down to be fanservice material. He likes being looked at.

I think his deal with Gwi-Ma had something to do with becoming more attractive. Perhaps in his past life he had insecurities about his looks, so he made the deal to fix those perceived flaws. He DEFINITELY enjoys how he looks now (at least in human form).

As for what Gwi-Ma whispers to him about, I can see it going one of two ways:

Option One: Making himself more conventionally attractive did not actually get rid of Abby’s insecurities. He still dislikes how he looks, but he’s just insecure about different things, particularly the demon marks. He hides his true feelings behind a massive ego

Option Two: He feels lesser for ever being unattractive and Gwi-Ma makes fun of him for being so pathetic as to need demon magic to fix everything that was “wrong”. It’s a massive hit to Abby’s otherwise incredibly large ego.

Personally, I like option one for story reasons, but option two fits his character better.

As for his fate after the movie, he is the only Saja Boy we saw disintegrate away during the battle. He is back in the demon realm, sealed behind the Honmoon.

(LONG theory time): I saw that the directors called making the Honmoon golden “evil” in an interview, as it would be forever trapping demons to suffer despite their capacity to be redeemed. The Golden Honmoon also represented repressing and hiding flaws, when the movie’s whole message was that vulnerability and openness are a good thing, actually. Given this, I think the new Honmoon that Huntr/x made at the end of the movie acts the same as the original blue Honmoon, but stronger. Abby can’t get through it until he undergoes ✨character development✨

I also think he enjoys physical contact, as he is very touchy with the other Saja Boys. It’s not just for the camera.

What WAS just for the camera? Him being shipped with Mira. He liked flustering Mira and Zoey with his abs, but it was just to get in their heads and to feed his own ego.

Romance

Of all the Saja Boys, he is the most on-board with the whole “demon boy band” idea. Besides Jinu, he knows the most about this type of work.

He also has an eye for details, so he helps Jinu keep the other Saja Boys in line and in character (like how during Soda Pop he subtly pulled up Abby’s pants)

I lowkey think that he isn’t actively trying to fulfill a stereotype. Boy is just Like That.

He actually finds Mira attractive, given how he was just full on staring at her during the fan signing. Sure, he could have been trying to fluster her or get in her head, but Mira only seemed mad at him, so if that’s what he was going for he was not very successful.

While I do think he found Mira attractive and would have asked her out if circumstances weren’t what they were, he also falls in love (and out of love) pretty fast. For him, it’s more about the chase, the tension, the will-we-won’t-we. Boy has a long way to go before he’s ready for a committed long-term relationship, and Mira won’t be the one to give it to him.

I think his deal with Gwi-Ma involved some type of lover. Perhaps there was a woman he wanted to pursue, but was unable to due to social status, marital status, or some other barrier. The deal made it so he could court her (extra points if he had to leave behind his partner/someone who was interested in him to do so), but because he’s him, he got bored and left.

Gwi-Ma won’t let Romance forget his habit of leaving people heartbroken after having his fun with them. He does genuinely care about them, and the fact that he keeps doing this to people he loves tears him up inside. He just can’t seem to keep his heart from wandering to the next “conquest”.

In the final battle, Mira pushes him away and then he just doesn’t show up for the rest of the film. I think this means he didn’t get sent back to the demon realm like Abby, so he must have run away when he realized he was not winning against Huntr/x

Mystery

My man. Why do you bark at people?

I think the whole “mysterious” cover was partially forced onto him by the rest of the group because if he was allowed to speak outside of scripted videos, he WOULD blow their cover by biting someone.

I also like the theory that the reason he has those big bangs is because his disguise couldn’t fully hide all his demon traits (and given that the whole two times we see his eyes they’re yellow demon eyes this might just be canon. Yes this would also make Zoey’s “type” slightly demonic don’t @ me). 

Speaking of Zoey, I think Mystery did like her back and enjoyed having her attention, because he smiled at her when she greeted him during the fan signing. He still had a job to do, which is why he attacked her in the final battle, but he was not trying that hard.

That being said, he absolutely does not know how to show affection. Man is awkward as hell (see again: barking at people).

To parallel Zoey’s struggles with being “too much”, I think Mystery is aware that he can be… kind of weird, and he’s a little self conscious about it! Gwi-Ma probably won’t LET him forget how weird he is.

As for his demon deal, I think Mystery was a social outcast and wanted to fit in more. (Him and Jinu are the only two Saja Boys that don’t reek of rich kid energy, so perhaps there was a monetary element to it as well).

Listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. We literally SEE Mystery teleport away from Zoey in the final battle. He’s out there somewhere I SWEAR.

After Jinu’s sacrifice, the camera cuts to Mystery and Baby looking absolutely shocked. I think that moment was them realizing that there was still a chance for them. That’s why Mystery just kind of ran at Zoey and then left. He WANTS to escape Gwi-Ma like Jinu did

On an unrelated note, he also really likes puns. (His one line is "We really feed off your energy"). He thinks the double meaning in Soda Pop's lyrics is hilarious.

Baby

Out of all the Saja Boys, Baby hates the “mission” the most.

He is a fully grown man. He does not want to act like a child. But he needs to so he can appeal to the fans and destroy the Honmoon.

I think Jinu might have just told him to “act like a baby” because we see him suck on water bottles like baby bottles and the only time he speaks is to say “goo goo ga ga”.

He’s the opposite of what his assigned “role” was, which is why bro always looks so pissed. Instead of being a sweet widdle uwu child, he’s sarcastic, scheming, and often stand-offish.

I also think it would be really funny if he was the “oldest” in the group, as in the first of them that was turned into a demon.

Given that a good third of his lyrics are in Korean, him being the oldest also makes sense as he would be the least likely to be open to learning English. He looks down on K Pop artists for incorporating a foreign language into their songs, and hates that he has to copy that

He was probably the most well-off back when he was human, perhaps even being in a position of power somewhere in the government. He was the youngest member of whatever court he was serving in, so he was constantly overlooked and underestimated.

Gwi-Ma promised to make him be taken seriously. To finally move up in the world and get what he “rightfully deserved”. What followed was a series of schemes Baby created to get rid of and undermine everyone in a position above him.

Gwi-Ma whispers to Baby about the innocent victims of his climb to power and mocks him for still not being taken seriously due to his youthful appearance

In the final battle, Baby is last seen reacting to Jinu’s sacrifice, realizing that there is a way out. There is redemption. He doesn’t even try to attack Zoey. He just leaves.

(I saw one person say that you can see Baby running away in the crowd of the stadium, which is just so funny. He can teleport but he chose to sprint.)

[sukunahs]

to distant lands - ch.7: all yours | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: ryomen sukuna, your father's favourite knight, has been assigned as your personal guard. You find that your dislike of him slowly develops into something else as he tangles himself in your life in ways you never could've expected.

word count: 11.7k

chapter content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, medieval fantasy setting, protective sukuna, angst, fluff, anxiety, parental neglect, injury, blow job, cunnilingus, piv sex, yearning, sukuna is down soooo bad

authors note: this chapter is a bit slower than the last few! hope you enjoy some (mostly!) fluff while I let them be happy for a little bit hehe

series masterlist | AO3 | chapter one | previous chapter (six) | next chapter (eight) (coming soon)

Sukuna’s eyes fluttered open to light streaming in through the window of his cabin. He didn’t want to be awake yet, his body still exhausted from the last twenty-four hours of travelling and fighting, the adrenaline of the previous day just now starting to wear off. 

Not that any of that mattered to him now, because the outcome of his hellish day had been thoroughly worth it. All that suffering had led him to this moment - you, all curled up in his arms, hair flayed out on the pillow, lips slightly parted as you slept beside him peacefully. 

It was a sight that made his heart yearn. A sight that he’d been denying himself for so long, only to feel like he’d been blessed by the gods themselves now that he’d finally given in. 

He should’ve just given in weeks ago - back when he kissed you in the garden. He’d known even then that he wasn’t going to get over you with time or distance, but he’d been so hung up on the idea that he was doing what was best for you. Staying away to keep you from falling into a relationship with him that would just cause you both pain. 

What a foolish notion that had been, because maybe if he’d just given in back then you wouldn’t have blood smeared all over your cheek right now, perhaps he would’ve managed to keep you from any harm at all. His desire to keep you from suffering had ultimately been the cause of it. 

But it did him no good to think like that. You’d already made it abundantly clear that wasn’t how you saw it, so why should he punish himself? You were in his arms now and that was all that mattered. He wasn’t about to go and fuck it all up by not being able to move past his guilt. 

Gently he brought his lips to your head, softly kissing your hair, moving down to your forehead and then pressing his lips softly against yours, heart racing a little as he felt you sleepily kiss him back, your pretty eyes fluttering open and looking up at him like he meant everything to you. 

Fuck. He loved seeing you look up at him like that. Needed more of it. 

“Sukuna.” Your voice was a little raspy with sleep, and you brought your hands up to rub tiredly at your eyes. You were a little less put together than usual, the dark circles under your eyes and messy hair serving as a reminder of the difficult night that you’d had. 

“Morning princess.” He responded, his hand moving tenderly along your back, not missing the way that a happy little shudder seemed to run through you at the sensation. 

“I was worried it might’ve all been a dream.” You confessed quietly as your fingers went to his chest, tracing along the lines of his tattoos, your head bent a little in what he could only assume was embarrassment. 

Your concern was almost amusing to him, because he’d had the exact same fear. When sleep had finally found him after he’d made love to you last night, he’d been afraid to let it take him, terrified that he’d jolt awake a few hours later without you by his side. 

But even the gods weren’t that cruel. 

Rather than responding to your statement, he gently hooked his finger underneath your chin, tilting your face up to look at him for a moment before leaning in and kissing you again. It was a slow, deep kiss, his tongue lapping softly at your lips as he pulled you firmly against him. 

If he had it his way, he’d fuck you again right now. Sink right back into your warmth and show you just how much you meant to him. How real this was. His cock was already achingly hard with the need to have you like that again. 

But he hadn’t lost his mind entirely to lust just yet. 

You were still technically a missing princess as far as the Kingdom was aware, and he wasn’t the only one out in the forests searching for you. As much as he wanted to keep you all for himself in this pleasant bubble for a little longer, it wasn’t fair on those who were anxiously awaiting your return. 

He’d have plenty of time to make you feel good in your own chambers once he’d brought you back to the castle. Although, the thought of having to face Kashimo after thoroughly deflowering his daughter made his stomach churn. 

“We have to get going, baby.” Sukuna said as he reluctantly pulled away from the kiss, liking the way that you followed him forward on instinct as he moved back, as though you were desperate for more. 

“Right now?” You asked, that pout that he liked so much blooming across your face. “Can’t we stay a little longer?” 

“I’m committing treason for you, princess. I’m not keen on one of the other Knights stumbling across us here and getting me executed on day one.” He reasoned. 

He hoped that you didn’t fight back too much - saying no to you had grown increasingly difficult for him lately. If you begged him to stay here longer he probably wouldn’t have the will to really deny you. 

You sighed, but his words seemed to resonate with you, because reluctantly you pushed yourself into a sitting position, the furs falling from your shoulders as you did so. Sukuna’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at you, your bare body even more beautiful to him now that he was seeing it in the light of day. 

A blush covered your cheeks instantly as you noticed that he was looking, and you scrambled to cover yourself up once more. He let out a low chuckle at your reaction - considering that he’d seen everything last night, your continuing obsession with modesty was cute. Part of being a princess, he supposed. 

“Aw, didn’t realise you were so shy.” He teased. The comment seemingly grating on your nerves as you shot him an incredulous glare. 

“Sorry, I’m not a whore like you.” You replied quickly, and he let out a booming laugh, very relieved that you seemed to have gotten your claws back. 

Between your cloudy disposition over the last few weeks and the way you’d been so despondent when he’d rescued you from Mahito, there was a part of him that had been worried that fiery side of you had been completely extinguished. 

“Thank the gods.” He responded with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t want to share you with anyone else.” 

That statement fell heavy in the cabin. 

He hadn’t really meant anything by it, but it touched upon a very real issue for the two of you. Unless you magically figured out a way to be together, a way that Kashimo approved of, then one day he would have to share you with someone else. And that had a horrible unsettling feeling coiling in his stomach. 

“I don’t want to share you either.” You replied quietly. “I might just put a fork through Yorozu’s eye if I ever see her touching you again.” You added, swiftly moving away from the elephant in the room, pushing the conversation towards lighter topics.

“I think I’d pay to see that.” Sukuna said with a chuckle as he peeled back the furs and pulled himself to his feet, swiftly dressing himself in the clothes he had worn the day before. He noticed you avert your eyes to his naked form, but he didn’t bother teasing you further - it was clear that it would take you a little bit of time to get used to this new development in your life. 

He watched you from the corner of his eye as you fished around on the floor for your dress, letting out a deep sigh of dismay as you pulled the ruined fabric up onto the bed. It had definitely been torn beyond repair, and would do little to protect your dignity if you were going to try wearing it again. 

Sukuna rummaged about in his drawers for a moment and pulled out a red cotton tunic and a pair of black trousers, holding them out to you. A look of disgust flickered across your face at the thought of wearing anything other than the dresses you were so fond of. 

“They’re not pretty like your clothes usually are but at least you won’t be practically naked.” He said convincingly.

You were probably running through all sorts of thoughts in your mind about how it wasn’t princess-like, putting yourself into an anxious spiral about what people would think, what conclusions they’d jump to with you returning to the palace wearing a man’s clothes. 

Trying to put a stop to your overthinking, Sukuna tossed his red cloak at you. “We can just say that your captors ruined your clothes and we wanted to avoid you catching hypothermia.” he said simply. “I don’t think anyone is going to read into anything too much, no one would expect you to look pristine and perfect after being kidnapped.”

Evidently convinced by his statement, you relented, clutching the clothes tightly as you looked up at him expectantly. 

“What?” He asked, waiting for you to speak. 

“Turn around.” You said shyly, gesturing to the clothes in your lap, nervous about the thought of him watching you get dressed. 

He opened his mouth to argue for a moment, to remind you that last night he’d been inside you and it doesn't really get much more intimate than that, but the anxious look in your eyes told him to hold his tongue, and with a soft sigh he did as you asked, giving you some privacy. 

There was the sound of a little shuffling, a soft thump, followed by a yelp and then a much louder thud. 

He whirled around instantly to be met with the rather pathetic, but somehow very endearing sight of you: still naked, sprawled out on the floor, and rubbing your ankle in pain. 

It was clear that you’d forgotten all about your injury as you’d gone to stand up, the pain only flaring up when your foot made contact with the floor and causing you to collapse under your own weight.

Sukuna moved over to you, crouching down beside you and taking your ankle in his hands, pulling off the makeshift bandages that he’d dressed for you the night before so that he could take a proper look at the damage in the light of day. 

It didn’t look great - that was for sure. Your ankle was a deep shade of purple and the skin had swollen up to two times the size that it was supposed to be. As he prodded at it softly with the tip of his finger you let out a hiss of pain, glaring at him like he was the sole cause of your suffering. 

He ignored your venomous gaze and squeezed your ankle as gently as he could, continuing to inspect it. He was no doctor, but he’d seen enough wounds and broken bones out on the battlefield to complete a decent enough assessment of things. It was broken, for sure, but definitely not beyond repair. None of the bones were sticking out in odd directions or anything weird like that, as long as you kept pressure off it and he got you back to the palace doctor as soon as possible, it would recover just fine. 

“Stay still.” He ordered as he stood up, rifling through his cabin to find some actual bandages, before moving back to you and wrapping up your ankle properly, strapping it firmly in place. He liked the way you were watching his every movement with great interest, as though you were surprised that he knew how to do such a thing. 

Once he was done, he gave the rest of your body a quick scan. It had been hard to see you properly in the flickering light of the fire last night, and he’d been far too distracted by other things to thoroughly check you for further wounds or signs of distress. 

Your breath hitched nervously as he checked you over, clearly considering telling him to turn around once more. But just like a cat who’d gotten their claw caught in something and desperately needed help getting it removed, you clearly understood that letting him investigate for any other injuries wasn’t something you should reject. 

For the most part you seemed untouched. There were some bruises around your wrists and feet where you’d been bound by rope, and the cuts on your cheek and neck would potentially leave behind scars, but beyond that you were unharmed. The broken ankle was the worst of what Mahito had done to you. 

Sukuna was just thankful that he’d arrived when he did. Who knows how much worse things would’ve gotten if he’d made it there just hours later. 

The crunch of Mahito’s skull beneath the pommel of his sword replayed over and over again in his head. That piece of shit hadn’t suffered enough. If he hadn’t been so focussed on getting you to safety maybe he would’ve kept Mahito alive, brought him back to the castle and employed every torture method in the book on him. 

That was the very least that he deserved for laying a single finger on you. 

“Can you help me get dressed, please?” You asked a little meekly, clearly reaching the end of your tether at being naked before him while he held all the power of being fully clothed. 

“Sure.” He got you to lift your arms, letting the tunic fall over your upper body, before maneuvering you very carefully to help you pull on the trousers. That took a little time, with him doing his best not to jerk your ankle at all, trying to keep you from experiencing any pain. 

Once you were dressed, he helped you up onto your feet, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you steady while you balanced on your good foot precariously. You looked unbelievably adorable in the clothes that he’d given you, the tunic falling down to your knees, and the trousers loose and baggy around your legs. He’d rolled them up several times and secured the waist with a rope, but they still looked massive on you. 

His thoughts strayed to the idea of you standing around wearing nothing but his tunic and he quickly pushed it from his mind, his cock twitching a little bit too enthusiastically at the image. 

As cute as you looked, the tunic was so big that a lot of your shoulder was exposed, revealing the purple marks that Sukuna had left on you the night before. Subsequently, he took a lot of time adjusting his cloak over the top of your make-shift outfit, not keen on anyone noticing them and asking questions. 

“Shoko will see.” You pointed out, sensing his anxiety. 

Fuck. He hadn’t considered that little detail of you having a handmaid there to dress and bathe you most of the time. “Do you trust her to keep a secret?” He asked. If the answer was no, he was going to have to come up with a plan to get rid of her and fast. 

“Yeah.” You said. “I don’t think she’d tell anyone, it would be too much hassle for her.” 

Sukuna nodded, but it didn’t put him at ease. It was day one of you keeping this whole thing secret, and already he was putting things at risk by leaving marks on you without considering that he wasn’t the only one who would be seeing your bare skin. He’d need to be more careful in the future, think more carefully about anything that could get you caught. 

“Good.” He said firmly. “You ready to go?” He watched as you glanced around the room pouting a little as you stared back at the bed longingly. 

“I wish we could stay a bit longer.” You said finally. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

He was not keen on having to face reality once more. 

—

The ride back to the palace was long, and you found yourself in more and more disbelief that Sukuna had actually managed to rescue you. Mahito and his men had taken you so far - based on your estimations you must’ve been practically on the Kingdom’s border in that cave. They’d come terrifyingly close to getting you over into enemy territory. 

You’d been so lucky that Sukuna found you when he did. 

Sukuna wasn’t very talkative on the ride back, keeping you secure against his chest for safety, but clearly trying not to be too touchy. You could understand why - if someone from the palace ran into you and his hands were on you in a way that looked like anything other than a Knight protecting his princess, you’d both be in deep trouble. 

A sense of relief rushed through you at the sight of the castle, at the knowledge that you’d made it home safely rather than being delivered to the Zenins. But feeling Sukuna tense up a little behind you at the sight instantly brought you back down to earth. 

From now on you’d have to get used to lying, all the time. 

Yet somehow, as you glanced back at Sukuna, looking so handsome behind you with his hair ruffled in the wind, that really didn’t feel so bad. It was worth it to be with him. It's not like your father ever really bothered to learn much about you anyway, what was one extra thing that he wasn’t aware of?

As the two of you approached the gate, the men standing on guard jumped instantly into action, ringing bells and alerting the whole castle to the fact that you’d been found and returned safely. It was more attention than you really wanted right now, tugging Sukuna’s soft cloak tighter around you for comfort. 

“Call for the doctor.” Sukuna ordered one of the guards firmly. “Bring him to the princess’s quarters as soon as possible.” The guard acted without question, sprinting off into the castle to fulfil Sukuna’s wishes. 

It was funny, watching people scramble over themselves to appease him. His reputation was almost the exact opposite of yours. While you had to hold on to people’s respect through poise and elegance, an act of perfection all the time. He managed people’s respect through fear. Everyone knew just what he’d done in the war - the stories of his ruthlessness, and no one wanted to get on his bad side. 

His reputation was in stark contrast to the man who’d held you so tenderly last night. You supposed you both had your masks to wear in public. 

“You’re not taking me straight to my father?” You asked, blinking up at him as Sukuna dismounted the horse, helping you down into his arms and heading straight for your quarters. 

There was no doubt in your mind that your father would’ve expected you to be brought straight to him once you’d been rescued. Probably to scold you for being taken in the first place. 

Sukuna scrunched up his nose with distaste. “No. You’re hurt, you need rest. If he wants to see you he can haul his ass up those stairs to your room.” 

You giggled softly at his words. “I don’t think you’re allowed to say that.” 

Subtly leaning closer to you, he lowered his voice to ensure that only you could hear him. “I don’t think I’m allowed to do half the things we did yesterday, what’s a couple more words?” 

Fair enough.

With no more argument, Sukuna dutifully carried you up to your chambers, placing you down on the bed and making sure your foot was comfortable and elevated on pillows - fixated on doing what was best for you. 

What you really wanted right now, as he fussed over you, was for him to join you in the bed. All you could think about was snuggling up against his chest and drifting off to sleep - you really didn’t get enough rest last night, and your body felt exhausted. 

But that would be a stupid idea, because your father could show up at any moment and that was a sure way for the two of you to get caught. 

Sukuna reached over you and picked up Sir Bounce-a-lot. You swore that you could see fear in the toy bunny’s beady eyes at being back in the hands of the man who almost threw him out the window a few months back. Sukuna turned the toy over in his hand for a few seconds before pressing it to your chest, smiling softly as your hands grasped tightly at the plushie. 

“Would you really have thrown him out the window back then?” You asked with a pout, your hands raking through the plushie’s soft fur. You were very interested in his answer now that the nature of your relationship had changed. 

Sukuna grinned. “Yeah.” He said shamelessly and you gasped, jerking the bunny away from him protectively. 

“I’m not gonna do it now.” He added incredulously. “Not considering that you almost cried last time. I like annoying you but I’m not heartless. Not when it comes to you at least.” 

Your heart fluttered at his words, lips parting to respond only for the words to die on your tongue at the heavy knock on your door. Sukuna instinctively stepped back, putting a little bit of distance between the two of you as the door swung open. 

Standing in the entryway was your father, the rings under his eyes darker than ever, his white hair unkempt and his clothes ruffled. His concern for his missing daughter was palpable as his blue eyes scanned over you, gaze landing on your ankle and his worry instantly transforming into anger as he turned to Sukuna. 

“You.” He hissed, striding over to your Knight and jabbing a finger into his chest. “I gave you one job and this is what happens to my precious daughter? This is your fault. I should have you beheaded for this.” 

Your stomach dropped as you watched the exchange. Sukuna was expressionless, guilt flickering in his crimson eyes as he let your father continue on his tirade. What could he do? Fight back? Physically, he was more than capable of overpowering Kashimo, of overpowering every person in this castle. 

But that wasn’t how things worked. 

He couldn't stage a coup just because he was angry, especially not when that coup would have to start with him killing your father, something that you wouldn’t ever appreciate even with the rift between you and your remaining parent. 

So all Sukuna could do was stand there and take it, and hope that your father remembered just how much he’d done for this country, how much Kashimo needed to stay on Sukuna’s good side if he wanted you to be kept safe, if he wanted Sukuna to fight for him in the likely inevitable war that seemed to be marching their way. 

It was hard for you to stay focussed on your father’s cutting words, because through all the yelling, through your sympathy for Sukuna, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for yourself. Once again you’d been put in a life-threatening situation and instead of your father coming to you first and checking that you were okay, he went straight to someone else. 

Not a single word had been spoken to you yet. 

Maybe you were self absorbed, but after everything that had happened to you since you’d been swiped from the castle, were you selfish to assume that the focus should be on you?

Frustrated by that thought, and tired of your father’s screaming, you decided to come to Sukuna’s aid. That was a normal thing for a princess to do for her Knight, right? You would’ve done this for Yaga too, if this situation had presented itself when he was still your guard.

“It wasn’t his fault.” You said firmly, just loud enough to stop your father in his tracks as he turned to you. Sukuna’s eyes were wide as he glanced down at you uncertainly, wondering where you were going with this. 

“Stay out of this.” Kashimo replied sternly as he turned back to Sukuna, and you found yourself gritting your teeth at the dismissal, nails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood. 

Grin and bear it. Sit there and be pretty and silent, just like always. 

“No.” You said, and your father froze. “This isn’t his fault. Maybe if you just listened to me for once instead of assuming that you know everything, you’d understand what actually happened.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest with anxiety. Sure, there were plenty of times in your life where you’d pushed things a little with your father - just like how you’d questioned him about Naoya, and his decision to assign Sukuna as your personal guard. 

But this was different.This was outwardly questioning his knowledge and authority in front of a subordinate. Something that he certainly wouldn’t appreciate. 

“Please listen.” You continued, making your voice as soft as possible, trying to appeal to him as your father, rather than as King. 

“Don’t be so disrespectful.” He said coldly, and you wondered if he would’ve struck you across the face if not for Sukuna standing right there. He never liked to come across as anything but the perfect father in front of his men, and Sukuna was his favourite Knight. 

“I’m sorry.” You said quickly. “But I can’t stand by and watch you accuse my Knight of something that he wasn’t responsible for.” 

Sukuna was chewing on his lip as he watched you, clearly anxious about whatever game you were playing. He was a relatively fearless man, unbothered by Kashimo’s yelling outside of how it might impact his relationship to you. He’d much rather the man was screaming at him than at you. 

But that didn’t sit well in your mind, because it wasn’t Sukuna’s fault, and you weren’t about to let him take the fall for it just because your father was incapable of controlling his temper. 

“I snuck out of my room.” You lied easily, keeping your eyes fixed on your father, not wanting to stumble over your deceit by exchanging looks with your lover. “Sukuna was standing guard outside my door, and I wanted to make life difficult for him so I snuck out the window and wandered around the castle by myself. I knew the risks and I ignored them anyway. He was doing everything he could to protect me and I actively sabotaged that for him.” 

The room was silent, and you chanced a quick glance at Sukuna who had narrow eyes fixed on you in disbelief. This wasn’t the first time he’d been witness to your lies, but you supposed he hadn’t realised before how easy it came to you to spout off deception to Kashimo. 

He looked at least a little impressed. 

“So, yell at me if you want.” You continued. “But your golden boy of a Knight did nothing wrong, as always.” You injected a little bit of spite into the statement - it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing for your father to assume that you and Sukuna still didn’t get along all that well, that would do a lot to take any heat off your relationship going forward. 

Kashimo seemed to consider you for a moment, and you prayed he couldn’t hear the sound of your heart thudding against your ribcage in the hope that he bought your lie and would ease off on both of you. 

“Sukuna.” Your father said finally, not even turning to glance at the man, his eyes still fixed on you. “Go and wait in the Throne Room. I wish to talk to my daughter in private.” 

Sukuna’s eyes flicked between you and the King, before he gave a curt nod and took his leave, shutting the door carefully behind him. 

You didn’t particularly like this turn of events, having Sukuna there had been providing you with a burst of confidence - you weren’t keen on dealing with your father one to one, and you especially didn’t like that by splitting the two of you up he’d be able to more easily pinpoint any lies. 

“Are you okay?” Your father asked.

That was not what you were expecting. 

In fact, your father’s question completely caught you off guard. Of all the things that he could’ve asked you, the cutting words that you were anticipating, showing you genuine care hadn’t been on your list. 

Your surprise must’ve shown on your face, because your father’s shoulders dropped a little in disappointment, something akin to hurt crossing his expression. 

“I’d rather you didn’t look so shocked, you know.” He said. 

“Sorry…it's just, that’s not really something you ask all that often.” 

“No…” He trailed off before taking a deep breath. “So, are you? Okay?” 

You shrugged. If you were being honest with yourself you hadn’t thought about it too much. Your mind had been too preoccupied with thoughts of Sukuna ever since he’d rescued you. 

A prickly fear would crawl up your spine each time your thoughts strayed to Mahito, but that was easy to replace with much warmer memories of Sukuna’s hands on you. He’d been the perfect distraction at that moment. Overwriting what may have been the most traumatic moment of your existence so far with easily your most pleasant one. 

“I’m doing fine.” You said. “Sukuna got to me before anything could happen. To be honest, rather than yelling at him, you should be on your knees before him with gratitude. Without him I’d be halfway to the Zenins by now.” 

“Noted.” Your father lowered his head in shame at your words. “I could only focus on the fact that you were stolen away in the first place. I’ll show him more leniency when I speak to him shortly.” 

“Good.” You responded, letting silence settle over the room. 

You weren’t sure if your father had more to say, or if he was waiting for you to speak. It always felt awkward when you were around him without a clear purpose or reason - most of the time it just felt like you’d been left alone with a stranger who was bad at making conversation. 

“So, it was the Zenins then? They were responsible for this?” He asked. There was no hint of surprise on his face, it's not like this had come as a shock to any of you. After Naoya’s bold statement that you would be his wife, this kidnapping attempt was about as predictable as it could get. It was like the Zenins weren’t even trying to be subtle about how unquestionably evil their whole family was. 

“Yeah. I heard Mahito and his allies talking about them. Naoya had told his men not to lay a finger on me unless I tried to escape.” 

“Which you did?” Kahimo asked, eyes trailing down to your bandaged ankle. 

“In a sense.” Frustration crept through your body at the memory of the trick that Mahito had played on you. The loophole that he’d exploited to ensure that he could beat the shit out of you and suffer no consequences at the hands of the Zenins. Technically he’d followed their orders to the letter. 

Your father waited quietly for you to continue, evidently curious about what you’d tried to do under terrifying odds. 

“He gave me a deal. Said he’d untie me and give me ten seconds to start running. Obviously the game was rigged, he tripped me and did this to my ankle. He would’ve done much worse if Sukuna hadn’t arrived when he did.” 

“So he didn’t…” Your father trailed off, clearing his throat as he eyed the clothes that you were wearing - clearly not yours, your dress left behind in Sukuna’s cabin. “He didn’t lay his hands on you further? Your purity is intact?” 

Your heart dropped, frustration and humiliation coursing through you at the audacity of your father to ask such a thing.

Of course he’d ask that. 

You were foolish to think that him checking if you were okay was just out of care for you. He wanted to know if his asset was secure, if his lovely innocent little princess was still as innocent as he needed her to be, to ensure that his plans to get you engaged to some stuffy noble wouldn’t be ruined. 

The question stung. Not just because your purity was in fact, not still intact, but because your father couldn’t deign himself to care about you as a person rather than as a princess, for just one single moment. 

You wished your mother was here. She would’ve never allowed his interest in you to dwindle so thoroughly. If she was here, maybe you could’ve even come clean to her about Sukuna. She would’ve understood - would’ve made your father understand too, they married for love after all.

But without her, you were just some princess - a pawn for your father to use in political games. Not really his daughter. Nothing more than an ornament with no whims of her own. 

“He didn’t touch me further.” You said honestly, and your father let out a sigh of relief. He didn't seem to notice the bitterness in your tone.

“I’m relieved. It would’ve been a disgrace.” 

Of course it would’ve been. His only daughter, sullied by someone who wasn’t her husband, oh the horror! 

He’d throw a fit if he knew the truth. 

And that was why you and Sukuna needed to be desperately careful going forward. One wrong step could signal the end for both of you, and your father would be far from forgiving. It would be a disgrace after all. 

“Is there anything else?” You asked impatiently, just wanting this conversation to be over. If all he was going to do was check that you were still of value to him, you had nothing further to add to this discussion. 

“No…I just-” he took a deep breath, adjusting his robes. “You know that I care for you, don’t you? I feel you’ve grown distant from me recently.” 

You wanted to scoff. As if the distance between the two of you was your fault. He was the one who could never bother to show a shred of concern for who you really were, too focussed on the perfect image that you had to present to the world. 

Not that he’d understand if you ever told him that. The distance between the two of you was insurmountable, and as long as you were heading down this path with Sukuna, the lies that you’d share with him would increase, and that gap would only widen. It was inevitable. 

So you gave him a fake smile and a nod of acknowledgement. There was no point in fighting him. Wiser to keep the conversation short so that you could go back to enjoying your day without his stifling presence haunting your quarters. 

You were wrong to say that being left alone with him was like being with a stranger. 

Spending time with a stranger would be easier. 

Sukuna was gone for a long time after your father finally left you in peace. Kashimo was likely talking his ear off in the throne room - always finding it easier to talk to his Knights than he found talking with you. 

Just another reminder of the growing distance between you. 

The doctor came to see you while you waited for Sukuna to come back, examining your ankle and strapping it more firmly. He confirmed that the bone was broken, but with rest it should be mostly healed within six to eight weeks. That certainly wasn’t the end of the world, and he even gave you a pair of wooden crutches so that you could still get around on your own. 

You supposed that the injury could also be a good excuse to get Sukuna to carry you around. Nobody would question why he was doing such a thing if you literally couldn’t walk. That was definitely a silver lining. 

Once the doctor had left you were given just one measly second of peace before Shoko made an appearance, your father most likely having called for your handmaid after he’d witnessed your disheveled appearance.

It wasn’t that you disliked Shoko. On the contrary, you very much enjoyed her presence most of the time. But right now you were exhausted, not in a particularly talkative mood, and desperate for Sukuna to come back so that he could fill you in on what your father had to say to him in the privacy of the throne room. 

You’d tried ushering her away but she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Unsurprising, considering that servants were generally much more afraid of your father than they were of you. 

Anxiety began to eat at you as she led you to the bath, tensing up as she undressed you. Although you’d reassured Sukuna that she wouldn’t say anything about the deep purple marks scattered across your shoulders, you weren’t quite confident in that fact yourself, desperately hoping that she liked you enough to keep things quiet. 

You assessed her expression as she removed your clothes, but she offered no reaction. If she noticed the marks, she said nothing. 

She performed her duty as diligently as always, filling the tub and thoroughly scraping the blood and muck from your body. Sensing that you didn’t really want to talk but would likely be open to listening, she chatted away about some drama going on between the other servants, letting you relax and zone out a little to the sound of her voice. 

Once she was finished, she brushed your hair and got you dressed in a lovely comfortable velvet dress, one that adequately covered up the bruises on your shoulders. Looking at yourself in the mirror you felt rejuvenated, only now realising just how disgusting you’d felt after being held in that cave. 

Now you looked a bit like a princess again, even if you did still have that unpleasant cut marring your perfect face. 

“You should be careful about those.” Shoko said, as she swept her hands over your shoulders. “Let him do whatever he wants and you’ll get caught in no time.” 

You looked at her through the mirror in surprise, making a vague effort to deny her words. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugged. “Sukuna, obviously. Play this however you want but I spend a lot of time with you, and you spent way too much time complaining about him for there to be nothing going on there.”

You bit your lip anxiously, was it that obvious?

“I’m more perceptive than most.” She said, sensing your worry. “And I know you way better than you realise.” 

“Will you tell anyone?” You asked. 

“Nah. Just don’t go on about him all the time to me, it's insufferable.” She mumbled, but there was a hint of amusement in her tone. You knew that you probably would go on about him a fair bit now that she was aware of the situation. 

What else was a handmaid for if not to share your gossip? 

—

By the time Sukuna made it back to your quarters he was exhausted. His conversation with Kashimo after being sent to the throne room had been painfully long. Admittedly, the King had been much more reasonable with him compared to his initial anger from earlier, but that man sure did love the sound of his own voice. 

He apologised for his temper, and actually thanked Sukuna for saving your life. Sukuna had hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but no. He had to listen to Kashimo talk for several more hours about how Sukuna needed to ensure that this never ever happened again, how he needed to stay practically glued to your side from now on. 

That was not a problem, if only Kashimo knew just how close Sukuna intended on staying to his daughter.

Kashimo had also talked at length about implementing a plan against the Zenins, gravely outlining to Sukuna just how close to war it looked like they were right now. 

That wasn’t something that massively concerned Sukuna - he’d pushed them back before, and there was nothing that he enjoyed more than some good old fashioned bloodshed. He was sure that he’d fight even harder knowing that he had you waiting patiently for him to return. 

War was definitely preferable for him to all this weird political gaming and kidnapping - he wanted you to be involved in the disputes as little as possible. 

By the time Kashimo was done talking to him, the day had already drifted into late evening and he found himself grabbing two plates of food from the kitchen, bringing the meals up to your quarters. 

“Tough day?” You asked as he entered your room. 

You were sitting on the armchair, with your injured ankle propped up as likely ordered by the doctor. You looked radiant, all cleaned up and glowing. You were donning a pretty green velvet dress, and your hair had been nicely brushed. He felt unruly compared to you right now, still not finding a chance to clean himself up. 

“That’s an understatement.” He said with a heavy sigh, placing a plate of food on the table beside you before sitting down on one of the other chairs across from you and digging into his own meal. He was starving. He hadn’t had the chance to eat anything since he’d set out to rescue you almost 48 hours ago. 

It seemed that you were in the same state, putting aside the book that you were reading to wolf down your food. 

“What did he have to say?” You asked, referring to your father. “Did he yell at you any more?” 

“He actually apologised.” Sukuna said with a chuckle. “Said that I have to stick to you like glue now though, so…” His eyes roamed over you as he let a smirk light up his face. 

“Like glue, huh?” You asked, giggling softly. “I suppose that can be arranged.” 

“Mmmm.” His gaze went to the book that you’d put down in your lap. It wasn’t one that he’d seen you read before, particularly old and weathered. “What’re you reading?”

“Oh! It's the story of Lancelot and Guinevere. It's always been my favourite Arthurian legend, and It just feels appropriate right now.” 

The tale of a Knight and his lover going behind a King’s back with their affair? Yeah, he supposed that was appropriate for the situation. 

“I always liked The Green Knight the most - I don’t think that one can apply much to our situation though.” He said. 

“Wait, you read Arthurian Legends?” You asked, eyes wide as though you were surprised that he read books at all. 

He shrugged. “Sure, didn’t everyone? It's like the main thing for children to read.”

“Yeah, but you always came across as so against the romanticisation of Knights, I just assumed that you’d never encountered those stories.” 

“I’m against romanticising being a Knight because I am one and it's not romantic. I practically waded through blood and guts during that war with the Zenins, it was nothing like those fairy tales.” He paused. “However, that doesn’t mean I hate your precious little legends, I’m just keen to keep them separate from reality.” 

“Hmmm.” You tapped your chin as you thought before speaking once more. “I think The Green Knight being your favourite suits you. Sir Gawain is brave and honest just like you are.”

Sukuna wasn’t sure that your assessment of him being brave and honest was a fair one considering that he was currently undermining his King by sneaking around with the man’s daughter, but he wasn’t about to turn down the compliment. 

The realisation that was the way you saw him caught him off guard though. Because for all the time had spent messing with you since the moment you’d first met, all the effort that he’d put in to shattering your little fantasy of chivalrous Knights, it seemed like he’d actually achieved the opposite. Because here you were, believing wholeheartedly that he was brave and honest. 

He wondered if Jin would burst into laughter if he heard you say that, if Todo or Choso would pull faces of surprise and tell you that you must be talking about someone else, because there was no way that Ryomen Sukuna, the Demon of the Cerulean Nation was the man that you were calling brave and honest. 

“Everything okay?” You asked, looking at him all wide-eyed. You were chewing on your lower lip - an anxious habit of yours that he’d been noticing lately. It was cute.

“Fine.” He responded quickly, not wanting to get into the depths of how your words had impacted him. “What about you, princess? Are you doing okay? You haven’t had much time to process everything.” 

“Honestly? I think I’m okay, mostly thanks to you.” Your cheeks flushed a little and Sukuna felt his heart skip - he really needed to get a hold of himself, you constantly had his heart running wild. “My father didn’t help though.” You said with a deep sigh. 

“No?” 

“No. I thought for a moment that he was actually worried about me, but all he really cared about was my value.” He raised an eyebrow quizzically as he tried to decode that. 

“Your value?” 

“Whether or not Mahito left me pure.” Your voice broke a little on the final word, your father’s opinion clearly having an effect on you. 

Sukuna let out a sigh. 

What an unpleasant thing to ask your daughter after she’d just survived a traumatic experience. What would Kashimo’s reaction have been if you’d given an answer he didn’t like? Would he have berated you? Cast you aside for something you couldn’t control? In what would’ve likely been your greatest moment of need, would he have discarded you as his daughter and told you it was your own fault?

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” You said quickly, but you were chewing on your lip again, and he could tell that your mind was straying to the affair that the two of you were currently engaged in, what would happen if things between you were uncovered. 

But what was done, was done. That purity that your father was so obsessed with was gone. There was no going back after the night together in the cabin, might as well keep going forward while you still could. 

“Want me to take your mind off it?” He asked, smirking at you. And you wasted no time nodding at him enthusiastically, almost like you’d been waiting for him to ask. 

Moments later he had you sitting on the edge of the bed, your legs hanging a little over the edge as he urged you to lie back. You did as he asked, your body twitching a little as he slid your dress up until it was bunched around your waist. 

He was going to do everything in his power to make you feel good. 

He pressed gentle kisses against your thighs, taking his time moving slowly up your legs until his breath was fanning against your core, still covered by your undergarments. His hands came up to the fabric and slipped it down your legs, leaving you bare to him. 

The heat of his breath was making you squirm beneath him, feeling awfully exposed to his gaze as he practically examined you. 

You were already wet, despite him having barely touched you yet. It seemed that his presence alone had the same effect on you that yours did on him. That desperate need for the other. 

He placed his hands firmly on your hips, keeping you from shuffling away from him as he brought his lips to your pussy, pressing a few light kisses against it before flicking his tongue experimentally against your clit. You let out a cute little mewl at the feeling, arching your back desperately as he made contact. 

Sukuna was obsessed with the way that you’d shake and whimper for him. He hadn’t expected it to have such an effect on him, but watching you unravel beneath him in the cabin last night had made him desperate to draw more responses out of you. He needed to hear all those pretty sounds again, your lovely voice letting him know just how good he was making you feel. 

You were balling the bed sheets tightly in your hands as his tongue explored you leisurely. There was no need to rush, you weren’t going anywhere - he could take as much time as he wanted to tease you, to make you feel good. 

Moving attention away from your clit, he licked a long stripe down your pussy before expertly diving into your folds, the tip of his tongue drawing shapes into the flesh that had you clenching and whining, the pleasure only increasing as he moved a hand down to your clit, his fingers toying with the bundle of nerves while his mouth continued to lavish you with attention, licking and sucking at your sensitive skin. 

Clearly growing more confident by the second - or perhaps simply more needy? You were bucking your hips a little against his face, trying to get more friction from him as your hand went down to his pink locks, tugging at them lightly as you tried to pull him closer. 

Sukuna groaned against your pussy at the sensation, he loved having you pull his hair - the feeling ignited something in him, his hardened cock twitching against the fabric of his trousers with desperate need. 

“-Kuna..” You whined softly, your thighs trembling. He liked you shortening his name like that, even if you’d only done it by accident, the pleasure of him eating you out too intense for you to get your words right. 

Feeling the desperate urge to please you, he pressed the tip of his tongue against your opening, dipping it into you a little as his fingers continued to work at your clit, spurred on by the way your fingers gripped more firmly at his hair at the action, your thighs squeezing his head with bliss. 

“Aaah, ‘m close, Kuna-” 

Taking a mental note of your words, he doubled down on his efforts, not letting up for a second as you squirmed needily beneath him, soft little whines and moans falling from your lips for a few more moments before you were crying out his name, grinding your hips hard against his face and pulling his hair firmly as you came.

Sukuna didn’t move back right away, continuing to lap up your juices as you went limp beneath him, breathing heavily and twitching with the aftershocks of your orgasm with each line that his tongue ran along your folds. 

He stayed where he was until you were gently pushing him away, telling him that it was too much, a cute flushed expression on your face, all teary-eyed from the overstimulation. The thought crossed his mind that he could ignore you, hold you in place and eat you out for hours, making you cum over and over again until you were sobbing with overstimulation and begging him to stop. 

But he was too distracted by the way that you were already shuffling away, carefully lowering yourself to the floor and making sure not to put pressure on your ankle as you positioned yourself on your knees, gazing at him shyly as you patted the edge of the bed, directing him to sit. 

Very curious of where you were going with this, Sukuna followed your command. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, peering down at you kneeling beneath him. 

Leaning forward, you ran your hands up his clothed thigh, his cock twitching as your fingers brushed against his bulge, lightly squeezing at him through the fabric. His breath caught in his throat for a second at how bold you were being, clearly having found a burst of confidence since this morning when you’d been too shy to have him see you naked. 

Perhaps getting all cleaned up had fixed you with a new lease on life. 

“Want me to take them off?” He asked, and you nodded, moving back a little to give him the space to remove his clothes, peeling his trousers and undergarments off before returning to his position on the edge of the bed - with you sitting cutely between his legs. 

He kept his eyes on you, waiting for your next move, wondering what idea you’d brewed up in your mind. He didn’t want to give you too much direction, far too curious about what your plan was. 

Your gaze was on his cock, already painfully hard and standing to attention between his legs. That was just the effect that your presence had on him these days. 

Tentatively, you reached out with one of your hands, experimentally brushing your fingers along the shaft. The touch was feather-light, but it still sent pleasure jolting through him. Being touched by you was entirely different to the sensation from his own hand or one of the many women he’d been with before. 

Having you run your fingers over his cock felt heavenly. Making his body tense with need for release as if he was a virgin again, being touched by a woman for the first time. 

He could hold it together though, would hold it together, because he didn’t want the feeling of you hands on him like this to come to a premature end. 

His enjoyment must’ve been evident on his face, because you seemed to grow a little more confident, your hand wrapping around his cock properly now, squeezing just hard enough to have Sukuna biting down on his lip to prevent a groan from slipping out. 

But that was nothing compared to what you did next. Leaning forward you tentatively licked the tip of his cock, making him twitch hard. You definitely noticed that, because all of a sudden you were looking up at him with big eyes, as though trying to confirm that you were doing things right. 

And that drove him wild. 

“More, princess.” He said huskily, and you blushed as you followed his command, bringing your tongue to his cock once more and licking at the tip needily, tasting his pre-cum and clearly revelling in the way he’d twitch with each contact. Payback, he supposed, for him doing the same to you. 

With your confidence continuously growing, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, looking up at him as you did so, checking that you were doing a good job. And you were, because it felt like bliss having your warm mouth wrapped around him like that, his hand instantly moving to your hair, petting the strands softly. 

Slowly you started to move yourself down his cock, attempting to take more of him into your mouth. He winced a little as your teeth scraped against him, but he couldn’t exactly blame you - this was your first time doing this, and it wasn’t like he was small. 

“Open up a little wider, baby.” he murmured encouragingly, and you took a moment to relax your jaw, getting used to having him in your mouth before edging forward a little further. Sensing that you were struggling, Sukuna guided your head down his length carefully, cooing and praising you for doing such a good job. 

He allowed you to take things at your own pace, his hand in your hair not too pushy or firm, letting you do what you wanted. 

The way that he’d been having sex with you wasn’t particularly the norm for him. True to how he was in battle, he was a man who enjoyed violence. Subsequently he was a bit of a sadist, and liked to fuck rough and hard. If you were one of his one night stands he wouldn’t have had much patience for what you were doing right now - these sweet hesitant movements. 

If you were a one night stand he would’ve already started to fuck your face, selfishly chasing his release while you just knelt there and took it. 

But you were special to him, so he was going to take things nice and slow with you. Fuck you gently and lovingly, let you get used to things at your own pace before he even suggested putting his own sexual desires on the table. 

Besides, with you he didn’t feel the need to rely on sadism to get himself off as he did with others. He was so obsessed with you, that even the most tame and vanilla love-making was appealing to him as long as it was you he was doing it with. 

Not that he wouldn’t love to inflict a little pain one day if it was something you were interested in. You’d spent plenty of time acting like a brat in the early days of him being your Knight, and he certainly hadn’t forgotten. He’d definitely spend some time putting you in your place for that. Once you were ready. 

For now he was just enjoying the sight of you bobbing your head up down his cock at your own pace, your tongue flicking against the underside of his shaft and your hands moving along the base, covering off the parts of him that you couldn’t quite fit into your mouth. 

He was impressed with how well you were doing for your first time, and you had him cumming in no time. It was impossible for him to hold on too long with you looking up at him like you were, eyes glossy with the tears you were holding back, your lips wrapped obscenely around his length. He had no chance. 

And as he came into your mouth, he expected you to move away on reflex, to spit his cum onto the floor. But you didn’t, keeping your eyes on him as you swallowed his seed, your expression telling him that you wanted him to praise you for doing so well, for being so good. 

“Good girl.” He hummed softly, his fingers playing with strands of your hair as he watched you wipe away some of his cum that had dripped down your chin. The site was lewd, and despite having literally just cum, he could feel himself already growing hard at the sight. He needed to be inside you again. 

Fuck, you really had no idea what you did to him. 

And a moment later he was lifting you up onto the bed, placing you on top of him, lifting your dress up once more as he pressed his cock up against your slick core. 

He wasn’t going to be done with you anytime soon. 

—

And that’s how the next few weeks went. 

With your broken ankle your mobility was relatively limited, so most of your time was spent inside the castle, and that meant that a great deal of your days were spent alone in your room with Sukuna. 

Days that used to be so tedious back when he’d first become your Knight, had now transitioned into cherished hours filled with pleasure. 

He’d take you over and over again, making love to you passionately on your silk sheets, fucking you like he couldn’t possibly get enough. Having you in multiple positions: beneath him with your legs thrown over his shoulders, riding him with his hands guiding your hips up and down his cock, on all fours with his hand occasionally smacking your ass - a feeling that you discovered very quickly that you loved.

You’d often find his fingers in your mouth, stifling your cries as he drove his hips into yours, aware that anyone walking by the door would be able to hear what was transpiring if he let you be too loud - even though he was desperate to hear those pretty cries unfiltered. 

It was incredible, spending so much time exploring each other’s bodies, Sukuna teaching you everything that you needed to know about pleasure day after day as he showed you new things. You were addicted to him. To the way he made you feel. 

When you weren’t having sex, you’d spend almost all of your time together. Your father had told Sukuna that he needed to stick to you like glue after all, and he was doing an excellent job of that. 

Plenty of time would pass with the two of you curled up in your bed, his arms wrapped around you and your head resting on his chest - enjoying each other’s warmth even despite the warm summer air. 

Sometimes he’d lay with his head in your lap while you read to him, your fingers threading through his pink locks absentmindedly; or he’d place you on his lap when sitting in your armchair, hands caressing you tenderly as he’d tell you stories about Jin and Yuji. 

You kept up with all your usual hobbies: painting in the garden, taking long walks through the grounds, practicing embroidery on some of your older dresses. Now always with Sukuna at your side, watching your actions with interest and occasionally joining in if desire struck him. 

Sukuna also encouraged you to take up a few new hobbies, grabbing practice swords from the barracks and using one of the private training rooms to spar with you - showing you how to use a sword, and how to overcome an enemy if they ever managed to grab you, desperate to keep you safe should you ever be kidnapped again. 

Those training sessions were really just an excuse for Sukuna to have his hands on you though - always correcting your posture, his hands on your waist as he tried to teach you new moves. He’d always make a point to pin you down when he inevitably won the spars, grinning and smirking at the way your pupils dilated and your cheeks flushed at his proximity. 

He had to be particularly careful with the sparring, on account of your still healing ankle, but he was always there to make sure that he caught you if you ever stumbled, his care for you written into all of his actions. 

You’d assumed that over time the way that your heart would race at his presence would start to subside. That his touch would become the norm. But between the sparring, his constant presence while you went on with your daily life, and the long evenings spent with him between your legs; you found that your heart still felt like it was exploding whenever he was near. 

You weren’t sure that you’d ever really get used to him being yours. 

About a month and a half passed since the incident with Mahito and you were doing better than ever. Your ankle had almost fully healed, and you’d started moving about without crutches. You’d had several nightmares of the night that you spent in that cave, but each time you’d awoken in fits of tears and covered in sweat, Sukuna’s strong arms and comforting presence had been there to calm you down and lull you back into peaceful sleep. 

For the most part your father had left you alone, putting his complete trust in Sukuna to look after your wellbeing. That had been something of a blessing, with you and Sukuna not having to try too hard to hide your relationship under your father’s clever gaze. 

But his absence over the last six weeks had also caused a certain amount of anxiety in you, because things had been too easy lately - too quiet. There had been no talk of your future, or of suitors. And as much as that should’ve come as a relief, it didn’t - the fear that your father was working on things behind the scenes growing with each day that passed. 

“Something wrong?” You and Sukuna were currently sitting out in your private garden. Chairs positioned across from each other, each of you with a canvas and easel, paints set up on small tables beside you both. 

You’d been hovering your paintbrush above the canvas for some time now, caught up with all your thoughts and worries. You’d been getting a bit of cabin fever lately with how long you’d been cooped up in the castle walls, desperate to go out and stretch your legs somewhere a bit more private than the palace and its grounds. It would be a nice escape from all the anxiety that would build up in your head when stuck in one place for too long. 

“No, just spacing out.” You replied, turning your attention back to your painting. 

The two of you had been out here for a while, working on your own pieces of art. Yours was pretty much done at this point, looking exquisite as you added the few finishing touches. 

It was a painting of Sukuna, one you were very proud of. It depicted him as he sat across from you, but instead of having the garden as the background, you’d painted him in that flower field that he’d taken you to back before the banquet, trying to recreate the scenery and colours to the best of your ability with no reference. 

You felt like you’d done an excellent job, but considering that day felt like eons ago now, it was hard to objectively say how close the similarities were. 

“Okay, I’m done!” You said. “How’s yours going?” Sukuna winced at your question as he stared at his own canvas like it had done something to offend him. 

“Uhhh…I don’t think it’ll get much better.” He said, sounding very much like a defeatist. 

You giggled at that. He’d told you before this exercise that painting wasn’t really his thing - it wasn’t really something he’d ever done before, even as a kid. But you’d insisted that you both paint each other, pointing out just how cute an activity it would be to do together, and he’d relented. You’d learnt over the last few weeks that there was a pleading expression of yours that he was particularly weak to, and you’d been exploiting that a lot.

“Come on, I bet it's not even that bad.” Sukuna raised an eyebrow at you in disbelief. 

“You haven’t seen it yet.” He grumbled, reluctantly picking up the painting as you did the same with your own. 

“On the count of three?” He nodded and the two of you counted down, both spinning your paintings around at the same time. 

Looking at what Sukuna had created, you couldn’t help but giggle. It was painfully bright, he’d only used the base colours that you’d provided him, making no attempt to mix the colours together to create new ones - the thought likely never even crossed his mind. 

It was reminiscent of a painting that a child might create - clumsily painted grass with some splotches of colour for flowers, a dress-wearing figure in the centre of the canvas which was only one step up in artistic ability from a stickman. In the corner he’d even drawn a big ball of yellow with lines coming out of it to represent the sun. 

Your reaction was perhaps a little cruel, but after a few moments of assessing the painting you were doubled over with laughter. You were so used to Sukuna being talented at everything he did. He was the Kingdom’s best fighter, an excellent lover, and over the last few weeks you’d discovered that he was also excellent at more tame matters like cooking, braiding your hair, and discussing philosophy. 

No one could be good at everything, but you weren’t expecting a little bit of painting to be his downfall

“It's not that funny.” He grumbled, crimson eyes glaring at you as you grabbed the easel to steady yourself, wiping tears from your eyes as you tried to slow your fits of giggles.

“Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting it to look like that.” You explained between laughter. 

“I tried really hard.” He said earnestly, and for a moment you felt a little guilty, his words ceasing your chuckles. But as you looked up at him you noticed a hint of a grin on his lips and realised that he was fucking with you. 

His eyes trailed to your painting, studying it carefully. He was quiet for a while as he stared at it, and you began to feel a little exposed. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d seen your paintings, he’d often claimed to like ones that you’d made in the past. But this was the first one that you’d ever done of him, so it felt like the pressure was a little higher than normal. 

“Do you like it?” You asked, chewing on your lip as you watched him examine the art. 

He scoffed. “Obviously. Look at it.” 

You blushed at how candid he was with his praise, his belief that what you created was so good that there wouldn’t even be a question as to whether he liked it or not. That it should’ve already been obvious to you. 

“Is that how I look to you?” He asked, tilting his head to get a better look at the painting. 

You’d just painted him how you saw him, paying close attention to the features that you liked the most. Taking your time to get the pink of his hair the right shade, to draw out the crimson in his eyes, to paint his smirk just right, making sure it was just as handsome as the one that usually graced his face when he was around you. 

“That is how you look.” You said simply, not really understanding his question. 

“Mmm.” He hummed, not elaborating on his query any further. He smiled softly as he continued to look at the painting. “Is this meant to be the flower field?” 

“Yeah! Although I’m not sure if I got all the colours quite right. It's been so long since we were there.” You said, a hint of longing in your tone. You desperately wanted to go back. 

“I can take you there again.” Sukuna offered quickly. “Now that your ankle is feeling better, it might be good to get you out and about for a while.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, eyes glistening as you looked at him. 

“Yeah. It's a date.” 

a/n: thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed the fluff after last chapter's stress! will be back with a new chapter next weekend :)

Just let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! thank you for all the support on this fic, reblogs and comments are appreciated as always <3

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© sukunahs

[kerizaret]

The whole gang is here

[terriwriting]

Novisys version 0.0 now available as a preview for supporters. This is very early stages. The more I look at the working title the less I like it.

Novisys is inspired by the old DC Heroes RPG, but I threw out the core mechanics (so many charts and tables!) and replaced them with a simple roll-over system. All forms of conflict (Physical, mental, or social) are handled with the same mechanic.

I'm designing the system for superheroes, but did a lot of work with the skill system to make sure lower-powered characters still have some individuality. The Talent and Edge rules also help with that.

Equipment is bought with Character Points, at a steep discount over just buying the Advantages as innate abilities. I rejected using cash in-game because that turns wealth into a second pool of CP (The GURPS problem). After two months of work I developed and then rejected an abstract wealth system. Abstract wealth needed subrules of its own that didn't apply to other abilities, turning it into a minigame that felt like too much work for both players and GMs.

Resources (Basically wealth) is a skill representing money, personal credit, favours, reputation, and contacts. It's used to gain access and information.

BEHOLD MY WARES!

I'm nearly $500 short on rent for July. If anyone wants to buy a map or tip me, I'd really appreciate it!

I'm a small (miniscule) indie writer with too many migraines and not enough income. If you like what I do here, check out my Ko-fi and consider supporting me. It helps keep the lights on and the cats fed!

My shop currently features modern TTRPG maps and samples for a TTRPG I'm working on, with fiction coming soon.

Subscribers get access to Work in Progress Wednesday, plus previews of the scripts for Stellar Comics, early access to my alternate-history short story series Hentaigana, and other previews.

[revelboo]

I just had a silly little thought, but imagine TFP Shockwave’s sparkling sitting on his lap while he works, both of them deeply focused, the little one staring at the datapad as if he completely understands everything.

Shockwave would absolutely be the kind of sire who explains things exactly as they are, in purely technical terms. If the sparkling were to fall and burst into tears, Shockwave would calmly pick him up and say: “You have experienced a momentary loss of balance due to the instability of your still-developing bipedal gait. The pain you’re feeling is a nociceptive stimulus. However, this is a natural part of the evolutionary process of motor coordination.” And the little one would immediately stop crying, just staring up at his sire with wide, glowing optics.

Now, the cutest thing ever: Predaking’s twins, Megatron’s little son, and Shockwave’s sparkling all sitting in a circle, playing together and chattering excitedly in their own little language, full of cheerful beeps and chirps.

If it wasn’t for how eerily serious the sparkling is, the human would think it was someone else’s because it doesn’t look anything like Shocky 🤣

Sparkling

TFP Shockwave x Reader

• Catching your son’s tiny hand before he can try to pick up the energon goodie he just dropped, his little antenna go back as he looks up at you. And he whines, chubby legs kicking. Know it’s coming as he warbles out a wail and you grab a different energon treat to offer him. But apparently it has to be that one. On the dirty floor. “If you ingest soiled fuel, you’ll introduce contaminants to your internal systems and risk illness,” Shockwave growls, leaning to look at you both, his antenna back as he bends to grab you and his son. Lifting you both onto his desk.

• And the sparkling stops crying, staring up at him with wide optics. Listening. “You realize he’s a baby and can’t possibly understand you,” you mutter as you settle in your little pile of soft things on his desk. Reaching into the bag at your hip to find another energon treat and offer it and his sparkling grabs on to your hand, head unsteady as he mouths at the goodie. “I’m taking him to visit the other humans and their kids.”

• Staring at Shockwave as he works, you glance at your son watching his sire’s every move with that same unsettling focus. And he has to be Shockwave’s kid even if he looks nothing like his dad. Those optics have the shape of your own eyes, but everything else? It isn’t you and isn’t your mate. “Socializing is necessary for healthy processor development,” Shockwave says, which you decide is agreement. While the predacon twins can not only already transform, but crawl, your kid just kind of aggressively wiggles and chirps his frustration, crawling a little advanced for him still.

• ‘He needs to be around kids his own age. It’s good for him,’ you say and you’re smiling as his sparkling messily eats from your hand, little antenna flicking. And it does things to him seeing you tend to his sparkling. Wants more. “We will give him siblings then,” he growls and your head comes up as he reaches for his son to carry him to his bedding so he can claim you. ‘Right now?’ You squeak, looking worried as you stumble to your feet, his son in your arms. ‘I’d love to, but I promised to go visit the others. Maybe later?’

• You have your hands full with one sparkling, you’re not ready for another one. Plus, you’ve seen the twins’s poor carrier struggling with two that can get into everything. And your mate is as bad as a sparkling sometimes. Blunt and to the point, with little impulse control. Watching his head tip as his cannon taps against his thigh, Shockwave rumbles at you. Before he growls, head inclining and you blow out a breath. “I’ll spark you after you return,” he declares as you smile weakly. Hoping he forgets by the time you get back and knowing he won’t. He fixates completely on stuff like this. Two. You can handle two. And him.

Psst psst new spoilers for upcoming releases from TFW2005 this morning! Gimme Metroplex, Shrapnel, Rumble, Hound, and Megatronus Prime… 💕 Just gimme all of them, we all know I have no impulse control

[bloodlineslut]

Veinbound | Roman Reigns / Jey Uso

Pairings: Roman Reigns / Jey Uso x black! OC

Warnings: vampire! Roman and Jey, cheating, forbidden attraction, oral (f receiving) mentions of drinking blood, fluff, steamy makeout session

Summary: While Roman was away in Italy, Jasmine and Jey began a forbidden relationship, with everyone knowing but Roman. Now with everyone back at Naomi's house for movie night, will they be able to act right?

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: yall I just love the whole vampire AU with the wrestlers so I might make a part two to this lowkey… (once again, literally was inspired by @uceyliyahh please go read her stories, I be HOOKED on them)

Jasmine knocked on the wooden door of Naomi’s house that had beautiful carvings on it as she waited for it to open. She saw Naomi’s approaching figure through the glass and smiled. She opened it, pulling Jasmine in for a warm hug.

“Hey girl! You look amazing!” Naomi grabbed her hand and led her further into the house, closing the door behind her. Only a select number of people had been inside the house, allowing their entrance by being invited in by Naomi. Since Jasmine was human, though, she never had to be invited in.

The others were Roman, Solo, Jimmy, and Jey.

Jasmine first met Naomi at the gym on an early morning. Her muscles had tapped out in the middle of a benchpress set and she frantically looked around the gym for help, only to be suddenly relieved by a girl who had picked up the weight like it was nothing. She soon found out that her name was Naomi and thanked her, offering to take her out to coffee after.

Long story short, they became best friends.

Naomi didn’t tell Jasmine right away what she was. But when she finally did, they had already built up a lot of trust in each other.

Jasmine had always believed that nothing new was ever under the sun so when Naomi showed her her fangs and how the veins protruded out from under her eyes whenever she felt the need to feed, it didn’t surprise her too much. She was still scared though, don’t get her wrong. But she knew Naomi would never do anything like that to her.

Plus, she had been trying this new animal diet recently.

“So how’s the new diet coming along girly?” Jasmine asked her as they skipped up the stairs to go to Trin’s room.

“Ugh. It’s hard but I think I’m getting used to it because I don’t gag at the taste anymore.” She answered honestly, plopping down on her back onto the bed as Jasmine did the same, laying on her stomach.

“Mmm, yummy yummy.” Jasmine shook her shoulders, making them both laugh.

After a pause, Naomi broke the news. “You know Roman is coming today too, right?”

Jasmine’s eyes shot to her friend’s face. “Roman’s back?” Naomi nodded.

“Yup. And Solo, but that’s it.”

Naomi knew that Jasmine had developed a thing with Jey while Roman was away, and vowed to never tell her business, but she knew how hard it would be when both Jey and Roman were around Jasmine. It was just different with Jey.

“I’m fucked.” Jasmine breathes out.

“I agree.” Jasmine hit Naomi’s arm. “What? I mean I get it. They’re both fine, but girl you gotta pick one.”

“I literally can’t pick one.” Naomi just slowly shook her head. They engaged in more conversations about how they had to fight some new werewolves last week that arrived into town.

“Oh that’s why you told me to stay at home last Friday?” Jasmine prompted.

“Mhm. Can’t have you getting attacked out here, babygirl.” Naomi proudly replied.

Suddenly Naomi stood up, sensing their guests that just arrived. She sighed, walking out of the room into the hallway, with Jasmine following close behind. “They just never knock on a door or ring a doorbell or nothing.”

Jasmine hid her laugh with her hand, but it was wiped away when she saw firsthand, Jimmy, Jey, and Solo sitting down on the barstools at the counter. Jey’s head whipped to her, able to smell the sweet aroma of her blood from downstairs.

Naomi smacked all three men upside their heads in a row, making them all act like it hurt way worse than it did. “What did I tell ya’ll about comin’ up in here and not sayin’ anything!”

They all muttered a “Sorry.”

Roman was the last person to enter into the house. His tall and large figure couldn’t be missed. He wore all black, a black hoodie, black sweatpants, and black Jordan’s, with that beautiful mane of hair in a messy man bun.

Naomi motioned her head towards Roman while looking directly at Jasmine, causing her to walk further down the steps and greet him. Roman was like the leader of their coven, appointed by the elders a few years ago.

“Hey baby. How are you?” He warmly asked, still keeping her at arm’s length. Jasmine always noticed in the times that they hugged or were in close proximity to one another, Roman never lost control or succumbed to the smell of her blood. He was very strong and disciplined.

“I’m good.” She replied and stood on her tiptoes to give him a soft kiss. “I missed you.” He whispered lowly in her ear.

“I missed you too.” Jasmine really did miss him while he was away. Maybe it just pushed her further into Jey’s arms.

Jasmine remembered that she didn’t greet Solo and the twins yet. She turned to them, giving Solo and Jimmy side hugs and a quick hello.

When she got to Jey, she hesitated for split second.

“Uhh Roman can you come help me get the ice cream out of the garage?” Naomi quickly distracted him.

“Yea, for sure.” They both left the kitchen and walked into the garage.

In all honesty, everyone knew that Jasmine and Jey had a thing going on, but no one dared to tell Roman.

She looked into Jey’s big brown, sparkling eyes and smiled softly at him. “Hi.”

“Hey.” That was all they needed to say and he pulled her towards him in a hug where both of his hands were splayed over her back, holding her for as long as he could. Then he heard the freezer door close from the garage and pulled away, causing Jasmine to do the same, walking to the other side of the counter.

After Roman put the ice cream on the counter to thaw out a little bit, he interlaced his fingers with Jasmine’s, walking them over to a chair at the dining table and he sat her on his thigh, those big strong arms snugly wrapped around her torso.

Naomi thumped Jey’s forehead seemingly for no reason, but she could hear his thoughts. She was the only one who could get into his mind since that was Naomi’s gift.

She heard him say, ‘She be sittin’ on my lap too.’

“Ow, c’mon Naomi! That ish hurt…” She just widened her eyes at him as if signaling and reminding him that she could still hear his thoughts.

“Whatever uce.” He muttered under his breath.

“Okay!” Naomi clapped her hands. “Ya’ll know I’m on this diet so eating regular food curbs the blood cravings. Please can ya’ll do it with me?” She handed everybody a tub of ice cream and a spoon.

Jimmy just laughed at her. “Yes ma’am.” She leaned over the counter to give him a kiss.

“You still wanted to watch that movie, Trin?” Jimmy was the only one who really called her by her nickname.

“Mhm! I been waitin’ all week.” Her and Jimmy got up to go sit on the large sofa in front of the flat screen mounted TV.

“C’mon Solo.” Jey said a little harsher than usual, irritated by the fact that he couldn’t hold Jasmine like he really wanted to.

Roman stood up, picking up Jasmine bridal style, making her giggle. He walked them both over to the love seat that was directly next to the sofa.

Right on the side that Jey was seated on.

Jasmine saw out of the corner of her eye that his mouth twitched, but he didn’t dare say anything.

“How’s summer school?” Roman quietly asked as his fingers ran up and down the lining of her leggings.

“Good, but it’s been going by super fast. I only have two weeks left.” Jasmine replied as she traced the folds of his palms.

“That’s good, I’m happy for you princess. Let me know if you need to pay for anything, you know I’ll take care of it.” His hand rested on her head, bringing it closer to lay on his chest.

As Naomi and Jimmy were arguing over what horror movie to watch, Jasmine’s phone let her know that it was on 10% and she knew Naomi kept a spare charger in her bedroom. She got up out of Roman’s lap. “Going to find a charger, I’ll be right back.”

As she walked out of the living room, she noticed that Jey was gone.

‘When did he leave?’

As she arrived to the room, the door was closed which was weird—Trinity never closed her door at all.

She shrugged it off and opened the door to enter, but was immediately grabbed at the waist by who she came to recognize as Jey.

Before she could say anything, he motioned for her to shush, quietly closing the door, and leading her to lay down beneath him on the bed.

“Jey.” Jasmine whisper-yelled at him, scared to death for Roman to walk in on them.

But if he doesn’t suspect anything, why would he find them?

“He’s right downstairs—”

Jey quieted her whispers with his warm lips, encompassing her mouth into his. Their lips molded together like missing puzzle pieces, igniting that familiar fire in her chest. His lips moved against hers like he was trying to burn the shape into his memory.

Jasmine was melting right into his hands on Trinity’s bed, her fingers gripping onto his shoulders through his hoodie. Jey’s hand went from palming the bed to palming the outer part of one of her thighs that was wrapped around his waist. The quiet sounds of their lips colliding encompassed the room.

“I miss you baby.” He said so lowly that she almost didn’t hear him.

Her heart clenched at his words, her feelings stuck between him and his cousin.

They continued to makeout with each other, pent up feelings being shared by their lips. Jasmine arched up into him, aching to be closer to him any way, anyhow.

She felt the subtle parting of his lips and then his tongue brushed against hers, deepening the kiss. Her fingers went up to his wavy hair that was cut into a fresh mullet. Jasmine moaned softly into the kiss before he pulled back enough to catch his breath, lips swollen and wet, and eyes dark.

Her chest was rising and setting rapidly with her eyes darting to the door, still so afraid to get caught. Jey’s hand slid up to cup her chin. “Don’t worry ‘bout him.”

His lips lightly trailed across her jaw before trailing down to the side of her vulnerable neck, making Jasmine hitch her breath and grip his hoodie tighter.

“Right here, baby?” He kissed the spot gently just once. Next she felt his tongue drag across the same area and she wrapped her legs even tighter around his waist, making him smile against her neck.

“Mm. You smell good.” He could smell her blood and it called out to him. He brushed his nose against the pulse in her neck, making the veins protrude under his eyes as he growled quietly. He was trying not to bite her.

“Shit, Jas. Ion know why you let me kiss you like this.” His hand gripped her waist tighter. “It drives me crazy.”

“Please don’t bite me, he’ll see and smell it…” Jasmine whispered to him, now gripping his collar and inching away from his exposed fangs.

“I know, I know.” His eyes trailed over her entire figure that was entangled with his underneath his strong body. “Fuck, I wish you were mine.”

Jey began retreating from her face and down her body, his head now between her legs that were covered by her butter-soft leggings. She felt his fingers dip under the waistband of both her pants and panties, pulling them down over her butt and up to the middle area of the back of her thighs.

“Ugh, Jey…” She whimpered, clutching the bedsheets.

“You want me to stop?” He softly asked, knowing the answer already as she silently shook her head no.

He leaned in closer to her bare center, his breath just barely ghosting over the wetness. He buried his face between her legs like he was a starving man. His tongue doing slow, deliberate movements consisting of long licks that made Jasmine curl her toes and slap the bed.

He licked circles around her throbbing clit, making her head spin and bite her tongue to keep from being too loud.

Then he put his entire mouth over everything, clit, lips, and opening, and touched every secret part of her with every flick.

“Jey that feels so good…” She whispered, covering her mouth with one hand as her hips lifted up to get more of the stimulation.

“Jasmine, we found a movie!” Naomi yelled from downstairs, making her jump at the mention of her name.

Jey’s head lifted from between her thighs as he looked at the door, hearing Naomi’s words from downstairs. He looked back at Jasmine.

She shook her head at him, pulling her panties and clothes back up into place.

“We better go back.” She told Jey and he got off of her, still leaning on the bed. She looked in Trin’s mirror to make sure her curls weren’t too messed up and wiped her mouth, trying to erase any evidence that she had just made out with her boyfriend’s cousin.

She walked out of the room, but not without grabbing the phone charger, and down the hallway to the staircase, getting herself together and acting normal so no one would suspect anything. Luckily, the staircase was behind the sofa.

“Hey, I’m back. Um Naomi your toilet is broken, by the way. It takes forever to flush.” She tried to act normal as she sat back down in Roman’s lap, giving him the charger to plug in since he was closer to the outlet.

“It is?” She asked cluelessly.

“I’ll fix it tomorrow babe, don’t worry.” Jimmy snuggled her as Jey walked in from what looked like the downstairs guest bathroom. He could always run so fast and silently too, so it always seemed like he could teleport.

“Damn Naomi, you got rabbit bones in the trash can. It smells funky in there.” Jey covered his nose, making everyone laugh but Naomi.

“Boy hush. At least I’m eating clean!”

As darkness cascaded the outside world and with all of the lights off in the house, nothing filled the room but the glow of the TV, unspoken feelings, and sexual tension.

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