#I had even more but I think this is enough

[reignpage]

What Am I Now?

Synopsis: in which everything falls apart in one night because of a bad argument between you and Toji Warnings: angst, major character death, hurt/no comfort, f!reader, lots of swearing, grief, some description of bodily injury but nothing graphic, there's no light in this tunnel like fr, not proofread Word Count: 5.2k

“I just don’t understand why you’d rather go to the bar than sit here with me?”

Toji scoffs. “All we fucking do is sit here. What’s so bad about me taking a break and getting some air?”

“A break?” Your hands are flying, waving about as if they could get it through his head how ridiculous he sounds. “You want a break from me? So, what, I’m this horrible monster you just can’t wait to get away from?”

This argument has been going on for hours at this point, with neither of you willing to cave. It started with you, in comfy pyjamas and face mask, preparing dinner and super excited to watch a new movie on Netflix with your boyfriend, but when he came out of the shower, he was in jeans and a shirt without stains. You both looked just as incredulous as each other. He said he was going out. That he had told you. And you were sure he hadn’t because if he had, then you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of making a hearty meal, laying out the snacks and his very own matching pjyamas. 

Slowly, like he thinks you can’t understand anything when it’s said at a normal pace, he answers, “I didn’t say that. You’re acting fucking crazy, woman. Look, I’m going out to the bar, with my friends, and that’s that. You can do all the shit you wanted to do on your own.”

He’s walking to the door now, grabbing a jacket on the way. Stomping over to him, you get in the way, blocking his exit with a furious glare. There’s no way this conversation’s ending like this, with him deciding it’s the end, with him getting what he wants and your feelings being trampled all over because he’d rather drink himself to death than cuddle on the sofa with you.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, I said, ‘no.’ You’re not going. We have to talk about this.” Toji opens his mouth, disbelieving and growing more irritated with every syllable you utter, and you know he’s going to ask what the fuck you mean about ‘this,’ so you get the words out before he does, “This. Us. Our night. Our home. Why don’t you want to be with me?”

Rolling his eyes, he bulldozes past you, pushing you to the side. You don’t let him. You’re tugging on his jacket, nails digging into the thick material. He can’t go. What if he never comes back?

The words that have been thrown around tonight are sharp edged swords, though they don’t dig deep, they weave several shallow cuts that sting. No ambulance to rush you away, no hospital to take you, no surgeon to sew you back up. You just bleed out, alive and wobbling away. 

Clearly beyond done, Toji grunts, easily shrugging off your pathetic attempts to hold him back. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I don’t want to hear it right now. Just get out of the way.”

“No, answer me.”

Pitiful fists smack into his chest in a flurry. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch. You want to make him hurt. That ache inside your chest, the one that’s holding onto the tears that threaten to stream down your face, that’s driving you insane – you want him to feel it. You want him to care.

Toji doesn’t relent. Instead, he stands there, an immovable statue sculpted by someone else, and pinches his nose. “Just stop.”

“No. Why are you always leaving? Huh? Why can’t you just stay? What’s so fucking wrong with me that you don’t want to have dinner and watch a movie with your girlfriend?”

“Because you’re suffocating me!” He bellows. 

You stumble back.

“I can’t fucking breathe. God, I can’t even think without you nagging me. ‘Let’s get dinner,’ ‘let’s go to a museum,’ ‘let’s wear matching shirts.’ It’s never enough for you. For fuck’s sakes, I just want to be able to put my feet up, drink beer and not have to cater to every fucking whim of yours like I’m some goddamn dog.” Combing a hand through his hair, he breathes through his nose. He’s losing steam – you can see it in the way his shoulders fall and he shakes his head, slowly, weary and fatigued. Then, with a quieter, gentler, more desperate tone, he asks, “I see you everyday and you still want more? You ain’t tired of this shit? Of all the fake coupley shit that you think we have to do otherwise we’re frauds? You haven’t had enough? ‘Cause I’m growing pretty fucking sick of all the bullshit.”

Speechless, you just keep as still as you can, feeling mighty small under the weight of his words. You’ve never seen Toji like this. Usually he’s passive, allowing you to ramble on and on about whatever’s filling your mind, even when you’re mad at him, when he’s heard your story a million times before, and even in your worst moment when you bait him into chasing after you. Through it all, your boyfriend took your insecurities and flaws like a champ. 

Now he’s done. Now he’s been backed into a corner and there’s nowhere else for him to go except past you. 

It’s unclear to you what expression you wear on your face; you can really only focus on that hollow sinkhole widening in your heart. Something about your eyes makes his close tight. Toji breathes once, twice, and says, “We’ll talk later. I’m late.”

And then he leaves. 

His jacket is dangling from your clutches and it’s suddenly so heavy. Tears threaten to fall. You don’t let them, even when your bottom lip wobbles and so does your balance. Heaving, you lean against the wall.

How did it all fall apart so quickly?

The day had started off like normal: sweaty, dirty sex, pillowtalk, late breakfast, lazy lounging around the living room, and catching each other up on what’s happening on your phones. Weekdays are more productive, what with you both having jobs to do, but weekends are yours and his to share. Or at least that’s what you thought. 

An eerie silence falls upon the apartment. It’s unlike the silences you’re used to, like being the last one to leave the house and you’re eating the breakfast Toji made for you, or waiting for him to come back from throwing the bins out, being the first to come home, sitting in bed doing your own thing as you slowly unwind from the day’s toils.

You can’t stand it – the doing nothing – so you shuffle away from the closed door that’s not going to open anytime soon. There’s a lot to tidy anyway: the plates of food untouched, the unfolded blanket you wanted to be cuddled under, face masks and snacks and dips, and the pile of clothes he probably wasn’t going to wear even if you begged. 

Maybe you are too much. 

Maybe what Toji was saying had some merit to it. 

All those outings he would have never done if you hadn’t pleaded with a huge smile and puppy dog eyes were planned by you. The dinners reserved by you, the anniversaries, the dates, all of it. You. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love you. The fact that he did all of it, albeit begrudgingly, was proof of that. His love showed in his gentle touch, his patience, though limited, and in the fact that, through the ups and downs, he still stayed. 

But he won’t forever, not when he feels…suffocated. 

With a sigh, you grab your phone, snatch his jacket and decide you’re not going to let him be out there, cold and angry. 

So you, too, leave.

.

.

.

“Go home, Fushiguro.”

That isn’t what Toji wants to hear from his friend slash handler, Shiu. Truthfully, he wanted to be validated, wanted the man to tell him you were acting crazy, and that he wasn’t wrong for walking out. 

As he stomped into the bustling bar, the suited man took one look at him, shook his head with an exhausted laugh and took a huge gulp of his whiskey, knowing damn well it was going to be a long night. It always is when the scarred man looks ready to kill and for free.

Toji takes a swig of his beer. “You didn’t hear a single shit I said? I said, ‘I'm not in the mood to get into it with her again.’”

“Being a man is about learning to take the beatings life hands you,” Shiu professes mysteriously, tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Fuck off.”

Sitting in the corner of the bar, they’re left alone to wallow in their problems – one man chronically alone and the other about to lose it all. They don’t remember how they found each other or why they stayed as friends when they barely like the other, but they suppose it’s really because through all the faces they’ve met, not many have ever stuck around. But they did. And that has to mean something. 

The bastard is rarely not right and he knows it. He prattles off great advice with a smug face and one has to fight the urge to lay a good one on his nose. No matter how fucked up shit gets, Shiu could always make things so simple, so clear, and straightforward that he’d feel like a dumb sack of shit. 

In fact, that’s pretty damn close to how he feels now. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he admits, “I feel like shit. Like I got hit by a fucking truck. Look at me. I’m sitting here talking about my fucking feelings with your stupid ass. She’s always gotta get into my head about things. Made me a chump. Fucking hate this. Me. I turned into a pussy.”

“I don’t know about you, Fushiguro, but I like the you she created.” 

Toji snorts. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You were a massive asshole,” Shiu begins, using a tone that suggests it should be obvious to the man sitting opposite him. “You were angry all the time, moody and brooding for no reason. Hours could pass and you wouldn’t say a single word. Ha, a college kid bumped into you and you knocked his shit before he could even open his mouth to apologise. Made him piss his damn pants. Got everyone scared of your big ass.”

He couldn’t deny that. Their friends, if you could call them that, often joked that he was a monster. And yeah, well, moving place to place, house to house, couch to couch would make a monster out of anyone. Before, these kinda criticisms would have rolled off his back, maybe even brought a smirk to his scarred lips, but something about the person he is now makes that sudden blast from the past bring a grimace to his face.

Shiu chuckles and, with a clink of his glass to Toji’s, says, “Look at you now – you actually shower and smell less like horse shit these days. Sure, you’re still killing for a living but you don’t do that shit with a smile on your face like a psycho now. Hell, you even tip. You used to steal tips, remember? And then just last month, some pimply-faced kid fell onto our table and spilled our drinks and I, honest to God, thought you’d beat him black and blue –instead, what did you do? Huh? Tell me. What did you do?”

“Fuck you.”

“You fucking picked him back up and told him, ‘Get some water in ya, the girl you came with likes you so don’t embarrass yourself.’” He throws his head back and laughs as if he just heard the funniest joke come out of his own mouth. “And don’t try to argue with me. You know she’s cleaned you up, made an honest man out of you, or as honest as a killer-for-hire can be. You smile more, Fushiguro. Fucking cheesing at your damn phone, leaving the bar early, speeding to get the fuck home before she does just so you can do God know’s what – and don’t say, I’d rather not know.”

The changes he talks about, Toji hadn’t noticed. Of course, he knew life had changed for him. A steady, secure home with a woman that sees him and is happy with what fills her vision, a woman who doesn’t mind hearing grunts as replies, who’s patient and kind, that cleans up the blood off his shirts and does it all with a smile. There's stability in his life now. Something that gets him up in the morning other than hunger and a need to piss. A thing to look forward to, a home to come back to. 

"Honestly, I don't know why you'd rather be here with me than her. If I had a woman half as good as her, you'd never see my sorry face. Any more of these nights with you and people will think we're lovers, which is fine by me, just as long as they know I'm on top."

A bead of condensation drips down the neck of his beer bottle. The bar’s too loud, too crowded and it doesn’t smell sweet and floral like home. Everyone’s too drunk to give a shit about what’s happening outside, far too elated with the clumsy grinding and grimy sweating of bodies. Maybe that’s why he likes places like this so much; it’s easy to forget your responsibilities, your past, and all the things that drag you down. 

But that’s not you. You’re not a burden, you’re a part of his present, and the only thing that keeps him going. 

So why didn’t he act like it?

You looked so damn excited to watch that movie with him and he crushed that spark that makes you you under his boot, for what? For booze? For some time alone with an asshole wearing a tailored suit and tie in a dingy bar?

The words he spewed at you come crashing back like a tidal wave of regret and shame. He told you you were suffocating him. He told a bunch of lies, anything to get you off his back, to make his need for alcohol justified. Like. A. Fucking. Pussy. 

Glancing at his phone, he sees missed calls and a voicemail. From you. So does Shiu, who whistles and suggests, “You’re done for, my man.”

“Fuck.” Toji throws his head back. He fucked up. Big time. Running a hand down his face, he says, “I need to go. I need to get home, catch her before she fucking leaves me or some shit. Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

A couple papers get thrown on the table, along with whatever loose change he has in his pockets, and he lunges out of the bar faster than if there was a fire, though not before he sees, in the corner of his eyes, a familiar looking smug tilt of a brow on a suited prick. 

He’s driving home now, fingers thrumming on the wheel, a subconscious desperation to manifest the ability to push the car beyond its limits and get to its destination faster. The useless piece of shit isn’t going fast enough; every second he wastes getting home when he should have been there to begin with is a second closer to him losing everything he never deserved to have in the first place. 

Images of you crying, hugging yourself and waiting by the door, or sleeping, alone, in an empty bed flash in his mind and without realising it, he’s accelerating even more. The roads are empty this time of night and he thanks the universe; the last thing he needs is to be honked at. 

Why couldn’t he just suck it up?

Movie nights are a lot of work – he often has to drive down to the store and get all the snacks your heart desires, squeeze into the cheesy pyjamas you bought him, let you spread some goo on his face, and then sit through some chick flick that he grumbles about at the start but gets really into once ten or twenty minutes has passed. All the dates that required him to get off his ass sent dread settling in his stomach usually turn out more fun than he thought. Because you know him. Because you know his strengths and weaknesses, his sore points and intolerances. And love him because of them. 

Having half a mind to listen to the voicemail you sent, Toji thinks about what he wouldn’t want to hear. What he can’t. The argument was bad, yes, he admits. But it’s not bad enough to quit, to end the beautiful thing you’ve grown, to give up. There’s no life after you, without you. It’s just you. You’re his…everything. And when he gets home, he’ll take you into his arms, apologise for all the shit he said and will say, and watch that movie with you. Hell, he’ll watch it a million times. 

Toji will do anything to make it up to you.

Maybe he should take you to the sea. That’d be a nice break from the chaos of the city. You two can go fishing, take long walks down the beach like women love to do, and do that thing he watched in a movie, where he carries you into the water, laughing and giggling. 

And what about the ring he’s been meaning to buy?

Flashing lights catch his attention. A fuckload of police cars and ambulances off the side of the road. Toji’s brows furrow. “Fuck happened there?”

Palm sweaty, he fishes his phone out. That voicemail he’s been ignoring, pretending it doesn’t exist because if it’s anything other than an ‘I love you, let’s not break up,’ he might just throw his phone out the car. He runs a hand through his hair and presses play, only hesitating twice. A second of static silence reaches his ears before your voice does. 

“Hey, Toji…I, um, don’t know if you want to hear from me right now."

Your voice has the corner of his scarred lip twitching. It's the tender and gentle voice he knows, and not the scratchy half-screams he last heard. The latter never suited you. It's just not who you are and deserve to be.

"But uh…I wanted to say sorry…You’re right, I was a lot today, like usual….And I’m sorry. About the movie that you didn’t want to watch, t-the face masks and the food I didn’t even ask if you wanted to eat. God, I’m so fucking sorry, Toji...I was too much, wasn’t I?”

He shakes his head. There’s a creeping sudden tension rising up his spine and he tightens his hold on the wheel, slowing down for show so the uniformed men don’t give him shit, and as soon as the red and blues of the night disappear from his rearview mirror, he revs up. 

“I think it’s ‘cause there’s so much I want to do with you, y’know? Like, you’ve lived a whole life before me and it’s a little intimidating….You’ve loved before…and it’s beautiful…but you’re my first and I’m not trying to compete with her or anything, I swear! I just want to make our own memories, y’know? I want experiences too. And when you’re quiet, less active, less…present, I guess it triggers something in me: a need to compensate. Maybe one could even say I’m overcompensating and they wouldn’t be wrong, I guess.”

When he pulls up, his feet carry him out and into the building on autopilot, gravel crunching under his shoes and the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. There’s no one else around. The lights of every window are off. It’s too quiet. Toji scratches his chest. 

“I don’t know where I’m going with this; you know I ramble when I’m nervous. Maybe I should just go to sleep and wait for you, fight through that feeling I’m getting that says I won’t see you ever again after this. I should sleep everything off…but I couldn’t let our night go like this. You have that mission tomorrow and you’re going to be gone for a couple days so I guess I just wanted to cram some time together…”

The door’s unlocked. He flexes his hand, knuckles turning white with the tight clench of his fist. Somehow, his work schedule had eluded him; it was you who kept up with all that admin shit that Shiu never bothers to remind him about, after all. 

“I should have known it’d be too much. I mean, you’re right that we see each other every day – that was hyperbole, of course...I think anyway...but it’s practically true. We see each other a lot…but I don’t know…I guess I just thought it wasn’t enough.

Your voice grows quiet and he has to lift the speaker of his phone to his ear to hear your next words over the sound of his heart pounding. 

“To me, I could never see too much of you. I always want to see you. To be with you. And…you don’t feel the same…”

Something painful scrunches in his chest, it almost makes him double over. Under his breath, he mutters, “No, baby. I do. Fuck, I do.”

“And that’s okay. I’m realising now that that’s probably healthy. I think I just love you too much. More than you love me – that’s not a complaint at all, I promise. It’s not a reflection of you but rather of me….God, I’m crazy, aren’t I? I never know when to shut up and wow, even now I’m saying ‘I’ a lot. Okay, so yeah, I have problems and I need to work on them.”

You’re not in the living room. The TV is off. And what was that about him loving you less? That’s bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. You know that. You have to. Right?

Making a mental note to make that the first thing you hear, he continues his search. 

“Ma? Where you at?” He checks the kitchen and finds containers of the food you prepared put neatly away. It’s his favourite. His stomach rumbles. “You sleeping, doll?”

The bedroom’s empty too. Fuck.

“I’ll work on it, Toji…so, please, will you give me a chance? To do better. To be better.”

He’s checked every room. Twice. And again. You’re not home. But that can’t be right. You have to be home. You just have to. It’s dark outside and cold and dangerous and he’s not there to hold your hands to make sure they don’t fall off from the frost of summer. 

Louder, nearing a scream, he says, “Baby, I’m not messing around. Tell me where you are. You hiding? Is that it? You hiding from me? Fuck, sweetheart, I promise I’m not mad, okay? So just come out here. L-let me see my gorgeous girl, yeah?”

Breathing faster and faster until he has to lean against the wall for balance, Toji scrambles to think. You’re saying so much so fast and he can’t keep up. For every sentence you utter there’s a whole conversation to be had. So many inaccuracies he needs to correct, to set straight. Where the hell did you even get all this shit you’re saying?

Not from him, right?

He didn’t make you feel so small, did he?

The woman that had built him up crumbling all by herself because he’d rather drink himself to death than live a life you made possible for him. Fucking bastard. Ungrateful son of a bitch. Useless fucker.

“Uh this is getting long, sorry. We can talk more about it when I see you. So, yeah, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m driving over to the bar to give you your jacket. You forgot it. Or maybe you left it on purpose. I don’t know. I just don’t want you to be cold. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to see you, hopefully smiling...You don’t smile without a bottle in your hand nowadays but if I had a clingy girlfriend, I’d probably be making out with beer too. I’m kidding. Sorry, that’s not funny…okay, so, um, I love you and I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Flashing lights, 

Cop cars. 

Ambulances. 

The crowd…gasping and pointing.

And a flipped over car he only now just processed. 

The ride over to the crime scene goes by in a blur. Only static and the faint sound of your voice on repeat playing in the background. Every stop light is ignored, pedestrians barely avoided, and the wheels pushed to their very limits. All while he foregoes wearing a seatbelt.

Toji doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t think or slow down or answer the many calls from unknown numbers. 

He doesn’t even make a sound.

Not until he arrives, shoves past tiny men with their tiny understanding of who you are and what you mean to him, and finds a body wrapped up in a bag. Rushing of blood fill his ears. People try to hold him back, to get him away, but there must be something in his face or his eyes that warns, ‘don't get in my fucking way’

It’s akin to a wounded yelp of a wild beast or the guttural flames of hell as it opens up and consumes whole poor, unfortunate souls. No one’s ever heard anything like it. Yet, they know. Just from the way he had fallen to his knees, had rushed to yank that zipper down but hesitated to pull the bag open. But the sound…the sound tells a whole story. 

Some look away, half paying respect and half all too familiar with the scene. Others can’t. They bear witness to the shaking hands that cradle your cold face, cut up and bleeding, and the one sided conversation. 

“No, no, baby, what h-happened? Wake up.” Toji’s patting your cheeks, searching for a flicker of your lashes or the rise of your chest. Even now when he feels the nauseating coldness on a body that had only ever kept him warm he's mindful of the force he's using. He could never hurt you. Not like this. “Come on, this isn’t fucking funny. Open your eyes, baby. Come on. Please.”

Shallow cuts on your face, glass shards still embedded in the skin graze his thumb as he brushes the hair from your hair. They cut him too until the blood staining the skin he’d felt and tasted are both his and yours. 

“I need you. I need to talk to you. Fuck, it isn’t fucking fair. You got to say your shit. You need to hear me apologise ‘cause I am fucking sorry. You hear me, you stubborn woman? I’m s-sorry. So wake the fuck up. Please. I can’t do this without you. I just can’t.”

The car’s totalled. Hit a tree. He can hear the police talk on their radio, something about how you were crushed for hours, alive and yelling for help, but was dead when anyone got to the scene. A roaring of injustice wages war in his very soul. His babygirl in pain and alone and dying. Did you call out for his name? Did you think he was going to come even till your last moments? 

He doesn't know how long he holds you for, can't even tell if it's raining or if he's just sweaty as hell. Those trembling hands of his, that have killed countless men and got him this far in life, seem so useless now as he wills warmth into your limbs. Your pyjamas are soaked with a metallic liquid; they stain his hands.

A familiar face shows up, suit wrinkled. “Fushiguro. They need the body.”

Firm hands pull at him, tugging him away. He won’t let go. Can’t let you be all by yourself. Look at you. You’re not even wearing a jacket. Silly girl. You’d bring his but not your own? 

Do you always have to be so goddamn perfect?

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he says, “Let’s go home, yeah? Let’s go home and watch that movie. That sound good, doll?”

But you don’t answer. 

Not his prayers the next day or his pleadings the week after and certainly not your phone every day since.

Toji never touches another bottle again if only because when he does his mind gets so blurry, so fucked out, he can’t envision the exact angles of your smile or how many wrinkles form at the corner of your eyes. Honestly, if he could, he'd never return to that place you two lived in; it's far too big now and everywhere he looks he sees you. But where else would he go? Where else in this fucked world could he go to find you?

He doesn’t eat either – no one’s cooking tastes the same as yours. They lack something he thinks he might never find again. And maybe that’s fine. It was always too good for him anyway.

None of the people that show up to his door are allowed in; they’d just disturb the air you touched. Not his friends or yours, he has no family and yours don’t really want to see him. Good thing too. He can’t deal with the pity or the attempts to relieve him of his responsibility. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ they say. ‘It was an accident.’

Shit doesn’t matter. Nothing does. How could anything mean shit to a man who only wants to spend his days in bed, holding your pillow over his face, simultaneously wanting to consume every particle of your scent and suffocate on memories of a life he barely lived?

They say he shouldn't let your death define you but how would that even be possible? You've always defined him. There's only the Toji before you, during you, and without you. He thinks maybe his life will forever be defined by all the things he never should have said and the things he wishes he did. That's the real tragedy.

'You need to move on.'

Bullshit. All those grief counselling pamphlets and self-help books don't know shit. There's no moving on. There's only you.

The worst, perhaps, that he’s heard is, ‘she’d hate to see you like this.’

Because what the fuck do they know about you? 

Those assholes see a man locked away, beard growing in, dark circles under his eyes, and an air of death about him. Whereas Toji sees himself as someone who’s keeping your memory alive. Because, contrary to what you believed, you weren’t too much. God, you couldn't ever be too much. With your scent fading, your clothes collecting dust and the divot in your spot on the sofa evening out, he thinks he hasn’t had enough. Could never have enough.

Even the fact that when he closes his eyes he sees you serves as no consolation. It’s not enough. He wasn’t enough. Wasn’t man enough. Didn’t love you enough. Toji needs to touch you, to feel you, to make up for all that he never gave you when he should have. Wherever you are, he wants to be.

His girl all alone? No, he can’t have that. Someone needs to listen to you ramble, to lift heavy things for you and hold you the way you like when you sleep. Who's keeping you company up there? Who's drawing on your palm when you get nervous? Who is telling you you've always been enough?

Someone needs to be there for you.

Staring at a picture of you on his bedside table, he smiles softly.

“I’m coming, baby. Just wait for me, yeah?”

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.3

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: some intimate mark time this chapter, yay!! also, cough cough, let's not talk about that tiny break i took 😭

★ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕 ★ | ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU COME BACK TO DAMIAN'S SWORD AGAINST MARK'S THROAT—

—because of-fucking-course you do. You just can't catch a break for the life of you today.

"Damian—"

"This scum," spits the ex-assassin, cutting you off with the same sharp edge as the blade he wields, "had the nerve to claim we couldn't keep you safe."

Subtly, ever so subtly, Mark's jaw flexes. "I never said that."

"It doesn't need to be said to be implied." Damian narrows his gaze back at the meta, fingers readjusting themselves around the handle of his katana, twitching with an urge—to swing. To slice.

To kill.

You should've known. You should've known something like this would happen. That the brothers would be incapable of even so much as getting along with someone (a meta, no less) who claimed to be in any sort of relationship with you. Or, for fuck's sake, not holding some sort of weapon against his damn throat for something as little as a hug.

Maybe you expected a little too much. These are, after all, the same men who watched you through traffic cameras to ensure your safety when the Joker left hiding with a big bang. Literally.

You pinch your nose with a sigh, the start of a headache steadily clambering up your skull—

"Do you need some aspirin?"

—only to immediately cease its climb for a second.

Your eyes shoot open, quickly finding themselves on the unmasked viglante sat with a sword still to his throat, but his pupils trained onto you.

"How did you..?"

"You always get a headache after pinching your nose a few times," he answers, eyes crinkling a little in something soft and fond, "and I've always told you to stop pinching so hard 'cause of it."

You stare at him with parted lips and wide eyes, feeling that familiar heat crawl through you when he just continues to hold your gaze, smile a little too genuine to be directed at a stranger. 

Though, at this point, you're pretty sure that's not what you are to him.

The rattling of pills snaps you out of your little daze, and you blink to find Mark with his hand gestured out to you, a box resting neatly on his palm.

Aspirin.

"I always keep some on me," he says with a smile. But then his gaze falls down, and that smile is no more. "Even if... you're not around to take them anymore."

Something sharp punctures your chest, like a knife to the heart, and you almost clutch it from the pain, from his expression, but before you can even think to offer some words of comfort, the sword against Mark's throat presses down harder. 

"Damian," comes slipping out your mouth instead, stern and cross.

"He just tried to drug you in front of me," growls the swordsman, pressing down harder, the skin of Mark's throat hugging the sword's edge.

"It's just aspirin," you shoot back, narrowing your gaze at the demon heir. He narrows his right back.

"You don't know that."

Another pinch. Another ache. And the next thing you know, you're snatching the pill box right out of Mark's hand, Damian's eyes widening and stance faltering long enough for the meta to wrap his hand around the edge of the blade and squeeze.

Metal shards fall to your floor with a clang.

"You—!" Damian seethes, gripping the remainder of his shattered sword with teeth gritted hard enough to break boulders. "How fucking dare you."

Mark's face scrunches, a little bit in disbelief, a little in judgement. "You're the one that pointed a sword at me, man."

"What are you anyway?" comes a new voice, gruff and tough and seeping the same judgement that's in Mark's expression but a hundred times over. "Bullet proof, flight, super strength... you a Kent or somethin'?"

Damian clicks his tongue. "That idiot would tell me if his father were to adopt another of his kind."

Mark scrunches his face. "What's a Kent?" Then he shakes his head, steeling himself before answering, plain and simple, "I'm a Viltrumite."

You raise a brow, exchanging a glance with Duke and Dick, the two of them silent, but very much just as bewildered as you.

"A Viltrumite...?" you echo in a whisper.

"Why does that sound so familiar?" Duke finishes your thought.

"You're thinking of Kryptonite," comes yet another new voice—one that just entered the room; one that locks eyes with you, longing and pleading, before breaking away as if torn to, "as in: Kryptonian." 

Tim's gaze falls on Mark, and he continues with a question, "Did you mean you're a Kryptonian?"

Mark's brows knit. "Uh, no. What's a Kryptonian?"

"Our world's version of your kind, I'm guessing," you answer, lips pulled thin. Then a thought occurs, and you're quickly fumbling with the pills in your grip. "Uh—here. Thanks."

You place them back in his hands, fingers brushing against his own for a split second.

But a split second enough.

With a blink and tingles exploding in your fingertips, you're suddenly surrounded by blue. Blue and white and a vast expanse of nothing else. Not even the ground.

You blink, swaying gently, when a pair of hands settle on your hips.

"Careful," a voice whispers, the same voice that showed up at your door just hours ago, "you don't wanna fall."

Your head tilts, and a smile tugs at your lips, the next words tumbling out without you even having to think, "But you'd catch me if I did."

It's said with such certainty, such natural cadence, that you can't help but believe it yourself.

Then Mark smiles—soft and fond and filled with so much love—and your heart begins to bleed that belief.

"Yeah," he starts—quiet, intimate, "I would."

Your breath hitches, his nose moving to press against your own while the hands resting on your hips wind around your waist, pulling your back into the warmth of his chest as if he needs you to breathe.

And with the way he looks at you, you'd believe it.

Those crinkled eyes, that soft smile, the swirling brown that floods you with so much warmth, you'd need a fire to cool down.

He looks at you like you've strung up all the stars in the night sky just for him.

Then he tilts his head, and he leans in, and his lips press against yours.

...And you blink back to reality.

Your head whips around, lips parted and tongue so far from wet, it's practically a desert.

No one seems to be particularly concerned, all still glaring at Mark like he murdered stray kittens right in front of their eyes without so much as a blink.

"So let's just say that you are from another world," Tim starts like you didn't just see a whole ass vision right in front of your eyes, and you blink back your disbelief, "and in your world, Viltrumites are Kryptonians...

"Where the hell is this world's version of you?"

You blink again, looking around one more time and locking eyes with Duke, who raises a brow and flashes you a look that practically screams 'we'll talk about this later'.

So you put it to rest for now.

"How the hell would I know?" Mark questions, raising a brow in that same disbelief and judgement he gave Damian.

"You knew where [Name] was," Jason accuses.

"That's different."

"Oh yeah? How? 'Cause she's your little girlfriend?"

Mark's jaw ticks, but before he can even think to lunge, a chime interrupts him.

Multiple chimes.

The boys all raise a brow, each reaching for their phone and taking only a second to check it before their eyes are widening and their muscles go as taut as a tightrope.

"The Joker," Dick whispers.

"Of all times," Damian growls.

And the room bathes in a tense silence for one... two... three seconds before Duke breaks it.

"We have to go."

"No," replies Damian, firm and sound and more final than a runner passing the finish line of a race in first place.

But before anyone can say anything, can rebuke his claim or, dare you say, agree with it, you speak up, "And why the hell not?"

The demon head turns to you, gaze narrow and lips pulled down into a stern frown.

"We are not leaving you alone with him."

"You have a city to save." You cross your arms, jutting out a hip. "You don't have a choice."

He crosses his arms right back at you. "I don't think you understand, Beloved. I refuse to let him hurt you."

"And don't you think he would've already if he wanted to?" you retort, before letting your gaze soften a bit, "I have a feeling he's telling the truth."

In return, his own gaze hardens. "I'm not risking your safety on a feeling."

It's dumb, and you know he doesn't mean anything hurtful by it, but you still can't help the way your voice falters. "You don't trust me?"

Instantly, he uncrosses his arms, instead holding them out towards you as his expression all but softens into knitted brows and all soft edges. "Of course I do," he whispers. "You know I do, Habibti. It's him I don't trust."

Damian's gaze flickers over to Mark for a brief second, narrowed and pointed and filled with nothing but suspicion, before returning to you, all the aforementioned feelings like a ghost in his eyes.

You take a moment to steel yourself, breathing in with closed eyes and out with open ones as you say, "I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me."

His jaw ticks, gaze far-off, and you move to press both hands against his chest to reel him back in.

"Go, Damian. I'll be fine. I promise."

He stares into your eyes, guarded, but still swirling, still loving, still listening.

And listen he does, for not a moment later, he relents with a sigh. "Fine, but I will come back as soon as I take down that scum of the Earth. And I expect you to alert me should anything go wrong."

With another dirty look sent to Mark by Damian, you smile. "I'll lead you guys out."

The loud slam of your door follows your words, and you flinch, looking around to find all the boys but Jason there and looking back at you.

Dick shakes his head. "Always such a temper."

Your lips pull down, but you force yourself to shake it off, walking over to your door to open it once more for the rest of your house guests.

"I'll see ya later, Trouble." Dick winks, heading out first.

Tim follows, not saying anything so he can, instead, hit you with that longing glance that can't seem to pull away until he's craning his neck awkwardly enough to have to face forward again.

Then Damian takes it upon himself to go next, giving you a swift goodbye as he continues to murmur what you can only assume are curses under his breath in Arabic.

And finally, there's Duke, who takes just one step out the door before swiftly turning around, grabbing your arm, and gently tugging you towards him.

"What was that earlier?"

You blink. "What was what?"

He narrows his gaze, lips pulling into a thin line. "The looking around aimlessly." Then his eyes turn sharp; sharp enough to cut a diamond. "Did he drug you?"

His fist clenches as he says that, the lights flickering enough to have you using your hand to grip his free arm lightly.

"No, no." You shake your head. "It's not that. I'll tell you later, I promise."

He shoots you a look, one of those ones that tell you he expects you to follow up on that offer, before nodding his head once, spearing Mark with one last narrow look, and turning back around to continue down the hall.

And just like that, all your invited house guests are gone, having never once watched even a second of the promised movie they had come over for in the first place.

You shake your head, clicking your door shut with a sigh before turning around, a smile—shaking and nervous—nestled onto your face.

"Well then. That was quite the show, huh?"

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[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

main masterlist | series masterlist

Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[midnite-c6]

guilt sex w namgyu, reader guilting namgyu into sex or the other way around idc

i see alot of ppls reqs are more needy!nam-gyu hmmm. i miss this man everyday (fuck YOU minsu) ty guys for all the love in my inbox ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠)

warnings: 18+, sex, degradation, dubcon, fingering, nam-gyu guilts you into sex, humiliation kink, exhibitionism, nam-gyu's high asf ∆ nam-gyu x fem!reader || ⁠✧

��⁠ˆつ⁠｡⁠☆ you know nam-gyu, all too well. too caught up in his head, too caught up in whatever people had to do and think about him.

meeting him in the games was surprising enough, for you and for him, but it wasn't surprising to see him cling onto the only guy who had some power and pride: thanos. he was weak. without anything he was weak. with pills though? he was anything other than it. he frightened you more than the other players. he was strong enough to reach the game with only 24 players left, hell, you're not sure why you're still alive right now. you shouldn't. and he knows this. takes full advantage of it too.

so with his wasted mind, too polluted with colorful pills, maybe in mourning to his good friend— who he really didn't consider as a friend. more of a rival. because it felt like the world revolved around people like thanos, not the lackey. he drags his body, walking over to you. he had only made a few interactions with you upon entering the games. nobody needs to acknowledge past relationships, you liked that unspoken rule. but it seems he'd told thanos about your "history". he was so dependent on the key approval of others, he had to "flex" you.

"babe. babe." he called out from just a few feet away, you had just finished eating lunch, staring at the floor as you try to let the feeling of seeing countless deaths in the span of a few days. "baby, can'tcha hear me? did someone cut your ears?" a sober, less thanos-consumed, nam-gyu wouldn't have called you that. you don't reply to him, and obviously his dependent personality takes the hit, he's probably getting pissed off by the second. "shut it,"

he immediately sits right next to you, back pressed against the wall, his right arm wrapping right around your shoulders, mouth pressed right against your ear. "you know you shouldn't be alive right now." you forget to speak, earning him a squeak, "but i'm glad we have a chance to talk, yeah..." you shake your head. and he chuckles. you speak, "no we don't." but of course you won't get it, he thinks.

"just tell me, tell me what you're feeling right now, i know you're lonely." he rubs the back of your neck, your shoulder blades, anything to rile you up. "’cause i'm so lonely too. you know that?" he looks you in the eye, face just centimeters apart. maybe if he acts all sentimental and emotional, you'll believe him.

"you are?" he nods immediately, grateful for any sort of response from you. "i'm... really scared." you quietly confess, he only purrs, that's what he likes to hear, you're finally starting to give yourself. "aww... yeah? you're scared? i know you are." his hands move to the back of your head, "so many people dying... so many killings..." he'd switch the facade just as fast- "like- i could kill you, right now- during lights out, babe." the hand on the back of your head tugging roughly on the strands, a pyschotic smile plastered on his lips. "but i won't cuz- cuz i'm scared like you, it's okay." you were confused, and feeling all too much at once accompanied with the weight of the games.

"and i miss you so much! sososo much, your skin n' all...i wish i could've fucked you that time we met." his hand would now wrap around your neck, tightening ever so slightly, "’m so sad you barely noticed me right in here," his left hand would graze the center of his pants, rubbing at the point where you would think is the tip. "i was jerking off in the bathrooms, thinkin' of your sweet ass..." he bites his lips, hands fidgeting slightly from symptoms of overdose. he barely gives you any space to talk back, because what would you even reply to that?

"...and who knows, we might die tomorrow, hm? right? what if i get eliminated on the next game? my only wish is to fuck you..." the hand on your neck moves immediately past the waistband of your pants, "are you not charitable enough to make a dyin' man's wish come true?" he pouts, looking at you like it was your fault he would have a probability of dying tomorrow, the tips of his fingers would linger at your clothed clit, rubbing lazy circles on the sensitive nub. "so please, would you do it f'me? you're obedient enough..." you're not sure if you did nod or not... you just know it might be worth it in the end.

you're glad that your beds placed on the corner, but it was still a public place...

now your back's pressed against his chest, legs spread apart by the arm and hand working underneath in-between your thighs, pants now moved to your thighs. "c'mon, you're a good whore, i know it, you made it this far," you shake your head, "they're starin', ah...nam-gy-" he'd cut you off, thrusting his dick deeper inside your wet heat. his other hand presses against your mouth, "let them look, it's okay, you're sososo pretty..." he whispers praise, despite the absolute filth of an act you two were doing. "letting me do this to you... just ’cuz i asked you, huh?" he'd even block your nose for a few seconds so he could see the way you panic, panic with his dick inches deep inside you. he was humoured, and don't you think he wouldn't notice the way you'd clench tighter when he does it. "you like it when i'm in control... didn't expect any better..." you frown, mixed with a whimper, "i don't-"

"you do. you're enjoying it, i'm so smart to think this, don't cha’ think?" he looks down over at you, fingers still lazily tracing against your sensitive nub, just so you could squirm more and more. he didnt need to move that much, just balls deep, kissing you cervix was enough. "im sure you are... yeah... ’cuz your eyes are rolling like those whores in pornos, wow..."

he's fucked you hard enough to forget about the games for a brief second, maybe that's his little sabotage tactic so you're caught off-guard when you compete in the next round. "mmph- wait, gonna- gonna give you a gift-" he bounces your body with his hands, rapidly, as if he was in a hurry. but he was desperate just like you. you could already feel the warmth spilling out to paint your insides, that's when you moan just a little bit too loud, "you're makin' such- such a fool outta' yourself, that's right, fuckin' moan more-" when he's fully satisfied that's when he'd break character, when he knows he's gotten what he wants. "good slut.. won't fuck this pussy in the real world though." he mumbles to himself, enough for you to hear.

but god did his dick contain the pills he was consuming too? ’cuz you sure are addicted now. no matter what mean words he says.

a/n : idk if u guys still like myunggi enough to accept a myunggi and namgyu threesome or like myunggi fucking you as an apology...

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 4

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

You were already home when you opened your conversation with her.

E:

i have to tell you something.

You frowned the second your eyes landed on it.

You were already curled into bed—fresh from the shower, hair damp against your neck, oversized shirt slouching soft over your thighs. The room was dim, lit only by the weak orange buzz of your fairy lights. That Friday exhaustion still clung to your bones, but none of it mattered.

You were settled. Cozy. Warm.

There was nothing better than the thought of spending the whole weekend like this—no plans, no noise. Just your room, your phone, and her.

Something about the message hit different. Not her usual caps-locked chaos or horny emoji spiral. Just plain. Sharp. Hanging in the air like a loaded pause.

You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering.

You:

heyyyy

yeah?

what is it

You watched the read receipt appear, vanish, then return—followed by the word Typing, then nothing, then Typing again, like she was wrestling with whatever it was she couldn’t quite say.

E:

nevermind lol it’s dumb

just had a brain moment

u ever think a thing and go wait no i’m actually insane?

that was me. carry on.

You stared and your frown lingered.

There was something in it. Something unfinished, like she’d swallowed the thought halfway. It pressed at your chest—not hard, but enough to make you pause.

You let it sit there and tapped your thumb slow against the screen.

You:

don’t do that

if it mattered to you, it’s not dumb.

A beat and you double texted her.

You:

but fine. i’ll stop bugging

just tell me when ur ready

even if it’s weird

i like weird

E:

okay but what if it was like “i was possessed by a sexy ghost” weird

or “i’ve been thinking about ur mouth for 5 days straight” weird

bc that’s the category i’m working in rn

You snorted, the knot in your chest loosening instantly.

You:

girl what

E:

this is ur fault.

ur criminally hot and i’m emotionally unstable.

i almost sent u a poem today and had to physically restrain myself

You:

wait u wrote me a poem???

E:

no one’s ever gonna see it

unless i die then u can publish it posthumously

You rolled onto your side, laughing into your pillow, smiling so hard it made your face ache.

You:

SO how was ur day, poet

other than spiraling over my mouth

did the tragic lesbian survive algebra?

E:

barely

i almost died. they tried to silence me.

i doodled boobs on my notes again. staying humble.

You:

u say that like it’s a coping mechanism

E:

it is. ur boobs specifically

You snorted again, tension bleeding out of you with every stupid message that followed.

You:

do u miss them ??

should i send u some again so u can cope better?

E:

don’t tempt me rn i’m weak and unsupervised

You:

so that’s a yes

E:

that’s an always

You bit your lip, grinning into your pillow like an idiot.

She was back to herself—unhinged and dramatic, talking about how her math teacher was probably a demon who fed on the dreams of students. Complete with all-caps outbursts and at least two conspiracy theories. You kept laughing. Kept typing.

Eventually, your thumbs started to cramp.

You:

i swear my thumbs are buff now bc of u

E:

hot

You:

everything i say u turn into gay

E:

it's given

You bit your lip. Your heart thumped—stupid and full.

You didn’t ask again about the message. You didn’t have to. Whatever she’d meant to say, she clearly couldn’t yet.

You stayed texting until your phone went warm in your palm, until your eyes stung from grinning too long. By the time you checked the clock, it was 3AM.

You didn’t mean to stay up that late, but that’s what always happened with her. The later it got, the more chaotic the messages became. If it wasn’t full-blown unhinged, it was weirdly horny. And if it wasn’t horny, it got accidentally deep—like two sleep-deprived idiots trying to figure out the meaning of life between memes and finger-smash typing.

You:

do u ever wonder what we’d be like if we met in real life?

or would we combust instantly?

You barely had time to brace for whatever ridiculous answer that would get when your phone buzzed again—this time from a different notification.

From Ellie.

You blinked at the name—Ellie, already saved in your phone—and still typed:

You:

who is this?

Ellie:

It’s Ellie. From school.

A faint smirk tugged at your lips.

You:

i know

Ellie:

Just wanted to let you know I’m starting the draft for our project. It’s nothing serious, just bullet points. I figured I’d organize ideas before Monday.

You stared at her message, already smiling.

You:

you couldn’t tell me that earlier in class??

Ellie:

I didn’t think of it until now.

Also I'm still awake, so.

You:

why r u still up anyway ?

Ellie:

I wanted to be productive while the ideas were still fresh.

You snorted.

You:

nerd.

Ellie:

Sure.

You paused, glancing at your other chat. E hadn’t replied yet. Your thumb hovered, tempted to double text.

But right before you did—

E:

sorry went blank for a sec i was picturing how u say my name in a whisper lol anyway what were we even talking about

You laughed out loud, the sound muffled into your pillow.

You:

do u want me dead

E:

yes but like sexily

Another buzz.

Ellie:

Let me know if you’d rather read the notes now or wait for Monday. Either way works.

You laid your phone on your chest for a second, staring at the ceiling. One of them wanted to die at your hands. The other was politely offering to share bullet points at 3AM.

And just like that—when you’re happy, when it’s fun—time moved stupidly fast.

The hallway pulsed with the usual Monday mess—shuffling sneakers, lockers clanging shut, someone already yelling, and of course, that one kid running like it’s a sport.

You felt obnoxiously good for a Monday. The kind of good that only came from two straight days of texting someone who made your brain feel like soda bubbles. You were still carrying a smile that hadn’t fully faded since 3AM.

You suddenly spotted Ellie.

Standing at her locker, blue flannel shrugged over her usual black tee, one side of her hair still sleep-creased. Headphones rested around her neck. She looked a little worn—like sleep hadn’t been a priority. Like someone who’d stayed up too late doing something they didn’t regret.

You didn’t stop walking. Just drifted right up beside her locker, leaned against the one next to it like you had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look at you at first—just shifted her books with one hand, nudging her sketchpad into place. Her fingers lingered at the edge of a notebook you knew too well now. The one she said she started drafting in.

Finally, a glance. Quick and dry.

Then a sigh.

You smirked at her reaction. Tilted your head like you were observing something mildly amusing.

“So,” you said. “How was your weekend?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Just reached deeper into the locker like she was debating throwing herself inside it.

��Quiet,” she said without looking at you.

You raised your brows. “That’s it?”

She shoved a pencil case into her bag and shut the locker with a dull thud. “What do you want me to say? I spent it drafting our project.”

You leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Mm. So productive.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it if you’re easily impressed.”

“Who said I was impressed?” you shot back, one brow raised. “I’m just asking.”

Ellie adjusted the strap of her guitar case on her shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. “Right. You’re just asking. Because you care deeply about how I spent my weekend.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe I do.”

That got you a blink. A pause. Her gaze flicked over your face—just for a second too long.

You smiled, all teeth.

“Wanna guess how I spent mine?”

Ellie didn’t say anything—just glanced away, too fast to be casual.

You tapped the locker with your knuckles, straightened up slowly. “See you in class, Williams.”

And with that, you walked off and didn’t look back.

But if you had, you might’ve caught the exact moment Ellie muttered under her breath—barely audible over the hallway noise.

“Jesus Christ.”

You slipped into your usual seat, still warm from your walk through the halls and encounter with Ellie. One of your friends tossed a lazy “hey,” but you barely glanced up—already pulling your phone out, screen lighting up with that soft blue glow.

You:

wakey wakey

i’m already in class

don’t blame me again if you end up being late, poet

Your grin was immediate. Unchecked. You bit it back behind your palm, thumbs still hovering when someone cleared their throat right beside you.

You looked up.

Ellie.

You didn’t hide your expression—still smiling like a dumbass, phone in hand.

“Yeah?” you asked, one brow raised.

She was holding out the notebook. The one she told you about. She didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Just—here,” she muttered, placing it down in front of you.

Your gaze dropped to the familiar cover, then back to her.

You smiled wider. “Thanks. I’ll look over it later.”

She nodded, quiet. “Cool.”

She turned without another word and made her way to her own seat. You tapped the corner of the notebook with your fingers, still smiling.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

why are u like this

i was gonna be late but now i’m getting up just to annoy u

also maybe to see what u look like in class all smug and pretty

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

You:

haha u wish

i wish u were my classmate for real tho

i can only think of many things 👀

E:

what things ??

You:

idk

maybe like… we’d be seatmates

and i wouldn’t wear any undies on purpose

Three dots appeared immediately. It vanished and came back again.

E:

ok well. i just flatlined in my desk chair.

thanks a lot

You:

just trying to motivate u to get to school on time

E:

I'M ALREADY AT SCHOOL BRUH

i am not responsible for the thoughts i’m having rn

You grinned, legs curled up in your chair, heart stupidly light.

You:

am i making u…?

right now?

Another pause.

Typing..

E:

ma’am this is a public institution

You:

answer the question :)

E:

let’s just say i’m sitting very still rn

and ur going to hell. congrats.

You bit back another grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

You:

worth it.

E:

i hate u

Your thumb hovered over the screen, still smiling like a complete idiot as the bell rang.

You:

ur really gonna hate me when i say

i’m not even wearing a bra rn

E:

YOU’RE A MENACE

i hope you’re proud of yourself for what you're doing to me

You:

just a little

E:

really huh

if i were ur seatmate

i’d sit too close

thighs touching, shoulder to shoulder

and i’d keep dropping my pen just to bend down and grab it

and yk

You:

AND I KNOW WHAT?

GO ON I BEG U

okay actually u don’t need to

because i already am..

E:

good.

that’s what you deserve.

you wanna play? let’s play.

You:

worth it again

every damn single time

Your phone buzzed again, and you bit back another grin.

E:

UR INSANE

You:

okay well tytl nerd

class starts

but thank u i guess for giving me something to think about while i touch myself tonight

or maybe right after this class ;)

Time blurred.

Class, lunch, class again—standard Monday drag. Nothing special. Just the usual shuffle between subjects and half-awake conversations that barely counted as human interaction.

Now, you were in the library for your last period. Final class of the day. The room was quiet in that stiff, almost sacred way libraries get—like if you breathed too loud, someone would smite you.

Ms. Alvarez, who walked in balancing a thick binder and a tired expression. She barely made it past the first five minutes before clearing her throat and announcing, “Alright, class. I have a faculty meeting in ten. You’re allowed to continue working on your project in pairs, but you must stay in the classroom or within school premises. No one leaves early. Understood?”

You were sitting across from Ellie. She was fully immersed in whatever she was typing on her laptop—jaw tight, brows drawn, fingers moving like she was coding national security protocols instead of organizing character arcs.

You tried to match her energy for a grand total of three minutes before your attention span gave out completely.

Your gaze dropped to the window. From the second-floor view, you could see a couple of students loitering around the quad, stretched out across benches and grass. Someone was dramatically eating a banana. You didn’t know why that annoyed you.

Without thinking, you reached for your phone.

One unread message.

E:

WHAT THE FUCK

IF UR GOING TO TELL ME SOMETHING LIKE THAT IN CLASS AT LEAST LET ME WATCH

FOR COMPENSATION

jk

but yes?

You bit your lip hard—so hard it almost hurt—not wanting to smile in front of Ellie. You slipped the phone away like it burned, then reached toward her side of the table.

She didn’t look up when you slid her notebook over, flipping straight to the page.

Possible Story Structure – v1.0

You stared at it for a beat. Then made a face.

“This is so boring,” you muttered.

Ellie kept typing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. This is criminal. Look at this—no dramatic kisses? No one cries? This is actual villain behavior.”

“They’re just notes,” she said without looking up.

“They’re rules. And they suck.”

“They’re guidelines,” she corrected, finally glancing your way. “And they exist because someone—you—suggested glitter-induced closet sex as a turning point.”

“And yet, you wrote it down.”

Ellie sighed through her nose. “So you’d shut up.”

You jabbed your pen at the “Maybe a forehead touch??” line. “This. Right here. What is this. This is loser behavior.”

“It’s called restraint.”

You let out the fakest gasp imaginable. “Loser and pretentious.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “You want them crying in the rain after a juice box incident.”

“Because that’s real storytelling, Ellie.”

“You literally renamed the central conflict The Tragic Juice Box Betrayal of 7th Grade.”

“It was a betrayal. And it was orange. It stained. It’s metaphorical. You just don't understand.”

You were staring back at each other.

You leaned forward just a little. “Also, I know you sketched the supply closet scene in the margin of your algebra notebook.”

“That was a box,” she said flatly. “It was a literal box.”

“Sure,” you said, unconvinced.

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to summon patience from another plane of existence.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“You’re just repressed.”

She blinked. “Says the girl blushing at her phone two minutes ago.”

You froze.

Ellie tilted her head, a little too smug. “Hmm?”

You cleared your throat. “That’s classified.”

She smirked—barely. “Suspicious.”

You slid the notebook back toward her. “Fix your outline before I submit a new draft with a title you won't really like.”

She rolled her eyes casually, shaking her head as she went back to her laptop.

You leaned back in your chair—annoyed, stretching a little before grabbing your phone again—this time not even pretending to be sneaky about it.

Ellie didn’t look up, but you could feel her noticing.

You opened your chat with E, thumb already moving.

You:

i’m literally sitting across from the most insufferable person alive

she’s so bossy and uptight and acts like she’s above dramatic plotlines

like okay sorry i want EMOTION in my fake scenarios??? sue me???

she actually said “restraint” like it was a flex. loser behavior actually.

You smirked, shot a glance up, then kept typing.

You:

also she keeps pretending she didn’t sketch the closet scene

it was OBVIOUSLY not just a box

You huffed quietly, shifting in your seat. Ellie was still typing—completely zoned in, not looking at you.

You looked back down at your screen.

You:

she’s doing that thing again

getting all serious like we’re submitting this to sundance

like relax. it’s two fictional lesbians and a tragic juice box. let me work.

You paused for a beat, then kept going.

You:

WHATEVER

idk. don’t wanna argue about it

i just wanna talk to you

remember what i said before about making out in the nonfiction aisle?

i’m here at the library ;)

i can imagine our kiss

HOT

i'll have you finger me 'till I cum and my legs shake

and we go back to class like nothing happened

You stared at the message for a second, then laughed under your breath and set your phone down on the table, face-down. You suddenly felt silly—teasing, sure, but also a little giddy. Like you were getting away with something. Especially with Ellie right in front of you, looking like the literal opposite of whatever that text had just suggested.

She was still focused. Still typing. Her MacBook open, her hand flicking her pen across the margins of her notebook. The light hit her rings again. She was chewing her bottom lip.

You grabbed your pen and started doodling in the corner of your notes. Hearts, stars, little lesbian stick figures making out beside bookshelves.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught something—Ellie’s posture had shifted. Her brow furrowed deeper, her eyes narrowed at the screen.

Then she bit her lip again, harder this time. Her hand came up, fingers scratching just above her eyebrow like she was trying to stay grounded. Her expression pinched for a second—like she was trying to keep her face neutral and failing.

You glanced out the window instead. Golden light, slow-moving clouds. You imagined E, imagined her standing on the other side of this table, all smirking confidence and chaos. You smiled to yourself, tapping your pen twice before reaching back for your phone.

Still no reply.

You frowned a little. Refreshed the app. Nothing.

Right then, Ellie stood up.

You looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed the edge of her chair like she needed to move. “Getting a book,” she muttered, already walking.

You blinked, confused. “You already have like, four.”

She didn’t answer and just walked off. You watched her disappear down the aisle, your phone still in your hand.Still no message from E.

The empty screen felt louder than it should’ve.

A few minutes passed. Ellie didn’t come back.

You tapped your fingers once against the table, then got up, quietly making your way until the nonfiction aidle, farthest row in the back, where no one really went.

You found her there, tucked at the very end of the aisle, half-hidden behind the shelves. She was leaning slightly against them, phone in hand, her eyes fixed on the screen—expression unreadable, but her ears flushed just a little too pink to ignore.

She didn’t notice you right away.

But the second she did, she quickly lowered her phone and reached for a nearby book, flipping it open like she’d been studying the whole time.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Instead, you glanced at the shelves around you, trying not to smile—because of course it had to be this aisle. The same one you’d texted E about, half-joking, half-not.

“What’s funny?” Ellie asked without looking up, now looking so serious.

“Nothing,” you said, too fast.

“Really?” Her tone was dry, eyes still on the page.

You grabbed a random book from the shelf and flipped it open. “I just remembered something.”

“Uh huh.” She said it flatly, like she didn’t buy it.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. But you didn’t answer her. Just turned another page, pretending to read.

Ellie shifted beside you, thumbing through her own book.

“What are you even doing in the nonfiction aisle?” you asked, still not looking up. “It’s not like we’re writing nonfiction.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, actually… sometimes good fiction pulls from nonfiction. Real stories. Background stuff. It makes things feel more grounded.”

You peeked over the edge of your book. “Okay, nerd.”

She shrugged. “Just saying.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts were anything but neutral.

Okay sorry I'm just here because I’ve been thinking about making out with someone against these shelves for three days straight.

You stared down at the page—something about memory and neural pathways—but none of it stuck.

Your mouth twitched into a grin again. E’s dumb chaotic message echoed in your head.

You couldn’t wait to talk to her again tonight.

You glanced up.

Ellie was still there, head tilted slightly, lips parted in concentration, bathed in soft afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

She looked unreal. Sharp in some ways. Gentle in others.

She wasn’t even trying. Her flannel sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was half-messy like she’d forgotten to fix it after leaning against her hand too long. A strand curled near her cheek. Her rings caught the light again when she shifted the book. And her mouth—soft, slightly parted as she read—moved just a little when she wet her lips without thinking.

“Actually…” you started, voice light. “Can I ask you something?”

Ellie didn’t look up. “What?”

You waited a beat. “Have you ever thought about making out with someone in the library?”

That got her attention.

Her head lifted slowly, like she wasn’t sure she heard you right. “What?”

You grinned. Tilted your head. “I mean—have you ever thought about it? Like. Right here. This exact aisle.”

Ellie blinked once. “Do you mean making out with someone who’s… here in the library?”

Her voice had a weird edge. Something unreadable.

You scoffed, playful. “No. Just—like. Making out with someone in a library. Someone you like. A girl or whatever.”

She blinked again. Then scoffed lightly, like you’re ridiculous.

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

She leaned her shoulder against the shelf. “Why would I make out with someone here?” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the library.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well—where would you bring them if you wanted to make out with them?”

That made her pause.

You watched her carefully.

She stared at you, then down at the book in your hands.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

You grinned. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed and turned the page, trying to ignore you. “Not everyone makes out in public places, you know.”

“Yeah,” you said, shutting your book and letting it hang at your side. “But it’s fun to think about.”

She looked at you again.

“And you think about it a lot?” she asked, voice casual—but not quite.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I do.” You added, a smirk playing in your lips.

Ellie exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking up to your face—and lingering. You could almost feel her gaze pause on your mouth for a second too long.

Then she shook her head, barely, like she was trying to snap herself out of it.

Without another word, she turned and walked off, heading back toward your table with quick, quiet steps—like she needed to leave before she did something she’d regret.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii @wtvmOmO @angelsglitch @vanpalmertruther @mikellie @re1daway @irysque @notkyleelol @the-sick-habit @autisticratbagtm @burden-4-dina @elliepoems @fragilevampirr @crucifiedfem @abbyandcaitlover @lovewitchss @soltwent

[kukinkrim]

no demon is good enough for my sister!

saja boys x jinu's sister!reader (separate)

note: this prompt was sent via ask o(^o^)o i roughly translated it to english so i apologize if i got your request wrong TT

hell was a cruel, lonely place to be.

it wasn’t the the searing flames that littered across their lands, or the constant screams of souls in despair, or even the endless, crushing weight of torment.

no, it was the emptiness that got you. the kind that wrapped itself around your soul and whispered that you’re all alone. that no one in the surface remembers who you are and you are chained down in the pits of hell with broken memories to live by.

there was no sun in hell. no sky. the only thing that could come close to a sun is gwi-ma, a literal ball of flame, sitting on his throne as he relishes in the suffering of his people.

you forget who you were after a while.

perhaps, your brain hotwired itself in order to cope. maybe, the past was just too painful to be remembered.

that's when jinu found you.

he wasn’t much to look at back then—just another unfortunate thing that got too close to the sun—but he saw you.

you, this little scrap of a soul, barely hanging on, barely even remembering your own name. he didn’t ask why you were there as he knelt, took your hand, and said, “you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

maybe, you reminded him of his sister from his past life and wanted a chance at redemption. to do good now after abandoning his family for power.

no matter the reasons, though, you were grateful. you are jinu's sister now. not by blood, of course, but by choice.

no one in the mortal realm knew jinu had a sister; not even his members who spemt their days in hell with him. to be fair they just never cared enough to look for friends when they were literally suffering down there.

jinu didn’t go out of his way to hide it. it just never came up. in the chaos of their idol schedules, gwi-ma, not dying—the fact that he had someone to protect just didn’t get mentioned.

no secrets were bound to stay secrets. the members found out eventually, and it's taking every fiber in his being not to tear his hair from his scalp.

no demons are good enough for his little sister!

romance.

it started with flowers.

true to his name, romance was a romantic. he kept giving you flowers of various kinds. different shades of color now decorated your room. he would hand them to you with that usual smirk, winking like a walking cliché.

you didn’t expect him to say “i like you,” ome day, when he gives you a bouquet of red roses this time.

you really didn’t expect to like him back as much as you did.

and you definitely didn’t expect jinu to catch the two of you kissing behind the rehearsal room.

“WHAT?!”

you both jumped three feet apart. a hand sheepishly covering your mouth as you avoided eye contact with your brother.

“This is an INSULT to MY HONOR!” jinu shouted, clutching his head like the scandal physically wounded him. in fact, he wants to gouge out his eyes and wipe that shit-eating grin off of his bandmate's lips. “you—you kissed her?! WITH THAT FILTHY LIPS OF YOURS?”

“okay, wow,” romance blinked, trying not to laugh, yet still offended. “excuse you, i brush five times a day. that's atleast four times more than abby.”

“she’s my sister, you filthy no-good casanova demon!”

you tugged at your brother's sleeves, feeling a bit embarassed at his outburst now. romance didn't seem to mind, though, but you do. "jinu, please. we were just—”

instead of listening, the man only pulls you in a protective hug, smooshing your face against his hoodie. “no! no just! you want to court my sister? FINE. but you’re going to do it the right way. with letters. with dowries. with a goat sacrifice, like in the old days—”

“where the hell am i getting a goat!?”

"and then-" he emphasizes, glaring at romance. "and then i'd think about letting you hold her hand."

abby.

dating abby felt like dating a very energetic puppy.

he brought you snacks, took you on chaotic dates, and liked to make you laugh until your stomach hurt. on contrary to popular beliefs (cough his members cough) he was actually a very smart guy with great emotional intelligence.

abby absolutely adored you, following you around like a personal guard dog.

then he kissed you, one day, while in the middle of a grocery store run.

jinu was, somehow, also there. the single yogurt he was holding pops in his hand, fruit-glavored goo dripping down to the floor.

the silence was deafening.

"uh," abby blinks. "clean up in aisle three...?"

jinu doesn't seem to find it funny as he starts to sprint from the other end of the aisle towards where you both were.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

abby panicked, flustered judging by the way his cheeks erupted into flames in an instant. “i didn’t mean to—it just—it was spontaneous show of affection!”

“you kissed her in public?! with tongue?!"

“not that much tongue!”

you were garnering attention from other shoppers at this point so you ended up covering your face in embarassment. "guys please, there was no tongue! let's leave!"

“THIS IS AN OUTRAGE.”

when you both got home, jinu was quick to drag abby in another room. maybe they talked? but abby gets throigh the door like a lost little puppy, staring at you with wide, pleading eyes.

jinu only ushers him out before you could speak. "i'll only allow pink holding. i see you putting that dirty lips anywhere near my sister and i'll stitch it close!"

mystery.

it was always subtle with mystery.

a brush of your hand. hanging out more than you usually do with other members. mystery was alot... more normal, so to speak, when it comes to you. he actually–actually, speaks. and smiles.

mystery didn't outright confessed though.

you didn’t even realize you were dating until he justnwhispered “mine” in your ear one day and kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you were flustered.

he wasn’t.

and jinu is on the doorframe, combusting.

“you let mystery–MYSTERY of all people date you?” jinu looks at you in disbelief as he points an accusatory finger at his bandmate. mystery only shrugs in return, not at all offended. “he doesn’t even talk in full sentences! how do you know his intentions?!”

"my intentions are passionate and pure," the said boy replies.

you swooned, clasping your hands together as you smiled. "see? that’s romantic.” jinu wishes he could just strangle that demon boy's neck here and now for brainwashing his little sister.

“THAT IS WHAT ALL SERIAL KILLERS SAY.”

"if it's any consolation, jinu, i’d never harm her. but i would harm for her.”

“see?” you glanced at jinu, smiling wide as if your boyfriend didn't just say the most insane thing ever. "he's romantic!"

“YOU’RE ALL INSANE.”

baby.

baby didn’t mean to fall for you.

he didn’t mean to let it happen. you were a kind soul. the kind of soul he was supposed to destroy, not hold in his arms like it was precious. he didn't think he deserve it, honestly.

and also, he'd rather not date his bandmate's sister. mostly because of how exhaisting it would be to go through all that protective brother thing, but he ended up falling for you anyway, despite his earlier statement.

one night, you fell asleep on his shoulder on the couch.

that's literally it.

then came the moment jinu walked into the living room and saw you curled up next to baby, asleep, his arm wrapped securely around you.

he was absolutely livid.

“you're deadmeat,” jinu muttered while he stalks towards his bandmate with his ryes glarimg through his soul.

“dude—” baby tried to pull away, but arms that were wrapped around hid torso orevented him from doing so. it would've been cute how you wouldn't let go if hr wasn't about to die by the hands of your brother.

“do you even know what it means to be in a relationship?! you can’t just—just snuggle your way into someone’s life!”

“she fell asleep—what was i supposed to do?” baby looked at him in disbelief.

jinu only gripped the back part of the couch as the fabric wrinkled under his sharp nails. "does a pillow not exist?!"

you were woken up abruptly when a pair of arms tugged you back, the air knocking out of your lungs. suddenly, you were not beside baby anymore but in the arms of your older brother who held you in a protective stance. “NO SLEEPING TOGETHER! GET MARRIED FIRST!”

"dude, we were just sleeping. what–"

"negative points for you!"

"WHAT–"

[cursedbycrossovers]

Help Wanted ≠ Send Sacrifices (Pt. 4)

"SOS MC"

That was the message Babs had received from Tim fifteen minutes ago.

Steph didn't have all the codes memorized, there were a truly ridiculous number of them, but she did know that one.

"SOS: Mind Control"

For once, Steph found herself longing for one of the complex, overly-specific codes, because what did that mean?!

Was it Tim being mind controlled? Civilians? An ally? What were they being mind controlled to do? Was it magic? Aliens? Tech?

There were way too many possibilities, none of them were good, and Steph suddenly felt almost-bad for every time she'd run off without a word and nearly given Tim a heart attack.

"Spoiler? Do you copy?"

"Yeah, O," Steph panted, "Almost there."

The warehouse- and of course it was a warehouse- where Tim's tracker had last pinged was coming into view, and Steph was not slowing down. Tim hardly pinged for help, ever. He wasn't as bad about it as some of the other Bats, but still—

"Spoiler," Barbara began slowly, as if knowing she were entering a losing battle, "When you get there, do not engage. Wait for backup. Nightwing and Batman—"

"Nope," Steph answered easily as she swept toward the conveniently-open window. Depending on what kind of danger Tim was in, they might not have time to wait for backup.

She swung in easily, landing in almost perfect silence on the concrete floor. The shadows covered her entrance, clinging to the walls like mold. The air was stagnant and chilled, like a morgue, but something about it itched at her nose. Even Babs was oddly soundless over the comms.

The room was empty. Not even standard Gotham warehouse empty, the kind with rusty shelves and cardboard boxes full of nothing, but completely empty. Only Steph and the dust occupying the space. She felt the pit in her stomach grow deeper.

Tim wasn't here, and that meant he'd been moved to a secondary location. His chances of survival dropped dramatically.

Steph grit her teeth and rose to her full height, squinting across the barren room. There had to be some sort of clue here– and she was going to find it.

— — —

"B, N, you're going to want to hurry up. Spoiler just went in by herself, and there's some kind of interference on the comms." Oracle's voice kept mostly even, but there was a firmness indicative of stress to it.

Batman made an upset grunt-growl, and Nightwing a wounded noise. They should've known she wouldn't wait for them, but they'd been so caught up in Tim disappearing that they hadn't thought about it. At least Batman and Nightwing weren't going to be too far behind.

Nightwing arrived first, diving in through the window and landing in a roll. He had expected to see all kinds of horrific things, so seeing Spoiler crouching, unharmed, to gently trace something on the floor was a shocking relief.

"There's some kind of marks here, on the stone." Spoiler started without preamble or looking over her shoulder, "It looks like… acid burns? I think they're making some kind of pattern."

Nightwing rose to his feet, pressing a hand to his chest as he came down from the hear-hyperventilation. "Don't scare us like that."

Spoiler glanced slightly back at him with an eyebrow raised. "What? You guys knew I was fine. I left my comms on, despite the risk of lecture."

Nightwing breathlessly shook his head. "We couldn't hear you. Babs said there's some kind of interference."

"Oh." Steph said, feeling a little embarrassed. That made a lot more sense than Babs just giving up on dissuading Steph of her plan.

Nightwing strolled forward, craning his neck down to get a view of what Steph was looking at. A curved, pale line ran under her fingertips, continuing outward in either direction to ultimately form a perfect circle. It was large, hard to see the entirety of it in the dark, and from edge to edge ran these lines, connected to each other by spiky, starlike shapes. The marks themselves had a texture as though whatever made them had been bubbling, yet somehow stayed contained enough to not completely obscure the image.

A feeling of dread began to press down on Nightwing's chest like a stone.

Only years of practice alerted Nightwing when Batman arrived, gliding forward silently as though made of shadow. He glanced down at the symbols on the stone, silent for a long moment as his lips pursed into displeasure.

"I'll call Justice League Dark." He eventually acquiesced.

— — —

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

[batsandbirdbrains]

I need an au where Batman doesn’t reveal his identity to the Justice League until after Nightwing joins. But it’s just Bruce who takes off the cowl, maybe during a meeting where Nightwing was busy with Blüdhaven or Titans things and couldn’t attend.

It had been after a huge family meeting. A series of family meetings, really, held in the Batcave. Because the batkids want everyone to know (several select friends on their respective teams already knew but were sworn to secrecy), and they were tired of wearing masks all the time (both figuratively and literally, especially during downtime team bonding sort of situations).

So Bruce Wayne is revealed to the Justice League. And the whole Batfamily relaxes, because Bruce has insisted, always insisted, that if one of them revealed their identities, the rest would follow like dominoes. It was so obvious, Bruce insisted. They didn’t work with complete morons, he said.

Then one day an abrupt meeting is called, they received urgent intel on a case they’d been tracking for months now. But Bruce and Dick had been at a charity event, so they decided to just show up in civvies since most others would no doubt be arriving in a similar fashion. It was an abrupt meeting, yes, but as of now there was no plan to immediately head out and act on the intel. Besides, they can always use the spare suits the keep on the Watchtower.

But then when they arrive in the meeting room (last, unfortunately, because they’d been held up by reporters), the whole room goes stiff.

“I know you told us your identity,” Green Lantern huffs, muttering and it’s still really weird under his breath, “but you can’t just bring your kid up to our headquarters!”

There are many murmurs of agreement, and Bruce scoffs while Dick lets out a snort of a laugh.

Bruce is so offended that:

Hal Jordan thinks he has any right to try and scold him

Hal Jordan is trying to tell him where he can and cannot bring his kids when Bruce funds damn near the entire Justice League out of his own pocket

And that Dick is now looking at him with the smuggest smirk he’s had on his face in years.

“So you were wrong,” Dick says in a sing-song voice. “What have you been telling me for YEARS now? You can’t tell your friends, Dick, it’s not just your secret! You said. You can’t tell anyone or else the whole family will be found out, Dick! You said. We don’t work with a bunch of complete morons, Dick! You said. Puh-lease.”

Dick is smirking at him, and Bruce covers his eyes with a palm, resisting the urge to groan.

“Don’t say it.”

“I’m gonna say it!”

“Don’t say it, Dick.”

“I told you so!” Dick says in his snottiest voice. “I told you so, I told you so, I told you so! Jay and Timmy both owe me two-hundred bucks! I’ve been telling you so since I was eight years old!”

“The Justice League didn’t even form until you were ten.”

“That’s beside the point!” Dick says flippantly, then skips over to the pair of chairs Batman and Nightwing usually sit in. He plops down in Nightwing’s usual seat, still smirking, and throws his feet up on the table while the gaggle of superheroes watches him with their eyes bugging out of their heads. “Nice to formally meet’cha, without the mask of course. I’m Dick Grayson, but you all know me as Nightwing.”

Bruce lets out the most exhausted sigh they’ve ever heard, and he sits down heavily in his usual seat.

“Please tell me Damian was not included in your little betting ring.”

“Oh of course he was. Jason and Tim both owe him a hundred dollars. I get double since I’m the one who got to prove you wrong.” Dick is already texting Damian to get the security footage as proof. They have to keep it separate so Tim can’t delete it.

“Wait a minute,” Flash says, “are all the Waynes vigilantes?”

Dick snorts, then giggles, then looks at the constipated look on Bruce’s face and giggles some more.

“It’s a family tradition!” Dick says. “Gotta train your pre-pubescent kids to follow after the Bat, after all.”

“That’s enough,” Bruce grunts, and it’s so jarring for them all to see him use Batman’s tone with Brucie’s face. “Don’t we have intel to discuss?”

“Right, right,” someone says, then clears their throat. “So our inside source got us these documents…”

The meeting continues as normal, but Dick looks over at Bruce after a couple minutes and wiggles his eyebrows. Bruce slaps him upside the head and tells him in a hushed whisper to pay attention.

“How did we not know that was his dad?” Hal whispers to Barry.

Barry just shrugs. Bruce glares at both of them, and they shut up instantly and turn back to whoever’s presenting. Dick is practically giddy.

[binmeister]

First time

Jinu, Abs, Baby x Reader (Separate) 

Not everyone’s a sex god, the first time is usually hit or miss so what are they like the first time you’re intimate?

twiddling my thumbs... hey whats up. //ace author who's never written smut before

CW: not proofread, suggestive content - mentions of sex and contains details of sexual acts, NSFW (R18+), clumsy and imperfect first times, reader receiving, unprotected sex (pls actually wrap it up irl) - relatively gender neutral

Jinu

It’s clumsy, a little awkward but in a way where you’re both a little breathless and giggly as you get progressively more handsy with one another - he’d climbed on top of you as he stripped his shirt off and you’d rid yourself of your own top

Jinu hasn’t had intimacy in centuries and it shows in his sensitivity, the gasps he lets out when you run your hands down his chest and lower - the little “ah..” he lets out when you press a kiss against a sensitive spot on his neck

Admittedly he busts prematurely, his pants were still on and he was overwhelmed - you both paused for a second and he’s burying his face into your chest to hide his embarrassment as you coo at him that it’s okay, it’s not a big deal

You traced nonsensical patterns on the skin of his back as he tried to catch his breath, a little ragged as he tried to calm himself down from what happened then you’re both slowly ramping back up once he gets himself together

Kisses steadily going from small pecks to heavier, needier, he’s panting a little into your mouth and then your legs hook around his waist and bring his lower body flush against yours and he grimaces at the sensation of his load from earlier sticky and moist against his upper thighs

Your hands shifted up his back and towards his hair, running through it and giving a gentle tug as he struggles to shimmy out of his pants and boxers with the way you were clinging onto him - a steady urgency building in the way he returned your kisses 

When it finally came to sliding into you, he felt like the wind was knocked out of him as he processed the sensation of you insides holding onto him so snugly - forehead pressed against your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath and you busied yourself with pressing kisses to the top of his head; a pleased sigh escaping your lips as you played with the tips of his hair

He’d breathe out ‘I love you’s when he was finally able to move, hips stuttering a little and struggling to find a good pace and then you beg him - ‘faster..please..please..!’ 

And he’s not thinking straight anymore, letting his body do what felt right and he’s barely keeping it together when he ends up cumming again - hips jerking a little rougher and you’re moaning so prettily in his ear that any semblance of a thought in his head was about you

When it’s over he’s resting on your chest, your hands playing in his hair as you talk softly to eachother and then when he manages to gather enough stamina again he gets off of you and goes to get a warm wet towel to help clean you up

Abs / Abby

He’s no virgin - far from it, but all the one-off instances of sex meant nothing in the moment as he’s got you underneath him and you’re flushed

Normally he’s rough and takes what he wants but with you..? Sweet you? He’s softer, gentler than he’s ever been and his touch is ticklish - like he’s scared he’ll hurt you 

You’re a little nervous when he’s fully naked with you and you’re staring at what he’s packing - he’s big, and the two of you pause as you wonder if he’ll even fit..?

You tried though and it stung when he attempted to press the tip in, you’d stopped him with a soft ‘ow!’ and some pressure to his shoulders and he pulled out instantly, pressing kisses all over your face as he apologised for hurting you - checking if you’re okay

His expression looked pained and he felt horrible that the first time you were going to have together hurt, but you’d whispered sweet words to him and reassured him that it’ll be okay.. you guys just needed to prep a little more before you could get there

So that’s what you two did - more lube, his fingers working you gently to steadily stretch you out and he had the honour of having your soft breaths and moans ghost his ear as he rested his head beside yours on the pillow you lay on he shifted and pressed his lips against your shoulder and let his teeth gently nibble at the skin as his hips instinctively started rutting against the bed in time with his fingers

You’d whined into his ear “Abby..need you..” and he slowly retracted his fingers from you, lining himself up and steadily starting to work his way in - tip first, then out, tip back in and a little deeper, pulling back out steadily, then going in a little deeper the next time bit by bit as he attempted to pace the stretch and soon enough after a steady rhythm of slow thrusts to get himself buried inside of you he’d done it

His chest was heaving at the tight grip you had around him and he felt like he ascended and went to heaven for once, he’d managed not to blow his load then and there but waited for you as your breaths were unsteady - chest tight as you tried to wait out the stinging sensation and your face was scrunched up in pain

He pressed his lips against your face repeatedly, soft kisses and spoke softly about ‘how good you’re doing’ that ‘you feel amazing’ and that he’s ‘gonna wait til you’re ready’ - a few minutes pass like this where he’s kissing you to distract you from the sting and eventually it does go away

You open your eyes barely and experimentally shift your hips to see if the sensation would feel different and he groans deep from his chest, and you ask him in a hushed voice if he can move

He does so, starting up a slow and deliberate rhythm until you ask him to move a little faster.. his ears latching onto every sound and plea you make as you share your first time together and he looks down at you as he tries to memorise every expression you make, the way you bite your lip when he manages a particularly deep thrust, every little detail that his foggy brain can manage to capture as he attempts to chase his high with you

When it ends you’re on cloud 9 and he’s talking softly to try and bring you back down to him, being careful not to overstimulate you until you’re able to think and speak coherently then he helps you to the bathroom and cleans you up

Baby

I don’t think he’s a virgin either but I don’t really see him having much interest in sex usually, like the act itself is too much of a hassle most of the time but then he gets attached to you and suddenly there’s something that clicks and he’s a lot more invested in physical touch - likes the sounds you make, the little quiver of your bottom lip when he leaves a hickie on your neck

You’d climbed on top of him, a make out session that had escalated steadily and he let out a low groan as you’d shifted and accidentally brushed your crotch against his when you moved your legs to rest either side of him

His hands were on your hips and he fingers pressed into the plush of your hips as he rocked you gently against him, capturing each gasp you let out with his mouth as one of his hands steadily trailed up under your shirt - lifting the fabric off of you in the process

He’d tug at your clothes, urging you to take them off with a husky voice as he nuzzled his face into your neck and just inhaled - liked the way you smelt and then can’t resist the urge to bite a hickie into you - bigger than usual and in a space on your neck that’d be a pain to cover up and something about you struggling to hide it the next day makes his head dizzy in a good way

By the time both of you are nude his head is fuzzy, not really thinking straight as he shifts to manoeuvre your bodies so he was on top - pressing you deeper in the mattress as he humps your thigh briefly before peeling himself off you for a second to take in how you looked

Your eyes are glazed over and your chest is huffing air into your lungs, your lips swollen a little from the times he’d let his teeth nip at them during your earlier make out session

He can’t help it when he dives back in and melds his lips against yours again, hands trailing down your body to rub circles into your hips as he he starts to trail his lips down your neck and to your chest

Out of all the guys, aside from Abby, he lasts the longest and might be one of the more vocal ones - liking the way you shiver if he groans in your ear or if he really feels like it.. he lets a moan slip out and he loves the way you tighten up around him when you hear him

He’s not very gentle but he likes to take it slow, each thrust reaching deep and he likes when you ask him to go faster because he just hums and says ‘but it feels so good like this right..?’ and you can’t help but agree - not outwardly but the moan you let out speaks for itself

He doesn’t cum but he manages to get you there, you feel bad that he didn’t finish and he shushes you as he pulls out - a tingle going up his neck when he hears you whine at the loss and then your legs wrap around his hips to pull him back against you which leads him smirk at you as he pokes fun at you before steadily sliding himself back in

A pleased sigh from you at the act and you end up in this position for a while, him inside of you while you mindlessly talk about how it felt

His ego grows when you comment that it feels amazing and his hips move without meaning to and you gasp and smack at his shoulder, he just tucks his face into your neck and rests his body weight on you and you’re stuck there til you either fall asleep like this or you finally let him get up so he can help you shower

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for saja boys with shy but touch starved gn s/o please?

Jinu

He’s touch starved himself in my opinion.

He’s also a little awkward too and would definitely be cautious as to not push you beyond your boundaries.

He finds your shyness an interesting thing to have, it’s always a sight to behold when he watches you interact with his tiger companion and the bird with the top hat, acting as though you couldn’t be anywhere else then with them.

Yet when it comes to social interactions you reframe from speaking incase you said something that could come across as silly or stupid. It was truly telling to Jinu where your comfortability levels lied in certain situations and who you were with.

So he would always be nearby, ready to take over a conversation if he saw that you were running low of things to say, coming up with something believable for the other person as he pulls you away from a conversation that was obviously not doing you a lot of good. He’ll take you to less crowded places as he himself didn’t like overcrowded places either, preferring more scenic areas where he could clear his mind and hear himself think.

So Jinu takes you to those places when he knows you needed it and would just stand by your side, all the while the bird with the tiny hat would rest itself on your shoulder, cuddling against your neck and closing it’s eyes in content.

Jinu wouldn’t take to physical affection immediately but instead take his time when he saw how you tensed before gradually intertwining your fingers with his, letting out a sigh of relief as you let yourself enjoy the affection for what it was.

from then on Jinu would also allow himself to enjoy enacting physical affection alongside you, or vicariously through you, when he rested his hand upon the small of your back or gingerly caressed the back of your neck in order to get you to relax and breath again.

Jinu find that you were both alike in similar ways but different in others and found solace in that as neither of you had to go against yourselves in order to appease the other. Affection will come and go but each of them being as meaningful as the last even if it was for a couple of seconds.

Also cuddles with the fluffy blue tiger are a must to recovery your battery, Jinu joins in because you both looked adorable, only for you two to be squashed under the big blue fluff as they act completely innocent.

Baby

Isn’t one for outright PDA. So he’s perfect for you really, it’s not important to him as it would to be for others.

He’ll take the lead in most situations, not that he cares whether your shy or not, he’ll step up if it senses as though your having a hard time even if his face is as though he was perpetually nonchalant about it.

He’ll most likely nudge your shoulder, tap the back of your hand three times, or having his thigh close by to yours but not close enough to just, just enough for you to know he was there if you ever need him.

Baby can communicate to you without having to use words, he’ll use notes to do so if you felt as though you couldn’t use your voice, feel like it’s been taken away from you even if you were just about to ask him for help on something.

He can tell that you need something and is very attuned to how you show that, even without words and will get it without hesitation. It almost comes off as though you have some sort of psychic connection with how effortlessly you knew one another without having to even open your mouths.

Your shyness wasn’t a deterrent for him either as he’s not one to talk all the time either, just enough for people to understand his personality, but just little to keep people guessing his next move or guess what’s his favourite colour or favourite kind of spicy food he preferred.

Baby didn’t care if you talked too much or too little, just as long as you were comfortable with him and didn’t feel as though you had to pressure yourself into becoming comfortable for his sake because that was the last thing he wanted for you.

Baby didn’t care if you didn’t want to go out that much, he wasn’t much of an outdoor person himself, only going out when needed or just to take a quick trip to a corner store and grab spicy treats and sweet snacks for you to munch on within the comfort of your apartment.

He’s more of a homebody who will occasionally want to go out now and then, keenly aware of how easily drained you can be afterwards. He’ll always keep an eye on you in the most nonchalant way possible, caring for you in his own way while also letting you do whatever pleases you.

Abby

Is a teasing shit that will tease you for your shyness initially but never takes it too far, he’s not that mean. He knows his limitations before the playful taunts become mean spirited.

He adores your shyness really, especially when he causally flexes his muscles and you -upon getting caught looking at him- would seemingly jolt out of your skin and look away. It feeds his ego a little and he’d intentionally do it even more if it meant seeing such interesting reactions coming from you.

He can easily stand in front of you if you didn’t want to be seen by others, he’s tall enough and well built enough to do so with ease, he’ll do it if it gives you some peace of mind. Your comfort comes first to Abby.

Will ask if you wanna touch his abs and smiling when you seemingly were at a loss for words, brain working too hard to decipher what he said and if it’s genuine or a joke.

His PDA is about average. He’ll hold your hand, thumb caressing your wrist, or his arm is thrown over your shoulder where he could feel you stiffen before melting under his embrace, almost hiding yourself away within his side while doing so.

That’s when he knows your touch starved and will start doing more to make you more use to his touches and affection.

Abby didn’t care if it took you longer to be comfortable in making phone calls to places or getting use to him putting his hand in your back pocket, as long as he got to do so and get to see how you’d react to what he does was more then enough for him. Your reactions are the highlight for him as he couldn’t help but become infectious with the happiness you felt for getting through placing your order without fucking up.

Abby is your hype man and your biggest teaser at the same time.

He’ll be happy for you/with you and will bring you into his arms to savour the sweet moment as he utters how proud of you he is, only for him to then in the same breath tease you for brushing against his abs, making you smack his bicep weakly as he laughs. Abby can truly be a menace but also be the biggest supporter when it came to you and doing things you initially felt under qualified to do.

Mystery

Your guard dog in more ways then one.

He’s almost got a sixth sense for when you’re comfortable and uncomfortable, like a bloodhound he could smell it from a mile away and immediately he’s more or less barking at whatever is making you uncomfortable.

Not one for words but his actions make up for it. You know the silent type goes strong in him but that doesn’t mean you’ve never heard him talk at all, his I’d like to believe voice is soft, grounding and steady in a way where if he says things were going to be okay, you’d believe him wholeheartedly.

If you want something, just point it out to him and he’ll get you it if you have social anxiety or just can’t bring yourself to speak to the person behind the till.

He’s more then willing to do anything on your behalf or be a grounding presence when you do it yourself, gently brushing his hand against your own in a silent gesture that he was here, that you shouldn’t feel stupid or anything when he was right there to offer moral support.

Affection wise he’s more accustomed to putting his head on your lap or resting his head against your own as his arms are anchored to your waist, almost as though he’s bringing you into an impromptu cuddle session.

The first time he did so, you were tense and didn’t know what to do, stay still as you could while he rested his head in your lap as you looked about awkwardly before feeling his hand grab yours and place it atop of his head in a silent demand for you to run your fingers through his hair.

It was awkward at first as you didn’t want to hurt him by catching some stubborn knots within his hair, but soon enough you were running your fingers through his hair like it’s nothing as though it was second nature.

Everything took time and Mystery was more then willing to keep constantly resting his head on your lap on the odd occasion so that you’d get use to him doing so, get use to him pulling your hand on his head so that his need for attention and affection didn’t come out of nowhere and left you feeling uncomfortable.

Romance

Loves, loves, loves PDA.

Finds your shyness endearing but understands that it can be somewhat debilitating at times when it comes to doing certain things that come more natural to people more confident than you.

He would try to ease you into it by doing small gestures, such as intertwining pinkies or just tracing his fingers across your palm so that you would be familiar to his touch when he does more grander expressions of affection.

He’s got patience in droves and will reassure you that your shyness is one of the many things he loves about you, even if you think that your shyness was holding him back or believe it to be a downside to you.

He’s never holding it against you at all, he embraces it and is more than willing to go at your own pace should it be more comfortable for you.

The last thing he wanted was for you to feel as though you had to be thrusted out of your comfort zone to keep someone when it’s doing more harm then good, that you needed to ignore your own feelings in order to accommodate the other person’s feelings.

That wasn’t love in his eyes and it never will be.

Romance is convinced that while you were both different, you both compliment each other in a way that he’s come to adore.

He’s more sociable and outgoing, whereas you were more reserved and didn’t feel at all comfortable with overbearing people or overcrowded spaces filled with loud and rambunctious characters. Yet you both worked wonders together and that’s all Romance could ask for, someone who complimented him while also being uniquely themselves.

[edensrose]

˖ 𑣲 𝓜 y girl

˚₊‧꒰ა satoru gojo ﾉ sweetheart.ᐟ reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ as a special grade, the higher-ups expect you to be early to meetings. alas, you have a certain white-haired guard dog that keeps them from questioning you too much. especially when he's all over you ꒰ ᡣ𐭩 ꒱ whipped toru ˖ fluff ˖ protective toru ˖ 0.6k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ squealed writing all of this ⌇ requested

Dimmed lights, bowed heads, stiff silence and . . .

Pink, charmed nails?

"You are late, Second."

The sneer around your title barely earned your flinch. The entrance parted and light swept in. From the outside world or from you? To a certain sorcerer stood comfortably in his meeting position, it seemed like the latter.

Satoru's grin finally returned. A little brighter, all the more sharper as you trotted on in with heels longer than half the dicks in this room and wearing a smile like a cursed technique.

"Still got here, didn't I?" Sunglasses pushed into your hair, a designer purse on your arm. With you came a floral scent into this dingy meeting room the higher-ups swore up and down on.

Oh you weren't trotting. You strutted. As if the world owed you something and rolled your eyes like whatever it gave wasn't enough. Gracefully making your way towards him. A storm wrapped in a pretty pink chiffon dress and dolled from the head down. Your hair? Not a strand out of place. Your make-up? That eyeliner could cut through every sheen these old geezers hid behind.

"And where," one in particular grunted. "Pray tell, have you been? You were informed of this meeting's gravity."

"I had a nail appointment."

The room fell silent. Their fifth special grade. Regarded as the Second Strongest, bested by only Gojo Satoru whom you nestled beside easily. The woman who clawed her way to the top in a feat they'd never seen before. . .

Was late because those same nails she clawed with needed prettying?

"You have no urgency!" Another snapped. Then came several. To your ears it was nothing but fodder. The same bullshit day-in and day-out. You rather occupied yourself with the sorcerer stood beside you.

"Late cause of your pretty nails, sweetheart?" Satoru crooned, barely paying mind to the higher-ups throwing a fit. He stood with a lazy air and arms folded.

"Mhhm." Five fingers splayed before you and nudged to him. Decorative charms shimmered in the dim light. Each nail finely kept, shaped and painted in a style so testament to the rest of you. Elegant, beautiful. "What do you think?"

Delicate is what your hand looked compared to his. Cupped below yours and raising it a bit higher to his vision. Even with his shades, you knew his eyes scanned intensely. White brows raised and grin settling into a tease of a smirk.

"Well, lookie there."

"Do you have any idea of your position!" Another screech that neither of you paid attention to. The higher-ups could threaten and argue all they wanted.

What would they do? They couldn't fight you. And the only one that could?

"Told you blue would look good on you."

. . . was currently kissing over your fingers.

Satoru barely batted an eye, too preoccupied with the azure hue you styled at the tips of your nails. Every voice fell silent as he laid kisses over each of your knuckles like they were the secret to infinity.

You crooked your head to one of the shoji, where the first apprehending official sat. Still as every other breath in the room. And despite your eyes smouldering hot coals,

You smiled.

"Now, can we continue this meeting?"

A voice readied to shame you for your audacity and attitude. But all stilled at once when icy blue peered over a dark rim. Pale lips still flushed to your knuckle. They needn't coil into the frown his glare shone.

"I . . . whatever."

Satoru hummed and released your hand in favour of a strong arm looped around your waist. You're pulled into his side with his watchful gaze still ahead.

"Then let's get on with it, yeah?" He squeezed your hip. Shot you a little smile. Stole one more kiss.

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[paintedwritings]

But First, The End

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (She/her pronouns used)

Word Count: 10.5k

Summary: A one-night stand with Prythian’s most notorious spy leads to an avalanche of life changing events. 

Warning/Notes: Hoping to make this a mini-series if people are interested! Some talk of anxiety, smutty/adult content, I think it can be categorized as fluff, but there will definitely be some angst eventually because I can’t help myself. Please let me know what you think and if you’d be interested in more parts! Thank you.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

The glimmering purple liquid burned as it raced down her throat, shot number–who even knew– as her hips swayed back and forth, the upbeat music acting as a guide. 

Heat danced across her flesh, pirouetting on every inch of her skin, as her friends pressed closely around her, dancing the night away. Lena–her twin sister, had been the one responsible for tonight. When she learned that her sister had been accepted to intern under the best healer in Velaris, well, she’d wanted to celebrate by taking Y/n out and–apparently– getting her laid, or very drunk, whichever happened first.

She hadn’t given much of a fight, it was rare that she got to enjoy a night out. Usually, she sequestered herself away in her own corner of the world studying herbal remedies and medicinal practices, or doing research on all sorts of plants and carnivorous insects.

“We need more alcohol,” Mari– one of her good friends, called out, not waiting for a response before dragging Lena behind her as they headed for the bar. Y/n watched as the small, fearless seamstress flipped her hair over her shoulder, exposing a small constellation tattoo, and smiled seductively at the bartender. Laughing slightly, Y/n spun on her heels, grateful that her friends were enjoying the night as much as she was.

Vasilisa, her sweet roommate, quickly filled in the gap the other two had left. Smiling softly at a male before she twirled once, the delicate glimmering mesh of her skirt chasing after her thighs. 

“The High Lord’s here tonight,” she giggled, throwing her arms around Y/n’s neck as she danced with her, but kept eye contact with the male just out of view. Perhaps alcohol was, in-fact, not what they needed more of. “And, he looks delicious.”

“He’s mated, Lesa, probably best to pick some other poor soul.” Despite the oddity of Lesa’s drunkenness, she couldn’t help but warm at her friend’s state. 

A small, devilish grin plastered across the girl’s face as she quickly shifted gears, “What about the shadowsinger? He’s not mated and Cauldron, he is scrumptious.”

At this point, Y/n would definitely have to be the one to stop drinking. With Mari and Lena still chatting up the bartender, more drinks appearing and disappearing before they ever left the counter; Lesa all but grinding against her as she mentally undresses the High Lord and the Spymaster of the Night Court; and Peri’s complete disappearance once a beautiful female had shown interest; it was a safe bet that she’d need to make sure everyone got home safely tonight.  

“I have an even better idea, Y/n,” Lesa squealed, her toes bouncing as she gripped both of her arms, big doe eyes pleading. “You should ask him to dance!” Lesa seemed so happy with herself, but she had to hold back the cringe that fought desperately to claw its way free.

She must not have done a good enough job hiding it, because Lesa pouted, “You don’t think he’s hot?” 

Y/n blanched, “No, of course I think he’s hot. I mean he's very tall, and gorgeous, and I like the way his shadows surround him, and I can only imagine what they can do in–” her cheeks flooded with heat that she couldn’t blame on the atmosphere. Good gods, she needed to reattach her tongue to her brain. Clearing her throat, and ignoring Lesa’s growing smirk, “that’s not the point.”

She laughed awkwardly, hoping to change the subject. She certainly wouldn’t be asking him to dance. The male took her breath away, she’d never be able to speak to him, not without clamming up or dying on the spot– the latter more preferrable. 

It was entirely possible that she was a little obsessed with the male, but in a ‘I’ll adore you from behind the scenes and never, ever do anything about it,” kind of obsession. Totally healthy. Not at all going to bite her in the ass.

She just admired him, and well, all of the Inner Circle. They did so much to keep the Night Court safe and an enjoyable place to live. 

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t dance,” Peri spoke as she finally made her reappearance. She took one of the shots that Lena handed her as she and Mari finally made their back, as well. “Besides, you're out of his league,” the purple haired faerie said, shooting her a wink. 

Of all of her friends, Peri understood the anxiety that lingered beneath Y/n’s bones the best. The circumstances that she and Lena had grown up in– they hadn’t been the best and it followed them even now, nearly one hundred years into their lives.

She smiled back at her friend, spinning Lesa into Mari’s arms, the girl gasping at the sudden movement, Lena catching the two barely before they tumbled. Y/n slung an arm around Peri’s shoulders, the two swaying back and forth as she thanked the Mother for her friends.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

The night lived on, the girls tapering off to dance with all kinds of people, the lights switching from flickering rainbow rays, to disco, to low set golden glows. Y/n let the euphoria from adrenaline and excitement drive her body– she had stopped drinking what had to have been hours ago, but she still felt the light thrum in her limbs that made her feel like a cloud, made her feel untouchable. 

By the time midnight rolled around, her feet had started aching in the best ways, her thighs felt like they were on fire, and she could feel dobs of sweat beading her brow. She had danced with her fair share of men and women, but no matter how many times Lena shot her a ‘go for it’ look or Mari gave her a thumbs up, she never lingered for more than a dance.

With all her friends occupied, she made her way out the back exit, needing some fresh air and a glance at the stars. Stargazing had always been a source of comfort for her, it was her mother’s favorite thing to do– and Velaris is the best place to do it. The beautiful dark sky was mixed with deep blues and unnerving black hues that made the stars shimmer like diamonds.

She sighed, resting her back against the brick wall of an alley, taking comfort from the cool texture against her bare skin. Her eyes stayed glued to the sky, but she jolted when she heard a small can knock over a little deeper into the alley. She stood frozen, too confused, and a little scared, to do anything other than watch.

Her breath escaped her quickly, though. She watched a small black tendril of smoke slither out from behind the bin, moonlight gleaming on the silver can as more shadows revealed themselves around it.

They made their way towards her, some of them wrapping around her ankles and running the length of her arms, gooseflesh following swiftly after them. She giggled softly, cooing at the adorable things.

“What are you doing here?” She whispered, utterly enamored by the way they moved, the cool tenderness that they left in their wake. She’d blame the alcohol for her utter lack of awareness, despite feeling completely sober, she was sure it was the only explanation for how she missed their master entirely. “You’re quite cute.”

“That’s not typically how people describe them,” a deep, rough voice spoke from behind her. 

She wasn’t proud of what happened next, but, in her defense, she panicked and instinct took over. 

She screeched, her heels spinning swiftly as she threw her fist at the intruder behind her, all of her small, but mighty force put behind it.  

In hindsight, should she have been able to make an informative guess on who it was? Absolutely. If she had taken even a moment to look at her surroundings: the creatures she was speaking to, or even the bar that the alley they currently stood in lay attached to– she may have chosen a better way to react.

Still, she tried desperately to hold onto all of her brothers’ teachings, it had been years since she’d properly trained or had taken part in any sort of physical combat, so she was a little rusty. 

Her fist collided with a skin, hard. She hadn’t realized how tall the male before her was, her head barely reaching his shoulders, her fist vibrating where it hit the palm of his hand. 

He hadn’t even flinched. A small smile tilting the side of his mouth. She stood frozen, her wrist now encased by a warm, calloused hand as he twisted his grip, gently.

Their eyes locked, his warm hazel gaze taking complete control of her being. Her mouth popped open a little, her eyes wide as she took in the beautiful specimen before her. The quirk of his lips disappeared almost immediately, but he still wore a soft look on his face, it was obvious he was doing his best to not be intimidating. He dropped her wrist without complaint and took a large step backwards, his hands clasping behind his back as he dragged his wings in behind him, making them look smaller.

He cleared his throat, the look on his face giving nothing away, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her first thought? That he could startle her whenever he wanted to because he’s breathtaking. His short curls lay in dark wisps along his forehead, his eyes glazed with a bewitching twinkle, and his clothes clung tightly to his muscles, nothing left to the imagination. She could see the swirls of his tattoos as a few sat slightly in view beneath his sleeves and open collar.

Finally, finally, she found her voice, it cracked, “Wo-ow, you’re beautiful.” His eyes widened and his mouth hung agape for a short moment, shadows dancing along his shoulders as they thrummed with what looked like giddy-delight. 

Cauldron. Boil. Her.

She cursed herself inwardly, why the hell had she said that? She needed to get out of here, fast. 

“I mean– you aren’t– I’m–” words failed to form, and he just stood and watched, mesmerized, as she floundered, as she crashed and pathetically burned. “I’m so sorry, for punching–oh gods– and for the beautiful–” swallow, “–thing… uh– i’m just gonna,” She pointed her thumb to the door she came through.

“I don’t think–” He started, but quickly stopped when she swore, pulling on the door handle that didn’t so much as budge. She pulled harder, over and over again as embarrassment to the nth degree began washing over her.

She groaned, allowing her upper body to fall against the large door, her forehead resting against the cool metal. Why do these things happen to me?

To all his credit, the shadowsinger just stood back and watched as she slowly unraveled, utter amusement dancing in his eyes. He had never seen anyone fumble so entirely when trying to speak to him. It intrigued him. It certainly had him thinking of ways to make that blush bloom across her cheeks again. 

“Are you alright?” He finally asked, cutting off her repetitive mumblings. Her gaze snapped to his, her head still firmly planted against the door. 

“I should have drank more,” she said to herself before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “I’m peachy,” Was how she responded to him, “thanks for not, you know, killing me for punching you.”

He mouthed the word peachy, as if he had never heard it before, his brows crinkling in the most attractive way. Gods, she really needed to quit staring at him.

She started her walk towards the front of the alley, doing her best to sidestep the large male. He merely turned, allowing her to pass him with plenty of room between them, but he did follow her as she made her way to the front.

“I would hardly call that a punch,” he spoke, a teasing lilt to his tone, “Although, you do move fast, so that’s at least something.”

She gawked at him, “You startled me, if I had been ready, I definitely would have hit you.” She proclaimed, her eyes catching on the shadows that had reattached themselves to her. She smiled at them.

She missed the way Azriel stopped breathing, his gaze snatching onto the smile she gave his shadows, the way she looked at them as if they were something amazing, something worth acknowledging.

He regained his composure, doing his best to shove down his growing need to hear her voice, her laugh. And gods, he wanted to see that blush again, too. 

“An opponent isn’t going to give you the time to get ready,” he pointed out, both of them stopping as they reached the edge of the alley, real life a mere step away.

She narrowed her eyes, calculation and mirth swirling around, “Why exactly were you in the alley anyways?”

He shrugged, a casual gesture that made her heart flutter wildly. She watched as his wings shifted with the motion, the moonlight illuminating them in an ethereal glow, she wanted to reach out and touch them.

Nope.

She held her hands tightly to her sides. If she knew anything about Illyrians, it was that their wings were sacred, and people tended to lose limbs when they touched them uninvited. 

“My shadows were curious about something, I merely followed their lead.” He neglected to mention that they’d slithered to the alley with the pull of a hundred Illyrian men–hell bent on getting their master the.

“There wasn’t anything special in the alleyway,” she spoke, confused. Certainly an old garbage can and littered papers wouldn’t have caught the attention of the spymaster's shadows, would it?

His head tilted sideways, taking her in as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. As if he were trying to read if she was being truthful, intentional. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, though as he lifted his hand, a shadow weaving its way around him, 

“You’re in the alleyway.”

His voice had a low timbre in it, he spoke quietly but firmly, his eyes never shifting from hers as she swallowed. 

She felt her cheeks heat, the warmth bloom across her chest as he looked at her, not a single fiber of her being going unnoticed by the male. No wonder so many people cowered in his presence.

Shaking her head, “I’m nothing special,” her hand flew to the back of her head, nervously patting her hair down as she awkwardly smiled his way. “Maybe they just needed a change in scenery,” she offered.

He hummed, “May I ask why you were in the alley? You seemed to be having fun on the dance floor.” She balked. He had seen her? Her mind had to be suffering from whiplash because there was no way this was actually happening. 

“I just needed some air, to watch the stars for a bit.” When he hummed again, she realized that he must not be much of a talker, but the silence she found them in wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, it felt… safe, kind of like a fresh breeze of air on a hot day, or a warm bath after a hard day’s work. And, she supposed it made sense that he would talk much, he was the Spymaster, after all.

“I’m Y/n, by the way,” He repeated her name back, a thick, intoxicating sound as it fell from his lips. His tongue flicked across his top lip as if he were chasing the word. She wanted to chase the movement, her eyes tracking it like a hound. 

“Azriel,” he offered back, though both of them knew it was just a formality. Of course she already knew his name. 

“Would it be alright if I bought you a drink?” Did she hear a nervous pulse in his words? “To make up for startling you and interrupting your star gazing?”

She froze, did he actually just ask her out? Well, not out, but to have a drink with him? These were the kinds of things she needed her friends around for, how in the Mother's name was she supposed to know what to do. 

She thought about Lesa, and what she’d said earlier about asking him to dance. Lesa, despite her alcohol consumption, was usually the most leveled headed of them. It’s what was going to make her a great healer one day. She knew about the kind of men Y/n typically found herself gravitating towards. She knew that it was unlikely she’d ask anyone to dance unless they gave her a reason to. Did she know something about Azriel that she didn’t?

She’d have to remember to bring it up tomorrow, once Lesa had her head on straight again. But, at that moment, she decided that she could do this. She could be spontaneous and have fun. 

“I would love that,”

Besides, it was one drink, what could possibly happen?

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

One drink had turned into two, and two had quickly turned into three the longer the night went on. She and Azriel had danced for what felt like hours. Eventually they’d found their to a table, just the two of them talking and laughing, sharing stories. She did most of the talking, the male drawing words and memories out of her with no problem at all. He always hummed and asked questions at the right times, he listened in a way that made her think he was far too interested in her, but it was…nice. 

She hadn’t even realized how late it had gotten, but as she did a sweep of the room, she realized a lot of the patrons had left for the night. Even Mari and Lesa had waved at her as they left. 

Her gaze locked with her twin’s from across the dance floor, she slowly sipped from a pink drink, Peri sitting at the bar with her as they chatted. Lena raised a brow at Y/n. She didn’t need twin telepathy to know what she was asking, are you coming home with us, or going home with him?

She sent a glare her sister's way, knowing Lena had a preference for which option she chose. Honestly, Y/n knew better, though. Ignoring her sister only spurred her on. Which was why, now, Lena and Peri were making their way to the two of them, a shit eating grin on the former's face.

“Y/n,” She cooed, sitting down on her chair and placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. 

Azriel’s eyes snapped to Lena’s, then quickly to Peri, assessing and putting information together that she’d slowly given him over the past few hours.

“Peri and I are leaving, we have that very important thing to do tomorrow, as you know,” A very ‘subtle’ wink, “We don’t want to leave without you.” She pouted. “It’s so dangerous out there.”

Before Y/n could respond, Azriel cut in smoothly, “I could take you home.” The blush she’d been trying so hard to keep down all night ignited beneath her skin. 

Peri rolled her eyes as Lena clapped, “What a wonderful idea, who better to get her home safely than the Night Court’s Spymaster, himself.” 

She could have sworn Azriel smiled into his drink, clearly catching on to Lena’s antics. She shot an apologetic face towards him. He merely smiled at her, causing her breath to hitch.

“You don’t have to do that, I’m sure you’re busy.” She spoke quietly. Her eyes casting down toward the near-full drink she’d been sipping for the last hour. 

“I’m not. And, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” All three women stared at him, the sheer honesty in his tone casting them in stone. The fact that he wanted to spend more time with her and didn’t care that she and her friends knew. It started chipping away at the obsession, and started morphing into something much scarier.

Lena made a noise mixed between utter fascination and ooey-gooey sweetness. The arm hooked around her shoulders was used to swing her around swiftly, bringing her eye to eye with her twin, the startling gray color of their eyes meeting her own. 

“Make good choices,” She waggled her brows and flicked the zipper of her top down a millimeter more, revealing more cleavage.

“Lena!” She hissed. Hands automatically moving to cover herself. She didn’t zip it back up.

She winked, backing up to a laughing Peri. “good choices” she merely mouthed. 

Y/n looked towards Azriel, afraid of what he’d think of this whole show. Her eyes widened, he had a pink blossoming along his cheeks, a bashful expression briefly taking hold of his face before it turned into something more–deeper. 

As Lena turned towards the exit, her arm grappling Peri’s, she faced Azriel, “If anything happens to her, if she comes back with so much as a scratch,” she spoke cooly, “I’ll gut you from scrote to throat, capiche?”

She tossed a clean napkin at her sister, “I’m fine, go.”  Horrified that she had just threatened the freaking spymaster of the Night Court. One of the most infamous fae warriors in Prythian.

Something like appreciation flashed in his eyes, though. Instead of threatening her back, or using his title against her, he merely reached his hand out–covered in a black leather glove.

“I’ll protect her with my life.” Lena stood straighter, hesitantly reaching for his hand to shake it. Despite the glove, some sort of magic seemed to breathe new life into the world. An ebony vine wrapped its way along Lena’s wrist, bleeding flowers encasing the thin band, a matching one covering his own. 

She stared at their wrists, surprise flickering through her. Weren’t those kinds of promises…permanent? Why in the gods' names would he make a promise like that? He hardly knew her. Then again, she supposed it was sweet and comforting that a member of her home’s Inner Circle cared so much about the safety of their citizens.

Because that’s definitely all this could be about. 

Her sister and friend left quickly after that. And not long after that, Azriel paid the tab– refused to accept any of her money– and had wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. The fabric drifted over her arms, completely engulfing her frame and covering her thighs half-way.

She found herself close to Azriel, clinging to his warmth, as they made their way down the cobblestone street. Moon glimmering against the stone and street signs, casting the area in a deep, evanescent glow. 

Azriel walked at a slow pace, no doubt to keep up with her heeled steps. One of his hands hooked into his pocket, the other one – the one closest to hers– lay still at his side. She had a sneaking suspicion it was in case she decided to hold his hand. Heat blossomed in her stomach at the thought.

Lena had told her to make good choices. She had no doubt that meant to have fun, to allow herself some flexibility. She wasn’t sure of much when it came to this male, but she knew that she liked him and everything she’d learned about him tonight.

She knew she didn’t want the night to end, not yet.

“Will you take a detour with me?” She asked abruptly, effectively ending the calm silence. She could smell the salty air of the Sidra, a cool air rushing its way through the strands of her hair, his shadows stuck to her like sweetgum balls. 

He looked ethereal in the light of the moon, his unmatched beauty enrapturing her wholly. She hadn’t been able to look away from him for more than a moment the whole night.. His canines flashed briefly as he smirked, and then he hooked his pinky in hers, the gloves he had been wearing all night smooth against her skin.

She laughed as he spun her around, her heels clicking against the sidewalk.

“Lead the way,”

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩

They walked along the colorful sidewalk, crystal water filling the Sidra, the waves lulling softly in the calm of the night. 

Azriel had started opening up, slowly, telling her about his family, his job– or at least a pg version– and his interests. She clung to his every word, so grateful that he’d been willing to share parts of his private life. Their hands slowly grew closer, fingers finding their way together, his hand squeezing hers when it finally rested in his. 

She smiled softly at him, his eyes catching on her mouth. Thankfully, he couldn’t see the blush that always appeared when she looked at him too long. The whipping wind blasting her cheeks with frigid, frost coated air. 

Looking up at the stars glittering in the sky, “My mother loved the stars,” she spoke softly. She admired a mixture of constellations and a magical aurora– beautiful hues of golden orange, blushing pink, and enchanted, deep purple blending together. 

“She used to say that the stars were proof that the small moments in life are just as magnificent as the big ones.” 

She watched the stars, but he watched her. 

Meeting his hazel eyes, close enough to see the warm, green flecks that dusted his irises, she couldn’t help but move closer. Later, in the comfort of her home, she might say it’s because the wind was brutal, and his body offered her more heat than his jacket ever could. But, right here, right now? She simply wanted to follow that tugging in her chest, a sensation that led her straight to him.

His hand slowly drifted up her, following her outline before it settled against her cheek. He swallowed, “She sounds like a very wise woman,” He finally answered. His thumb lazily rubbed the skin along her jaw, allowing her ample opportunities to stop him if she wished.

She did not wish. In fact, she wanted to feel his skin against hers, and she couldn’t do it by holding his hands.

Instead she raised onto her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her middle, holding her steady against him. “What are you up to?” He murmured, a sweet look on his face as he moved a piece of her hair from her face. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” her body stiffened, he hadn’t meant to speak that aloud, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when she smiled like that.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” He vowed, his eyes glued to her lips, he only waited long enough for her to nod her agreement before his lips descended onto her.

She didn’t have even a moment to freak out, to second-guess, because one second he was leaning into her and the next his lips were on hers and–

 She. Stopped. Breathing. 

His lips were warm and soft, but also firm and perfect. The hand that was attached to the arm not securing her to him found its way to her cheek, cupping her softly. Her hands wound their way into his hair, a sigh escaping her as he kept kissing her, his tongue flicking across her lower lip.

This man didn’t simply kiss, he devoured, he took everything that she offered and more. His tongue danced along her mouth, and when his fingers grappled the ends of her hair, tugging just-so, she gasped, her mouth opening just enough for him to slip in. 

He deepened the kiss.

The small noises she made were consumed by his lips as they bubbled in the back of her throat, her legs somehow winding up around his waist, holding her up so he no longer had to bend so far. And through it all, he kept kissing her. Both his hands holding her back to keep her right where he wanted her. His tongue tangled with hers as his shadows ran along her neck, her exposed back, and her legs. The cool sensations doing unholy things to her senses as they mixed with the pure male heat of him.

Her hands pulled on his silky strands, pressing her chest, somehow, even further into his. Her body angled more above him, as he groaned, a sound she swore she could live off of. His canines flashed, a smirk dancing along his lips before she crashed her mouth back onto his, she wanted to taste every bit of him. His minty breath, the sweat beading his brow, the simple taste of his skin–could be her undoing. 

And oh golly, her skin tingled, her lips dancing with anticipation as he pulled away. His forehead falling against hers, his eyes so dark she wondered if she’d imagined the hazel of them all throughout the night. 

Their breaths came out in soft spurts, the cold night air bringing them to life around them as they stayed close. Her legs still wrapped around him, holding her to him, careful of his wings that seemed to flare whenever he lost some of his undiluted control.

“That was– you are–” He stopped, his lips trailing a path from her neck to her jaw and up her cheek before landing on the corner of her lips. Those glorious teeth scraping along her skin. She wanted him to bite her, to leave marks so she could remember this in the morning.

Maybe tomorrow–or for the rest of her life, let’s be honest– she’d daydream about how she’d turned this man into a puddle of words with just her mouth, gods knew he’d done that to her. But, right now? Right now she wanted nothing more than to feel more of him. To feel all of him.

“Can I take you home?” His voice came out breathy, still pressing sweet kisses along her skin, anywhere he could find. 

“That depends,” she cooed, moving her head back and baring her neck so he had better access. “My home or yours?”

She could feel that smile as it lifted his lips, his soft kisses on her throat making her lose any sense of understanding.

He rephrased, “Come home with me?” 

And how could she possibly say no to that?

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Azriel’s room was everything she could have pictured it being. Dark, neat, and not a single item that screamed “I’m Azriel, this is my space,” unless she counted the wall of knives and weapons. But she imagined that had more to say about how he was a spymaster, not the man himself.

They’d come in through his balcony, the glass doors pristinely shining as the moonlight cast onto them, giving his room the same aura as its dweller– dark and mysterious, but oh, so sexy. 

His bed lay in the middle, large enough to house someone with wings, and the dark linens neatly placed atop them were calling her name. A crackling fire lit the stone laden fireplace on the far end, books stacked neatly on a desk that was filled with papers and organized writing quills. 

She didn’t have time to dwell further on her surroundings, though. Not as Azriel pressed his front to her back, the evidence of his arousal chanting her name like a prayer. His gloves had come off, his calloused hands tracing the skin on her arm slowly.

“Are you still with me?” He whispered, his teeth grazing the tip of her ear. Shivers ran down her spine as she spun towards him, her hands finding their place on his forearms. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her eyes already on his lips. She had no qualms with what this was. She knew. This was one night. One amazing, probably will ruin sex with anyone else ever again, night. And she was okay with that. Lena had told her to have fun, to make good choices, and she couldn’t imagine what was a better choice than this. Than him.

His lips quirked up, lust pooling in his deep hazel, near black eyes. As he leaned down, his hands found their way to the zipper on her dress as his mouth met her shoulder, a trail of saliva following her bone. 

Her hands trailed up his arms– right over his new tattoo, and then skated down his front, finding the band of his pants, she slipped them under his shirt. A pleased sound coming from his throat as her hands travelled the length of his torso, the beautifully crafted skin hot beneath her needy touch. 

In no time her dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a cute deep sapphire lace bralette set– she thanked every god that she had thought to put on a matching set. Her heels were already discarded somewhere she couldn’t bring herself to care about right now. Not as his lips finally made their way back to hers. He tasted her wholly, his large hands touching her everywhere, her back, her arms, her stomach, her ass. She preened at his attention.

“You’re beautiful,” he said again, his lips never leaving hers as her hands finally got tired of their fabric confines. “Fucking gorgeous,” he growled. As he lifted her without absolutely no effort at all, depositing her softly onto his bed as he leaned over her. His dark locks falling over his face, she couldn’t stop her hand from pushing them back, his beautiful face cast in soft golden light from the fireplace. 

He leaned down, his lips brushing hers as his hand found her breast. Her back arched as he plucked her nipple with his fingers through the thin fabric. His other hand massaging her other breast languidly. Then his mouth, his magnificent mouth, fell to the fabric as he sucked her in. She couldn’t stop the noises that came out of her as he continued his ministrations. All she could do was throw her head back, hold his hair in her grip, and hope she didn’t topple off the edge of this world. 

“Azriel,” she breathed, “please,” her eyes blown out with lust as the heat in her belly stirred and writhed with every touch, every look.

He smirked, flashing those canines she had an unhealthy fascination with, “Already begging and I haven’t even touched you the way I’ve been wanting to all night,” His tongue flicked between her breasts as he unhooked the small clasp in front, letting them spill out. 

Any other time she may be embarrassed, or try and cover, but one look at Azriel, and she knew she didn’t need to. He looked at her like he wanted to ravish her, like he could live off of touching her.

“You’re breathtaking, I thought it when I saw you dancing, and the Mother knows I can’t stop thinking it now,” he spoke, such utter candor in his voice–just like when he’d told her there was nowhere else he’d rather be– it made her breath catch. 

She imagined that Azriel was not an easy male to get over. So she’d just need to get under him.

A blush took over her cheeks, but she managed a breathy, “Off,” a plea, really. As she tried to lift his shirt. He chuckled, a sexy, deep sound that went straight to her core. The next moment his shirt was off, and then somehow, his pants. 

She was sure saliva had to be coming out of her mouth because this man. He was a work of art, he definitely bordered on an eight pack, small cuts and scars lined his torso and only made him more attractive. His golden skin looked iridescent in the light, his tattoos swirling all around his arms and chest. Shadows danced along her peripheral vision, not quite touching, but observing as if they wanted to. She wanted them to.

She felt her tongue as it involuntarily flicked her bottom lip, her teeth catching it in the same place. Azriel didn’t miss the motion, his eyes turning a molten color that set every nerve in her body aflame. Her hands were everywhere, running the length of his torso, his sides, she steered clear of his wings, but damn, she’d be dreaming of them for years to come. They splayed out magnificently as he loomed over her, neither of them touching the bed, they cocooned her in a way that made her feel safe, and guarded.

They were both in only their underwear now, “We can stop whenever you want,” he spoke softly, earnestly. His gaze caught hers to emphasize that he meant it, if she wanted to stop–despite being able to feel him against her leg, feel how much he wanted her– he’d back off, bring her home. And well, that gave her the warm and fuzzies, and only cemented how much she wanted this. Wanted him.

Sitting up on her elbows, her hair falling over her shoulders, she hooked one of her legs around his waist, catching him off guard as she repositioned them. Now she sat astride him, her hands landing on his pecs as his hands found her hips. 

She leaned forwards, her breasts flush with his bare chest as she kissed her way down his body. She started near his ear, whispering, “I want to hear more about what you’ve wanted to do to me all night,” she bit down, just slightly, catching his lobe. Then she kissed his jaw, a trail of warm kisses down his neck, his chest, his abs, his navel. Her hand found its way to his boxers, the tight black fabric hiding very little of his very large member. A little part of her wondered how this would work, she was not a virgin by any means, but it had been a good couple of months, and he– gods, he was impressive in all the best ways.

The sound that came out of him was purely male as she continued her movements, his hands tightening enough that she knew they’d leave bruises. Good. She wanted to remember this–in any way she could. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said it so low she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, but then he was sitting up, his arms wrapping around her middle to keep her from toppling off of him. 

His lips met hers as he ground into her, their underwear left little to the imagination and she stopped caring about the noises that came out of her. She just let herself go, let him take her fully.

His mouth met her nipple, his teeth plucking softly, but so sweetly. Her back bowed into him, her hands flying to his hair as she held on for dear life. He suckled and nipped and licked her breasts, the heat pooling low in her belly as she continued to grind on him. 

“Oh, gods–Az,” she spluttered, doing her best to hold on to what little scrap of sanity she had left. He didn’t bend, though, no–he flipped her over, her back hitting the plush mattress once more, her ass coming to kiss the edge of the bed as he kneeled on the floor before her.

Her knees fell open on either side of his body, the cool air rushing against her as his shadows locked themselves around her body. One wrapped around waist, and two on her ankles, keeping her in the exact position their master wanted. 

His eyes caught hers, only for a brief moment, he flashed the sexiest grin and then bent down, placing a soft, reverent kiss to her center over her panties. And somehow, despite all that they’d already done, that was the sexiest, most obliterating part of this whole ordeal. 

Her body tried to move, tried to get closer as he chuckled, clearly enjoying her struggles against his helpers as they kept her locked in place. 

“Now, now, pretty,” he cooed, “Be a good girl and keep making all those sweet noises for me,” Oh, she so wanted to be his good girl, she wanted to be his everything right now. 

Slowly, so freaking slowly, he pulled her panties down, baring her fully to him. He didn’t waste any time, and she cried out as his mouth finally closed over her most intimate part. He kissed and licked and suckled her into nothingness. His tongue flattening over her, his lips catching that sensitive nub and sucking, then his tongue was inside of her. He groaned at her taste, his hands splaying across her thighs and holding on. She could feel him grinding himself against the mattress, chasing any sort of friction he could without losing himself entirely.

She was careening towards that edge so swiftly, she truly stood no chance once he started adding fingers. He filled her with one, his tongue never letting up on its pace as he glided his digit in and out of her smoothly. His eyes met hers, and whatever he saw, he must have liked, because then he was adding a second finger, that wicked smile on display as he licked one stripe straight up her center.

Her body tried to buck, to chase the feeling but she couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except hold onto the mattress for dear life. 

She chanted his name over and over, it seemed to be the only word she could remember. Especially as he added a third finger, and they curled in just the right place, as his tongue swirled around her center, his teeth grazing the flesh. 

She came so hard, her legs were visibly shaking where they lay sprawled apart on the bed. His shadows finally relented as she arched, her hands immediately finding his hair, his shoulders, anything of his she could touch. She thinks he offered one of his hands, the calloused skin squeezing her own soft ones to keep her grounded. 

Then he loomed over her again, his lips shining with her desire as he licked them, then she watched, his eyes never straying from hers, as he sucked each of his digits into his mouth, drinking all of her in. 

She thought she might actually come again just from the sight. Never had a guy gone down on her and seemed to so thoroughly enjoy the process. Gods, this male, he really was going to ruin any other men for her. 

Worth it.

His lips met hers in a harsh dance, his fingers gripping her chin upwards so he could fully devour her. She found herself latching onto the band of his underwear and ripping, she had no time to waste trying to get them off safely. She simply didn’t care, she needed him, like yesterday. 

He chuckled, a sound she was getting awfully familiar with, but didn’t stop her as she just threw the pieces of fabric somewhere in his room. Then her hand found his cock, thick and throbbing as she pumped him once, twice. He groaned, his head falling against hers as she swiped the head, collecting the precum that had already begun leaking.

“Fuck, Y/n,” His lips finding her neck as he latched on, sucking and licking. 

She kept her pace, loving the feel of him in her hand. Then she positioned him at her entrance, their eyes meeting, one final confirmation nod from her and he was moving. 

She tensed for only a moment, the feeling of being so full not something she’s used to. But he went slow, entered her slowly, allowed her to adjust as he went in glorious inch by glorious inch. 

They were both breathing hard, she kept saying his name, he cursed under his breath as he did his best to not rut into her like a teenager chasing his first high. And gods, it was a high because he felt so good inside of her. Nothing could compare to this moment, how she felt.

Then his hips were flushed with hers, his body coming to a complete standstill as he watched her, his fingers pushing her hair out of her face, tracing the outline of her lips, her jaw. 

“You still with me, pretty?” He spoke softly, as if speaking any louder may break whatever bubble they’d built around themselves. 

“Yes, fuck, yes,” she breathed out. Her body doing its best to adjust to the sheer size and girth of him. He kissed her through it, his lips finding space on all of the bare skin he could reach. Even his shadows seemed to caress her softly, cooing and guiding her through the motions. 

“Please, Az, move,” she swirled her hips in emphasis, catching the moan he let out with her mouth as he finally moved. His hips pulled out halfway and then he pushed back in slowly at first, gauging her reaction. When she mewled, her nails scraping his back, he did it again, faster. He kept a steady pace as she felt their liquids combining, oozing out of her in the most delicious way. 

He kept a steady rhythm, their moans meeting in the air and dancing together as they continued to move together in sync. Her legs wrapped around his middle, getting him even deeper, and when she came the second time, it was just a good as the first.

“So beautiful,” he cooed, “So fucking tight, milking my cock so good,” He hit that spot deep inside of her as he cooed her name, his grunts filling her ears in tandem with his thrusts. Her lips found his and he obeyed her request, his tongue meeting hers and tangling, their saliva mixing as one of his hands gripped her waist, the other finding its way to her face. 

When the aftershocks finally started to ebb away, Azriel wasted no time in flipping her over, her knees and hands on the mattress, her ass in the air. She let out a noise of distress when his cock slipped out of her, but it was quickly followed by a moan as he reentered her from behind. 

And holy trinity of all the gods, he was somehow deeper inside of her, she could feel every pleasure inducing inch of him as he lost all of his control. He pounded into her, his hands on her hips as she did her best to meet him thrust for thrust.

She couldn’t believe it, she could already feel that pool of desire growing in her for the third time tonight. Her sounds no more than a slew of moans and expletives as he continued his brutal thrusts. 

“Fuck, you’re doing so good, that’s it–” he praised, his hand pulling her hair away from her neck as his chest became flush with her back. His other hand found that sensitive nub between her thighs, pinching and flicking in the most torturous ways. “You can give me another one, can’t you, pretty?” He asked, his voice a husky sheen in her ear as his thrusts continued to wreak havoc on her. “Just one more, I know you can do it,” she had never been one for dirty talk, but fuck, Azriel could talk about grocery shopping and she’d find it hot as hell.

The praise only brought her closer to that edge, coaxing her on. And when his fingers added just enough pressure to her center, she fell right over that edge for the third time, her orgasm causing her legs to shake so wholly that Azriel had to hold her up as he continued to thrust into her. A cocky, but proud smile lighting his face briefly before pleasure took root and he came inside of her, his cock throbbing and swelling as he spilt rope after rope of his seed into her.

They stayed that way for a long moment, it could have been minutes or hours, Y/n wouldn’t be able to tell even if there were a knife to her throat. His naked, sweat beaded chest pressing against her back as their harsh breathing filled the room’s silence. 

He finally slipped out of her, his hands slowly lowering her onto her stomach, her legs nothing but jelly as he flipped onto his side, careful of his wings. 

Their gazes collided, a sexed-out smile slapping its way to her mouth as she took him in. His own smile found its way onto his face, just a small, intimate one that made her heart do dangerous flips inside her chest.

“That was–” she started, her breathy voice sounded as ruined as she felt.

“Fucking amazing.” He finished, his hand reaching out to push a piece of hair that had fallen over her eyes, behind her ear. Then he kissed her forehead, his arm slinging over her back. 

“Stay.” He murmured, his eyes already closing as sleep began to take him hostage.

Once again, she found herself unable to say no to this man. Her eyelids already heavy with her own sleep, drifted shut. She briefly recognized the feeling of a blanket being dropped over her, maybe his shadows? She didn’t have time to question before sleep finally claimed her.

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Y/n woke to soft beams of sunlight trickling across her face through the balcony doors. The warmth seeped into her skin as her eyes adjusted to the light. 

It took her a moment to remember where she was. An unfamiliar, but comfortable, bed caressed her body. Her body completely naked where she lay against the comforter, a small throw blanket had been placed over her to keep her warm in the night.

And then, there was the weight.

A large, muscled arm thrown over her waist, an even heavier leg pressed between her thighs, their legs tangled. His body was warm and the limbs attached to her only kept her close to the male she found herself facing. His beautiful face somehow less intimidating in sleep, all the smooth lines and fine angles completely at ease. 

Azriel.

The Spymaster of the Night Court.

Her eyes widened as last night's events all came flooding back in troves. Azriel finding her in the alleyway, her sister and friends, Azriel dancing with her, her internship, Azriel and his glorious kissing, his hands, his shadows, and his body. 

Fuck. 

She needed to leave. She wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work, but she was damn sure it’d be awkward if he woke up and she was still here. In his bed. 

She briefly remembered him telling her to stay, but surely he hadn’t meant through the morning. She highly doubted that he was about to invite her to lunch with his family. 

His family.

Oh, gods.

Did they live here? Had they heard them last night? If she hadn’t been so caught up in the shadowsinger, she may have stopped to ask herself about these things, but nope. Instead she fell head over freaking tea kettle and– admittedly– had the best sex of her life. 

She needed to leave, like hours ago.

She ignored the sweet caresses of his shadows as they welcomed her with a morning that, any other time, she’d be thrilled about. But right now she needed to figure out how to get out from under his arm, and his leg, and was that his wing cocooning over them? 

Somehow, an act of the Mother and Cauldron themselves, she managed to disentangle herself from his monkey hold. He really did seem peaceful, and she did her best to remain quiet, not because she didn’t want to speak to him– although that may have definitely been a factor– but because she didn’t want to disturb his sleep, who knew how much he got on a regular basis. In his line of work, she imagined, not much.

Quietly she peeled around the room, grabbing her dress and quickly shimmying it on and grabbing her heels. Fuck putting those bitches back on, last night Y/n was not this morning Y/n, and her feet would thank her for it. 

She slowly slipped out of his room, not sure how she was going to get out of this place. He had flown them last night, brought her in through his balcony. Surely there had to be a front door. The last thing she wanted to be doing was roaming around the Inner Circle’s private dwelling, she imagined that was how one ended up on the wrong side of jail cell. 

She gulped, taking in the hallways around her. There were loads of paintings adorning the brilliant, sophisticated walls. All of the members of the Inner Circle in various positions. There were some of just the General Commander and his mate, Lady Death. There were some of the High Lord and Lady with their adorable son, and even a few of the lesser talked about members. They were beautifully done, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the High Lady had probably painted these herself. 

She had been so caught up in looking at the photos along the hallway, following them unconsciously that she jumped when somebody cleared their throat. 

She flailed, horrendously. Heels thrown in the air, her feet slipping from beneath her as she swiveled around and came face to chest with a very large male. She would have fallen on her ass if he hadn’t grabbed her arm to steady her. Her eyes tracked all the way up his leather-clad chest and to his large membranous wings that somehow seemed slightly different than Azriel’s. Were there scars on his? And, were they smaller? She shook her head, so not important.

“Well, hello there,” he crooned, a crooked grin lighting the General Commander’s features as he used a leather strap to bind his hair in a bun atop his head. 

She cursed herself inwardly, gods, she really needed to work on her observation skills. How had she missed him of all people? He was definitely the largest of the three illyrian men who belonged to the Inner Circle. And, he had always seemed like the most approachable, though that wasn’t saying much. He was still absolutely terrifying.

And here she was, staring at him with her mouth agape like a fish out of water. Perhaps she should take her chances with the balconies after all, maybe a free fall would do her some good right about now.

“Hi,” she squeaked, quickly grabbing her flyaway shoes and holding them to her chest like a lifeline. 

“You must be Az’s…friend,” he said, a knowing smirk on his face. She could feel her blush as it crawled from the tips of her toes to her cheeks. 

She swallowed, trying to take this gift from the Mother. The general had wings, which meant he could probably get her out of here without causing too much trouble, she doubted he’d tell her no. Plus, that meant she really wouldn’t have to face Azriel again, so a bonus, at least, that’s what she told herself. 

“He’s sleeping,” Cassian’s brows rose at that, a look of shock briefly flitting across his face before his easy demeanor was back. 

“That is–interesting. Were you joining us for breakfast?” 

“No–” She calmed herself, reigning in the slight shout she’d let through in all her panic. “I mean– no, I’m not. I just– I’m trying to get home, I’ve got a busy day and I’m not quite sure how–”

“Ah,” he said, that ridiculous smirk still plastered on his smug face. “Too bad, Azriel doesn’t usually have…sleepovers.”

Sleepovers? What were they, twelve? 

She gave her best smile, “Is there any chance you could show me the way out?”

“You’re not going to wait for him to wake up?” He cocked his head, his tone full of confusion, as if this wasn’t something he’d ever had to deal with. 

She shook her head, “He looked peaceful, and I really need to get home, my roommate’s probably worried sick.”

Understanding bloomed on his face, “Well, there are two options then, little ghost,” her brows pinched at the nickname. This male didn’t know her from Adam, and yet, he seemed so incredibly warm and kind. She chastised herself, it didn’t matter, she would probably never speak to him again. “You can either venture down the 10,000 steps to the bottom,” he laughed at the sour look that crossed her face, her poor, poor feet. “Or, I can fly you back home, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“That would be wonderful, as long as it doesn’t put you out,” she said, praying to every god she could remember the name of that he truly didn’t mind. 

His smile was easy. “It’s no trouble, I’ll even tell Azriel you said goodbye.”

“That’s really not necessary,” she blushed as he led her toward an opened foyer, large balconies lining the room. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do,” and she was also sure that Azriel wouldn’t care. They’d had their night of fun, now she needed to get out of here and try and go about her life like normal. Whatever that meant, she really wasn’t sure that’d even be possible. 

He merely smiled at her, something was off about it though, as if he didn’t really believe her.

But, he did as he said and flew her home.

It was time to get back to normal life, she had a lot going for her. And the Spymaster of the Night Court didn’t have anything to do with it.

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Weeks passed in a blur, between her internship starting and her ordinarily chaotic life, she had hardly had time to think about her night with the spymaster. He only ever found her in his dreams, and if she was lucky, her subconscious would grant her some of the memories of that night in dream form. 

She hadn’t so much as seen him in the past six weeks, she tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, that it was only one night and she should accept that for what it is– and she did. For the most part. But, sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, when her thoughts were just a little more hostile, she would think about him, and what he’d thought when he woke up that day and she’d been gone. Had he been upset? Or had he been relieved? And why had Cassian seemed so sure that he’d see her again? He had even winked at her when he dropped her off that morning. Weird. 

“Take this twice a day for a week and the rash should clear right up,” She spoke to a short, mousy looking female. The nuclear green liquid sloshing around in the vial as the woman thanked her and scurried away after tossing her a few coins. 

Madja came out of the back room, “Y/n, can you help me in here for a moment?”

Without hesitation, she quickly wiped her hands on her apron and followed Madja to the back. She felt her stomach sink as the older fae led her silently into the main medicine bay. She had asked Madja a few weeks ago about some medicines that could help with stress-induced nausea. It didn’t matter what she brewed, if it was a personal concoction or one out of one of her textbooks, none of them seemed to be helping. She only ever got sick in the evenings, and at this point, she was starting to get worried that something was seriously wrong. So she’d asked Madja, and the older fae had said she’d look into it and make her something that should help. 

Y/n couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what this was about, she had said it wouldn’t take long and that had been only two days ago. But, when y/n found herself in the furthest room in the back of the building, her thoughts quickly emptied out.

A young girl sat on the seat, her arm full of what looked to be glass shards. The other arm, sat gently in medicated water, blood pooling in thin layers as it soaked.

Y/n’s stomach lurched, the girl couldn’t have been older than nine or ten, and the wounds looked awfully painful.

“I need you to apply the salve and wrap this arm while I start working on getting the glass out of the other arm,” Madja spoke, handing a pair of gloves to her as she quickly made her way back over to the young girl. Her mother was pacing back and forth as she watched. Y/n shot her a soothing smile, the best she could manage, the one she’d learned specifically for this reason. It seemed to work, long enough for the mother to sit down, but she kept her eyes trained on them. Y/n couldn’t blame her, she could only imagine what a mother went through when seeing their child in pain.

“Hi,” she spoke softly to the girl, “My names Y/n, you’re gonna feel a cooling sensation when I apply the salve, it shouldn’t hurt, but if it does, just let me know and we’ll adjust,” She smiled, the little girl’s lip wobbled as tears silently streamed down her cheeks. 

As she began applying the medicine softly, her ministrations smooth and practiced, she asked the girl for her name, hoping that talking to her would keep her mind off of Madja, who was currently taking glass shards out of her other arm. 

“Margo,” she spoke, her eyes solely focused on y/n. “I was trying to help momma at her food stall, but I tripped.” She sniffled. 

“Ah,” she hummed, quietly grabbing the wraps, “Do you help out at the food stall, often?” 

“Yes!” Margo lit up, she began babbling on about all the different fruits and veggies her mother grows and how they always wash and prep them for stall day. She asked the young girl about school, her family–her siblings, and anything else she could to keep the young girl’s mind occupied. 

Over the course of the next half hour, Madja and her worked tediously to apply the salves, soak the wounds, and get them wrapped so that they could start healing. With a vial of cream and a lollipop in her hand, Margo danced out of the clinic with her mother, her smile never leaving her face. 

“You did well, keeping her calm.” Madja spoke, her tone even as always as she worked behind the counter. 

“Thanks, I can only imagine what she must have been thinking,”

It was then that Madja handed her a few vials of a pinkish, red liquid. The confusion must have been written all over her face because the older fae prattled on, “That should help with the morning sickness, but I can’t guarantee that it will make it go away entirely.”

Every thought blinked out of Y/n’s head.

Morning sickness?

“It’s not–” Madja stopped when she interrupted, her eyes blinking uncontrollably as she tried to do the math in her head, “It can’t be–” she stuttered.

There was no way, absolutely not. 

She hadn’t been with anyone in months, no one except–

Him. 

“I got your blood work back today,” Madja had taken her blood a few days ago when she had initially brought up the nausea, just in case, she had said. It was standard procedure, something Y/n was very familiar with having worked in all sorts of clinics for the past few decades.

No, no, no.

“You’re pregnant.”

[misaerabl]

Beso De Tres

ellabs x reader

CW: three-way kiss, ELLABS MAKING OUT (insert loud, unhinged cheering), sexual tension, oral sex, threesome, sexual exploration between "friends", orgasm

The thing about Ellie and Abby is that they’ve always had… a thing.

Not the romantic kind. Not even the flirty kind. But something crackling and combative, loud and close enough that it loops back around into intimacy if you tilt your head and squint.

Right now, that something is echoing through the Airbnb’s living room. You’re all post-beach lazy — still sun-warm and sandy in clothes that don’t quite belong to any of you. Abby’s tank clings to her back, damp at the spine. Ellie’s wearing your shorts.

They’re arguing again.

“Just say it,” Ellie says, smirking over the lip of her beer. “You were wrong about the fight choreography.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “No, I said it looked good. I didn’t say it made sense. A guy doesn’t just get up after taking a rebar to the ribs.”

Ellie shifts where she’s sitting on the couch, her knee pressing into yours as she turns toward Abby. “Jesus. It’s a movie. Suspend your disbelief for five seconds.”

You snort. “Okay, mom and mom, calm down.”

They both look at you. Their brows raise in almost-perfect sync.

You grin, a little tipsy, a little mean. “I’m just saying… if you fight any harder, you’re gonna end up making out.”

There’s a beat.

Then Ellie huffs, looking away, but not before you see the way her ears turn red. Abby’s expression shifts. It was faint, but noticeable if you know where to look. Less annoyed. More… curious.

You sip your beer again, lips tugging upward. “Honestly? Just kiss already. Might shut you both up for once.”

Silence.

Then Ellie looks at you, eyes narrowed. “Don’t be weird.”

You shrug, fully leaning into it now. “What? You don't think she’s a good kisser?”

That earns you a scoff from both of them. Abby leans forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. “You really want us to kiss? Is this like… a fantasy thing for you?”

You blink. “I was joking—”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Ellie mutters, watching you over her bottle. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That one.” Her voice is quieter now, but not softer. Her eyes flick down to your lips.

Your stomach flips.

“I dare you,” you say, tone light but heartbeat anything but. “Prove me wrong.”

More silence. Tension thick enough to swim through.

And then Abby turns to Ellie. “Well?”

Ellie licks her lips. She looks between the two of you. Her eyes dark, unreadable. Then she mutters, “Fuck it,” and leans in.

Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s not tentative, but not gentle either. It’s exploratory. Firm. Abby’s hand moves up to cradle Ellie’s jaw, her thumb brushing the edge of Ellie’s cheekbone. Ellie lets out a soft noise — surprised maybe — and tilts her head.

It’s a real kiss.

And your throat goes dry.

They pull back slowly. Ellie’s lips are pinker now. Abby doesn’t move her hand.

You can’t breathe. You’re flushed down to your toes.

Then Ellie turns to you. “Still think it’s just arguing?”

You blink. “I mean—”

Abby moves first. Her hand drops from Ellie’s cheek and brushes your thigh instead, featherlight. Her gaze is unreadable, curious but restrained. “You’re the one who brought this up.”

You look between them. The air feels different now. Not heavy, exactly, but charged. The room tilts on its axis, slow and sure.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

Ellie cuts you off by crawling toward you, closing the space so naturally it barely registers as a decision. “You think we haven’t noticed how you look at us?” she asks quietly, face so close you feel her breath.

Abby’s behind you now, knees pressing in at either side, her warmth steady at your back.

“You’re not that subtle,” she murmurs against your neck.

You let out a shaky exhale.

“I—” you start, but Ellie kisses you before you finish the sentence.

Her mouth is warm and insistent, lips parted just enough that you fall right into the rhythm of it. Your hand flies to her waist, holding tight. Her kiss isn't slow nor fast, just close.

Then Abby’s mouth brushes your shoulder. You shudder.

And when Ellie pulls back slightly, Abby tilts your chin toward her and kisses you too.

It’s different. Heavier. She tastes like citrus and sunscreen. Her hand cups the back of your neck and holds you in place like you’re something precious... or something she’s finally allowed to touch.

You’re breathless when she pulls away.

They’re both watching you now. Ellie’s thumb is stroking lazy circles along your thigh. Abby’s lips ghost your jaw.

You barely have time to catch your breath before both of them lean in.

Their mouths find yours at the same time. Clumsy at first, but eager. It’s heat and breath and the low sound of someone moaning into someone else’s mouth. You can’t tell who.

You’re caught between them. One hand in Abby’s hair, the other gripping Ellie’s arm. Their tongues brush over yours, over each other’s. It’s messier than you expect, wetter, hotter, and entirely consuming.

You lose yourself in it.

You’ve kissed people before. You’ve even been reckless before. But never like this. Never sandwiched between two women who had wanted to fight just to get here.

And somehow, despite how chaotic it all feels, the three of you fit.

Like the kiss had been waiting for an excuse.

You don’t know whose hand moves first — Abby’s, maybe — brushing under your shirt, fingers skating over your ribs like she’s mapping new territory. You suck in a breath, your back arching into her touch. Ellie shifts closer, sliding between your legs, her knee pressing up and into you just enough to make your thighs tighten.

It’s dizzying. Their mouths trading places, Abby kissing down your neck while Ellie finds your lips again. She kisses softer this time. Focused. Like she wants to memorize the shape of you.

Your hands move without thought. One buried in Ellie’s hair, the other splayed on Abby’s thigh behind you. It’s instinct, to hold, to anchor but it only fuels the fire spreading beneath your skin.

“You’re warm,” Abby murmurs into your shoulder, voice low and wrecked. Her teeth graze just beneath your collarbone. “So fucking warm.”

Ellie’s hands are bolder now, dragging up beneath your borrowed shirt, her shirt. Until her thumbs brush the underside of your bra. She waits, watching your face. When you don’t stop her, she slides her palms up, cupping you over the fabric, and you gasp into her mouth.

“You good?” she asks, voice barely audible.

You nod — desperate, breathless. “Yeah. Please—”

That’s all they need.

Ellie tugs your shirt up and over your head, her knuckles brushing your sides, and Abby makes a soft sound when she sees you, equal parts reverent and hungry.

“You’re beautiful,” she says. Quiet, but certain.

Then her mouth is on you, open and slow, kissing over the top of your breast as her fingers work the clasp of your bra. Ellie’s still between your legs, still watching, her hands smoothing up your thighs.

The moment your bra slips off, Ellie leans in, kissing just above your sternum, her breath hot as she moves lower. Abby's mouth moves to the other side, and suddenly you’re surrounded. Lips and hands and heat everywhere at once.

Your head tips back. Your hips rock forward without meaning to.

And they groan. Together.

Ellie hooks her fingers into the waistband of your shorts and glances up. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

They undress you slow, like they’re savoring the process. Like every new inch of skin is a reward.

Ellie leans in to kiss the inside of your thigh, and you twitch, the sensitivity already unbearable. She smiles against your skin.

Abby slides a hand between your legs, cupping you through your underwear. “So wet already,” she says, almost to herself. “Shit.”

You whimper when she rubs slow, teasing circles against you and your hips lift, chasing more.

“Lie back,” Ellie murmurs, her voice soft but commanding. You do. You’d do anything right now.

Abby shifts beside you, kissing your temple while her hand slips beneath your underwear. Ellie lowers herself between your thighs, exhaling hard the second you’re bare to her.

“Fuck,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh. “You smell so good.”

Then her tongue is on you, slow and deliberate. One long, flat stroke that has your whole body tensing. Abby kisses you to swallow the moan that escapes your throat.

“Relax,” she whispers.

Ellie eats you like you're the answer to her hunger, her hands gripping your thighs to keep you still. Abby’s fingers find your breast again, rolling your nipple between her fingers while her other hand strokes your hair, her lips never far from yours.

You writhe between them, pleasure building fast and thick in your stomach.

Ellie moans against you, the vibrations sparking through your core and you cry out. Your hips buck, your thighs shake, and Abby holds you tighter.

You’re so close you’re barely breathing.

“Ellie—” you gasp, but your voice is gone.

She looks up, lips shiny, eyes dark. “Come on.”

Then she sucks your clit and you fall apart.

Your whole body locks up, white heat pulsing from your core outward. You cry out something. Maybe a name, maybe both. They keep going, slow and gentle now, drawing it out, letting it crest and fall and bloom again in aftershocks.

You’re floating. Boneless. Sweaty and trembling and fucked-out in the best way.

They kiss you after — Ellie from below, Abby from the side — their lips soft now, reverent.

You taste yourself on both of them.

Eventually, Ellie flops beside you, her hand finding your waist. Abby curls against your back, wrapping her arm over your stomach.

None of you say anything. You just breathe.

And smile.

[distuff]

I going to assume this is where we ask the requests so may I request a Saja boys x reader(separate but all of them) where they’re jealous after reader did something and how’d they react?

Answer: LMAO aye aye! Thx to ya I made all the changes at the beginnin for makin it esier for others to have a better idea, so thank you~ It was funny how you and were right after the other readershi who wanted to see these boyz jealous xDD Your wish is my command though ! I hope you enjoy it.

📍Requests: Please check HERE

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Demon Boys' And Jealousy

Featuring: Jinu Saja, Abs Saja, Romance Saja, Mystery Saja, Baby Saja Reader: Gender neutral

Jinu Saja

🐦‍⬛ Jinu personally didn’t think he was a jealous person...

🐦‍⬛ He looked up, turning to blink at the tiger. The tiger didn’t blink back. It sat there, staring through him with the unsettling stillness of something that knew. As if it could peer into the hollow cavity where his soul used to be.

🐦‍⬛ With a shaky breath, Jinu tore his gaze away and dropped it to the notebook in his lap, trying - trying - to focus on another one of Saja’s newer songs.

🐦‍⬛ Where was he? Right - He liked to think he could manage the sparks of jealousy. That he was above it. That he could smother it with rational thought before it ever had the chance to claw its way to the surface. But that was a lie. And the tiger - of course knew it.

🐦‍⬛ Above him, Magpie let out a sharp, mocking cackle from where it was perched on the long lamp looming over the couch. Jinu groaned, flinging his arms over his head, notebook still clutched in one hand, pen dangerously close to poking him in the eye.

🐦‍⬛ “Oh, spare me!” he said to the two ungrateful creatures, barely restraining the urge to launch the notebook at the smirking bird.

🐦‍⬛ This whole situation had started because of his irrational jealousy. That was the root of it. The spark. So how could anyone expect him - when his entire state of existence was now practically constructed from jealousy - not to act on it!

Jinu wasn’t as active as Abby when it came to exercising, but he also wasn’t as lazy as Baby or Mystery - those two practically had to be dragged outside just to get some fresh air, otherwise they’d dry out and be utterly useless later on. He enjoyed a simple night walk. Disguised, of course - nothing elaborate, just enough to avoid the eyes of their “fans.” He kept the concealment on until he reached the outskirts of the main city, where the air quieted and the streets thinned, and he could shed the disguise and just… breathe. The peace never lasted long. Sooner or later, he’d have to wear the idol’s mask again - or worse, the face of a soul-devouring demon. He never quite understood the thrill the others got from feeding. For them, devouring a soul was euphoric, intoxicating. For him, it just felt weird. Off. The leftover emotions from their human prey rushed through his system like a poison. More than once, he’d fought the urge to purge the very essence he’d had to consume - because if he didn’t feed, he’d weaken. And if he weakened, someone would overpower him. Whether that was another demon or one of his brothers in rank didn’t matter. Either way, hesitation meant death. The night walks were his one escape. They helped him clear his head, helped him pretend - for just a while - that he was nothing more than some delinquent climbing rooftops, finding a quiet place to perch where no one could see him. A place where the honmoon wouldn’t be provoked too easily. It had always been just him… until you came along. You introduced yourself into his life, unknowingly giving him peace of mind even in daylight. And when it was just the two of you? Those walks became something more. He enjoyed them far more than he should’ve - far more, given the countdown ticking overhead like a guillotine waiting to drop. He didn’t know how yet, but there had to be a way to keep your soul anchored to you. To protect it from the old King’s greed. If not… if no other way revealed itself… he’d be forced to devour you himself. And he wouldn’t be allowed to hesitate if the others were to watch. One moment of weakness and they'd either take you for themselves, or kill him where he stood. Or both. For now, they stayed away. You were his prey. His claim was clear enough, and no one dared challenge it yet. But that didn’t mean you were safe. If he slipped up - if he showed even a crack - they’d descend without mercy. To you, the two of you were a pair. Something sweet and in your head lasting. To them, you were just a meal he was taking his time savouring. Jinu didn’t want to think about any of that tonight. Not now. Not when he was getting ready to head out for his - yours - usual evening walk. Pulling on his leather jacket to make it look he was warding off the autumn chill, he turned and called your name. A second later, with nothing from you, he strained his ears only to wince right after - his hand flying to his right ear as a sharp sound pierced through him. The TV. Of course, Jinu winced inwardly. Jinu grimaced. Even at low volume, that thing buzzed like a mosquito in their ears. But the volume was up a notch higher now, which could only mean one thing: you were there. Still massaging his ear, he muttered curses under his breath and stepped out of the hallway, peeking around the wall to get a clear view of the living room. Mystery sat on the couch, somehow watching the screen through the thick fringe of his hair. His posture was unnervingly straight, hands placed neatly on his lap. Abby sprawled lazily, a bored expression in place as he stared at the Tv screen. His right arm stretched casually across the back of the couch - resting behind you. You sat in the middle of them, leaning forward slightly, eyes glued to the screen. Jinu’s eyes narrowed.

He was no stranger to the feeling that made his shoulders round, made his neck itch with the urge to crack his neck, called him to march over, and wedge himself between you and those two. Ideally, pulling you into his lap and acting as a living barrier. Jinu inhaled deeply, rolled his shoulders, and sauntered forward. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, easing the tension in the muscle before he gave it a soft crack. Without a word, he came to stand in front of you, arms folded across his chest. You didn’t notice him at first - too busy leaning over to watch whatever Mystery was so intensely obsessed with this time. So Jinu snapped his fingers in front of your face, prompting you to blink up at him. Your eyes lit up the second they met his unimpressed stare. A bright grin broke across your face. “Juni!” His shoulders eased at the sound of your voice, your use of that nickname - though the calm didn’t last. His gaze flicked to the two demons seated beside you. Thankfully, they were too absorbed in the screen to notice how much of an effect you had on him. You tilted your head, your eyes curious. “Is something the matter?” He tried not to focus on how casual you sounded - how you didn’t seem to register your shared evening walks as habit. Crouching down in front of you, Jinu angled himself so he didn’t have to look down at you anymore. “Ah… remember?” he asked, gesturing to the large window that framed the darkened sky, city lights already flickering beneath it. “Evening walk?” Your gaze followed where he pointed, then returned to him. You drew in your shoulders and pressed your lips together, looking hesitant. You sucked in your bottom lip and Jinu’s unease deepened. “Well…” you trailed off, making a vague gesture with your hand as if that should somehow explain everything.

Jinu squinted at you. He was this close to just slinging you over his shoulder and marching out the door. Baby had given him more than enough practice in how to secure a squirming body. You, being human, wouldn’t be able to put up nearly as much of a fight. Seeing he wasn’t going to let this go easily, you finally sighed in defeat. You spread your legs slightly, leaned forward, and rested your arms on your thighs with a pleading look. “The new season of my favourite series will come out tonight,” you whispered, eyes wide with excitement. “And Mystery said I could watch it on your big TV!” You gestured dramatically at the TV set up behind him - an admittedly expensive set by human standards. Jinu gave the screen a sharp glare. It was just an animal documentary. Lions, apparently. Tearing into something. He turned back to you with disbelief. “You do know you can watch it any time - after we come back.” He spoke at his usual volume, only to be immediately shushed. Jinu shot a look at Mystery. “Did you just—” “Shhh.” Mystery shushed him again. This time, Abby joined in, both of them leaning forward with fingers to their lips. Jinu blinked at them, visibly perplexed. He opened his mouth to object - there was literally no dialogue on screen, just lions snarling over a bloody gazelle - when your hand touched his shoulder. He glanced back at you. Your sheepish smile softened his frown. “Yeah, but…” you whispered, eyes flicking briefly to the side before settling on him again with quiet determination, “it’s different when you’re watching air live.” Jinu honestly wanted to ask how it was different. What possibly changed. But just as he parted his lips to question your frankly ridiculous logic, a wave of demonic aura seeped into the air from either side of you. Abby and Mystery, without moving much at all, made their warning perfectly clear. Jinu had two choices: sit down and shut up, or get out. He sighed. Reaching for your hand, he offered a weak smile and gave a small nod before lowering himself to the carpeted floor. He slid between your legs and leaned back against the couch, letting you slot him into place. The documentary continued. Lions tearing into thier dead prey. Blood everywhere. Jinu flexed his hands on his lap, resisting the urge to grumble. This was not how his night was supposed to go. He was being replaced. Not even by the TV - by a series. He sighed again, heavier this time, shoulders slumping as he glared at the screen, only to perk up when your hand slid into his carefully styled hair. You ran your fingers through it, scratching his scalp gently, easily messing it up without a care in the world. Jinu shivered. Instinctively, he leaned into your touch. Then your other hand slid down to his throat, beneath his chin. You tipped his face up and he let you, head tilted back slightly- His eyes widened as your lips brushed his, soft and warm. He blinked, startled for a split second - then relaxed into it, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed back. Yeah… maybe you could skip your evening walk just this once. As long as he got more attention than the dammed television. Not that he’d ever dare damage the thing. Just imagining what Mystery would do if he touched it sent a very different kind of shiver down his spine. And that had nothing to do with your touch.

<><><>

Abs Saja

💪 Abby wasn’t at all familiar with the term jealousy.

💪 He’d only learned about it after joining Jinu into the human world - first hearing it tossed around on those “sites” where people put pictures of themselves doing absolutely nothing of importance while strangers commented their thoughts underneath. He’d seen it muttered in passing by humans - “fans,” Jinu told him to called them - when he was signing his name on whatever they thrust into his face. And it showed up occasionally in those human dramas that played on the “TV” when he had nothing better to do and ended up beside Mystery on the couch.

💪 Even after picking up a fairly decent understanding of the concept, Abby still didn’t know how it was supposed to make his body react - if he was being honest. Not like he cared. Not really.

💪 There were far more interesting things in the human world than some feeling that, in his view, humans had invented just to make simple things unnecessarily complicated. I don’t like this—let me change it.

💪 That should’ve been enough. But then again, who was he to speak? He was more demon now than man, and his past... well, that was something he preferred to keep buried. If he had the choice, he’d leave it untouched.

💪 Still - Abby should’ve known. Should’ve expected that forming a connection with a human would eventually drag answers to questions he forgot he even asked.

It was one of those overcast days, the sky thick with grey clouds, announcing the rain that lurked just beyond the horizon. Abby could already hear the low, lazy rumble of thunder rolling somewhere in the distance - not quite overhead, but close enough to suggest it would settle in soon. Which meant if he stepped outside now, he might as well go out into the streets shouting that he was a demon here to claim every twitching human soul in earshot. Mystery had explained it to him once - after he’d all but run out of the shower with parts of his demonic features peeking through his supposed human skin, panicking that Gwi-ma was weakening. Apparently, their illusions functioned like layers of paint - carefully brushed over their true forms. And things like water or even a sweat could slowly strip those layers away until reality began to bleed through the cracks. And really - who was he to argue with the older demon? Still, this left him now with two conclusions: one irritating, the other… not so much. The annoying bit was simple: he’d have to exercise indoors. Which wouldn’t have been a problem on its own, except all the humans in the complex had clearly come to the same conclusion. And the shared gym? Cramped and humid. Abby didn’t mind sweating when he trained - he kind of enjoyed it, actually - but when the light hit him just right, his markings shimmered faintly, and his skin paled into that subtle, grey-blue hue. Easy to miss if no one was paying attention, but the wrong sort of eyes - especially hunters - tended to catch on. And then there was you. You’d said you needed a quiet space, somewhere you wouldn’t be bothered, and that ruled out the crowded gym anyway. Which meant Abby, by silent agreement, was stuck training in his own room. Annoying, yes. But also... pleasing. Because you were here. And you’d made it clear that if you ever felt like you were imposing, you’d leave. Which meant that if Abby wanted you to stay - which he very much did - he’d have to make a few sacrifices. Like giving up a chunk of his workout for the day. Oh well. He rolled his shoulders with a slow inward shrug and glanced at you where you sat cross-legged on his bed, fiddling with that magical little rectangle Jinu called a “phone.” He could afford to be lazy for a day. Especially if it meant basking in the warm, soothing presence of your soul - the one he so enjoyed soaking in, surrounding himself with, getting drunk on. Saliva pooled on his tongue just thinking about it. The once-bright blue, was already dimming - stained at the edges with crimson as their demonic influence quietly stirred over your soul. Once his stretches were done, Abby sauntered toward the iron bar fixed to the wall - a brutal little addition his brothers had insisted on after his first attempt at exercising in the main room had resulted in gagging, and Mystery outright fleeing from the scent. His pace was deliberate, loose. He swayed his hips slightly, rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing and pulling the tight tank top over his torso. His legs tensed beneath his sport shorts just as he leapt, hands gripping the bar with ease. He didn’t mind showing off in front of you. If anything, he enjoyed it - savored the look in your eyes when you stared just a bit too long. He knew exactly what his body could do. What kind of effect it could have. And he liked the way you looked at him when he made a point to show it. What Abby hadn’t accounted for was just how fast humans could adapt. Apparently, exposure dulled even the strongest reactions. Their attention drifted easily to new, shinier things. Which was maybe why, after only a few pull-ups, he held himself up - showing off with a smirk, tilting his head just so, flashing those sharp canines beneath a hooded gaze, fully expecting to find your eyes already on him. Only to nearly fumble his grip when he realised- You weren’t looking at him at all. Your eyes were fixed intently on the screen of that damned phone.

Abby’s nose twitched - sensing nothing but your unwavering concentration. It soothed some of the itch in his chest, that gnawing emptiness that never quite went away, no matter how many souls he consumed. Not really. He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what, exactly, could be more interesting than him right now. Even his gaze - heated and focused - didn’t seem to alert you. Abby was just about to whistle to get your attention when your voice suddenly rang out, bright and slightly forced. You held up your phone, smiling awkwardly as you nodded and greeted… someone? Abby froze. His focus had already loosened his grip on the iron bar, and your sudden movement was the final push that made his hold slip. He dropped with a solid thud, the impact rattling a few items on the nearby shelves. But he didn’t flinch. He was already rising, eyes locked on you from the floor like you had lost your mind. Are you alright in the head? he mouthed silently, twirling a finger near his temple before pointing at you. You furrowed your brows at him briefly, then quickly refocused on the phone, offering it an awkward smile as you confidently said, “Present.” Abby tilted his head, expression twisting into something between confusion and mild concern. Could demonic influence make humans go insane? It was a genuine question now. His eyes widened when he suddenly heard other voices - males and a few females, staticky, and invisible. He instantly looked around the room, searching for intruders, enemies, anything. If something was in here - if something was bold enough to challenge him in his own territory - he’d just show them exactly what kind of demon they were dealing with. But… nothing. Not a trace of another presence. No heartbeat, no soul signature, not even a flicker in the air. Just you. He looked back at you, only to jolt slightly as you were now giving him the "Are you okay?" look, eyes narrowed like he was the one acting weird. “What are you- ?” he began, only to fall silent when your eyes widened in panic. You shot him a look that clearly said, Shut up. Now Abby was both intrigued and annoyed. You seemed far more interested in whatever voices were coming from that tiny device than in him. Again. With his brows furrowed, he got up with a grunt, eyes fixed on you as he began to slowly stalk forward. “Yes, yes. Everything will be done by this Friday, I promise you, sir,” you said to the phone, your tone professional but clearly strained as you flicked your gaze between your screen and him. Abby was one second away from snatching the damned thing out of your hands and glaring at whoever thought they could steal your attention from him. But just as he reached out, your hand shot out and curled around his wrist. He looked down at your fingers wrapped around him, then back at you - unimpressed. He could easily pull away. Could do whatever he wanted really. But your touch, soft and sudden, paired with the silent pleading in your eyes… it cooled something in him. Just slightly. That deep, restless need to toss the phone aside, to pin you to the bed and lose himself in the warmth of your soul while you scrambled to hold him back - it didn’t disappear, but it dimmed.

You held his gaze - steady, firm - until a female voice buzzed through the phone. His ears rang a bit as he winced, and your head whipped away from him as you fumbled to confirm you were, in fact, listening, adding something about thinking you saw something. That made Abby grin sharply, the realisation settling over him like silk across skin. He didn’t know exactly what you were doing - but it was clear you didn’t want whoever was on the other end of that phone knowing he was here. Was he your dirty little secret~? No, that didn’t quite track. Your close friends knew you two were intimate. So then… why? The amusement drained from his features, fading into the pit of something far less pleasant. He couldn’t understand why you couldn’t just let those disembodied voices keep chatting to themselves through that possessed little rectangle and focus on him. On now. Abby didn’t like it. He also didn’t like standing there with all this unspent energy coiling under his skin. And you - you were making it hard to burn through it. So the moment your grip on his wrist started to weaken, Abby was already on the move. Without a word, he reached down and wrapped his hand around your ankle, tugging sharply. You bit your lip to stop any noise that wanted to leave as your posture crumbled, the phone nearly toppling out of your hands as you shifted - now seated with your legs splayed around his knees, trapped in place. Your eyes darted between the screen and the brooding look in his own, trying to hold onto both as if the two didn’t demand your full attention. Abby leaned in, eyes gleaming, lips curling into a smirk that promised far too much. “You,” he murmured, voice low and deliberate, “are going to figure out how to split your attention... with seventy-five percent of it on me… or-” His hand tightened just slightly around your ankle, firm but not painful. “ -I’ll very gladly give 'em a show they’ll never forget.” You flushed - he felt the heat rising off you in waves. Your expression flickered, visibly torn, and Abby knew damn well this shouldn’t even be a choice. You narrowed your eyes at his wicked grin as he began to mouth a countdown. Five... Four... Three... He got to two when you finally jabbed something on your phone, your tone sharp as you gave him a command instead of pleading: “Push-up position. Now.” Abby raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. He’d never been one to turn down a direct order - be it from Jinu, one of his brothers, or you. With a casual shrug, he lowered himself to the floor, hands planted firmly, legs stretched out, posture strong. He was about to glance up and smugly ask what the Royal Highness wanted him to do next - when he stilled. Your weight settled lightly across his lower back. Barely adding any weight. Abby blinked, surprised, and twisted to peer over his shoulder. You were fully focused on your phone again - expression serious, lips in a thoughtful pout like you were mentally juggling tasks - but now your warmth was resting against him. Your body was with him, even if your mind was still split. Abby’s lips pulled into a slow, toothy grin. His canines gleamed. Oh... you little masochist~ He chuckled under his breath and started the push-ups, each one slow and deliberate. Occasionally, he flexed his muscles just a bit more than necessary - earning a soft hiss, a poke of your foot to his ribs, or the delicious sound of his name whispered in mild exasperation. He didn’t care. He’d gotten what he wanted.

<><><>

Romance Saja

🌹 Romance was, by far, the least jealous of the five of them - and he was well aware of that.

🌹 The first time he even heard of jealousy, it was through something called a “comment” under a photo on this... "app" their manager had practically begged them to post. Apparently, posting was important for “engagement.”

🌹 Romance wasn’t sure what any of that meant, but from what he could gather, it involved humans reacting emotionally to pictures - and ducks, if the tiny round icons were to be trusted. Yes. A duck.

🌹 Romance had always known he was good-looking - otherworldly, as some humans had said - but to have a duck be jealous of him? That just felt unfair. He couldn’t, in good conscience, let such a poor creature think so lowly of itself.

🌹 Naturally, he replied to the comment. And for some reason got scolded for it by their manager. To make matters weirder, he was then invited to be some kind of... ambassador for animal rights. Or whatever that meant.

🌹 Weird, reall. Romance thought majority of humans already had rights. But anyway - back to the point.

🌹 He hadn’t understood what “jealousy” even was, so naturally, he went to their beloved human translator, Jinu. Romance had known Jinu for a few centuries now, and not once had he seen his brother react to anything quite so... passionately.

🌹 Either way, Romance had come to a firm conclusion: Jealousy was ugly.

🌹 Useless. Unassuming. Awful. Vile. Plain. Dreadful—

🌹 Aand Mystery snatched the precious book from his hands, muttering something about “thief.” Safe to say, Romance knew he would never think in such a way. Well... That was until he met a human who loved proving him wrong.

🌹 Didn’t you, you precious little worm~ ?

Romance was just putting the finishing touches on his freshly painted nails - this time opting for a daring combination of banana yellow and ocean blue. As expected, it looked fantastic. On him, of course. He couldn't imagine anyone else pulling off the look quite so flawlessly. “Darling,” he called out to you, admiring the now dry shimmer of his handiwork before carefully returning the various nail polish bottles to their rightful place in the box on the coffee table. With the space now cleared, it was your turn to get pampered. Romance wasn’t exactly sure when you’d moved from beside him on the carpeted floor of their shared living room, but he didn’t much care - so long as you responded. Or appeared. But you did neither. Frowning lightly, Romance looked up, perplexed by your silence. He could feel your presence, your soft, warm ripple in the honmoon - a soothing thrum of your soul pressing into the apartment’s atmosphere. Easily tracing the crimson line, his gaze landed on you just a few feet away, practically sprawled across Tiger’s plush belly. The spirit beast lay motionless on its back, all four legs pointed to the ceiling, while you absently patted its furry side. Tiger, in return, stared at you with wide, unblinking eyes - oddly content. The only sign that the beast was enjoying itself came in the form of a loud, rhythmic purring that Romance had only now registered, his demon hearing filtering back in once he emerged from his own head. Perched contentedly atop your back sat Magpie, methodically going through your hair like it was grooming you. Ohhh, he thought with a delighted grin. So that’s what this was. You were feeling lonely with his attention elsewhere. How precious~ He couldn't even blame you. Tiger’s fur did have a mildly intoxicating effect on humans - a fact they’d learned the hard way after you met them all properly... and after Romance almost immediately revealed that he and the others were demons. Not the easiest path in your connection, but you’d pulled through! Good for you. Especially considering Baby had been sharpening his claws at the mere thought of you running. Would Romance have tried to save you from the eager young demon if it came to that...? ... . . . “Darling?” he called out again instead of entertaining the thought any further, his smile dazzling as he partially turned your way. No use pondering things that would never happen - not now that you’d sworn to secrecy. Not when you chose him, in spite of it all.

At the sound of his slightly raised voice, your dazed eyes flicked towards him. You blinked once, then gave him a much softer smile in return. "Yeeah? What’s wrong?" you asked, your voice airy, touched with a lightness that made Romance chuckle as he straightened up slightly. He didn’t love how you were still sprawled across Tiger’s belly, absentmindedly running your hand through the spirit’s fur instead of coming over to him. But Romance didn’t let it show. “Well, for starters - your clothes,” he replied pointedly. You only hummed, smile deepening to yourself as you traced the stripes along Tiger’s side. Magpie peeked from behind your hair to send Romance a very unimpressed look, which he ignored in favour of continuing, “You’ll have fur all over them, mind you love.” He thought that would get you up. Clearly, he miscalculated. You just giggled, pressing yourself even further into the plush creature whose body had begun to vibrate with deep, pleased purrs. “Don’t be silly, Romance! I don’t mind a bit of fur. I can get it off with that... that - ah, that glue wheel!” you beamed, proud of yourself for remembering the term for a lint roller. Even Romance knew what a the "glue wheel" was called! Now considerably less amused, Romance would have usually run a finger gently through your honmoon wave to call your attention to him, but you were so blissed out he couldn’t begin to guess what that kind of contact might do to your human brain right now. He could have walked over and simply dragged you back to sit beside him - but that wasn’t an option either. You were being guarded. Tiger and Magpie’s joint aura radiated around you like a protective cocoon, the kind that would push his energy back the second he stepped too close with his current rattled state. How irritating.

Romance sighed softly, eyes tinged with bitterness as he watched you continue to receive your pampering - and dish it out in equal measure. You looked perfectly at peace, perfectly content… without him. Jealousy? Romance scoffed inwardly. This wasn’t jealousy. Of course not. He could have what you were giving them at any time. Any second. You were just... relaxed. Too relaxed to think rationally. Taking comfort wherever it presented itself. Romance’s lips pulled into a small pout as he turned away. So what? You preferred a motionless cat and a meddling bird over him? Fine. He could play at indifference, too. He ignored the twitch of his fingers, the restrained urge to look at you again. He especially ignored the intrusive thought that maybe he should’ve paid more attention to what you were doing... instead of expecting you to sit beside him and simply look pretty. To enjoy his company quietly, the way he always did with you. His brow furrowed. Quickly, he smoothed it out. He wouldn’t allow a wrinkle to form over something as petty as this. But he also didn’t like the way his mouth tasted with the vile feeling now swimming in his chest. Since when did he crave your attention this much? A quiet huff escaped him - just before he noticed a presence near him. He turned his head - perhaps a bit too eagerly for his liking - only to flinch back when he came nose-to-nose with Tiger’s unblinking stare. Startled, Romance pushed himself away, inhaling sharply, he needed a second to calm his racing breath. His wide eyes shifted to Tiger’s left side - only to find you sitting down beside him behind the coffee table, one hand resting gently on the spirit’s shoulder. You gave him a soft smile, while Magpie now fluttered above the nail polish box, examining the bottles with a critical eye. Romance’s startled expression wasn’t from the Tiger spooking him - it was from not feeling you three come closer. Normally, he’d sense you through the honmoon, but those two? They seemed to have cloaked your energy like snow blanketing grass. Just like when they made tracking Jinu impossible. Just how long were you snuggling them? The thought came out sharp - too sharp. Even in his own head, it sounded accusatory. Before he could linger on the thought, his gaze snapped back to Tiger. The spirit had lifted its right paw, extending it slowly forward with a low, deliberate rawr. Eyes locked. Staring. As if- “I believe it wasn't you to paint its ‘nails’~” you chimed, cheek resting against your palm as you leaned forward across the coffee table, expression expectant. Romance blinked at you, then slowly sat upright again, recovering from all that was suddenly happening. Still trying to brush off the strange, unfamiliar bitterness inside him, he reached for Tiger’s large paw, gently taking it in both hands and pressing into the pads to extend the luminous, jade-like claws. They were already somewhat tinted - but the way you were watching him, eyes bright with amusement and warmth, reignited something inside him. Your attention was back. That was all he needed. If you wanted to give up your seat to Tiger? Romance didn’t care, he would manage to paint the spirit's claws one way or another - so long as you stayed beside him. So long as your eyes were on him.

<><><>

Mystery Saja

🐶 You need to understand something. Mystery despised unnecessary movement.

🐶 The fact that he was already forced to move in sync with the others during their dances, striking poses with highly questionable gestures that were, for some reason, culturally considered “cute” - was bad enough. So whenever he could simply sit still and not move? He took it. Literally.

🐶 Mystery could remain perfectly still for hours if something caught his interest. The first time Abby witnessed this, he’d startled so hard the cereal box he was holding had flown out of his hands - scattering cornflakes across the room. He’d only been chewing on them “to have something to do,” even though he constantly complained about the taste.

🐶 Even then, Mystery hadn’t moved. He’d stayed seated in the same armchair near the window, eyes hidden under his fringe as he focused on the pulsing waves of the honmoon outside. Crimson glimmers occasionally shimmered across the blue surface, moving rebelliously over the barrier.

🐶 He was fully aware of Abby creeping closer to him. Still, he didn’t move.

🐶 When Abby stretched out a single finger to poke his cheek, the response was instant. A sharp crack and Abby yelped, suddenly kneeling on the floor with his arm twisted behind his back. Mystery had only moved one arm, smoothly dislocating Abby’s without hesitation or breaking his focus.

🐶 Abby, ever the pest, just beamed at him from the floor. “So you’re not dead!” he declared cheerfully. Mystery sighed softly.

🐶 So yes - you deciding that taking a walk was a good idea, Mystery was in a foul mood the second he stepped outside the shared apartment.

🐶 Believe him, he had every intention of persuading you to stay indoors by any means necessary... but then you hit him with those enlarged glittering eyes... He sighed again, this time much deeper.

Mystery never understood the appeal of dogs. Or pets in general. The only reason he didn’t mind Tiger and Magpie was because they shared a similar level of cognitive awareness to that of lower-ranking demons if not more. At least with them, communication was stimulating. The same could not be said for Earth’s animals - especially the domesticated ones. Mystery always felt a deep, visceral disappointment whenever he saw what was once a majestic beast reduced to nothing more than a drooling pet, wagging its tail and performing humiliating little tricks for praise and biscuits. He didn’t know why he thought you would be any different. The moment the two of you stepped into the park - your idea, of course - it wasn't long until you got distracted. A dog had spotted you from across the path and ran over, tail wagging furiously. Its owner, lounging on a nearby bench, gave only a cursory glance before going back to scrolling mindlessly through their phone. Like the rest of humanity, Mystery noted dryly. Though, to be fair, Jinu had once accused him of being addicted too to their television. Mystery, however, considered it education. He liked to absorb knowledge in all forms. A self-reading picture book was just another source. Currently, he stood beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat - an attempt to "blend in", as Jinu had advised. Apparently, heavier clothing was more appropriate for the cooler season. Despite being centuries older, Mystery trusted Jinu’s judgement on modern human etiquette. In terms of human knowledge, his junior was frustratingly competent. He stared at you now, eyes half-lidded behind his fringe, the brim of his cap shadowing most of his upper face. The face mask he'd been wearing had been tugged down earlier, back when the two of you had been talking. Back when he had your attention. Now? Now you were too busy cooing over a slobbering mutt. Mystery blinked slowly, deadpan. Weren’t you the one who invited me out...? He wouldn’t have minded your attention drifting - if he hadn’t sacrificed his only rest day to walk beside you in the first place. If you wanted to spend time with him, then your focus should be on him.

Not the nearest tail-wagger. He stepped forward deliberately. His shadow fell over both you and the dog. He made sure not to step on your wave that was part of the barrier as not to alert you. Instead, his gaze tracked the stray energy line connecting to the mutt - still just wild enough to not be attached to anything, it seemed. With one hand, he reached out and let the white line coil naturally around his finger. With the other, he brushed aside his fringe - just enough to meet the creature’s eyes once he pinched the dog’s line between his fingers. The dog stilled immediately, mid-scratch. You, unaware, kept rubbing under its chin. Its pupils dilated as Mystery's eyes flashed gold for a split second - his pupils slitting horizontally, before returning to their human guise. Mystery tilted his head slowly. The dog mirrored the motion, fur bristling as Mystery let his lips curl into a sharp, canine smile. Hello... friend, he spoke silently. The dog’s ears flattened. You blinked, sensing the change, and opened your mouth to call it. But it was too late. Its attention was no longer yours. With a soft, guttural growl too low for human ears, Mystery bared his teeth. One snap that held many words. The mutt whined, instantly remorseful, and turned tail - quite literally - racing back to its owner without a second thought. Mystery released the energy line. It slipped from his finger like a thread of light, spiralling away to find something else to tangle with. He’d just managed to cover his eyes again when you turned, smiling - only for that smile to fall the moment you spotted his still falling grimace. Oh. Oh noo. Mystery thought, perhaps a bit too smugly. If he had a tail, it might’ve wagged. How hypocritical of him. You immediately began softly scolding him, convinced he’d scared the poor dog because he was scared. Mystery simply began walking ahead, slow enough for you to catch up. You did, naturally. Without complaint, you let him loop your arm through his as you continued your gentle lecture, explaining how animals can sense fear and tension, and how he really shouldn’t glare at dogs, of all things, if he is scared. Mystery hummed noncommittally, eyes half-lidded under his fringe as the two of you passed by the dog and its owner. The mutt lay curled up by the bench now, ears pressed back - but it lifted its gaze as Mystery looked down. He tilted his head, just slightly - enough for his fringe to shift, revealing a glint of golden eye beneath - before nodding once. The dog stared back - and gave a single, slow nod back. A mutual understanding passed between them. Right under your nose. Even if the once-great beasts now barely reached my knees... They weren’t fully loyal to the humans. Not yet. Humans never ceased to amaze him - how easily they could lie to themselves, and worse, believe it. He turned his gaze to you, smiling down gently as he gave your hand a small squeeze. You returned it tenfold, radiant. Seems humans still believed they could tame something far greater than them. Haaah! How amusing.

<><><>

Baby Saja

🍼 Baby honestly couldn’t care less about who, where, or when you were hanging out, chatting with, or even casually touching - so long as he was already there. Already leaning against you, draped over your shoulders, or holding your waist like he belonged there. Which, he did.

🍼 As long as some part of him - elbow, knee, hip, pinkie finger, anything - was soaking in that steady, addictive burn of your wavelength, that perfect flicker between blue and red that made the most enticing shade of violet… Yeah. He was fine.

🍼 Mostly. That colour made his teeth ache. The kind of ache that whispered sink them in, take a bite, mark it.

🍼 But still - Baby could behave. He wouldn’t even bully the poor sucker who got too familiar, like you’d told him not to.

🍼 And you knew that. So let’s run it back again, shall we? Why in the name of sweet, unhinged holy Mary would you pull that stupid stunt?

🍼 Hey! If anything happens, that one’s on you, alright?

🍼 Baby had made it very clear: as long as he’s physically near you, you could be on a stupid date for all he cared. Not that the date would go well, mind you. But still - technicalities.

🍼 Free meal for you in the form of food. Free meal for him in the form of that mouth-watering cocktail of emotion you never seemed to run out of - especially when he teased you, and that heat behind your eyes flared up just right.

🍼 Baby guessed… Bon appétit, then?

You two had just come back from Baby’s solo photoshoot, and he was more than ready to drag you to his room, push you onto the bed, and collapse on top of you like a spoiled feline basking in the warmth of your soul. The plan, however, was interrupted by your insistence that dinner came first. Right. Humans needed to eat more than once every few weeks to stay alive. What a hassle, Baby sighed inwardly, stretching his hands over his head until his shoulder blades cracked with a satisfying pop. His body leaned instinctively towards yours, his right side brushing your left as you walked toward the elevator that would take you up. Not to the heavens, of course. He’d already given that realm the finger a few centuries ago. He had to chuckle a bit under his breath, stopping only when the spike of amusement in your wave caught his attention, and he looked down to meet your curious gaze; eyebrow arched in silent question. Instead of explaining, Baby just flashed you a lazy smirk and casually slung an arm over your shoulder, tugging you close. Unintentionally giving better access for your fingers to find his chin, then his cheeks, which you squished with zero shame. “What are you cackling about, hm?” you asked, your arm slipping around his waist. He didn’t flinch, though every nerve under your touch sparked with something soft and crawling. He still didn’t understand why that sensation unsettled him more than outright pain. He shoved it aside, tuning into the velvet edge of your voice just as you reached the elevator. He pressed the ‘up’ button sharply. “Did being around so many people finally fry your brain?” you teased, tone more curious than concerned. Baby shot you a playful glare, voice raspy. “You wish. I could finally understand what you’re blabbering about half the time.” You let out a dramatic sigh, hand to your heart. “Tragic. I thought maybe, just maybe, you were on your way to genius-level intellect like me—ack! Hey!” You slapped his hand away from your side where he’d prodded your ticklish spot, glaring at him with mock-seriousness. “Watch your fingers, mister.” He raised an amused brow, grin sharp as ever. As the elevator pinged its arrival, he leaned down, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Why?” he murmured. “You didn’t complain the last time I touched you... hmm?”

The words dripped with smugness as he sauntered into the Gwi-ma-blessed elevator, shooting you a glance over his shoulder just in time to see your flushed face. He traced the violet line of your wave as it reached for him, trailing with your hesitation before you stepped in beside him. All serious now - but he knew better. You gave him a flat look, raising two fingers close to his face in warning. “We’re going to have a very long talk about those kinds of comments in public.” Baby opened his mouth like he might reply - then promptly bit your finger with a smug little smile. You froze, staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights. And before he could escalate the tension - because gods help you, he would’ve - footsteps echoed down the hallway. Baby’s expression dropped flat, the teasing gone in an instant as he leaned back. You looked confused right before the multiple sets of footsteps became obvious even to your human ears. He glanced up, silently willing the doors to close faster. A thin slit remained - and of course, you had to reach out and press the ‘open door’ button. How thoughtful of you, He rolled his eyes, lips twitching in irritation. Your gleaming wave had cooled to an annoying shade of blue. A family of five stepped in. Baby could feel their overlapping energies that pulsed for the huntresses. You greeted them with your usual smile and soft-spoken manners, and Baby tugged his hoodie up to hide his teal hair, too tired and too irritable to deal with public pleasantries. He bowed lazily after you, stepping aside for the mother with a stroller, the baby's line flailing wildly beyond the barrier. It made Baby grimace. The man followed next, guiding a little girl by the hand. The two of them exchanged polite nods. Baby’s was barely there. The little girl waved, and he returned it half-heartedly. But when he glanced back, puzzled as to why no one else - especially you - was stepping in, it finally hit him. The elevator was full. You were left outside, standing with that teen. “Thank you very much,” said the father, pressing a card against the panel to activate the higher floor. Oh, fuck no- Baby moved instinctively, ready to tag the kid out and step back through, but your hands rose in warning. Your eyes met his with a placating smile before you looked over his shoulder at the parents, “No worries! I’ll get him to your floor safely!” You... will do what? His eyes stared blankly at you as the doors began to close. “Thank you again, dear!” the mother called cheerfully. The last thing you saw was Baby’s deadpan expression. The last thing he saw was your sheepish little grin, right before the doors closed. Oh, you were in for it now. Keeping his composure - barely - Baby leaned against the elevator wall, head dipped low as he began mentally counting down the floors. Mystery would’ve been so proud of his restraint. He ignored the whispered chatter from the parents, and the little girl’s not-so-subtle glances. His eyes locked on the stroller. Inside, a small, soft, utterly helpless baby giggled up at its mother. Unlike the older humans, babies hadn’t attached to anything yet. Its soul line was wild, unclaimed, potent. Should I...? His eyes flashed gold. Canines sharpened slightly. His dormant hunger throbbed behind his temples. The only reason he was even hungry was because you’d left him alone - surrounded by humans - so you could chaperone a teenager instead of waiting with him. His frustration spiked. Baby tilted his head, expression unreadable, pupils thinning as he stared down the tiny creature that cooed up at its mother, oblivious to the apex predator in its presence.

... ... Pfff! PHAHAHAHA! Baby laughed internally. The image of your horrified expression flickered behind his eyes, kindling a small flame in the otherwise hollow space in his chest. His gaze dulled back into its more human shade as the glow vanished. Silly human. Babies' souls weren’t even worth the effort. Too bland anyway. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed inside the suffocating metal box, but the elevator stopped on a few floors - each time with waiting strangers who were gently told, by the parents, that it was full. Baby didn’t say a word. Just stood there, quiet and stubborn, arms crossed and spine pressed against the wall, barely concealing his impatience. So when they finally reached their floor and the doors slid open, Baby wasn’t even surprised to find you already there. What did catch his attention was the way you were laughing - head tilted slightly, eyes soft - as the boy said something that made him flush pink from ears to neck. Baby could’ve ignored it. Should’ve, really. Just walked over, grabbed you by the wrist, and hauled you back into the lift so the two of you could return to the apartment, and pretend this detour into hell hadn’t happened. But. There was something he just couldn't ignore. The shimmer of the boy’s wave slipping across the barrier, trying to brush against yours. Not bold. Just enough to be noticed. It was shy, clumsy adoration. The taste of it sat foul in Baby’s mouth. Sweet, like fruit rotting too fast under the sun. He tasted longing. Hope. He tasted dare. It made him want to shove his hand through the kid’s chest and rip out that fragile, pulsing heart before it got any ideas about beating for you. But that would cause a scene. And scenes meant scoldings from his seniors and, worst of all - your unpredictable response. So. Plan B. Baby’s expression didn’t change as he stepped out of the elevator, hands in the pocket of his hoodie, his walk lazy and casual as he followed the family.

You turned at the sound of the parents’ voices, flashing them that radiant smile of yours, brushing off their thanks with an airy “It was nothing.” They invited you to dinner - blah blah blah - and Baby filed it all under irrelevant noise as he subtly sharpened his nails with a flick and disturbed the parents’ waves just enough to make them both shiver. They looked around, startled, looking for something that was not really there. They gave their quick goodbyes and started to walk away, ushering the teen with them. Baby moved in without hesitation, stepping up beside you and sliding a hand around your waist. His touch was gentle - he didn’t want to startle you - yet firm. You waved at the retreating family, unaware of how tightly his hold lingered. You started to move towards the waiting elevator again, but Baby held you back. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you looked up at him. He didn’t explain himself. Just let his other hand rest on your opposite hip and pull you closer. His head dipped down, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, his fringe messily falling over his face as he pressed his left cheek into your skin. His lips followed - slow, teasing - brushing a kiss along your neck to your ear with just enough pressure to be felt. He ignored the scent the boy had left clinging to you, smothering it with his own presence. And then, just as he felt a ripple in the air that didn’t belong to you, Baby opened his eye and looked straight past you. His gaze locked with the boy’s. That shimmer of hope that had glowed seconds earlier? Shattered. Baby watched the boy’s startled expression fall apart, watched that sugary wave of emotion collapse into bitter disappointment. He grinned - sharp and bright - as he rubbed his cheek more firmly against your neck, his left hand sliding up to rest over the back of your neck, spread his fingers. All the while staring at the teen. The boy didn’t move until his mother called. Then he turned away slightly - but glanced back again. Mistake. Baby was still looking at him. Grinning like a devil. Flipping the boy off with his free hand. The boy visibly tensed, brows drawn tight. But before he could even think of taking a daring step forward, his mother called out for the second time. Now clearly frustrated, the boy’s expression soured - just as Baby fuelled it further by wiggling his fingers lazily in the air, mouthing: Fuck off. All while his other hand kept you snug against him - your body probably assuming he was just being clingy. The teen flushed deep red. His wave trembled - confusion giving way to the first sparks of quiet fury - and then, finally, he turned and walked off when his mother called again. Baby didn’t need to feel her wave to know that the woman wouldn’t call the fourth time. Baby only relaxed when he couldn't properly feel the family's wavelengths in the space. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip, letting you pull away just a bit. You gave him a curious look, eyes narrowing at his still present grin. “Well, you look happy,” you said, watching him with raised brows. You tried to step back further - but he tugged you forward again. Now looming over you, his grin remained, but his eyes gleamed darker beneath it. He reached out and tapped your nose, once, twice, three times. “Oh no,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked with yours. “I’m fuckin’ pissed.” He smiled wider.

[azullumi]

you’re a mermaid in distress and he’s here to… save you? | featuring: phainon, anaxa, and mydei x mermaid!reader | fluff, alternative universe, bullet-form narration, pirate!mydei, knight!phainon, scholar!anaxa, i mean he somewhat already is, mentions of blood and wounds, fem!pronouns are used for the reader, not proofread | wc: 4.7k

note — today i had a beautiful dream of pirate mydei thus this was born, and gosh it got long my head hurts… (500 words each character, i said, it will be short, i said)

PHAINON; FREEDOM TASTES LIKE BLOOD ON YOUR LIPS

The first time he sees you, you are listless—a ghost of salt and scales drifting in a gilded cage. Your fingers press against the glass, searching for a current that isn’t there. The expression on your face is etched into his mind, haunting him like a madman on his trail. You were clearly uncomfortable, restless, unable to adapt in the new environment you were forced to be in—who would? Your glass tank was nowhere similar to your home. The water reeks of chemicals, not brine; the fake corals are a mockery of the reefs you once knew.

In this place, you were completely vulnerable and exposed to everyone. There was no place for you to hide. The decorations were not big enough to cover you up and the transparent walls allowed anyone to watch your every move—perhaps that was the intention. After all, you were captured and sold to a wealthy nobleman who was fascinated by your species and their ‘exotic beauty’.

The second time was when he was with the master, standing in front of your ‘home’, gawking at you with a grin on his face—all teeth and greed. You were still the same except much worse, lingering on the same spot he had seen you. “Pretty, isn’t she?” The master says, a sparkle in his gaze as he admires your every inch before he turns to look at the swordsman by his side. “You find her amazing, don’t you?” It seems he had mistaken Phainon’s tension for awe, and he hates it; there’s a bitter taste on his tongue and a tight feeling in his chest, especially more so when the brutish man mentions how he can’t have you.

As if you were some prized possession or doll for ownership. The thought alone angers him, his grip on the hilt of his sword never loosening.

A gem is tossed inside your tank, landing on top of your head, as the master speaks of how your species is particularly fond of such things: “Doesn’t that one make you happy?” The man croons, “So rid that ugly expression on your face. The guests wouldn’t wish to see such a depressing display.” How considerate, truly. 

Phainon doesn’t even ease from where he stands, from where he watches, and it frustrates him further that he’s bound to a position where there’s nothing he can do. He hates that he feels useless, that the chains of his responsibility and status tugs tightly on his neck, rendering him unable to reach you.

But surely there should be something, right?

Later that night, unburdened by his duty, he returned to where you were. This is the third time he sees you, and yet, you remain the same. The faint moonlight dimly alights your room, the silver casting its glow right at your display case. To think that they even thought of your display and where the light will hit. You’ll see him, lingering by the doorway, seemingly hesitant but when he catches your gaze, he steels his resolve and steps forward.

Phainon’s greeting to you is returned with a curious tilt of your head—this time, something different from your usual pensiveness flickers in your expression at the sight of a cautious man who bears the wave in his eyes. At least you don’t look too wary or scared in front of him (he’d hate himself if you feared him too). He takes this as a good sign to continue… with whatever his plan is. It’s practically non-existent, he just wanted to come here and see you. At this point, he’s no less different to his master; he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

You swim toward him—only a bit—and there’s something tentative in the way your fingers press against the glass, like you're waiting to see if he’ll hurt you too. For a few moments, the two of you have this staring contest held in pure silence, until the words come out of his mouth before it gets lost in the crevices of his mind: “Are you lonely?” And you blink; the only answer you could ever give him was a tilt of your head downwards and the faintest nod as if telling the truth was a sin itself, as if admitting to yourself and to someone that you’re lonely was a blasphemy.

And maybe that’s what does it. The softness in your response, the way you fold yourself smaller like you’re trying to disappear, like you’re tired of being seen and never known (and it’s cruel how the nobles, how these terrible humans, had never tried to know your name or see past your scales). It twists something deep in him like a scar being carved open, left bleeding on the edges.

From then on, Phainon returns—always at odd hours, always in secret. He comes with stories: half-truth about the stars, lies dressed up as tales about heroic escapades and adventures, and anecdotes about his beautiful, exceptional horse, who he claims is more honorable than most men. Other times, he just sits. Talks. Mostly about things that don’t matter like how he’s a bad swimmer, how he grew up close to the wheatfields of his hometown, and how he came to be in this state, wielding a sword to protect the very master you detest, who he also detests. There are also poorly-made jokes and horrible-executed magic tricks, but it makes you laugh anyway, bubbles spiraling up around your face, and oh, how lovely it is that he wants to make you do it again.

He brings things: little, inconsequential things he pockets from the outside world—dried seaweed snuck into your tank that he had bribed one of the servants to drop inside after seeing how poor your diet is, a smooth stone that feels like it remembers the tide, a ribbon the same color of his eyes to tie and style your hair with when you are bored. But sometimes, he comes with silence, with a solemn look on his expression, and with blood on his mouth. And in those moments, he will always ask the strangest questions but never seek for answers, only giving you the smallest of smiles.

You never ask him to stay longer, but he always does.

However, it all falls apart on the night of a gathering. Nobles had arrived in finery too expensive for their personalities—loud laughter and strong perfume that reeks in the halls. Their eyes drag over your form like it’s something they own; they found amusement in the scared expression on your face and how you got startled when one of them knocked too hard against the glass. Stationed by the door, lips pressed tight, Phainon’s hand shakes against the hilt of his sword.

The master gestures at you like you’re part of the decor: “She’s a lovely thing, making the whole room feel alive when she’s simply just swimming. Such a shame that’s all she can do.” Like a bowstring taut too far and tight, something inside of him snaps.

When the night has fallen deep and the halls are empty with the absence of people and their mockery, you hear footsteps, heavy, against the eerie quiet. Phainon appears but you can sense that there is something wrong—his boots and clothes are stained with crimson, rust-brown in streaks, and his sword, unsheathed, drips with something of the same color. His eyes, usually calm like an undisturbed lake, are stormed over. The room was still dim, moonlight draped over his surroundings like silk, casting shadows on his already dreary face.

“I couldn’t find the key,” he says, voice trembling. “So, I’m making one.” He tells you to stay back as he raises his sword and with a swing, the glass cracks once. Twice. And finally, on the third strike, it shatters completely. Water comes rushing out in a torrent, spilling like a scream, the sea reborn inside a noble manor. You’re unsure whether this is salvation or something worse, but the man kneels in front of you, wraps you in his cloak, and touches your cheek like you’re made of something holy. “Please hold on to me,” his voice is nothing but gentle and tender, 

Your prison fades behind him as he runs through the darkness of the night like something possessed, arms heavy with you, but he never stops. Even if the torchlights appear and blink like the stars above you, even if the shouting grows louder in each second. And when the cliff looms ahead, he doesn’t hesitate to jump, murmuring an apology close to your ear that tangles in the wind’s roar.

(It was as if he had planned this from the very start, the route carved and drawn deep in the corners of his mind, waiting for the right moment.)

The sea swallows you whole and Phainon nearly drowns. You had to drag him to the shore, the knight—once bore glory and status, reduced to a man in drenched clothing and tarnished honor—gasped and coughs, half-conscious, bleeding from his knuckles and some parts of his skin. But he grins at you as if he had finally lost everything—except the one thing that he truly cares for. “Told you,” he rasps in broken breaths, “Protector. Occasional entertainer and magician. Bad swimmer.”

You laugh, the same one you’ve shown him, except it’s clearer and livelier compared to when you were inside your glass cage, and he feels like a little boy seeing the sun after a long time. And perhaps, it was the rising dawn on the horizon and the tide’s sweet hum, but you kiss him—like freedom on your tongue, a wind that gently caresses you, and the sea on your lips. It’s soft like a prayer; an affection that the skies would never understand.

And when you part: “Thank you,” you whisper in the language only the deep remembers and though he may not understand, he knows, and he smiles, patting your head. However, you must go now, even if it pains you to leave and forget the warmth of his skin because it is not safe here and it will never be.

This was fine, it was fine.

You’ve made a promise that you’ll come back to him, after all.

ANAXAGORAS, ALL ABOUT MERFOLK 101

Anaxa—or Anaxagoras—is a man of passion and knowledge, that is definite. 

He stumbles upon you by chance, or perhaps by fate despite never believing in it, injured and unconscious by a cove he frequents during his night walks. Moonlight had fractured its surface, silvered shards dancing over your scales—each one a fleeting star in the dark. He wades in, dragging you a little deeper (you were heavy that’s for sure), so that no one else will spot you. 

His fingers, ink-stained and calloused, hover above the gash in your tail, hesitant as if touching a relic. Armed with some information on basic medicine and of your species (sourced from rather not-so credible books and papers), he manages to tend to your wounds enough that it looks… somewhat acceptable-looking in a way that it will really help you heal. Though his bandaging is precise, it is inelegant—too tight here, too loose there—and he simply settles with that despite his frown suggesting otherwise. He was not a healer nor a medical student.

Not long after, you rouse from your sleep. Your vision swims as the searing pain overwhelms you. You first see a ceiling of jagged rock, the scent of salt and crushed herbs thick in the air. Then, a shadow moves from right beside you—a man, human, and you immediately panic though useless when the stranger spoke: "Do not thrash." The command is sharp, but the voice is wrong: guttural, clumsy in all its parts. "You are... safe. Ish."

Mer-tongue, but a butchered version of it as if he was chewing rocks. You’re not sure whether to be insulted with how poorly they are spoken or amazed because it’s a human speaking it.

You blink up at him—tall, seemingly gaunt like he could be blown away with a wind’s kiss (an exaggeration, but he really does look like it), and one eye hidden behind an intricately-designed patch. The other glints like a blade in the moonlight. He kneels before you, a hand held out not to touch but to display as he introduced himself: "Anaxagoras," he says, tapping his chest. Then, slower: "Ahn-ax-ah-gor-as." Like you’re the one struggling with language. You say it, syllables much clearer, flowing smoothly than his. He does not take this as an offense, but rather, he’s amused that he’s able to converse with you.

He tells you of how he simply stumbled upon you and treated your wounds, and it seems to have worked seeing that you’re not dead. “You will not die. Probably.” You wheeze—a weak laugh or a protest, even you’re not sure. Although he mistakes it for something else, a mermaid’s dying breath or whatever that made him command you: “Breathe.” It’s sharp but concern clings to it. "I do not want your corpse." Then, switching to his native tongue when Mer-words fail: "You are valuable. Alive."

You flinch and he does not notice the fear that strikes your face. His eyes narrow and he sighs, softening his words this time: “You have something that I want.” Of course. Humans always want something. Typical; you had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, but you did raise your eyebrow at him. “What could I possibly—” 

“Information.” He cuts you off, taking out the journal he had kept hidden underneath his clothes. "Your people’s creation myths, the moment your kind first understood mortality, your understanding of time. Anything—” His voice falters and grits his teeth, as if forcing out the next words: “—to disprove the idiotic texts claiming mermaids simply weave moonlight into their songs.” 

He was no linguist nor doctor, but he sure was a scholar in a mad pursuit of answers to his questions, and to disprove the narrative and lies falsely weaved into your species. You tilt your head at him, "Do humans think we’re just fish with pretty voices?" He does not entertain your question, waiting for your answer to his somewhat one-sided proposal, and you sigh. “Fine. But you bring me land-food tomorrow. The red fruit with seeds.”

And that’s where it begins—fate playing its cruel game of tangling the souls of yours and his.

You’ve established the cove as your meeting spot. It’s become some sort of your ritual—every day before the sun sets you resurface from the waters only to see him already waiting for you, idly sitting or writing down something in the same journal he uses to record everything with. You’ve joked of stealing it and dumping it into the waters once, but the look you got from him immediately shot the idea down and sealed your mouth shut.

Day one. He brought you the promised pomegranate but you ended up making a mess out of it. In your own defense, the skin of it was hard and tough, nothing like you expected. On that same day, you taught him the word for ‘sweet’. Day seven. He brings you some oranges in exchange for your beliefs, if any exists. You tell him of the moon, and scorn him for bringing you such a sour fruit. He had to bring you mangoes the next day to appease you. Day twenty-one. He brought you books, one that brings stories and illustrations. Fascinated, you sing him a song that praises the sun. And the days go on and on, until it turns into weeks, until it turns into months, and eventually a year.

Although there are some days where he ‘forgets’ his journal and spends it watching you draw on sand, listening to your voice. At those times, his inquiries are more often directed to you rather than about you.

Over the thread of time, you cannot really deny that the two of you had gotten close; from what were awkward, somewhat one-sided conversations of just him giving you something and immediately asking for knowledge in return, to this—softness laced into your banter, lingering too close to one another, the tide whispering against the rocks as if keeping your secrets, his fingers no longer hesitating before brushing against your wrist, your laughter no longer guarded but bright and unburdened, the space between your world and his shrinking with every shared moment.

“Say it, scholar.” You grin, sharp. “Or do you not know the word for ‘please’?” He clicks his tongue at you, the sound as dry as parchment. "I know many words for 'please' in dead languages. Your dialect's inflection is confusing and inconsistent."

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like seawater over stones. "Truly arrogant. For someone who still says 'hello' like he's choking on a shell, you ask such big questions, don’t you?” and you don’t fail to notice how Anaxa's jaw clenches. "This is a fair exchange. I've brought you"—he gestures to the collection on the rocks—"texts of all kinds, fruits that don't grow beneath the waves, and the coordinates of three freshwater springs that you have insisted on knowing.”

"But you’re lonely.” You say and the realization comes suddenly, but feels obvious now. "All these questions... you just want someone to talk to." I mean, what kind of man would spend nearly half of their day trying to trade knowledge, bargain about trivial things, and yaps about whatever he could think about as if you were some kind of diary, and think it’s nothing but a desire for company?

While he is studying you, learning new things about you, you, too, are doing the same.

For a moment, the only sound is the tide pulling at the shore before he scoffs at the idea you have brought to him. “Ridiculous. You must know that a claim such as yours should—” But before he even gets through halfway of his sentence, you interrupt him (and you know he hates it when he gets interrupted, but you still do anyway). “Then, do you like me?”

“That is irrelevant.” He quickly answers and you laugh: “So, you don’t deny it?”

“You’re delusional,” he says in your language, but the red that faintly dusts his ears tells otherwise. “You’ve butchered it again, geez.” And though he frowns, there's something almost pleasing in the way he scrawls your correction in the margins. Anaxa finds it that you’re the type to command rather than ask, just like right now: “Stay until the sun sets.”

He had told himself many times that it’s just curiosity—the way his pulse stutters when you mimic his laughter and teases the way he pronounces his words that it bleeds into another meaning. Not fondness. Never fondness. But he stayed even when the sun had bled red and sunk into the horizon, even when you had tugged him into the waves, even when you had dragged him deep into the depths, his lips sealed with yours.

And so the bargain continues—not as scholar and subject, but as something far simpler than the gods could ever comprehend. It endures like the silence during dawn and in how your laughter now lingers in the hollows of his ribs like a second heart. 

Two souls trading whispers where the sea meets the shore, while the tides keep count of all they cannot name—the weight of his gaze when he thinks you're not looking, the way your fingers brush against one another, the unspoken promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, he'll still be waiting when you surface.

MYDEIMOS; LINGER IN THE SILENCE OF FOREVER AND NOTHINGS

In the pursuit of gold, or dinner, he found a mermaid.

You were caught by mistake, getting trapped in the nets was thrown into the waters after spotting a shadowy mass beneath the waves. You thrashed in it, tangled in the ropes like a stray minnow amid the day’s pitiful haul of flounder. Above you, the crew of pirates gawked, their faces slack with disbelief. 

What was thought to be something valuable—maybe a kraken (delusional), a shipwreck’s spoils (optimistic), or at least a tuna large enough to feed more than a dozen hungry pirates (desperate)—turned out to be something completely and utterly different.

One man pokes your tail with a rusty hook, yelping when you snap your teeth at him. A scrawny deckhand with a missing front tooth whistles: “We got a big catch today, boss!” He says, poking your tailfin with the toe of his boot. “Fetch a pretty price in port, eh?”

You’re trapped. You’ve got nowhere to run (literally). In their eyes, you’re practically a diamond waiting to be mined, a jewel in grubby hands.

You shouldn’t have gotten close to the water’s surface, you shouldn’t have been too curious, you should have stayed away, you begin berating yourself at the realization that you will most likely end up as a trophy or worse, soup.

“You’re scaring her.” A voice,gravel wrapped in velvet, came from behind them. The crew parted like tidewater before the moon, revealing who possibly is their captain: Mydei—you learned his name from one of the humans’ whispers—, a storm given a human shape. His presence is a brooding shadow, appearing before you clad in a mix of red, dark maroon, and gold, and his chest covered in crimson tattoos. He crouches, eye level with your trembling form.

For a moment, you expected a knife at your throat. You’ve braced for it even. But instead, he sliced the net open with a flick of his dagger. “Idiots,” he muttered under his breath as he worked on peeling the rope from your scaled hips, as he untangled you out of this mess. You’re confused, but still scared, and the group surrounding you appears to be dumbfounded. “Since when does the captain play nursemaid?” The comment does not fly past your ears and neither does for Mydei, but he ignores the gossiping lot.

This is when you see how the net’s ropes had bitten into your skin, leaving angry red lines. His touch was clinical, careful, but his thumb brushed your wrist where the fibers had bitten deepest, and you hiss. 

He’ll utter an apology and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. “You’re wounded.” And that was true. Blood had streaked your scales and your tail seemed to be limp, muscles protesting at even the thought of movement. When he has asked you if you can understand what he’s saying,  you nod your head and he exhales through his nose, relieved, then jerks his chin toward the horizon.

“Good. This stretch of sea is crawling with hunters. Pirates. Idiots who’d sell your teeth for a mere drink and with your state right now, you’re an easy catch for them.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact, but the truth of it coils cold in your stomach. Your kin had warned you of humans, of their dangers and how they had brought ruin to your fellowmen. “You’ll stay aboard. Until you’re not useless anymore.”

But no one had ever mentioned the ones who wear cruelty as if it were armor, only to reveal gentle hands beneath—they never spoke of storms with quiet eyes, of tempests that shelter and protect rather than bring destruction.

He lifted you—careful, slowly—into his arms, water dripping down his boots, blood staining the fabric of his clothes. The crew’s protests die mid-breath when Mydei levels them with a simple look. You were then hauled to a hastily emptied storage room, lining up a tub that was dumped with buckets of water inside. It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. A far cry from the endless blue you call home, but you bite your tongue. When the alternative is bleeding out on a pirate’s deck, you’ll take the tub.

Against your very expectations, however, the days that you have spent on this ship were not the least uncomfortable, if you put aside your cramped space. The crew members who had scared you at first were actually a bunch of nice people who often perform tricks to entertain you and make you laugh. Although you had bitten one of them when they called you ‘the captain’s pet’.

They bother you nearly every day, either barging into the room to chatter and ramble while they sit on the floor, whether drunk or not, or carrying your tub with you still in it to somewhere else in case you’re sick of seeing the empty wooden walls—so you won’t forget the sun.

They carve chess pieces of terrible forms that it’s hard to discern the rook from a pawn so you can play (you cheat; Mydei catches you and flicks your forehead). One brings a stolen mirror, fragile-looking and probably would shatter in pieces with a small drop if you’re not careful enough, to “fix your boredom, milady”—until Mydei confiscates it: “She’ll hurt herself with the damn thing”. Albeit he’ll return it to you soon after when he sees the pleading look on your face. And that’s not all as the youngest cabin boy sneaks in at dawn to whisper gossip, but flees when Mydei’s shadow darkens the doorway. “Out, it’s too early in the morning to bother her.”

It’s not hard to fall into their routine, especially that they seem to have adopted you like a stray cat. 

Your moments with Mydei and him alone were never meaningless, too. And over the course of time you have spent with him as he always has, and I mean always, visit you every night, you’ve learned three things: 1.) He enjoys pomegranate juice, 2.) He knows how to braid and style hair, 3.) He’s a gentle person.

Words between you and him were scarce. Though you can understand his language, you couldn’t speak it; he couldn’t decipher your words either. But the silence between you wasn’t empty—it was full, like measuring one’s words and gestures before they’re lost to the harsh waves. When he braided your hair, his hands would often linger. When you hummed old lullabies, his shoulders relaxed. The both of you were at peace just being near each other.

But the day will fall and the night will come, and this too, must come to an end—you must return to the waters. “Go home,” Mydei had said while he watched you move your already-healed tail up and down, though struggling a little in the tight space. As an act of rebellion, you decided to sink deep into the tub, but: “You know you can’t drown, right?”

Well, he earned a glare from you when you resurfaced. “This is not your home, fishy.” You know that. You’re not stupid, especially when the evidence is in front of you, covered in scales and glistening in iridescent hues. He can sense your hesitance, sighing: “You surely are more trouble than you’re worth.”

Eventually, after much water-splashing and stubbornness, you’re now being lowered overboard with a jolly boat. The crew lingers on deck, their usual raucous chatter muted—even the deckhand you bit sniffles into his sleeve. Salt spray stings your eyes, or maybe it’s something else. The ocean stretches before you, vast and familiar, but your tail feels leaden.

Mydei sits across you and helps you return into the gentle waves that yearn for your caress. The ocean embraces you like a long-lost limb, but for some reason, regret and something heavier weighs in your chest. But Mydei, ever so attentive, sees the grimness of your expression: “This is not goodbye.” He flicks water at you—something that you often do to him. “Those idiots will miss you.” He jerks his chin toward the ship, where the crew waves exaggeratedly. “So don’t be a stranger.”

He will, too, but you don’t need to know that. And with one last look, you leave and disappear into the darkness. Mydei lingers a little longer on his spot, watching, waiting, and seemingly wanting to see you once more, but he doesn’t, and so, he finally turns away, resigned to the very fate he is forced to take from the stars.

Weeks later, with a whimsical quest for treasure and drunken bet of finding one on a rumored place, the ship will find a chest of gold, gems, and everything that screams of value precisely where there should be nothing. Along with cheers  was a chorus of “See, I told you so!” and “I was right!”, but Mydei knows only one person capable of this—you, now seen perched on a rock, grinning. A ruby, the size of his fist, is thrown at him to which he catches, a smile flickering on his lips. “Show-off.”

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[carnalcrows]

All that we leave behind

pairing: gangster ! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: You take a job. It goes to hell. Suddenly you’re bleeding, locked up, and wondering if your daughter will forget the sound of your voice. Then he shows up. Not with lawyers. Not with mercy. With fists, fury, and a plan that involves you, him, and handcuffs. You should hate him. You should run. Instead, you end up in his car, half-naked and shaking for reasons that aren't entirely fear.

You're free now. Kind of.

But someone’s watching. And they know your kid's name.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, violence, blood/gore aftermath, imprisonment, trauma, emotional distress, power imbalance, mafia themes, handcuffs, mild voyeuristic implication (guards witnessing), handjob (reader receiving), p in a, overstimulation, slight dubcon (stress-induced), light darcyphilia, emotional manipulation, Felix being terrifyingly calm, implied threat to child, enemy gang foreshadowing.

word count: 2.4k [pt 1 here]

You wake up to the sound of your daughter humming.

It’s a tuneless thing, low and content, drifting in from the living room—something she must’ve picked up from cartoons or daycare. Your eyes open slowly. Dry. Your body feels like it was chewed up and spat out by something mean.

Sunlight filters in through the curtains. Too soft. Too normal.

You sit up, and everything aches. There’s dried blood under your nails. Not yours. You should shower. You should move.

But instead, you just sit there. Listening to Nora hum.

Eventually, she calls for you. “Daaaad. I can’t reach the peanut butter!”

You scrape yourself off the bed. Pull on clean clothes that still smell like detergent. Walk barefoot to the kitchen, pretending your legs don’t tremble under you.

She’s standing on her step-stool, arms outstretched like she’s reaching for the moon. Her pyjamas are wrinkled and her curls are everywhere, and when you lift her into your arms, she giggles like everything’s fine.

You make toast and slice bananas. She chatters about some picture she drew at Zia’s yesterday. You nod. Smile where appropriate. Laugh, even.

There’s a stack of folded laundry on the table that you don’t remember folding. Your phone buzzes once.

Felix. You don’t check it.

“You look tired,” Nora says around a mouthful of banana. “Did you fight the monsters last night?”

You freeze.

Just for a second. Long enough for her to blink at you, then giggle again, like she’s only teasing. Like she has no idea what you did with your hands last night. What you let Felix do with his.

“Yeah,” you say finally, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, baby. I fought ‘em all off.”

“Good,” she says, swinging her legs. “Then they won’t come here, right?”

You want to promise her that. You want to lie.

But outside the window, you spot a black car parked across the street. New. Too clean.

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you check it.

Felix: Your next assignment will be cleaner. Less blood, more control. You’ll need to be dressed by 10. I’ll send someone.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Then you delete it. And wipe peanut butter off Nora’s cheek.

✧✧✧

You knew it would get messy. You didn’t think it’d end in cuffs.

The job sounded simple enough. A warehouse, a warning, and rough up a guy who’d been skimming off Felix’s money. You’d done worse things for less reason. This time, though… something went wrong.

Too many people inside. Someone pulled a gun. You saw red, then blood. Then cops.

You were still panting, knuckles split and bruised, when they slammed you onto the hood of a cop car. Felix wasn’t there. He never showed.

The precinct didn’t know who you worked for. Not really. They tossed you in a holding cell like you were nothing more than some cracked-out muscle for hire. You said nothing. Not about Felix. Not about Nora. Not even when they tried to bait it out of you.

Your hands were cuffed behind your back for hours. Your shoulder ached from where someone had clocked you with a bat. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was settling in. You were starting to wonder if maybe this was it.

Then he arrived.

Not with lawyers. Not with bribes.

Felix walked into that goddamn prison in a pair of handcuffs—escorted in like he was just another perp. Like he belonged there.

He didn’t look at you right away. He sat across the cell, calm. Controlled. But when the guards left, when the door clanged shut behind them, his voice was low and furious:

“What the fuck did they do to you?”

✧✧✧

You didn’t speak to him the first day.

He was put in the same cell—whether by coincidence or something far more deliberate, you didn’t know—but he didn’t say a word when the bars shut behind him. Just sat on the opposite bench and looked at the wall. Not at you. Not at your bruised face. Not even when you muttered, “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

On day two, he finally broke the silence.

“Nora’s fine.”

You didn’t answer at first. You weren’t sure you believed him. He looked too calm. Too clean.

“She’s with Claudia,” he added. “One of my best people. She likes her. Drew her a picture of a unicorn yesterday. It’s hanging on the fridge.”

You clenched your jaw and stared at the cracks in the cement floor.

“You could’ve sent someone,” you muttered. “Didn’t have to get yourself locked up.”

Felix didn’t blink. “No one touches what’s mine.”

You weren’t sure if he meant your daughter or you. You weren’t sure which one scared you more.

✧✧✧

By now, you'd memorised the rhythms of the place. The morning announcements. The guards’ footsteps. The shift changes. The guy in Cell 14 who didn’t stop coughing. The way Felix didn’t sleep, just leaned back with his arms folded, eyes half-shut, but always listening.

You were starting to piece it together—how some of the guards looked at him. Not like a prisoner. Like a storm waiting to happen.

“So what’s the plan?” you asked finally, low and quiet. “You gonna break us out with your mind? Or are your guys tunnelling through the sewer system?”

Felix smiled, a soft, humourless curve of his lips.

“I don’t need a sewer. I already own half the staff.”

That wasn’t a metaphor. You believed him.

Still, you asked the one question that had been gnawing at you:

“Why didn’t you come in with your people? Why… this? You walking in here like a goddamn martyr?”

His eyes finally met yours. Sharp. Dark. Unreadable.

“Because I don’t trust anyone else with you.”

✧✧✧

It happened after dinner on the third day.

A guard stopped by your cell with two pairs of handcuffs and a clipboard.

“Cellmate transfer,” he muttered. “You’re being moved together for the night. Orders from above.”

You raised a brow. Felix said nothing, just stood when the cell door slid open.

The guard—bald, tattooed fingers—clicked one cuff onto your wrist, then reached for Felix and snapped the second half onto him. Deliberate. Tight.

Felix didn’t even flinch. But he gave the guy a look— a nod.

The guard slipped you a folded scrap of paper as he left. No one noticed.

You waited until the footsteps faded.

Unfolded the paper. Two words.

Get ready.

✧✧✧

You were moved to a different part of the prison that night. Fewer eyes. More shadows.

Felix hadn’t said much since the cuffs locked the two of you together. Just that slight tug of the wrist every now and then, guiding you down hallways, across the yard, keeping you close without asking. The skin of his wrist brushed yours every few steps. You hated how steady he felt. Like he was used to this.

The paper said “get ready,” but it didn’t say when.

You got your answer after lights-out.

A clatter of metal. A yell.

Then a fist hit your jaw.

You didn’t even see who threw it—some meathead with a busted lip and too many tattoos. He’d been eyeing you since day one. But tonight, he moved like he had permission.

Your body slammed against the wall with the force of the hit, and the only thing keeping you upright was the sharp jerk of the cuff as Felix pulled you back to your feet.

“Mine,” Felix growled. Just one word. Not even loud.

Then his fist met the guy’s face.

Bone cracked.

The next second? All hell broke loose.

The brawl spread like wildfire—fights erupting between inmates, guards shouting, bodies flying. Someone tackled a guard. Alarms started blaring. Felix never let go of your wrist.

“Move,” he said, voice deadly calm, yanking you through the chaos.

You were still dazed—someone else's blood on your face, yours or theirs, you didn’t know—but your legs listened. His grip was firm and unyielding, dragging you through the stampede with surgical precision.

Down one corridor. Around a bend. He knew exactly where to go.

“This way,” he said, ducking into a side door kicked half open. Inside, a guard already lay unconscious, keys still hanging from his belt.

Felix grabbed them without breaking stride.

You blinked. “Wait, he’s not—?”

“One of mine,” he said simply.

Of course he was.

✧✧✧

It wasn’t glamorous. Not some secret hatch in the wall or dramatic rooftop leap. Just a utility tunnel, half-flooded, stinking of rust and mildew. Felix shoved the door open with his shoulder, pulling you through as water sloshed around your ankles.

The cuffs dug into your skin every time you stumbled, and he didn’t stop moving—not until you both reached the end of the tunnel and emerged into open air.

A black car waited.

Engine running.

“Get in,” Felix said, unlocking the cuffs with the stolen key. He caught your wrist as he did, his touch firm but careful. He didn’t say anything about the bruise forming beneath the metal. Just helped you into the backseat like nothing about the past hour had happened.

You didn’t ask who was driving.

You didn’t ask where you were going.

You just sat there, adrenaline flooding your bloodstream, your ears ringing, your hands stained with someone else’s blood. You felt like you were coming apart at the seams.

Felix sat beside you. Close. Too close.

And then his hand slid over your thigh.

“Breathe,” he said.

You did. Barely.

“Good,” he said, voice lower now, sliding into something darker. “Because I need to check something…”

✧✧✧

The car doors shut like a vault locking behind you.

The night was still ringing in your ears—fists slamming into flesh, your own or someone else’s, the way the cuffs had bitten bone-deep, the coppery tang of blood clinging to your teeth.

You didn’t speak. Neither did Felix.

He drove like he wasn’t in a hurry but knew exactly where to go. His hand rested too casually on the wheel, like he hadn’t just broken you out of prison with his bare fists.

The silence stretched. You were still bleeding, somewhere. Or maybe not. Hard to tell anymore.

Then—

“I told you I’d get you out,” he said. Calm. Matter-of-fact. Like none of it was personal. “Didn’t say you’d be okay after.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

He pulled into an alley. Cut the lights. The car’s engine ticked into silence.

And then—his hands. On you. Tugging. Pulling you over the console. Until you were in his lap, straddling his thighs, chest to chest.

Your voice was hoarse. “What the hell are you—”

“You’re not okay,” he murmured, already working open your belt. “I’m going to fix that.”

You could’ve stopped him.

Maybe.

But then his mouth was against your neck, his breath hot and steady, one hand spreading you open like he’d done it before. Like he’d imagined it. Dreamed it. Practised it in his head a hundred times, waiting for this moment.

The first push of him inside you punched the breath out of your lungs.

Not gentle. Not rough. Just inevitable.

You choked on your own voice, grabbed at his jacket like it could anchor you to something real.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, low and wrecked. “Take it. You can take it.”

He kept one hand on your hip, guiding every grind of your body against his, the other hand pressed flat to your back like he didn’t trust you to stay.

You moved with him. Or maybe he moved you.

It was all too much and not enough, and the pain bled into pleasure somewhere along the way. Something in you cracked. Came loose. Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was a survival instinct.

You came first, biting down on his collar to stay quiet.

Felix followed with a grunt, deep and low against your throat, still buried inside you when his grip loosened.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of your breathing.

His hand on your back.

Your blood on his shirt.

And somewhere, far away, the question that would haunt you later:

What the fuck did you just let him do?

✧✧✧

You slept like the dead.

You woke up in silk sheets that weren’t yours, wearing clothes that didn’t belong to you. Your body ached in places that weren’t visible, and your throat was sore from silence. The room was dimly lit, clean, and too quiet. A tray sat on the nightstand with a glass of water and a note.

“She’s safe. Sleep. —F”

You stared at the handwriting for a long time.

You didn’t dream. Not properly. Just flashes—steel bars, Felix’s breath on your skin, blood in your mouth that wasn’t yours. Somewhere in between the cracks of sleep, you remembered what it felt like to let go. To not fight back.

To give in.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or just human.

✧✧✧

The next morning, Felix wasn’t in the apartment.

A man you didn’t recognise was seated outside the bedroom door. Not armed. Not hostile. Just… present. He nodded when you walked past him. Said nothing. You got the feeling that if you had asked for a ride to hell, he’d have already started the car.

You found Felix in a high-rise kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cutting fruit. Like it was a normal Tuesday. Like he hadn’t killed a man in front of you two nights ago. Like he hadn’t had his hand inside you in the backseat of a bulletproof car.

“Sit,” he said, not looking up. “You need food.”

Your stomach churned at the thought, but you obeyed.

He set a plate down in front of you. You didn't touch it.

You did speak, though. “Why are we still here? Shouldn’t we be with Nora?”

Felix paused. Knife mid-air.

“She’s in a safehouse. Out of reach. You showing up covered in blood wouldn’t exactly be soothing.”

You stared at him. “You think this is soothing?”

His jaw tightened—but he didn’t argue. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and slid it across the table.

You hesitated. Then opened it.

There was a photo attached.

A man. Late thirties. Scars down the side of his neck.

The name below the photo made something in your gut clench.

“You’ve heard of him?” Felix asked.

You nodded slowly. “He used to run guns out of Naples. Thought he was dead.”

“He’s not. And he’s been asking about you.”

You looked up. “Why?”

Felix finally met your eyes.

“Because he knows about Nora.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

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