#LIGHT THE WAY WITH A FLEETING SPARK

[lightthepathwithalantern]

someone killed mage

......what...?

.......

Y-you're joking.... you're joking, he's not dead!! He's my brother, I know him too well, he would never let himself die!!

This is some sort of sick prank isn't it!?

........

....Bob... Bob will know where he is... I'm going to Bob.....

*They walk away*

[sourvers]

GHOST WHO runs his calloused fingers through the fabrics of the clothes you folded for him: now gingerly placed in his duffle bag for another month of service. Neat and compact just the way he liked it.

GHOST WHO has to push the delectable taste of your cooking another plate away as his taste buds prepare for stale food kept in plastic bags, despite the ache festering in his stomach.

GHOST WHO always drops you off to work the day or two before he leaves: admiring the radiance of your face amongst street lights and the upward curve of your smile like the delicate bend of a crescent moon. He'll squeeze your hand before you slip through his fingers, not before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, not before the wind whirls and spins; taking him away.

GHOST WHOSE tongue festers bitterness because he knows you're assistant and students will smile and laugh at your jokes and come to you for support because of your tenderness to the world: to which he has learned was your highest virtue, a weapon of undoing to his bruised soul. He'll clench his fist and furrow his eyebrows because he knows the cafe's barista will ask you more 'How are you?' than himself, he knows the youth living down the road will banter with you more as you share a cake you can't finish on your own, he knows the woman walking her dog every Saturday will acknowledge you more than he has in a month. He knows he won't be part of the small moments scattered about your life. He knows it damn well.

GHOST WHO seldom mentions you around anyone, even t141. Initially, it was all about your security: to keep the spark in your eyes aflame, it always is of course. However, amongst the dim lights of a bar, the rest drunk on the fleeting rush of victory and memoria, he'll make sure to silence the thrashing beat of his heart and the desperate desire crawling up his throat to join in on the drunken yearning and say: "I miss my wife."

GHOST WHO returns home to either your waking body or sleeping flesh. The cycle repeats anew.

cod masterlist. / similar posts

⤷ omg! first post of the blog. got a little angst out here... hope you enjoyed it. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

[dmitriene]

cw: age gap (legal but not specified), mentions of readers virginity, just two people in love.

simon ghost riley doesn't think he's ugly outside, but he does think he is inside, too rotting comparing to you, so much more sweeter when you flutter your eyelashes at him and brush your fingers against his biceps in fleeting touches, trying so sweetly to gain the attention he doesn't let himself give you.

you're younger, it's visible in the lines on your face and cheerful smiles you flash him, in polite behavior that you keep up when you talk with elders, not yet on the same line of age with them, in how you call him sir and make his whole body shudder as it slips from your plump lips, and it's shouldn't make his cock chub up.

simon knows you're not a baby, you're a capable young woman, and even his friends date girls looking like you, but he feels like his hand are too dirty, bloodstained and calloused from the years of military service, his face is rugged and he can't even keep his stubble shaved properly, a mess of a man.

but you gaze at him with heart shaped pupils and trail around him like affectionate kitten, rubbing yourself all over him for at least one bit of attention, and the way you erupt in giddy smiles and sincere giggles when he garners you these bits.

pats at your head or accepts some baked treats you made, and there's something acidic behind his ribs, little sparks that instead of smoking erupts in licking flames, burning scorching hot across his whole body, and he's so addicted it's embarrassing to voice out, forbidden fruit is always sweet.

you were throwing yourself willingly at simon, and when he accepts your shy invitation to keep you an evening company in some town pub, where you sit under dim light on plush leather couch, body adorned with tight fitting dress that is too revealing for your usual attires, simon let's himself snap.

he knows it's all for him, the fabric ridding up all the way your plush thighs, pressed together when you squirm and tug it down, just so you won't sit with you ass bare on the leather, simon fists his hands until they whiten on his thighs as he tugs at his jeans, suddenly too tight.

all for him, the way you lean against the table, as if to hear him better, teasing your teeth at the plump flesh of your lips, warm breath mingling with his, smoky, made to make you push away, but your eyes grow heavy, swallowed dark by dilating pupils, and simon is fucked up badly.

he barely makes it to the front door of his apartment, you're feisty, nipping little teeth's at his stubbled jaw, rubbing sloppy kisses against his skin that grows hot and itchy from want, from the feeling of your body pressed against his tightly, legs wrapped around his hips, for him, all for him, his.

your body is soft, welcoming his touch with small goosebumps and small shudders, supple under his fingers that he traces too carefully across your curves, shedding every piece of clothing off you, like a kid with christmas present, hands trembling when he tugs your panties to find them sodden.

you're wet, wanting, squirming on the cold sheets that soothe your burning flesh as you spread your thighs to trail your hand down beneath your navel, simon feels like a virgin, breath hitching loudly when you spread your glistening folds with obscene squelch, chanting that it's all his fault.

for neglecting your affection, making you fuck your pussy on your own fingers every night, dreaming of being stretched around his cock, of granting simon your virginity, your flesh and bones, everything he'll please, you'll give him, just as you show him your dripping hole that clenches in need.

simon is a fool for making you wait so long, for depraving himself from you, because you feel heavenly, thin skin stretching around his fat, veiny girth, dribbling precum that mixes with your cloying slick, easing the glide, letting him stuff you, inch by inch, plugged with fat cock that throbs inside.

you clench with each drag, with each shallow thrust simon gives you because he can't make it faster, not because you'll be hurt, but because he shudders at the feel of your gummy walls latching around his meaty shaft, because he wants to enjoy every second of this encounter.

to hear your punched mewls, to watch the way you knead at the sheets below you like a docile kitten, meeting his languid movements with careful rolls of your hips, chest to chest with him, his breath burning against your ear as he showers you with sloppy kisses.

you're sopping wet between your legs, supple flesh coated with saccharine slick, splayed on his bed with simon's scent so heady around you, with his tongue toying with yours, his palms pawing at your hips and tugging, making you bounce towards his pounding hips, rumbling when it makes you arch.

simon loses himself in you, he listens to your pitched, garbled chants of want to be filled up with his seed, and he grits his teeth until veins pop on his jaw, increasing his movements to jab his tip against your sweet spot, make your walls clutch and pulse rapidly with bubbling magma in your belly.

you purr in delight when he fills you, coating your velvety walls with spurts of warm, thick cum, leaking past your clenching muscles, with simon's cock drived impossibly deep, enough to feel full despite how it dribbles down in creamy mess to stain the sheets.

pleased enough to let your body drift into drowsy state, sated to the point of your eyes slipping shut from minute to minute, enough time for simon to ease himself from you and go fetch a warm cloth to clean you both, just a bit to be comfortable while curled in each other during night.

simon ain't sure to which point this sex had drove you both, but he doesn't want to push you away, he enjoys the feeling of your naked body pressed against his, cradled against his brawny chest, soft breath tickling his skin and your eyelashes quivering in peaceful slumber, and he wants to remain there.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[fear-is-truth]

THE GREEN EYED MONSTER — bruce wayne

MDNI ┆warnings: smut. jealous bruce

BRUCE WAYNE didn’t think of himself as a jealous man. jealousy was irrational, unproductive—a crack in control, and control was the very foundation of who he was.

“h-aah—bruce,” you arched beneath him, hands scrambled for purchase, one curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck while the other clutched at his shoulder. his thoughts churned even as his body stayed attuned to yours. “bruce,” you whimpered again, half a plea, half surrender.

bruce’s mind stuttered, unbidden thoughts clawing their way back. that investor at the gala—what was his last name? langley? no, it was something else. didn’t matter. bruce could recall the man’s face with infuriating clarity.

but what burned brightest was the handshake: his hand lingering in yours just a beat too long, bordering on intimate. the subtle breach of etiquette set bruce on edge. then the man leaned in, voice dipping low as he murmured something meant only for you, the words drowned out by the clinking of champagne glasses and soft murmur of the crowd. your laugh had followed—light, polite, the same one you’d offered to so many others that evening. you’d likely forgotten the exchange entirely. just you being you—sweet, approachable. but the rasp of the man’s smoker’s laugh lingered in bruce’s memory, coarse and unwelcome, grating against his nerves like sandpaper.

muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. the next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy, and it stole a sharp gasp from your lips. you arched against him, body yielding with desperate eagerness that sent a shiver of triumph through him.

“nnngh–hah-”

could he make you sound like this? bruce wondered, his jaw tightening as his mind darkened. could he make you dig your nails into his back like this, leave those fleeting little crescent-shaped reminders?

his pace slowed, the haze of primal lust lifting as rationality began to reclaim its hold. his forehead pressed against yours, eyes shutting briefly before reopening. bruce tilted his head slightly, seeking your gaze. your pupils were blown wide, kiss-bitten lips swollen and parted, breasts heaving with every laboured breath. you didn’t seem to mind the newfound edge in him; if anything, it appeared that you enjoyed it.

could he make you shiver like this? could he have you matching his every thrust, cumming so many times but still craving more, your body pliant yet demanding?

“f-fuck,” he ground out, his sweat-damp forehead falling against your shoulder as he drove himself closer, deeper. until bursts of white danced at the edges of your vision, every nerve-end alight.

could he-

drunkenly, you reached for him, fingers weaving into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging just enough to coax a guttural groan from his throat. that simple action unraveled his jealousy, scattering it like ash on the wind. his mind snapped the answer into place with startling finality.

no, bruce decided. he couldn’t.

your head tilted back to fall on the pillow as he dipped his head, warm lips found the edge of your jaw, trailing up as he sought the delicate curve of your ear. you felt his teeth grazed your earlobe—a soft, teasing nibble. a sound escaped you, high and needy, and it must’ve sparked something in bruce because another thrust that made your toes curl in welcome to the glorious stretch of his cock.

eyelids fluttering open, you glanced up at bruce, the faint glow of the room casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. his brows furrowed in concentration, hair curling damply against his temple, and above you, he looked godly—untouchable, yet entirely yours. you barely had time to drink in the sight of your lover before he tilted your chin toward him, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that stole your breath and any lingering coherent thought. there was a brief clash of teeth before it softened into the warm yet insistent press of his lips, the demanding slide of his tongue as though he had something to prove—not to you, but to himself.

he reared back before snapping his hips forward again, earning another stretched moan from your lips as you felt him nudge against your cervix. once more, his name slipped from your mouth in the form of a broken whine when he broke the kiss, dark gaze smouldering as he studied your face—drinking in every detail like a man starved, and the corner of his mouth twitched with a satisfied smirk.

you clenched around him, felt that pulsating warmth through the thin veil of slick and sweat. it wouldn’t take long for you to fall apart once again, not with the multiple orgasms he had bestowed upon you earlier and the frantic pace he was moving now. bruce drove into you one last time with a strained grunt, sheathing himself to the hilt.

you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment your climax began or where his met yours—all you knew was the overwhelming surge that overtook you both, cresting like a tidal wave. your vision blurred, edges dissolving into brilliant white, and a broken cry slipped from your lips as your body trembled uncontrollably. your fingers clenched, digging into his shoulders, while your muscles turned molten, leaving you boneless and weightless, as if you were melting into him. the low, guttural sound he let out against your neck sent another shiver through you, tethering you to the shared euphoria that left nothing untouched.

the vice-like grip on your hips slackened, and you could feel his cock continuing to twitch and spasm as he thrust lazily inside you, grinding his cum as deep as it could go.

he should’ve felt satisfied, but instead, there was something else—a knot still twisting low in his chest. his jealousy had burned out, but in its place was something else, that made his heart ache.

“did i hurt you?”

“no. you were…” you paused, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his forearm. “perfect.”

a faint exhale left him, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. bruce pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually did.

could anyone else make you look like that?

he didn’t have to ask himself. he already knew the answer.

[peachiejeongin]

Mind-Numbing Melody | Bang Chan

Synopsis: Chan has been unmotivated lately when it comes to producing; however, he comes across a melodic idea that he just cannot resist. He just needs your help to fulfill it.

Pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader

Genre: Smut, Slight Fluff

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (18+ Recommended), dom!Bang Chan, sub!reader, pet names (pretty girl, darling, good girl, etc.), biting, marking, fingering, slight edging, teasing, begging, unprotective penetrative sex (please use protection), Chan uses reader's moans in a song

Notice: Hello, my darlings! I know it has been weeks since the release of SKZHOP, but Railway has been driving me absolutely bonkers, so enjoy this fiction I wrote when I discovered you could hear Chan moaning in the background of the song :,D

Divider By: @anitalenia

Smut under the cut!

The studio was steeped in a familiar glow, its dim lighting wrapping around stacks of forgotten notes, tangled cords, and empty coffee cups that lined the console like weary sentinels. Chan hunched over the keyboard, fingers tapping an irregular, impatient rhythm. It had been days, weeks even, of this same cycle—blank stares at a blank screen, fleeting sparks of inspiration that fizzled out as quickly as they arrived.

The room smelled faintly of espresso and something sharper, a sort of musk as if Chan's frustration was materializing into a smell. The scent was Chan's constant companion these days, a reminder that no matter how hard he pushed, the music would remain just out of reach.

You watched him from the warm leather couch in the corner, your legs curled beneath you as your phone rested forgotten on your lap. He was quiet, but not in the comforting way he usually was. This silence was heavy, nearly oppressive.

"You're going to burn a hole into that screen," you finally said, your voice teasing but soft, careful not to break him entirely out of whatever fragile trance he was in.

Chan glanced over his shoulder at you, a faint, tired smile curving his lips upwards in a manner that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Maybe I can burn some inspiration into it," he murmured, turning back to the keyboard. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that let you know how sore it was from hours of tensing.

He absentmindedly clicked through the tabs open on his browser, hoping something would reignite his motivation. A playlist was open on his monitor, softly blaring tracks from artists he admired; most of them were songs that sparked awe and envy in an equal measure. But it was the headline of an article on trends in modern music that caught his eyes, words he had previously skimmed earlier in the day: "Personal Touch: The Rise of Intimacy in Music Production."

He had not thought much of it at the time, dismissing it as another gimmick. Now, in the late-night haze of desperation and coffee-stained reality, the concept felt like a thread to cling to. The idea of creating something raw, something undeniably intimate, grew in his mind. When he looked at you, lounging on that couch as if you were a calm in the storm, an idea began to crystalize.

You caught his gaze, brows furrowing slightly in concern as you noticed the shift in his expression—an intense focus, almost predatory, like he had just discovered something precious.

"What?" you asked, nerves and curiosity blending in your tone.

Chan stood slowly, the chair rolling back with a low creak. When he crossed the room, every step deliberate, your heart began to beat just a bit faster. He dropped to one knee in front of you, the studio's ambient light casting shadows against the defined angles of his jawline. His fingers found your thighs, resting there lightly at first, then gripping just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"I need your help," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through you.

"With what, my love?" You tilted your head, trying to read the intent behind his lustful, dark eyes.

"There's this idea I have," he began, thumb absently stroking the fabric of your sweatpants. "I read this article—something about artists using intimate sounds from their partners in songs. Breaths, moans, everything. I can't stop thinking about how you would sound in one of my songs." His gaze dropped to where his fingers rested against your thighs, almost reverent in a way.

"Your voice, the way you sound when it's just us...I think it could be the spark I'm missing."

Your breath caught in your throat. The idea was audacious, bordering on the verge of scandalous, yet it held an allure you could not deny. You imagined it— your moans hidden between beats and chords only you could notice.

"You're serious?" you questioned, voice barely reaching above a whisper. Chan nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a certain vulnerability that made your heart clench.

"I've been so stuck, but the thought of creating something with you that's so raw and real...it just feels right."

You swallowed, the weight of his request pressing down on you in the best possible way. The trust, the intimacy—it was more than you had ever imagined sharing with Chan, moreso the audience that would be tuning into the song.

"Okay," you agreed softly, the word containing every ounce of trust and anticipation you felt.

Chan's lips curved into a slow, sincere smile, and he leaned foreward to press a kiss against your forehead. It was warm, lingering, a promise as much as it was a kiss.

"You have no idea how much this means to me," he mumbled as he pulled away.

Before you could reply, he captured your lips with his, a kiss that was at first gentle, exploratory; it then deepened into something that made the studio air feel heavy, electric. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you melted into him, a symphony in the making.

This kiss grew hungrier, if that was possible, your hands tangling roughly into Chan's hair as he remained steady on your thighs. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, and the soft gasp it elicited made him groan against your mouth.

"Just like that, pretty girl," he whispered, his voice hoarse as his lips brushed against yours.

Chan pulled away from you briefly, striding to his computer and clicking open an audio-recording tab; the faint glow of the monitor casted a faint shadow on the walls. You repositioned yourself as he opened the taper, falling back onto the cushions; he made his way back over to you, climbing over top of you on the couch, his hands tracing an agonizingly slow path up your sides.

Every movement and every touch was unhurried, deliberate as though he was tuning you, finding the exact pitch that made you hum beneath his touch. His fingers danced over your skin, like he was learning the contours of an instrument. The press of his lips ignited sparks at every point of contact.

"Channie," you whispered as you intertwined one of his warm hands with yours; he stroked your cheek gently, smiling ever so lovingly at you.

"Relax for me," he purred before nipping his teeth at your neck ever so slightly. The motion caused you to shiver, your breath hitching in your throat as his lips travel from your neck slowly to your chest. There, he sucked small markings into your skin until purple and red adorned your chest. Welts became present due to his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before Chan moved to fiddle with the hem of your top.

"Are you alright with taking this further?" Chan questioned, assuring that he had your full consent before going farther.

"Yes," you breathed out, the words nearly getting stuck in your throat; your gaze flickers to the computer screen, watching as the speakers picked up each noise, the audio receptor's lines expanding with each recipient.

With your approval, Chan stripped you of your top, agonizingly slow albeit, his fingers moving their way to the clasp of your bra. He managed to undo the latch in one, swift motion, and before giving you time to think, his lips wrapped around your nipple.

You moaned as the warmth from his mouth and the wetness of his tongue sucked, kissed, and bit at your nipple, his tongue gliding over the sensitive region. His hands caressed your hips slowly before the right one moved up to attend to the neglected breast; his fingers rolled the bud, pinching, flicking and eliciting beautiful sounds from you.

"Don't hold back" Chan breathed out. "I want to hear everything."

At this point, your body was burning, both from Chan's actions and from the awareness that this was all going to be on tape; you felt a coating of arousal pool up at your core, causing you to rub your clothed thighs together in attempts to gain some sort of friction. Chan noticed the action almost instantly, grinding his hips slightly into yours; you sighed almost out of relief as you felt his own arousal poking through the black fabric of his loose shorts.

Chan lifts off of you, his hands reaching for the bottom of his hoodie; however, you stopped him, your hands mirroring his actions. You wanted to strip him, wanted to be the one to revel in revealing his perfection. Chan sighed out of contenment as you lifted the sweatshirt over his head, messing up his hair in the process and discarding the article somewhere on the studio floor.

Ridding the hoodie revealed a toned torso, with glimmering, slightly-tanned abs sparkling in the glow of the studio. You instinctually moved your hands to lay upon his chest, just as you had done so many times before, sliding your palms down his body smoothly and causing him to shiver. He positioned his body back above you, leaning over your smaller frame.

"Let me take care of you, Love," he lightly growled out as he moved his hands down to hook under the waistband of your pants, flicking his gaze to meet yours for approval. You nodded repeatedly, causing Chan to giggle as he slid your pants and underwear down, throwing the clothing alongside his hoodie.

He relished at your arousal, his eyes looking blown out before any sexual act had been committed.

"Look at you, Darling," he whispered, sliding a fingers through your wetness and causing you to whine. "Always so pretty for me."

Before you could comprehend his words, your mind increasingly numbing at his actions, Chan inserted his pointer fingers, pumping the digit in and out of you slowly. The contact elicited a string of hearty, genuine moans from you; admittedly, you were louder than you usually were during sex. You were not sure if it was because of the arousal of being recorded or if you just felt particularly frustrated that day.

Whatever it was, the sounds escaping you were particularly tumultuous, and Chan thought the octave was perfect for what he wanted to accomplish.

Chan inserted his middle finger minutes after his first digit, his pace quickening along with the speed of your whines. He maneuvered his hands, reaching to where his thumb could brush against your clit and allowing you to feel as if you were on cloud nine. You repeatedly clenched around him, feeling your orgasm creeping up on you slowly but surely; however, Chan removed his fingers before you could reach the finish line, which earned a loud, aggravated whine from you.

"Channie!" you groaned, your pussy clenching around nothing as you bucked your hips up instinctively, attempting to receive any type of contact, even the slightest motion, that would bring you to your end.

"Why?"

"Adds an element of fun," Chan responded, his lips quirked into a smug smirk, "both to the music and to our little moments."

"I can't wait anymore, Chan," you whimpered out in response, making your boyfriend tsk at you appraisingly before he slid off his own bottoms.

He quickly lined his cock up with your entrance, rubbing through your folds teasingly; he complimented the prior action poking at the hole.

"Are you ready, Darling?" he questioned.

"Yes!" you yelped out, positioning your legs to wrap around Chan's torso.

"Beg for it, then," he commanded, causing your eyes to widen and your cheeks to flush from embarassment.

"This wasn't apart of the plan," you quietly mewled as Chan halted his teasing motions.

"Mm, maybe not, but I know what gets a reaction out of you," Chan admitted leaning down to whisper in your ear, his hot breath fanning your ears. "I gotta make sure this melody encapsulates as much of your perfection as possible. So, baby girl, if you want the same thing, I suggest you get to begging."

You let out an annoyed huff, your lips pursing into a sheepish pout as you reluctantly did as demanded of you.

"Please, Channie," you pleaded, your arms gripping his shoulders. "I need you so bad please. Please, please, please, baby." Chan chuckled lightly at your beseeching as he placed his hands on either side of your face.

"Good girl," he praised gently.

With that, he gently pushed himself inside of you. You both gasped at the feeling; Chan's length filled you completely, causing you to tingle with excitement as the familiar stretch swiftly morphed from pain into pleasure.

You gave Chan the go-ahead to move, and he held your hips tightly as he thrusted in and out of you; his lips parted, making their way to kiss and nip at your skin, the tips of his canines lightly poking you.

"You always feel so amazing, my love," he moaned out; you simply sighed in pleasure, clenching yourself around him as you melted into his stature. Rushes of pleasure shot throughout your body as Chan tighlty gripped onto your hips, his nails causing indents in your flesh.

The knot tightening in your stomach returns throughout Chan's thrusts, and you are unable to comprehend the sudden change in his demeanor from gentle to hazy. All you know is that it feels good and that you are losing yourself within his darkened gaze.

"Chan, oh my," you moan out, your voice high pitched and hoarse.

"You like that, Darling?" Chan questions as your noises pick up in pace. "Keep moaning for me. You're doing so well."

"'M close," you whimper out, holding onto Chan for dear life. Chan mandhandles your body upwards, still holding onto you in the new positions and burying his head in the crook of your neck.

"Cum for me then, Love," he commands; as soon as he gives the approval , your orgasm hits. Your brain becomes like mush, and your eyes flutter shut as the pleasure rocks through you.

You feel Chan halt in his movements and he slowly pulls out of you, allowing himself to finish on your stomach before laying beside you.

"Still with me?" he questions, pulling you into his arms.

"Mhm," you mumble, just barely able to hear his words. You feel tired all of a sudden, tangling your hands in Chan's hair, albeit much lighter this time.

"You did so good, Baby," Chan praised, holding you tightly against him. "Wait until you hear how beautiful you sound."

A week had passed since that night in the studio. You had not been allowed to hear the song yet, as Chan insisted it was, "not ready." His process was meticulous, almost obsessive, and though your curiosity burned, you let him do his thing.

Now, you were back in the studio, perched on the same couch where it had all happened. Chan stood by the mixing console, his headphones draped around his neck, a spark of nervous energy buzzing in his movements.

“It’s done,” he said, running a tired hand through his hair.

You shifted in your seat, heart thudding with anticipation.

“You’re making it sound like I should be scared,” you teased, though the slight tremble in your words told him part of you was nervous.

He shot you a lopsided grin, approaching you and sitting beside you on the couch. Strangely, there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“You don’t have to listen if you’re not ready," he explained, his tone laced with a sense of reluctance. "It’s...intimate.” The way his voice dipped sensually on the last word made your pulse quicken and you instantly shook your head.

“No, I want to hear it,” you declined his offer, your words uttered softly. "Play it, please."

He nodded, a faint smile present as he slid his headphones over your ears and pressed play on the monitor. The room went silent, save for the faint hum of the equipment. As the first notes filled your ears, everything else slowly faded away.

The song started softly; it was a deep, pulsing rhythm that felt like a heartbeat, layered with delicate chords that swept over you like a whisper. Then, beneath the music, you heard it.

You.

It was a faint gasp, so quiet it almost blended into the background vocals, followed by the softest of moans mixed into the melody. The sounds sent a rush of heat to your cheeks as your mind flashed back to that night, to Chan’s hands, his lips, and the way he had coaxed those very sounds from you.

Your breath caught as the track built, the sensual undertones unmistakable. Every layer of the song felt personal, your breaths and your voice intertwined with the raw intensity of Chan's production. It was not overtly explicit, but the sensuality was undeniable, a secret language only the two of you could speak woven into the music.

When the track ended, you pulled the headphones off and stared at him, your mouth slightly agape.

“Chan...” You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or throw the headphones at him. “That’s me.”

His lips twitched into a smirk, though his eyes searched yours for any sign of disapproval.

“It’s us,” he corrected. “I wanted it to feel sincere, like it replicated us to a tee.”

Your cheeks burned, contrasting the thrill that coursed through your veins. Chan scooted closer, leaning in front of you so his face was mere inches away from yours.

“You’re my muse,” he told you simply. “Every sound, every breath—it’s you. You inspire me.”

You shook your head, laughing softly.

“If people hear this-”

“They won’t know it’s you, if they even notice it's there,” he reassured, his voice gentle. “It’s subtle. Just for us.”

Your lips parted, still processing, but before you could say anything else, he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin.

"You don't hate it, do you?"

“Hate it?” you echoed, shaking your head on denial. “I could never hate anything you create. The song is absolutely beautiful. It’s just...”

“Just?”

“...Really hot,” you admitted, biting your lip.

A deep laugh rumbled from his chest, and he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because it’s the most personal thing I’ve ever made, and I want it to be for you as much as it is for me or for the fans.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Well,” you began, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “if you ever need more inspiration..” Your voice trailed off as your fiddled with the chain of his necklace, your forehead still pressed gently against his. Chan grinned, his fingers tightening on your waist.

“Don’t tempt me, y/n.”

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght, @amararosesblog (If you would like to be added to the taglist, please let me know!)

[i-starcreamed]

Can I request how Megs would feel if he fought his beloved, reader needs to beat some sense to him and help him from being blinded with hatred. (Tf one plz) Also I want a good ending cuz I'm still sad about the movie. And if it isn't obvious cybertronian reader.

MEGATRON X READER

Obviously Tf One spoilers! God this was so fun to write, I just hope I got their personalities right. I haven't written anything this long in a while !! Also I never knew I'd be so much of a Megatron enjoyer until this movie...yeah, it took me this long.

[ cybertronian! reader Angst and eventually fluff, could be pretty rushed tbh but I just want him to healll. Very NOT canon to the movie

You knew it wasn’t your D-16 the moment his optics changed. Or maybe it was the way he distanced himself from you and your friends in a matter of hours--maybe minutes. It was a subconscious, subtle shift, but one you wished you could have talked him out of.

You suppose you saw the changed D-16 once you made it to the hideout of the High Guard fliers. Your once-kind, responsible lover was gripping Starscream by the neck, his hold tightening with every word from the flier beneath him.

You glanced at Orion, Elita, and Bee, all frozen in horror. You panicked and you stepped forward, placing your servo on his shoulder. Before you could continue, he whirled around, optics burning with a cold, harsh light—practically glaring at you.

“Y/N…“

“D, what the hell are you doing?!” You demanded, your voice steady despite his glare. “This isn’t like you, this isn’t the way, come on.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, his optics locked onto Starscream again. He was seething, the flier grinning through the pain wasn't helping your case either.

“Come on, do it! Do it, don’t be a c-coward!” Starscream sputtered through glitching vocal processors, even as D-16’s servo squeezed harder, threatening to crush the life from him.

D-16 narrowed his optics, “I’m not a coward!” He roared as Starscream’s cackling turned into garbled screeches

You attempted to push him away, roughly shoving him by the shoulder. “D, stop it!” He shoved you back. The sudden force sent you stumbling, and when you steadied yourself, you found yourself staring down the barrel of his arm cannon. His orange optics were locked on you, but for a fleeting moment, they softened. It was like he didn't recognize you, but then he hesitated.

“Stay out of my way, from now on.” He said lowly, as if his words pained him. “Please.”

His hesitation vanished as the cannon swung back toward Starscream. You stood there, stunned, until Orion and Elita rushed over to pull you up. Then you just stood and did nothing.

You watched in horror as D-16 continued to declare himself as someone they should follow to victory. Oh, you knew how much he wanted Sentinel dead now. Hell, you did too. But you weren’t sure if this was the right way. You weren’t a bad bot. Neither was D-16, he never was. You had to do something...before things got bad.

You recalled the moment just before he…snapped.

___

“Y/N, don’t you see? He’s been lying this whole time.” “Yes, D. I see, I know. But—“ “I want him dead. I just-I need..I need to see him suffer. Look what he did. To you. To me. To us. We could have been..so much more.” He placed his servo over your spark, right above where your transformation cog was. He used to dream of you two racing together, having fun. Hell, flying even. Back then he didn’t know what he would transform into. “We can still be more, D. We have a bigger purpose now, we were given the ability to transform by a prime himself. We just need to..show everyone the truth. And we will. Then we can—“ “It’s not enough.” He blurted out, pulling you closer as if it was the last time he’d hold you. “You deserve so much better. I promise you, Y/N. I promise you he will pay.”

___

Things only got worse from there. You reached your breaking point when you saw D-16—no, Megatron—vanish Orion himself. You couldn’t believe it. They were like brothers. And now, your beloved had become something else entirely. And yet, you still felt helpless.

You rushed over, avoiding and pushing the other bots as you made your way to where D-16 stood. They all cheered him on as he was trying to lift Sentinel into the air. He was going to kill him. He really was.

“D, stop it! Look what you’ve done!” You shouted, stomping your way forward, frustration boiling inside. You slammed your shaking fist into his shoulder. Primus, you were pissed at him right now.

“Please, please! Tell me what the hell you’re doing. This wasn’t a part of the plan.” You pleaded with him, hoping you’d somehow get him to react. Instead, he inched closer, the same stance you’d expect of someone challenging you. “No, you’re wrong. This was the plan. It was what had to be done. How can I get you to see that.” He visibly calmed for a moment, reaching out a servo to brush against the side of your faceplate. Despite everything, it’s still him. And he loved you.

You hesitated, then stepped back. Oh, how it pained you. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand your goal.” You said, barely above a whisper. Time seemed to freeze, and he slowly lowered his arm. In an instant, you watched his gaze darken.

“Then you’re just in my way.”

__

Your hopes were revived as Orion, now as Optimus Prime, came back, the matrix of leadership implanted into his chest. Optimus had saved the life of Sentinel (perhaps a little undeserved), knowing there was another way to deal with this. But now he has to save..practically all of Iacon. Maybe just maybe, between the two of you, you can stop Megatron.

The fight between the two friends wasn’t solving anything, you only feared they’d end up killing each other. You got rid of your fear, inserting yourself in the fight just as they managed to gain some distance from eachother. He grunted as you shoved him harder this time, his footing a bit unsteady from his existing injuries.

“What are yo—“

“I told you, stop. This,” you punctuated every word with a shove. “Is. Madness!” You panted, glaring up at your lover. “Come back to me, D. This isn’t the real you. I know it isn’t.” You pleaded, he responded with an irritated grunt.

“I, am Megatron. Not D-16, I am not that bot anymore. Y/N, stand down-“

“No! You stand down! You’re acting foolishly right now! I won't just stand here and watch you destroy yourself and--” You yelled, going straight for him to push him again, but he stopped you with a raise of his cannon. You froze in your tracks.

"Back down, Y/N." He said with a growl. You narrowed your optics, leaning your frame right up against the barrel, hearing a light clink.. The glow illuminated your armor. For a second, you saw his optics widen. He paused, licking his teeth. "I don't want to fight you. But I-"

"But you will if you have to, right? That's what you were going to say? Do it then," Your voice cracked, "I have nothing left to lose."

He huffed, so be it. He lunged towards you, and you raised your arms, blocking the strike. You opened up to move his blaster out of the way, leaving your side open to his incoming fist. It collided with your side, sparks flying from the contact. You grunted, stumbling back. When he came at you again, you caught his arm, pulling him close until you were face to face.

"We're both being foolish right now, are you happy yet? You panted, he grits his teeth.

"Quit saying that!" He growled, shoving you away. He shot his cannon, the blast flying past your side. You slid to avoid it, earning another blast from him. He fired his cannon, but the shot missed. He was aiming wide on purpose. You blinked, you knew his aim wasn't that bad...primus, he really was missing on purpose. If you weren't fighting right now, you'd swoon.

"Are you missing on purpose?" You asked incredulously.

"No! I.. yes..no! Listen to me, Y/N. We can end this now, if you let me do this one thing."

"You've already done enough. D..."

"Don't call me that."

He lunged again, but this time, you sidestepped, charging into him and sending him crashing to the ground, the side of his face hit the ground. You managed to pin him momentarily, struggling to keep him from standing.

"This isn't what you want. Trust me.." You paused. "Megs. Please."

He tensed beneath you, then slightly loosened as you called him 'Megs.'

"This is revenge, it won't help you feel any better. Not long-term. You'll only continue hating and hating, I can't bear to lose you like this. It's...it's tearing us apart." You shuddered, loosening your grip.

Eventually, you felt his breathing slow to a decent pace, slowly, you climbed off him, kneeling beside him. He sighed. "I..I don't know how to stop." He quietly said. You leaned forward, placing a servo against his jaw. "I can help you. I will help you. Megs, you have me with you. You have..Optimus with you. We're all with you."

You both knelt silently for a moment, gathering each other's thoughts. Finally, he had the courage to look up at you. You might never see those big yellow optics of his again, but at least now they weren't so cold. They held some type of sincerity. "I'm..so sorry." He breathed out.

You almost sighed in relief. "You're still angry, and that's okay, alright? Now it's my turn to promise you, we'll deal with this differently. It won't feel fair at first, but it's the right thing to do. Stand up." You gently said, extending your servo out to him. He slowly took your servo, his grip as gentle, almost afraid of breaking you. Primus, how he regrets hurting you. You can see it written all over his face. He was blinded by rage, he was indeed acting foolish. His optics briefly flicked to Sentinel, still on the ground and honestly, grateful to still be in one single piece. He turned away before the anger could return.

"I didn't want to hurt you," He whispered.

You softly scoffed, gently nudging him. This time, without any defensive intent. "You controlled yourself better than I did. I wanted to beat your aft, D-- Megs." You joked, earning a small, bittersweet smile.

You took your servos in his, softly smiling at him. You turned to Optimus, who was just as relieved as you were. "Optimus, do you think Megs and I can help rebuild Iacon? The way it's supposed to be?"

Optimus smiled gently, looking proud. "Of course you can. We all can." He looked at Megatron, his gaze firm but kind. "I am glad to have you back, friend."

Megatron nodded, still tense but..accepting. One day, they'll be as brothers again. You just know it. "As am I." He said, turning to you. His gaze softened. "Y/N...I love you."

"I love you as well, Megs."

[jezebelblues]

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 | 𝐇.𝐒 ₊˚⊹ᰔ

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢�� 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭—𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

loosely based off this request.

𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞�� 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐢𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ fingering, slight exhibitionism, jealousrry, alcohol usage, fratrry, fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 3.4k

masterlist

YN tasted like cherries.

A cherry vodka sour, sweet with a hint of something sharper underneath—a taste that lingered, his very own narcotic, drawing him in sip by sip like a whispered invitation. The scent clung to her, rolling from her lips in quiet, careless breaths that brushed his cheek whenever she leaned too close. By the end of the night, he was close enough to catch the faintest trace of cherry chapstick, a soft tease of sweetness he was certain she left there just for him.

She stood in the neon glow at the edge of the room, light bleeding over her skin, casting her in shades that looked as alive as they did unreal. The dim purple and blue fractured over her collarbone, slipped across her cheekbones, hiding as much as it revealed. He watched her, and she knew it. Her gaze drifted past him, lingering just long enough for him to wonder if she'd felt his stare prickling across her skin. And when she smiled, he swore there was something in it meant just for him—a fleeting thing, a glimmer of knowledge that she understood exactly what she was doing to him.

Harry could feel the weight of it, her laughter bubbling like carbonation, fizzy and sharp as it hit his ears and curled around him, intoxicating as any drink in his hand. She was just out of reach, always a breath away, with eyes that seemed to say she knew every game he was trying to play, and she’d play them better.

He couldn’t remember the taste of his own drink anymore, something else sat on his tongue–bubbling from the top of his throat, igniting his chest. 

Her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she smiled, her solo cup discarded from her hands and onto the broad shoulders of the man standing in front of her. She’d glance Harry’s way every few minutes, eye locking with his before turning back to the man, laughing at something she definitely didn’t find funny.

Yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

His fingers gripped his drink, watching as she tilted her head to the side, her tapping against his shoulders like a spell. And then–there it was. Her eyes flickered to Harry, a spark of something familiar dancing on the edge of her pupils, flashing just long enough to say, are you watching?

He was.

The man leaned in closer, his large hand resting against her hip while the other gripped the edge of the table behind her—caged in. Harry wanted to almost laugh. She wasn’t blocked in, no, the exact opposite. Men melted like ice in her palms, she was the ringmaster here. She played it perfectly, the tilt of her head, trailing her fingers up his neck as if she was spinning a web.

“Your cans getting crushed.” Came Mitch’s voice, low and amused as he nodded toward the aluminum Harry white knuckled. 

He exhaled, easing his fingers around the drink as he took a shallow sip, a wry smile slipping onto his lips. “She’ll be the death of me.” 

Mitch laughed, eyeing Harry over the brim of his beer bottle touching his lips. “Only ‘cause you let her.”

He let himself lean into the wall behind him, the cool surface doing nothing to temper the heat curling beneath his skin. Mitch was right. He let her—let her pull him under like a wave, let her play the part of his tormentor. His eyes held onto her, his cherry, wrapped in a game she orchestrated with the precision of a maestro. The room spun around her, and he was caught into her gravity, helpless to orbit at a distance.

Their gaze held each other every time she would flicker her eyes over. It was filthy, as if they were fucking, front and center of everyone. She pinned him in place with only a glance, that sly, knowing look. She lifted herself onto the table behind her, her laughter like a melody meant only for him. The music thumped against the walls, drowning out everything else, but it didn’t matter—he’d hear YN over it all, every soft breath, every little sound. She was everywhere in his senses, threading through his veins.

The man stood between her legs, saying something in her ear that Harry couldn’t make out, but it was enough to make her lips quirk into a smile—one he knew wasn’t for him. His hand tightened around his drink again, crushed aluminum forgotten, cold liquid seeping through his fingers. It was her doing; she knew exactly how to turn him into this, into a version of himself that held back only because the tension was a part of the thrill.

Another laugh escaped her lips, and he saw her bite down on it, that little nibble on her bottom lip that drove him mad. YN threw her head back, letting her hair fall around her shoulders like a heavy curtain, exposing the curve of her neck. A pulse beat just under her skin, one he knew he could feel if he got close enough.

And for a second, he thought he saw her crack.

The man’s hand slid further up her thigh, threatening to slip underneath the fabric of her small skirt. But her gaze drifted, almost instinctively, back to Harry. It was quick, so quick he almost convinced himself he imagined it, but Harry knew better. There was a question in that flicker, a question he knew was coming since the beginning of the night, are you going to let him keep touching me?

It wasn’t fair, none of it was, the way she played him like this, weaving in and out of his focus until he couldn’t remember the start of his own intentions. Every step he took toward her, its like she took one back, luring him deeper. He hated that she knew he’d follow, hated how she left him chasing shadows.

A hand landed on his shoulder, snapping him back, Mitch—although he was unsure if he wanted to be pulled back into reality or not. He watched him with a look that was half-amused, half-concerned. “You keep staring, mate, you’re gonna turn to stone.” He teased, though his eyes lingered on Harry’s hand, still clenched white around his drink.

He forced a laugh, hollow, strained. “Maybe I already have.”

The words barely left his mouth before he saw her slip off the table, her admirer’s hand slipping from her waist and interlacing his fingers with hers—as if they were heading out.

Something in him snapped. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pushing off the wall, letting his half-emptied can of beer clammer onto the wooden floor beneath him. He weaved through the crowd with a single minded purpose, ignoring the curious glances sent his way. Mitch muttered something behind him, but it didn’t register—couldn’t register. 

The guy with her hadn’t noticed him yet, too absorbed in whatever he muttered against her cheek. Harry saw her roll her eyes in amusement, stroking whatever ego the man had. Her gaze then slid sideways, catching sight of Harry. Her expression didn’t falter—if anything, her smile grew, just the tiniest bit, a flash of triumph dancing in her gaze as she held his.

The man finally noticed, his grin faltering as he slipped his hand from hers, turning to face Harry who was close enough to see uncertainty flicker over his face, a split second before he masked it with bravado. 

“H,” she mumbled, her voice warm, as if she were greeting just an old friend. She didn’t step away from the two, only allowing herself to lean against the table once again with her arms crossed over her chest.

He took another step forward, a smile curving his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoying yourself?”

YN arched a brow, her gaze playful, almost defiant. “I was. Are you?”

The guy shifted awkwardly beside them, looking at them with a growing wariness, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he put himself into. Harry spared him a glance, a cool, knowing look that revealed something simmering underneath. It was answer enough. 

His patience was fraying, thinning out thread by thread that she unraveled.

He placed his hand on the table she leaned onto, the tip of his thumb brushing against the fabric of her skirt. He was close enough for her to feel his cool breath, close enough for him to smell the faint hint of cherry lingering on her lips. His eyes burrowed into the man that still stood there as he whispered, low enough for only her to hear, “why are y’playing games with me?” 

Her smile sharpened, and there was something dark, something electric, sparking in her irises as she looked toward him. She shifted her weight, turning her shoulders into him. His eyes still bore into the man’s, his jaw clenched. 

He seemed nice enough, sure, but he didn’t fucking care when it came to her.

God, she ruined him. And Harry took it gladly, falling to his knees and worshiping her.

“Who says I’m playing?” She barely blinked, her words a challenge, a dare he couldn’t ignore. And then she reached out, brushing a single finger along the ink on his forearm, trailing it down with a touch that was featherlight, maddeningly subtle. “Or maybe,” she breathed, her lips a head-turn away, “you just don’t like that we’re not playing by your rules.”

His eyes finally flickered to hers, it was all he could do to hold himself steady. The guy beside them cleared his throat awkwardly, muttering something about getting another drink and slipping away into the crowd, clearly catching the drift.

Harry didn’t care, no. He’d claim her right now, in front of everyone, if she let him.

They ignored him, nothing more than a forgotten piece of her performance—a discarded prop, now that Harry was here, close enough to feel the heat of her skin and that slow, steady rise and fall of her breath.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.” He said lowly, laced with an edge he couldn’t quite hide. “Pretending you don’t want it.” 

Her smile was slow, spreading across her face with a satisfaction that bordered on wicked. She pushed up onto her toes, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Maybe I like seeing what it does to you.”

Her words wrapped around him, drawing him in, filling him with a reckless sort of need, one he’d tried to bury, tried to ignore. But she’d brought it to the surface, peeling him apart layer by layer until he was bare before her, all pretense stripped away,

“Careful.” He warned, his voice a rumble, shifting on his weight to place his free hand on the other side of the table, caging her in. His hand slipped up her thigh, past her skirt, his fingertips slipping underneath the fabric of her panties and gripping the bare skin of her hip. “Or I’ll show you exactly what it does, right in front of everyone.” 

Her gaze flickered down, lingering on the sharp line of his jaw, her own pulse quickening beneath his touch. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, a smirk tugging at her lips. “His name is Mateo.” She murmured, her lips brushing against his chin, just beneath his bottom lip. “He was gonna take me upstairs.” 

He didn’t say anything, he only tightened his jaw, slipping his fingers inward just barely, tracing the lace of her panties. 

She let out a breathy giggle, “seem a little tense.” She mumbled against his skin, her voice teasing, silk-wrapped around a blade. Her smile was innocent, close-lipped and coy as she leaned her head away from his mouth, but her eyes betrayed her, dark and hungry. “Something on your mind?”

“I think you like it.” His voice was rough, sharpened. The tip of his index finger slipped underneath the gusset of her panties, tracing down her folds that were already slick with arousal. “Seeing me like this.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes finally averting from his to the crowd over his shoulder. Everyone was enveloped in their own words, nursing solo cups of vodka or pupils wide with some sort of substance. She could feel his finger, the way it sat right at her entrance. He was teasing her, she knew it. She looked at him again, only seeing a man completely unraveled before her. 

Just like she wanted. 

“Said he wanted to hear me scream his name.” 

He eased his finger into her, knuckle deep. He watched through half-lidded eyes the way her forehead creased in pleasure, the way cherry fell from her breath. He curled his finger upward before slowly pulling out, a sigh escaping her lips. “What was his name?” Harry breathed, his lips against her temple.

Her eyebrows furrowed, scanning the people behind him again. In that moment, she was grateful the table was tucked into the corner of the room, an afterthought unless someone was looking for it. “Mat–”

He pumped into her again, this time adding his middle finger, her velvety walls fluttering around his digits. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her spine straightening.

“Your cunt was soaked before I even touched you.” He spat, his voice low behind the music. His fingers were slow, teasing, teetering on the edge of her resolve. “Don’t think he did that for you.” 

Her chest rose as she drew a breath, deep, silencing. Her eyes found his ways back to his, so dark she could see herself in the reflection of them. A knot tightened in her belly, a pressure building between her thighs before his movements stilled.

His fingers remained, unmoving as he knit his eyebrows together, watching a silent desperation dance upon her features. “Who got you like this?” He murmured, pressing a kiss into her forehead. She clenched around him, drawing a chuckle that emitted from his chest. “Say it, YN.” 

“You.” She breathed. Of course he did, no one else could make her feel this way. 

Her effort to hold back her moans were poor, soft squeaks tumbling from her mouth as Harry pumped his fingers in and out—the wet sound of being finger-fucked only audible between the two of them.

“You seem tense, baby.” He echoed, pressing a kiss against her cheekbone, soft, barely there. “Something on your mind?”

She raised her hand toward his shoulder, balling the fabric in her hands as she struggled to stay quiet. His knuckles pounded against her pussy selfishly, a sick sense of pride spreading around his chest. “Fuck, H. Just like that.”

He could feel the way she fluttered around him, the way she was so close to coming just from his fingers.

But, he smirked, pulling his hand from her panties, her arousal glistening under the neon lights. A whimper fell from her lips, her shoulders falterning, a frustration bubbling over. His other hand sat on her bare knee as he took the smallest step backward, bringing those two fingers to his lips, licking the tip of them like he swiped them through a sweet dessert. 

His lips were slick as he leaned back in, kissing her. Her legs tightened around his own as she tasted herself on him, the heat between her thighs growing unbearable. 

And he smiled into it, biting her lip as he pulled away. A warmth settled in his tummy, he felt like he could float—

happy that he could taste cherries again.

[reiding-writing]

Cold!reader who defends Spencer when’s someone’s making fun of his autistic traits, and the teams like “what?????”

STAGNANT — SPENCER REID!

why would someone ask spencer a question if they didn’t want to hear the answer?

spencer reid x cold!reader | 1.2k | fluff? | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — the cold!reader roster i have atm has me kicking my feet and twirling my hair, stay tuned

You step into the cramped precinct in a town that barely makes the map, the smell of stale coffee and old paper immediately hitting you.

The air hums with tension—murder cases tend to have that effect on a room. Your team disperses, each member diving into their respective tasks like clockwork.

You stay near Spencer, keeping an eye on the board he’s already scouring, his sharp mind undoubtedly miles ahead of everyone else’s.

It doesn’t take long for the local officers to start asking questions. You’ve seen it before: their curiosity morphing into disbelief as they’re confronted with Spencer Reid in full form.

This particular case involves a peculiar type of soil found on the victim’s shoes, and when one officer, a grizzled man named Officer Moore, offhandedly asks about its significance, Spencer lights up.

“It’s fascinating, actually,” he begins, his voice picking up with enthusiasm. “The soil contains traces of montmorillonite clay, which is common in areas with volcanic ash deposits. This specific type is unique to the western side of the county, and based on the composition—” He gestures to the samples bagged on the table, oblivious to the officer’s quickly fading interest.

Spencer continues, lost in his explanation, his words flowing like water over smooth stones. You watch the officer shift uncomfortably, his expression hardening into impatience. The moment Spencer pauses to breathe, Moore cuts in, looking at you with a smirk.

“Is he like this all the time? Never shuts up, huh?”

You freeze. The room, bustling moments ago, seems quieter now. Your team is too far off to hear, but you’re right here. Close enough to feel the sting of the comment.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or maybe he pretends not to. Either way, it doesn’t sit right with you. The dismissive tone, the condescension dripping from the officer’s words—it sparks a heat under your skin that you don’t bother to hide.

“Are you stupid?” Your voice is sharp, like a knife scraping metal. Moore’s smug expression falters.

“Excuse me-?”

“You heard me,” you continue, stepping closer, your gaze fixed on him. “If you can’t keep up with what Dr. Reid is saying, that’s your problem. He’s giving you answers—solutions—that you clearly wouldn’t find on your own. So maybe try listening instead of running your mouth.”

Moore blinks, taken aback. His hand hovers near the cup of coffee on the table, forgotten. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” you interrupt, crossing your arms. “And for the record, if he’s too much for you to handle, then stay out of his way, you’ll murk his IQ into single digits.”

The room is quiet now, the subtle hum of computers and distant voices the only sound. Spencer finally looks up, his expression unreadable. There’s a hint of surprise in his eyes, but mostly he just seems... confused.

Moore mutters something under his breath and stalks off, clearly not willing to press the issue further. Good. You watch him go, your blood still simmering.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spencer says softly, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty.

“Yes, I did,” you reply without hesitation. “He was being a jerk.”

Spencer tilts his head, studying you. “People say things like that all the time.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” you counter, your tone firm. “And if you wont put your foot down about it then I will.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if trying to decipher some hidden code in your words. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—small and fleeting, but genuine. It feels like a victory, however minor.

—

Later, when the team regroups, the tension in the precinct has eased, though you can still feel a few lingering stares from the local officers.

Hotch gives you all the rundown of the next steps, his voice steady and commanding as always. You nod along, but your focus drifts to Spencer, who’s scribbling something in his notebook, seemingly unbothered by the earlier incident.

As the team breaks off to get to work, Emily sidles up beside you, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. “So,” she begins, drawing out the word. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

“That little showdown with Officer Grumpy Pants earlier,” she says, smirking. “Word has it you tore him a new one,”

You shrug. “He was being disrespectful.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “To Reid?”

“To all of us, honestly,” you say. “But yeah, mostly Reid. He didn’t deserve that.”

Emily studies you for a moment, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Awe how sweet,”

“Don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no real bite to your words. Emily laughs, raising her hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, no judgment,” she says. “It’s just... very human of you.”

“I’m not a robot.”

She gestures vaguely toward you. “Oh hush you know what I mean,”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance across the room at Spencer, who’s now deep in conversation with JJ and Rossi. The earlier exchange seems to have rolled off him, as if it never happened.

But you know better. You’ve seen the way comments like that stick, the way they fester in that moment f hesitation before he speaks. You’re not sure why it matters so much to you—why he matters so much—but you don’t dwell on it.

—

The case drags on into the evening, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. By the time the unsub is in custody and the team is preparing to head back to the jet, exhaustion hangs heavy in the air.

As you gather your things, Morgan claps a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, Ice Queen,” he says, his tone teasing. “You did good.”

“Thank you? I was doing my job.” you reply, shooting him a bemused look.

He chuckles. “Not with the case, sweetness. Word is you went full gladiator on one of the locals earlier.”

“Word travels way too fast in this team,” you mutter.

Morgan grins. “What can I say? We’re a nosy bunch. But it’s nice to know you haven’t lost your bite now you’re saddled up to boy wonder.”

He gestures with his head towards where Spencer was sleeping on the jet’s couch, wrapped in a cheap blanket like baby.

You fight back the urge to smile.

“I never changed,” you say dryly.

Morgan laughs, but there’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Sure you did,”

“No I didn’t,”

He nudges your shoulder, a whisper of “You’ll admit it one day,” before he walks off.

[santaasi]

iris

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: jj maybank struggled all his life just to finally find home in your arms

warnings: fluff, slight angst at the start, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 3.9k

a/n: bringing myself comfort after the spoilers for the final of s4. my baby boy deserved a lot more.

ᯓ★ now playing…

goo goo dolls - iris

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

IT WAS SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT — something so profound that JJ couldn't begin to describe it in words. Yet, he felt it in every cell of his body, in the deepest, most secret corners of his soul. It was as if he was staring into the vastness of the universe, into the boundless, all-consuming darkness that had terrified him since childhood. But now... now it glowed with a hundred, a million, a billion tiny stars — simple, yet magnificent clusters of light that transformed everything in an instant. You became his universe, his everything, and in that moment, everything changed.

JJ would be lying if he said he didn’t remember the exact moment — the exact second — he first met you. He remembered it vividly, like it was etched into his very bones, because that moment was his Big Bang. It was the spark that created the whole universe from nothing, with you as its center, pulling him into an orbit he never thought he’d find.

It was an ordinary day — at least, by JJ’s standards. A typical day filled with drinking, weed, hanging out with Pogues, and the all-too-familiar beatings from his father. After the last one, all he craved was solitude — just to be alone, to fade into the nothingness. To disappear. To stop feeling the weight of pain, to stop wondering what he had done wrong, to stop seeing the pity in his friends’ eyes whenever he showed up at the Chateau, bruised and broken.

For a fleeting moment, he wished he could stop being JJ Maybank — the lost, troubled boy everyone knew — and just be... himself. If only he knew who that was anymore.

It was night — a surprisingly cold summer night. The air carried a chill that seemed at odds with the warmth of the season, but even so, JJ found his haven between the soothing waves. The ocean cradled him gently, rocking him like a child in a mother’s arms, as if the water itself was trying to heal him. He lay on his stomach, his face dipping under the surface, seeking solace in the cool embrace of the sea, trying to drown out the swarm of thoughts buzzing endlessly in his mind.

How long had he been lying there? He couldn’t say. Time had blurred into the rhythm of the waves, and for a moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t expect the next moment to be so... startling.

You stopped just a few meters away, your breath coming in quick, heavy gasps. Your hair clung to your face, and the water began to bite at your skin with its coldness. And yet, in that brief flash of moonlight, JJ swore he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you — divine, even. The glow of the moon reflected off the water, casting a silver sheen over you, making everything seem surreal. Your slightly parted lips, your wide eyes, all caught in the stillness of the night, made something inside him twist. At that moment, he realized something, something terrifying: he was a goner.

"What the hell?"

The words slipped out in unison, an awkward moment of shared surprise. You raised an eyebrow, the frustration and relief mixing in your gaze before you splashed water in his face.

"Are you asking me what the hell?" you said, voice tinged with disbelief. "You were literally floating face down! I thought you were dead!"

JJ blinked, caught off guard, and shook his head, sending droplets flying in every direction. He didn’t respond immediately — his mind was still trying to catch up. He just stared at you, the way the moonlight danced on your skin, how the cold seemed to wash away everything else. There was something about you that both unsettled and comforted him, a mix he couldn’t quite place.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, trying to brush it off. "I wasn’t, like, dead. I mean, not really." His voice was hoarse, raw with something he hadn’t let anyone hear in a long time. It barely masked the emptiness he’d been drowning in just moments ago. "Just needed a swim. Didn’t mean to scare you."

You crossed your arms under the water, rolling your eyes, but a soft smile played at the edges of your lips. "Just an ordinary midnight swim, huh?" you teased. But there was a knowing look in your eyes, like you could see through the mask. "I thought I was going to have to explain to the police tomorrow that some guy was found swimming in the ocean. ‘Local girl finds body in the water,’ you know? Not exactly the first week I imagined."

JJ raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Wait... you’re new here?"

You nodded, brushing your wet hair from your face, a small sigh escaping you as you did. "Yeah, I moved here a few days ago. Needed to start fresh, I guess." Your gaze shifted toward the shore, distant, but not quite lost. "Thought the ocean might help clear my head."

He could relate to that, more than he wanted to admit. He nodded without thinking, something about you felt... different. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice almost vulnerable. "Outer Banks isn’t paradise, but... it could be worse." The words slipped out before he could stop them, softer than he wanted, like a door that had been closed for too long suddenly creaking open. He hadn’t expected to share anything, but with you, it didn’t feel like sharing — it felt more like breathing.

The wind picked up, sending a chill over the water. You shivered slightly, pulling your arms tighter around yourself. JJ noticed, instinctively stepping closer, despite still standing in the water.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. "Cold night for a swim."

The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on him — he, too, had come to the water to escape, to disappear. But with you standing there, he didn’t feel quite as invisible. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

You shrugged, looking toward the shore, but your eyes softened. "Yeah, just... a tough day, I guess. I thought the water might help me forget for a little while."

A bitter laugh slipped from JJ’s lips, and he didn’t try to hide it. "Well, looks like you found the right company for that," he said, his words more raw than he’d intended. But somehow, it felt natural to talk like this, to say things he hadn’t said to anyone in a long time. With you, it didn’t feel so forced.

You turned toward him, your expression softening. There was understanding in your eyes — like you’d been there too. "Tough day too, huh?" you said quietly, your voice almost lost in the stillness of the night.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath, the ocean around you a calm, sacred space. In that silence, something passed between you — unspoken, but real. As if for that moment, you both shared something intangible, something neither of you could put into words.

Finally, you broke the quiet, your voice teasing but gentle. "So... are you always this mysterious, or did I just pick the perfect time to meet you?"

A laugh escaped him, more genuine than he expected. "Maybe a little of both." He let the silence stretch on, comfortable now. For the first time in ages, he felt seen, and it wasn’t as frightening as he thought it would be.

It was ridiculous, he thought — how could a complete stranger, someone he’d just met in the middle of the ocean, at some ungodly hour, feel like they were filling a space inside him he never knew was empty?

But when he looked at you, he felt something shift, something deep inside. Something real. Something alive.

"JJ," he finally said, his voice breaking the silence. The sound of his own name felt unfamiliar, like a piece of himself he hadn’t shared in too long.

You gave him a soft smile that reached your eyes, warm and knowing. "Nice to meet you, JJ."

AND THERE IT WAS — his universe had changed. The Big Bang.

After that night, JJ couldn’t think about anything but you. Your presence consumed him, yet in a way that felt like coming alive for the first time. He found himself drifting into your orbit, again and again, as if fate itself had been guiding him toward you all along. But while he believed in fate, you thought it was just chance.

It wasn’t long before JJ began to learn more about you, obsessing over every little detail. He learned that you loved spending your free time on the beach, reading books. Books that he had never bothered with before, but now he listened to them at double speed just to be able to talk to you about them. You had a habit of finding solace in the water, the way the waves seemed to ease the weight of the world from your shoulders. And he learned that you worked in a small diner on the Cut, a place that barely registered on anyone else’s radar but was now a part of his daily life.

It became his mission to visit those places. To catch your eye, exchange a few words. He even went to some Save the Turtles event with Kie — something he’d never have attended before — just to see you, just to find a reason to talk.

He didn't know why he was so drawn to you. Why waking up felt a little easier when he thought about you. Why his days felt less suffocating when he could see you by the ocean, or feel your warmth when you wrapped him up in your arms. And most importantly — why, in a world where he wanted to stay invisible, he wanted you to see him. Because no one, not even the closest people in his life, had ever truly understood him like you did.

It might have sounded corny, but JJ knew you were different. He didn’t want to undress you or get you into bed first, like he did with other girls. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to know you. He wanted to be near you — not in a rushed, desperate way, but slowly, patiently, like the world had all the time for them. And that terrified him. Because everything in his life felt like it was bound to break, and he was scared of getting too close, only to watch it all fall apart.

But you made him feel like he was floating, like he was finally seeing the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. And even if it didn’t last forever, he would take it. It was worth it.

Because at some moment you became his safe place. His home.

JJ DIDN'T REMEMBER THE EXACT MOMENT HE FIRST CAME TO YOUR HOUSE, or why he couldn’t go back to the Chateau after the latest fight with his father. He just knew that he had found his way to you. It wasn’t a conscious choice. It was as if the universe had decided that, for once, he deserved peace. So, he climbed up to your balcony, hiding from the world, just to see you.

The moment he stepped inside, he felt the weight of everything lift from his chest. You didn't need to ask questions, you didn’t need explanations. You just held him — no judgment, no demands. Just there. Your hands gently cupped his face, and in that simple gesture, everything felt easier. It was like you knew exactly how much he needed to be held together. The comfort in your touch was so raw, so real, that it felt like he could stay there forever and nothing would ever hurt him again.

"Hey, JJ," you whispered softly as you cleaned the cuts on his knuckles. "You're okay. It's just another day. We'll get through it."

Your words were soft, but they carried a weight. The kind of weight that made him feel like, maybe, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t carrying all the burden on his own.

"Yeah, we will," he whispered looking in your eyes finding solace in it. "How'd your day go?" he asked quietly, almost as an afterthought, as you dabbed at a cut on his forehead.

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, the usual. Serving coffee, cleaning tables... Same old stuff. But then again, it’s a good distraction.”

And JJ realized, right then, that this wasn’t just about him. It wasn’t just about the mess of his life. It was about the way you understood him without needing to understand everything. You were healing him, piece by piece, without even knowing it.

You were there, not because you had to be, but because you wanted to be. And when you laid him down in your bed, curling up beside him, you whispered about your day at work, your own small struggles. You shared your world with him, and somehow, it made his feel a little less heavy.

IT WASN'T LONG BEFORE JJ OPENED UP TO YOU, really opened up in a way he had never done before. It was a slow burn at first. He kept his distance, guarding you from the mess that was his life. But the longer he stayed, the more he realized that you were the one who saw him. All of him — the messed-up, broken parts that he tried so hard to hide from everyone else. And when he realized you weren’t scared of that, he finally let go.

"I used to think that if I told you about my life, you'd leave," he admitted one night, his voice thick with raw emotion. "But... you didn’t. You stayed."

You looked at him, your expression tender, your hands tracing the edge of his jawline. "I'm not going anywhere, JJ. Not unless you want me to."

And that was the moment he knew — he had found someone who understood him in a way no one ever had. No one ever would.

One night, after sharing stories and secrets until the stars outside had started to fade, you both found yourselves standing close, the air thick with unspoken words. There was a nervousness between you, but also a tenderness that neither of you had known before. JJ leaned in, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft, hesitant, and filled with the kind of understanding that only comes when two people truly see each other. His lips were warm against yours, the moment suspended in time. And as he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered softly, “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

You didn’t need to say anything in return. The truth was already in your eyes, in the way you pulled him closer, your hands tracing the lines of his back like you were memorizing him. He didn’t need forever. He didn’t need promises. He just needed this. You. Now. And that was enough.

THE EVENING WAS SETTLING INTO ITS QUIET RYTHM AT THE CHATEAU. The Pogues were scattered around, some laughing, some lost in their own thoughts, and some just lounging by the bonfire. The air smelled faintly of saltwater and smoke, the crackling warmth from the fire barely reaching the edge of the pier. The world felt suspended in a beautiful hush, as though the universe itself had exhaled, and for the briefest of moments, everything stood still.

But despite the presence of his friends, despite the fire, the laughter, and the constant noise that filled every corner of the Chateau, JJ was focused only on you. Your presence was like gravity, pulling him closer to something real, something tangible. You were his escape, his universe — shaped not by chaos and pain, but by a quiet peace he had never known until you.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked softly, lifting your head from his shoulder. Your voice was gentle, threading through the sea breeze that fluttered your hair, causing it to stray in wisps across your face. You frowned slightly as the breeze brushed against your skin, the hair teasing at your cheek in an almost playful, yet annoying way. He loved how you could get lost in these little moments, how even the simplest things seemed to pull you in.

JJ, ever the thinker, gazed out at the vast ocean, where the horizon was a delicate line between the fading light of the day and the endless mystery of the night. There was something about the sea — so unpredictable, so endless — that made him feel both small and infinite. It was like he could feel the weight of the universe pressing on his chest, but at the same time, it gave him a sense of freedom, of release.

He shook his head, not really having the words to explain the depth of his thoughts, of how you had become his entire universe in such a short time. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead in a kiss that felt like a promise, like a quiet vow he was ready to keep forever.

"I love you," he said simply, the words falling so easily from his lips it startled him. It was like his heart had always known the truth, but now, with you, it could finally speak it. He turned to face you, his hands gently cupping your face, and pushed a strand of hair back behind your ear. Your hair had tangled slightly in the breeze, and his fingers brushed against the soft strands as if trying to keep you grounded in this moment.

You smiled up at him, your eyes warm with affection, and for a brief second, JJ wondered if he had been imagining all of this — the way your touch made him feel alive, how your laugh filled him with a joy that felt as though he was living in a dream. He had never been one to express his feelings out loud, never been able to put his heart on the line like that. But with you, everything felt different. Everything felt right.

"I love you, too," you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, but JJ felt the weight of them — felt how real they were, how they shifted the space between you, making it smaller, warmer, more intimate. It was like the universe had shifted in that moment, like the stars aligned just for the two of you.

But you, ever the one to keep things light, laughed softly, breaking the moment in the most perfect way. Your laugh rang out like music, a melody he couldn’t get enough of. "But everyone knows that, stupid! It’s no secret that you’re head over heels in love with me," you teased, brushing his hair out of his eyes, as if trying to bring him back down from whatever cosmic place his mind had drifted to.

JJ chuckled, the sound deep and sincere. There was no pretense, no walls. Just the two of you, surrounded by the night and the ocean, and for the first time, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. His smile was soft but real, and he kissed you once, gently, on the tip of your nose, then moved to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, your forehead, each kiss like a reassurance that this moment, this feeling, was real.

"You don't get it, do you?" JJ murmured, his voice a little more serious than the moment required. He let the silence stretch between you before continuing. "It’s not just... about love, doll. It’s about everything. It’s the way you make me see the world in a way I never thought I would. The way you make me feel like... like I’m enough." His voice softened with a vulnerability he hadn’t known he could express. "Before you, everything was just a blur. I didn’t even know how to be, to feel. But with you? It’s different. You make me real, love."

You looked at him, your gaze tender, understanding. Your eyes softened, and without a word, you reached out and pulled him in for a tight hug. JJ rested his head against your shoulder, inhaling the soft scent of your skin, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop spinning. It was just the two of you, and for the first time in a long time, JJ felt truly alive.

He had spent so many years running from everything that hurt him, pushing away anything that could cause him pain. But in that moment, wrapped in your embrace, the fear was gone. There was nothing left but the two of you, standing on the edge of the world, with the ocean stretching out before you like an endless promise.

"I never thought I’d say it," he whispered, his words coming out in a quiet rush. "But you’re my Big Bang. The thing that changed everything for me. Before you, it felt like I was drifting through the void, like there was nothing in this world worth holding on to. But now..." He pulled away slightly, looking at you with a newfound intensity. "Now, you’re my everything. You gave me a reason to stay."

Your fingers lightly brushed against his cheek, the touch so gentle it felt like a feather. You looked at him, eyes searching his face, and you smiled softly. "You don't have to be alone anymore, JJ. You’ve never been alone." Your voice was quiet, but the sincerity behind it struck him like a bolt of lightning. "We're in this together."

A small laugh escaped him, a sound that felt almost foreign but so freeing. The way you made him feel — like he was seen, understood, held — it was beyond anything he could have imagined. You were the gravity in his universe, pulling him in, holding him steady. And no matter how far out he drifted, he always knew he'd find his way back to you.

"You make me feel like the world is full of stars," he murmured, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. "Like everything that’s ever happened to me — good or bad — led me to you. Like I was just waiting for you to come and show me what it’s like to be."

You grinned, a playful glint in your eyes. "Well, don't get too carried away, Maybank. I’m not that amazing."

JJ smiled, but there was something raw in his expression, something that hinted at all the things he could never quite put into words. "You are," he said softly. "You are my everything. And for once, I’m not afraid to let myself feel it."

The world stretched out before you, both of you standing at the precipice of something so beautiful, so uncertain, yet so undeniable. The stars above shimmered like tiny promises, like constellations forming their own quiet narrative about two souls finding each other in the vast, infinite expanse of the universe. And in that moment, the ocean, the stars, the wind, and the night itself seemed to pause, holding its breath.

"I love you. So much," JJ whispered again, his voice filled with the certainty that had settled deep within him. It was simple, but it was everything. The words echoed, not just through the air, but through his heart, through his bones, reverberating in a way he never thought was possible. And as the night embraced them both, they realized that they had found their place in the world. Together.

And for the first time, JJ Maybank wasn’t afraid to be seen. Because you saw him. And that was enough

thankx for reading <3

so, that’s it. jj maybank deserved the whole world but only got this shitty ending. am i gonna watch obx4 now? probably not. am i gonna write for jj like there’s no s4? definitely yes! i think we’ll all agree that obx ended on s3 and after that nothing happened.

but every time i see the posts about jj i feel so sad… like it literally hurts on some level because he deserved his happy ending more than anyone. even if rudy wanted to leave the show they could have written a good ending for him. not one more fucked up father, but one that would take him to see the world or shit like this. i just wanted him to be happy.

i chose iris because this is so jj coded for me. i haven’t listened to this song in ages and when it popped up in my shuffle yesterday – i just wanted it to be about jj. with all his struggles, all his pain, but also with a hope for something good. so, i rly hope that you liked this work.

and again thank u for reading. thank u for liking, reblogging and commenting - it’s rly means a lot to me. you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

- your santi 🪐

masterlist

[gloomwitchwrites]

Easy Access

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: explicit sexual content, canon-typical swearing, oral sex (female & male receiving), F/M/M/M/M, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), multiple creampie, multiple orgasms, group sex, praise, restraints/restraining

Word Count: 3.7k

A short dress is your idea of an invitation for a bit of fun.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist

Under the shade of a tree, you inhale deeply, savoring the fresh spring air.

This is a party. A gathering. A break. A reward for a job well done.

But it’s not like you’re the one in the line of fire. That isn’t your job. Your one and only endeavor at work is making sure Kate Laswell has everything she needs while at the office. Field work is not your specialty, and you’re thankful for that.

You make phone calls. You bring Laswell her coffee. You keep her appointments and meetings. It’s office work. Clerical. But it keeps you safe, fed, and paid.

Amongst the crowd are familiar and unfamiliar faces. There has to be at least sixty people here in total, and yet the space doesn’t feel cramped. You were given an address, and this has to be someone’s backyard, but you couldn’t say who. And if anyone knows, they aren’t saying.

To your left is a large wood patio. It expands across almost the entirety of the back of the house. Most of it is covered by two connecting pergolas. Underneath the pergolas is a massive buffet and open bar. People loiter there, talking and laughing. The patio opens up to a large green space with a small pond and garden near the back fence. The majority of the space is open but there are a few tables and chairs set up. Music comes from speakers you can’t see, and lights line the fence.

It’s all very pleasant, but crowds are not your thing.

You scan the crowd but no one is looking in your direction. Bringing your plastic cup up to your lips, you scan the crowd one more time. Your gaze falls on Captain John Price. He’s having a conversation with someone you don’t recognize, and out of uniform, he’s even more handsome.

There is no silly, floppy hat or beanie. No windbreaker or boots. Price wears a button up shirt, the top two undone and slightly open with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He appears so casual and calm, a cool sexiness that instantly sparks heat low in your belly.

Your cup is almost to your lips, pausing as you gaze at him. In this moment—this fleeting second—Price’s gaze finds you. He winks. Smirks. Returns to the conversation.

Your heart drops into your stomach, and you nearly drench the front of your linen dress with red punch.

Glancing away, you only find the rest of Price’s team. Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and Simon Riley loiter near the deck. Kyle and Johnny talk, their faces animated and engaged. Simon stands with his arms crossed, but he’s not listening.

He’s staring at you, those dark eyes of his piercing you down to your marrow.

It’s silly, really, how all four of them make your stomach flip. How they each in turn seem to awaken something dark and primal in your blood.

While it doesn’t shame you in the least, you have flirted with all of them. It’s hard not to. Price is the one you see the most, and always makes an effort to stop by to see you if he has business with Laswell. Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all have to go out of their way to see you, but they do it. Often.

And it’s not just the flirting or sultry glances. You’ve allowed them each a touch or two. Of the four, you gave Johnny permission to kiss you. It was chaste. Quick. Nothing that curls the toes. But it turned his face beet-red.

But being with any of them is just a fantasy. It’s unprofessional. And you don’t need to know what Laswell might think of you for taking any further action with them.

Sighing, you turn away from Simon’s penetrating stare. You knock back the red punch, the alcohol in it hardly registering on your tongue. Removing yourself is the best solution. Perhaps you could hide in the bathroom for a bit. Splash some cold water on your face.

Depositing the empty plastic cup in the nearest trashcan, you head for the patio, passing the buffet and open bar, striding inside through the open kitchen doors. You nod in acknowledgement to a few people there, and they match it, but they immediately return to their conversations, not all that interested in your presence.

The nearest bathroom is just off the kitchen, but you want to hide. You aim for the hallway with the intent of entering the bathroom at the very end. No one is really using it, and it’s the perfect place to catch your breath.

As you reach out for the golden bathroom handle, a large hand shoots out, encasing your wrist, haling all movement. You turn sharply, ready to bite back at the man who decided it’s okay to touch you without your permission, only to freeze.

Your eyes widen as you realize who the hand belongs to.

“John,” you whisper. You didn’t even hear him approach. He completely snuck up on you.

“Where you off to?” he asks softly. He looks a little concerned, but there is something else under all of that.

While you want to answer his question, to give in a bit, you don’t enjoy being grabbed.

“Is that your business?” you reply, arching one eyebrow, chest heaving slightly as your heartrate quickens.

John’s head tilts slightly, his gaze assessing for a moment. The two of you are locked in, and you’re not sure if you’ve completely fumbled the exchange. John releases you from his stare but he doesn’t release your wrist.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder, and you follow the movement. Right there, in the hall, are three familiar people.

Kyle and Johnny casually lean against the wall while Ghost stands in the middle, watching the opening of the hallway.

You’re not frightened. Not afraid. If anything, you’re becoming slick between the thighs. There is a reason they’re here, and you want to explore what it is.

Price’s gaze returns to you and his gaze is soft. “Do you want it to be my business?”

You press in a bit, and Price’s mouth forms into a self-satisfied grin. “Does it include all four of you?” you counter.

“It can.”

His grip tightens slightly. The hold is almost desperately possessive.

What the hell. You should just do it. Have some fucking fun for once. If anything, this will be the one and only time. Get this ridiculous need out of your system all at once and be done with them.

“Then make it your business,” you murmur.

Price’s grip remains firm as he pulls you away from the bathroom door. He spins you around, his free hand reaching out to open the door that’s across the hall from the bathroom. You hear the creak of the hinges as it swings inward, and then you’re walking backward into the room, Price herding you along.

Behind him follows Kyle. And behind Kyle, Johnny. Then, finally, Simon. He’s the last to enter the room and the one that shuts the door, locking it without even glancing at it. He leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

Once the door is shut, you expect Price to release you. But he doesn’t. He keeps hold of your wrist, drawing you against him, pinning your arm to your chest. With his other hand, Price clasps your chin between thumb and forefinger, keeping your face pointed in his direction.

“You want to back out?” he asks. “Just say the word. We’ll stop.”

Do you want to stop? No. Your blood is buzzing, nearly burning beneath your skin. You want to see where this goes, and how much you can take before you’re unable to understand reality.

“Nervous, Captain?”

He laughs, throaty and low before his lips come dangerously close to yours. “No, love. I like that you’re willing to share.”

Someone shifts behind Price’s shoulder. Your gaze starts to drift but he jerks you back to attention.

“You’ve been teasing us with that dress,” murmurs Price.

Releasing your wrist, Price drops his hand to lightly tug on the skirt of the linen dress you wear.

It’s incredibly comfortable. The color an off-white. It stops at about mid-lower thigh, a bit above the knee. The top of the dress is solid fabric back and front except for the straps which are crisscrossed, leaving your shoulders and arms mostly bare.

“Didn’t do it on purpose,” you reply just as softly.

Price makes a sound in his throat that goes straight to your pussy. “Somehow I believe that,” he chuckles, fisting your dress even tighter. It only pulls you closer, and even like this, you feel his hardness.

You’re so focused on Price that when another pair of hands join his, you almost jump. Price eases his hold on you a bit, and your body twists in the direction of these new hands. It’s Johnny. He has one hand on the back of your neck while the other plays with the hem of your dress. It’s just a gentle toying, one you don’t entirely notice until his fingers are slipping under it, brushing against your bare thigh.

“You want this? All of us?” Johnny sounds skeptical.

Your lips part at his question, the very image of them taking you one after the other only making you slicker.

You nod, chest heaving. “Yes.”

Price’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, drawing your attention back to him. There is a pause—a second of breathing—and then he releases you. He walks backward toward the door as Simon moves away from it and Kyle closes in.

Johnny sidesteps, placing himself directly behind you. His hands slide over you, finding new homes. He wraps one around your waist, hand splaying wide over your pelvis. His other reaches down to dip beneath the hem of your dress just shy of your left leg.

You believe that Johnny is going to slide his hand between your clenched thighs. But he doesn’t. His arm hooks under your thigh, pressing up, lifting your foot from the floor. You’re forced to balance on your right foot. You instinctually reach up, grasping the back of Johnny’s neck.

But with Johnny’s support, you don’t topple over. His strength keeps you grounded.

With his hand on your pelvis, Johnny begins to bunch the fabric in his fist, lifting it away from your body. It is slow, almost agonizing in how all of their gazes are fixed on that one point.

You don’t need to see to know when you’re bare. You feel the air against you.

You are open for their inspection, and they do not appear disappointed. If anything, they’re fucking hungry.

“She’s wearing fucking nothing under there,” growls Simon, almost like he’s upset but doesn’t want to be.

“Teasing us on purpose,” says Price not to anyone in particular but to reiterate what he said early, that the dress is a tease, and this is just one more thing to add to it.

Simon moves, striding toward you like a predator. Slowly, his hand clasps the front of your neck, and you instinctually arch into Johnny. Kyle sinks to his knees before you.

“Gaz is gonna eat that pretty pussy,” murmurs Johnny in your ear. His breath is a whisper, sending a shiver down your spine. “And then we’re all going to fuck you. One after the other. Fill you with our cum. You want that, love?”

You crave them like a nourishing meal. Accepting won’t hurt. It’ll only fill the gap, satiating the thirst that boils in your blood.

“Yes,” you affirm, putting all the control in their hands now.

“Good girl,” growls Simon, gently squeezing, those dark eyes of his locking in on your parted lips.

Kyle’s hands are on your thighs. They rotate. Squeeze. Slide toward your hip bone.

“Look at that,” he says, absently. Kyle’s fingers lightly brush over your sex. Then, he is parting you with two fingers, and in that glide, you can hear just how wet you are.

“Hardly touched you,” croons Kyle, his mouth dangerously close to what’s aching for him.

He leans in, and goes in for a taste. It’s tentative. Testing. Just a little touch of his tongue against flesh. But it’s enough for your pussy to clench, for you to whimper as if he’s completely pressed his mouth to you.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Johnny. He nuzzles your neck, gaze downward.

You’re watching too. Everyone is. There is no point in hiding anything. You are spread open.

Kyle’s tongue dips again, this time tracing a line between his two fingers. He starts at your entrance, teasing it before moving upward to circle your clit slowly. He is languid about it. Taking his time like there isn’t a party happening just outside the door.

“Oh, you’re sweet, love,” he murmurs before going in fully.

There is no tracing of his tongue. It is only steady strokes and gentle flicks against your clit. Kyle knows what he’s doing. He knows to stick to a specific pace. To not change course. He feasts until your legs shake and it is only Johnny’s strength keeping you aloft.

The clench comes, shuddering outward. Your breathing intensifies, becoming desperate gasps as Kyle continues to work your clit. Simon still holds onto the front of your throat, and he does not let go.

“Look at me,” croons Simon, tilting your head in his direction. “At me. My eyes.”

Johnny murmurs sweet nothings against your throat as he watches Kyle lick and then suck your clit into his mouth.

Your hips buck against Kyle’s mouth as your orgasm consumes, absorbing all your strength, turning your muscles into sticky goo.

There are lips pressing against your inner thigh, and then Kyle’s voice drifts up from between your legs. “She’s ready.”

“But we aren’t,” replies Simon.

Johnny guides your leg down until your foot is flat again. From there, he presses on your shoulders, and you automatically sink to your knees.

“Be good and suck Gaz’s cock,” commands Simon as his hand slides from the front to the back of your neck.

Johnny steps back, his presence evaporating as Kyle undoes the front of his jeans. You are hungry. Feral. Desperate. The moment Kyle’s cock his free from his jeans, you’re reaching for him, sucking him down.

Kyle groans loudly, head tilting back as you throat him to the root.

“Fucking beautiful,” comes Johnny’s voice somewhere behind and to the right of you.

Simon grunts in agreement, his hand still firmly planted on your neck. His fingers dig into your hair, and even though you have some control, Simon has the rest.

He keeps you on your knees and your head still as Kyle thrusts shallowly into your mouth. You are wet between your thighs, the skin there rubbing against itself. Your hands rise to grab the front of Kyle’s jeans, but Johnny tuts, grasping both arms and holding them behind you.

“Breathe through your nose. Good girl. Like that.” These praises are all Simon, and you desperately want to please him.

You’re nearly still as Kyle claims your throat. But he’s careful. Thoughtful. He’s fucking your mouth yet he knows your limit. When your throat contracts, wanting to gag, he retreats until you’ve caught your breath, only to return to his pace from before.

“Fuck,” he mutters, abruptly pulling out of your mouth. You cough, saliva and cum coating your lips and chin. “Bend her over the edge of the bed.”

Johnny releases your arms and Simon is the one that helps you to your feet.

“Look at me,” says Simon, drawing you attention to his face. “You good?”

This can all end if you want it to, but you don’t. You’re not full. Not whimpering. You want them inside.

“I’m good,” and your answer is a bit raspy.

Simon nods and then he’s turning you around, his hands pressing on your back until you’re completely bent.

The bed is a bit high, and you have to go up on your toes. Your hands dig into the comforter, but you don’t feel stable. Not really.

There are hands on your thighs. They drive upward, flipping your dress up to expose your ass to the room. One of those hands comes down on the right cheek. It isn’t hard, just enough to bounce it.

“Open for us,” says Simon. You wiggle your hips, sliding your feet outward slightly. “More, love. Yes. Perfect.”

Simon shifts partially into view, and then he’s grabbing your forearms, holding you down to the bed itself. You have no idea who is behind you, but you feel the head of their cock at your entrance.

There is no condom, and you do not give a fuck. You want to feel each of them in turn, to feel them fill you up, to fuck each other’s cum deeper into you.

The head presses in. Enters. And then you’re being filled, being fed more and more until you’re stuffed. You moan loudly.

“Taking me so well,” groans Johnny as you clamp around him. “Bloody hell you’re tight.”

Johnny squeezes your ass, guiding your hips up slightly as he starts to drive in. The angle is deep, and your feet slide against the floor. He isn’t soft, but he’s not rough either. Johnny is steady, rolling his hips deep enough to hit that sweet spot.

You are soft. Pliant. Smiling against the comforter as Johnny fucks you. His soft grunts become gentle groans. Then his hips stutter, thrust forward, creating a seal. You feel his release flood your pussy, and you purposefully tighten those muscles, encouraging him to stay inside.

And Johnny does, for a moment.

He lightly pats your ass before withdrawing. The loss of him is immediate, and yet there is another ready to take his place. Simon does not move from his spot. You turn your head and find Price still leaning against the door. There is an apparent bulge in the front of his pants.

It is Kyle that settles behind you, and like Johnny, he finds the same rhythm. While Johnny felt girthy, Kyle is absolute perfection. The stretch is good but not too tight, and even though every stroke is pointedly deep, there is nothing but pleasure.

Kyle’s hand slips between the bed and your body. He finds your clit. Toys with it. Plays. You’re still a bit sensitive from your last orgasm, and the next one comes up suddenly. You cry out, squeezing on him as he finishes.

In that blissful state, you don’t notice Simon removing his hands from your forearms. It isn’t until he’s driving inside that you realize it, and you nearly come off the bed. Simon is absurdly large, and your back arches, fingers digging into the comforter as your groan into it.

Simon is not as gentle as them. He fucks their cum into you like he’s made to do so.

And Price is still off to the side. Still watching. Almost indifferent except for that outline in his pants.

Simon’s only tell is a low grunt before he too is finishing inside you.

You are overly stuffed. Full. Simon removes his cock from your pussy as their mixed cum begins to drip out onto your thighs.

You think Price will come. That he will take Simon’s place. Instead, you’re being moved, flipped onto your back. Your legs are brought up, and then Johnny is back, sliding home again. Simon stands to the right of him. He reaches out, runs his hand over your stomach before delving down to find your clit.

Simon circles it as Johnny’s cock pistons in and out of you, his hips smacking against yours sharply with each thrust. It isn’t long before the muscles in your body seize and then relax. Johnny doesn’t find his end until Simon has you clenching a second time.

Johnny steps back, a pleased grin on his face as he stuffs himself back into his pants. Your legs are weak noodles and you’re thankful for the bed beneath you.

Price pushes off from the door. He walks casually, his hands slowly undoing and then removing his belt. You push up onto your elbows, adjusting. Price observes you. His gaze is on your face and then it drops to your pussy.

Reaching out, Price runs his fingers through the mess between your legs.

“Mind if I add to that?” he asks, gaze returning to your face.

You smile and spread your legs wider.

“Good fucking girl,” he croons.

Price grasps your thighs and drags you to the edge of the bed. Shoving his pants down enough to free his cock, he rubs the head over the mess, coating himself in it.

He lines himself up, and then buries himself to the hilt. Your fingers dig into the bed and then reach for him. Price adjusts his grip on your thighs, pressing them up a bit and toward your chest.

You are at his mercy as he drives into you. The only sounds in the room are your breathy moans and the obscene wetness that is your pussy.

All those flirty invitations and teasing smiles has led to this. And you don’t entirely mind if this is all it is. That the five of you are just working it all out of your systems. You’re completely satisfied.

As Price’s thrusts becoming erratic, he lets go of your thigh only to grasp your throat. He leans forward as he brings you up off the bed. You are scrunched, and when his lips meet yours, you come undone just as he does.

You hang. Suspended. And then you’re melting into the soft comforter.

Someone is cleaning you up, wiping away the excess mess. And then you’re brought to your feet. Everything is unsteady as you focus on who it is holding you.

“Good? Or you need a minute?” Price’s palm runs over your hair, smoothing it.

“I need a minute,” you murmur, because it’s true.

Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all start to file out. With the balaclava you can’t discern Simon’s expression. But Kyle is smug. Content. Johnny is almost sheepish, his cheeks slightly flushed as they leave.

It is over. Done.

Price runs his thumb over your bottom lip. “If you ever want this again, you know where to find me.”

He leans forward as if to kiss you but instead brushes his lips against the curve of your cheek. He gives your hand a squeeze. A silent goodbye.

Then he too is gone. The door shut.

You place your hand over your chest and laugh as a trail of cum slips down the inside of your thigh.

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[misswynters]

Alone in the rumble, as you died in his arms

short drabble

pure angst / hurt no comfort

requested. by anon

Flames danced in the ruins of Piltover, their light painting the chaos in flickering shades of orange and red. The once pristine city was now a battlefield, torn apart by Ambessa’s Noxian forces. Smoke billowed from the destruction, and the air was thick with ash and the metallic tang of blood. Ekko sprinted through the wreckage, his heart pounding with a fear he hadn’t felt since he lost his family in Zaun.

Every explosion made him flinch, every shadow looked like you. He had sworn to protect you, to keep you safe despite the horrors of this war. You weren’t supposed to be here, not in the thick of the fight, not in the crumbling heart of Piltover. But you had insisted, standing firm in that quiet, determined way of yours.

“Zaun fights against corruption. I won’t stand idly by and do nothing,” you had said, your hand brushing against his.

But now, as he tore through the smoldering streets, his heart filled with dread. Jinx’s globe, her insane, chaotic weapon of destruction, had careened into one of the towering structures nearby. The crash had sent debris flying like deadly shrapnel, and he had lost sight of you in the chaos.

He shouted your name, his voice hoarse from the smoke and desperation. His feet stumbled over rubble, and his eyes scanned every twisted beam and broken wall for a glimpse of you. Your name that once brought warmth now felt like a prayer. The world around him was collapsing, literally. Another blast shook the ground, and a wall buckled under its weight. But all he could think about was finding you.

And then he saw it. A hand peeking out from beneath a pile of rubble, fingers limp and covered in soot. His breath hitched as he ran toward you, adrenaline driving his every step. When he reached the debris, he fell to his knees, his hands trembling as he began pulling away the heavy stones and broken wood. “No, no, no,” he murmured under his breath, the words spilling out like a mantra.

Finally, he uncovered you. Your body was twisted and broken, your beautiful gown torn and stained with blood. Soot clung to your skin, and a deep gash ran along your temple. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Firefly…” His voice cracked as he leaned down, cupping your face with shaking hands.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dim. The spark that always lit them, the one that had drawn him to you in the first place, was barely there. “Ekko…” you whispered, your voice so faint it was almost lost amidst the chaos.

“I’m here,” he said, his tears falling freely now. “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Just hold on for abit.”

You tried to smile, but it was weak and fleeting. “I… I don’t think I can,” you murmured, your words slurred from the pain.

“Don’t you dare say that,” he said, his voice breaking as he pressed his cheek to yours. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone I know. You’re gonna make it. We’re gonna go home. You just have to stay with me.”

But your body was trembling, and your breathing was shallow. He could feel the life slipping away from you, and he was powerless to stop it.

“Mmhm,” you hummed softly, your voice trembling as tears spilled from your eyes. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, his heart shattering. “I know, Firefly. I’m here with you, okay?”

Your hand lifted weakly, brushing against his cheek. “I wanted to stay and see it… the future you talked about,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I wanted to be there with you.”

“You will be,” he said, even as the truth clawed at his throat.

But your eyes were beginning to close, the light in them fading like a dying star. “Promise me…” you whispered.

“I promise,” he choked out, his tears falling onto your face as he held you on his lap. And then, with a shuddering breath, you went still. Your body went limp completely against his, no more strength to hold onto.

“No.” The word left him in a broken whisper. “No, no, no!” He pulled you into his arms, rocking back and forth as the weight of your loss crushed him. The city burned around him, but he didn’t care. The world could end, and it wouldn’t matter. You were gone. The one who had brought light into his life, who had stood by him even when the odds were stacked against them, was gone. And it was his fault. He had promised to protect you, and he had failed.

His tears fell freely now, mingling with the blood and soot that covered your face. He pressed his forehead to yours, his voice a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Around him, the war raged on. But in that moment, Ekko was frozen, trapped in a world where the only thing that mattered was the girl he had lost. The flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, their light a cruel mockery of the fire you had once carried within you. He held you close, his heart breaking with every passing second. And as the sounds of battle echoed around him, one thought consumed him: he would never let your memory fade. He vowed to himself that he would add you onto a mural, the one were the rest of the people he cared about were. The future you had dreamed of, the one you had believed in, it was his now. And he would fight for it, no matter the cost.

a/n. first time doing angst for him…idk if i can even do this to him bro 😞 (literally wrote this while at work so sorry if it doesn’t make sense)!

banner. @anitalenia

[supernovalcholism]

A "Quick" Experiment

ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

18+ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ | ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴀʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀʙ ᴀʟʟ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴏᴍᴀʟʏ. ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴏᴜʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀʙ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʀʟʏ? ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛ! ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴄᴇ!

ᶜʷ: ˢᵐᵘᵗ, ᵒʳᵃˡ ⁽ᵐ ʳᵉᶜᵉⁱᵛⁱⁿᵍ⁾

Now, as you glance across the room, you see Viktor hunched over his desk, deeply absorbed in a file Heimerdinger had passed along. His messy hair falls slightly into his face, and his sharp features are softened by the dim light of his workspace. He’s been working tirelessly for weeks, and though you’re already two weeks ahead on your own tasks, you can’t help but think of easing his burden.

You and Viktor have always had an... awkward relationship. From the very first day you met, there had been a strange rhythm to your interactions—flustered smiles, shifty glances, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. When you were hired as the Assistant to the Dean of The Academy, Viktor was the one who showed you the ropes, walking you through the intricacies of their systems. He was always so gentle, so patient, and yet there was something in the way he spoke to you that made your chest tighten and your words stumble.

“Is there anything I can help with?” you offer, stepping closer, your voice gentle but carrying enough firmness to show you mean it.

Viktor doesn’t look up right away, his attention still fixed on the document as his finger traces the edge of the paper. Then, after a moment, his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Yes, I’d very much appreciate it.” His tone carries a warmth that lights a spark of satisfaction in your chest.

Encouraged, you approach his desk, leaning against the edge casually, trying to mask the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. Viktor’s demeanor changes instantly. He sits upright, hurriedly fixing his posture as though your nearness alone had startled him into alertness.

“I can review some of those files for you,” you say, your hand brushing lightly against the corner of the desk as you lean closer. His gaze flickers to your hand and back to your face, something unreadable glinting in his amber eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, almost hesitant. You’ve never seen him flustered like this before, and it stirs something in you—curiosity, amusement, and maybe something else.

As you reach for the pile of papers he slides toward you, your fingers brush against his, a fleeting contact that lingers longer in your mind than it does in reality. His breath hitches ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirks as though he’s fighting a smile—or a deeper thought.

The air feels charged again, like it always does when you’re near him. But for now, you both focus on the task at hand, the silence between you a curious mix of comfort and tension.

You take the stack of papers Viktor hands you, the tips of his fingers grazing yours. The contact is fleeting, but the heat of it lingers, spreading up your arm like wildfire. You glance at him, but he’s already looking away, his jaw tightening as he picks up his pen and pretends to focus on the document in front of him.

The silence stretches, heavy and electric. You settle into the chair beside his desk, spreading the papers across the surface. His scent—warm, faintly metallic—lingers in the air between you, and you swear the space feels smaller now. Tension knots in your chest as you catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he says, his voice low, almost strained. “I can manage—”

“I don’t mind,” you cut him off, offering a soft smile that you hope masks the pounding of your heart. “Besides, two heads are better than one, right?”

He nods, but his lips press into a thin line, and his pen freezes mid-word. You watch as he exhales sharply through his nose, his hand flexing around the pen before he sets it down with deliberate care.

“Are you always this insistent?” he murmurs, his tone teasing, but there’s a tightness there, like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Only when I think someone needs help but won’t admit it,” you reply, keeping your tone light despite the way the air between you feels like it’s vibrating.

He chuckles, the sound soft but rough around the edges. “You are... persistent.”

“And you are stubborn,” you counter, looking up at him. For a moment, neither of you says anything. His amber eyes meet yours, and the weight of his gaze makes your breath hitch. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something cautious but undeniably hungry.

You realize you’re leaning closer, the papers on the desk all but forgotten. Viktor’s hand twitches, like he’s debating whether to reach out, but he stops himself, his fingers curling into a loose fist.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Like what?” You ask, your voice unsteady, though you already know the answer.

“Like you want something you shouldn’t,” he says, the words dragging out of him like they hurt to admit.

Your heart skips a beat, and the air around you feels impossibly thick. “And what if I do?”

He inhales sharply, his posture stiffening as though he’s trying to put space between you without actually moving. His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker down to your lips for the briefest second before returning to your gaze.

“Then you are playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, his voice so low it sends a shiver down your spine.

You lean back slightly, not out of retreat but to let the weight of his words settle. Your pulse thunders in your ears, and yet, a part of you thrills at the crack in his otherwise composed exterior.

“I don’t think you’d let me lose,” you say, your tone softer now, more vulnerable.

His breath catches again, and for a moment, he looks torn. His hand moves, just barely, as if he’s considering reaching for you, but instead, he clenches it into a fist and pulls it back.

“You are too bold,” he mutters, though there’s no real bite to his words.

“And you’re too guarded,” you counter, leaning forward again, challenging him.

This time, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze locks onto yours, his amber eyes burning with something fierce, something he’s clearly been trying to bury. The silence between you crackles, like the tension has reached its breaking point, and you know—both of you know—that something is about to crack open.

The weight of Viktor's gaze pins you in place, the unspoken tension between you finally snapping the fragile veil of pretense. Neither of you moves for what feels like an eternity, the charged silence filling the room until it’s almost unbearable.

“Boldness suits you,” Viktor finally says, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. His words are deliberate, measured, as though each syllable is testing the boundaries of whatever invisible line exists between you.

“And restraint suits you,” you reply, your voice trembling slightly. “But I’m starting to think you don’t want it to.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—surprise, hunger, a hint of surrender. His fingers, which had been so tightly curled against the edge of the desk, unclench, and he shifts closer, almost imperceptibly, as though drawn in by an invisible force.

You don’t know who moves first. One moment, the space between you is thick with unresolved tension, and the next, it’s gone. His hand brushes against your arm, tentative, as though testing the waters, before sliding up to cup your jaw. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver down your spine.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his breath fanning against your lips, his voice hoarse but steady.

You meet his gaze, and instead of answering, you lean into his touch, your lips parting just slightly in invitation. It’s all the encouragement he needs.

The kiss starts slow, hesitant, like he’s still fighting against himself, but that hesitation evaporates the moment your hand slides to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He deepens the kiss, his lips firm yet gentle, exploring yours with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the intensity building between you.

You lose yourself in the moment, the world outside his office fading into irrelevance. His other hand comes to rest at your waist, steadying you as you tilt further into him, your heart hammering against your ribs. His touch isn’t rushed—it’s purposeful, like he’s memorizing the contours of your frame, the curve of your lips, the way your breaths hitch when he leans just a little closer.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathless, his forehead resting lightly against yours. The air between you feels just as charged as before, but now it carries a different weight—an understanding, an unspoken promise.

“This is dangerous,” Viktor whispers, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “But sometimes danger is worth it.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “You are relentless.”

"And you like it," you counter softly, your hand still resting against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. He doesn't deny it. Instead, he leans in again, pressing a softer, lingering kiss to your lips-a silent acknowledgment that whatever this is, he isn't ready to let it go just yet.

Viktor’s lips linger on yours, softer this time, more deliberate, as if savoring the moment. When he finally pulls away, his hand remains on your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheekbone. His amber eyes search yours, filled with a mix of uncertainty and longing, like he’s trying to understand what’s just happened—what this means.

“I shouldn’t…” he starts, but his voice falters, betraying his resolve.

“But you did,” you reply softly, your hand still resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths. “And I’m not sorry.”

His lips twitch into a faint, rueful smile. “You are… impossible.”

“And yet, here we are,” you say, a hint of teasing in your tone. You tilt your head slightly, your fingers trailing down the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me you regret it, and I’ll leave. Tell me this doesn’t mean anything to you, and I’ll never bring it up again.”

His eyes darken, the air around you growing heavier as he studies your face in silence. The tension is unbearable, every second stretching longer than the last. Finally, he exhales, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of his inner conflict is too much to carry.

“I cannot regret something I’ve wanted for so long,” he admits quietly, the words barely louder than a whisper.

Your breath catches, your chest tightening at his confession. “Then don’t push me away,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you.

Viktor’s hand moves from your jaw to your waist, hesitant but firm, as though he’s still testing the boundaries of this newfound intimacy. “You do not make this easy,” he murmurs, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But then, nothing worthwhile ever is.”

He leans in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that feels different from the first—deeper, more certain. His other hand moves to your back, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. Your hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling in the soft, slightly unruly strands as you lose yourself in the moment.

Time seems to blur, the world outside his office forgotten as the kiss intensifies. Every touch, every movement feels like a silent conversation, an unspoken agreement that whatever this is, it’s real. It’s messy, complicated, and undeniably real.

When you finally part again, both of you are breathless, your foreheads pressed together. Viktor’s hands remain on your waist, his grip grounding you in the reality of the moment.

“This changes things,” he says softly, his voice tinged with both apprehension and hope.

“It doesn’t have to,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “We can figure it out. Together.”

His lips curve into a small, genuine smile, the kind that makes your heart skip a beat. “You are far braver than I am.”

“Or just as foolish,” you counter, grinning.

Viktor chuckles, the sound low and warm, before pressing one last, tender kiss to your forehead. “Perhaps a bit of both,” he says, his tone lighter now, though the weight of what’s just happened still lingers. Readers' arms rest on his shoulders. "...Viktor..?"

"Yes?" He gazes into her eyes.

"Would it be foolish of me...if i—" Readers hands slowly trail down his chest, then his stomach. Then, he rests on his waist. Reader sits, laying on the desk in front of him.

"—had my way with you?"

Viktor's breath hitches, his eyes widening for just a moment before they soften, a mix of surprise and something deeper flickering in their amber depths. He swallows hard, as though trying to steady himself, his gaze darting between your eyes and your lips.

"Foolish?" he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. A faint, nervous chuckle escapes him as his hands come to rest on either side of your hips, his fingers twitching slightly as if unsure of their place.

"I think... it would be far more foolish of me to refuse." Your lips curve into a sly smile, emboldened by his words, as you lean_ forward, your proximity making his breath catch once again. His cheeks flush a faint crimson, and you can feel the tension radiating from him, an intoxicating mix of nervousness and desire. "You're so easy to fluster, Viktor," you tease, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pull him just a little closer. His lips part as though to respond, but the words catch in his throat, replaced by a soft exhale that betrays how deeply you affect him. "You say that," he finally manages, his_ voice low and tinged with a hint of self-deprecating humor, "but you leave me no time to prepare." His lips quirk into a shy, lopsided smile, and for a moment, the tension melts into something tender.

But the heat in his gaze returns almost immediately as you tug him even closer, your fingers trailing up his sides to his collar, toying with the fabric. He sways just slightly toward you, as though drawn by some invisible force, his breath mingling with yours. "So... no preparation?" you whisper, your voice laced with mischief. His laugh is soft but genuine, the sound rumbling against you. "None," he concedes, his voice raspier now, his hands tightening their hold on your hips as if to ground himself. "You're entirely too good at this.' "And you're entirely too irresistible," you reply, your tone dripping with sincerity as you tilt your head slightly, your lips just a breath awav from his.

His composure finally cracks, and with a deep, shuddering breath, Viktor closes the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that's equal parts gentle and fervent, as if he's been holding back for far too long. The world around you seems to fade, leaving only the two of you in this perfect, stolen moment.

The kiss deepens quickly, urgency seeping into every movement. Viktor's careful composure shatters as his hands grip your hips more firmly, pulling you flush against him. His lips press harder against yours, and a quiet, ragged sound escapes him, almost a whimper, as if he's overwhelmed by how much he wants you. You respond in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to erase every bit of distance between you. The gentle warmth of his earlier touch gives way something far more desperate, his lips parting against yours as the kiss grows feverish. His breaths are uneven, mingling with yours, and you can feel the pounding of his heart beneath your hands as they slide up his chest and clutch at the coll- of his shirt.

"Viktor–" you gasp against his mouth, the sound trembling with need, and it seems to spur him on. His hands slide up your sides, roaming with newfound confidence, his fingertips brushing the edge of your shirt before gripping your waist again, as if afraid you'll pull away.

"I-" he begins, his voice thick with emotion, but you cut him off with another kiss, desperate and consuming, pulling a low groan from his throat. His lips move fervently against yours, almost frantic, as though he's trying to pour every ounce of unspoken feeling into this moment. You lean back slightly, your weight pressing into the desk, pulling him with you.

His body follows instinctively, one hand bracing against the desk beside you while the other slips under your shirt, his touch searing against your skin. The roughness of his movements contrasts with the tremor in his hands, a reflection of the storm of emotions roiling within him. His lips leave yours briefly, trailing down your jaw and neck with an uncharacteristic hunger, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. He presses open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. His name spills from your lips, desperate and raw, and the sound only seems to fuel him further.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and strained, yet his hands and lips betray no intention of halting.

"I won't," you reply breathlessly, pulling him impossibly closer, your nails digging into his shoulders as if to anchor yourself in the whirlwind of passion threatening to consume you both. His lips return to yours, and this time, there's no hesitation-only raw, unrestrained need as the kiss grows impossibly deeper, each movement charged with desperation and longing.

Viktor groans against your lips, his body pressing firmly into yours, the weight of him grounding you even as the world seems to tilt on its axis. His hand roams under your shirt, the pads of his fingers tracing fiery paths along your skin. Every touch is possessive yet reverent, as though he's memorizing every inch of you, every reaction he pulls from you. The desk creaks beneath you as you shift, leaning back further to accommodate him. Viktor follows without hesitation, his hips pressing flush against yours now, the tension between you crackling like electricity. His lips leave yours again, his breath ragged as he trails kisses along your jawline, your neck, and the hollow of your throat. The desperate way he mouths at your skin leaves you trembling, gasping his name in a way that makes his grip on you tighten.

"You—You drive me mad," he breathes against your collarbone.

Viktor’s hands tremble as they explore the bare skin now exposed to him, his fingertips leaving trails of fire along your sides. He hesitates for the briefest of moments, as though still in disbelief that this is happening, before his lips crash against yours again, even more desperate than before. His kiss is raw and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip, drawing a soft moan from you that seems to shatter what little control he has left.

His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss, while his other hand moves to your thigh, sliding up the bare skin until it grips your hip firmly. His touch is rougher now, his usual careful precision lost in the haze of his desire. The desk beneath you groans in protest as he pushes you back further, his body leaning over yours, his weight pressing you down in a way that makes you feel utterly claimed.

“Viktor,” you gasp against his lips, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a guttural groan from him that sends a shiver down your spine. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin, teeth grazing and biting gently in a way that leaves you breathless.

“You're intoxicating–” he murmurs against your neck, his voice rough and low, sending a ripple of heat through you. “I— I can’t think, can’t breathe when I’m near you.”

“Then don’t think,” you whisper, your voice trembling but firm as your hands tug at his shirt, finally pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. The sight of him—his lean, scarred frame, his chest heaving with every ragged breath—only fuels the fire burning between you. You trail your hands over his chest, your touch reverent but purposeful, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your fingers.

His lips find yours again, his kiss hard and demanding, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer. You arch into him, your body reacting instinctively to his, and the heat between you becomes unbearable. Viktor’s grip tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as if he’s afraid to let go, and the desperation in his movements matches your own.

You pull him down with you as you lean fully onto the desk, his body covering yours, his weight anchoring you in the dizzying intensity of the moment. His lips never leave yours, his kisses growing sloppier, hungrier, as though he’s trying to devour you, to consume every part of you.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, the rustle of fabric, and the occasional groan or gasp that escapes either of you. Time feels irrelevant—there is only Viktor, his touch, his kiss, the way his body molds against yours as if you were made for each other.

“More,” you whisper against his lips, your voice barely audible but carrying the weight of your need. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his amber eyes dark and wild, his lips swollen and parted as he tries to catch his breath.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with a mix of adoration and unrestrained want, before he captures your lips again, this time with a tenderness that contrasts the fervor of his touch, as though he wants to savor every second of this moment.

Viktor’s breath hitches as your hands trail down his chest, your fingers trembling slightly but resolute as they find the buckle of his belt. His lips falter against yours for a moment, and he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, filled with a mix of desire and uncertainty, his cheeks flush a deep crimson.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and raw, but there’s no mistaking the way his body leans into yours, craving your touch even as he hesitates.

You nod, your fingers deftly undoing the buckle, the metallic clink of it echoing softly in the room. “I’ve never been more sure,” you murmur, your voice steady despite the wild thrum of your heart. Your hands slide to the button of his trousers, your touch teasing but deliberate, and his breath shudders as he closes his eyes, clearly fighting to maintain some semblance of control.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, echoing his earlier words, but this time his voice is thick with surrender. His hands grip your hips tightly, as though grounding himself, his lips returning to yours with renewed fervor. The kiss is desperate, almost bruising, his teeth catching your lower lip in a way that sends a spark of heat coursing through you.

As you work on the fastening of his trousers, he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. His hands move over your body with an urgency that matches your own, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your waist, your thighs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The restraint he’s held onto so carefully is unraveling, and you can feel the raw need in every touch, every movement.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, his voice trembling but filled with unspoken hope that you won’t.

You shake your head, pulling him closer as you lean back further on the desk, your legs wrapping around his waist to draw him in. “Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders. “Please, Viktor… don’t stop.”

His composure shatters completely at your words, a guttural sound escaping him as his lips crash into yours again. His hands move with more confidence now, one sliding under your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek tenderly even as the kiss grows hungrier.

The tension in the air is electric, the world outside fading into nothingness as Viktor’s weight presses into you, his body aligning with yours as though the two of you were made for this moment. Every breath, every touch, every whispered word between kisses pulls you both deeper into the intoxicating haze, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.

<^>

With a man so intelligent, with dazzling good looks and the softest eyes you've ever seen— how could you stay away?

<^> <^> <^>

Pt2 coming soon... let me know what yall thought and if you want a part 2!!

- Enya

[moonreader1010]

Your first kiss with your lover 💋

-by Valerie 🍓

Pick one of the following piles angel,

Pile 1. Pile 2.

Pile 3 ^

Note:- -choose the pile that you intuitively feel connected to

-the pictures don't belong to me. All rights go to the original owners

-a really special friend inspired me to do this reading :)

-can you tell that I love the moon and the word 'lover'

Pile 1).

A Spark of Destiny

Your first kiss with your lover feels like an awakening, a moment where everything in the universe aligns to bring you together. It's not just a kiss—it's a culmination of energies, as if every step you've both taken in life has led to this exact moment. Picture it: you're in a quiet garden, perhaps near a sparkling lake as the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over everything. There's a soft breeze in the air, carrying the scent of blooming flowers, and the sound of nature humming in the background, as though the world is gently pausing to witness the magic unfolding. You find yourselves standing close, eyes locked, a warm, comfortable silence between you. The connection between you is electric—there's no need for words; the moment says everything.

When your lips finally meet, it’s gentle at first, almost reverent, as if you both sense the depth of the connection you're sharing. Time seems to slow down, and for a few seconds, you’re both lost in the sensation of each other. The kiss deepens gradually, tender yet full of undeniable passion, as if this was the only thing that could have ever happened in that moment. There’s a sense of tranquility, like you've finally found the person who complements you in every way. It’s a moment of peace and joy, knowing that this connection is not just a fleeting encounter, but something that was always meant to happen. You pull away slowly, eyes meeting with an unspoken understanding that this kiss is just the beginning of something much more profound. The world feels brighter, as though everything is now aligned perfectly. There's a sense of calm and fulfillment, knowing you’re exactly where you need to be.

Pile 2).

An Unexpected Connection

Your first kiss with your lover is raw, spontaneous, and filled with a surprising depth of emotion. It’s the kind of kiss that sneaks up on you—no plans, no expectations, just the two of you caught in the pull of a shared connection. Imagine this: you're both walking down a quiet street late in the evening, the fading light casting soft shadows on the pavement. Maybe you’ve just finished a fun, easy-going conversation, laughing about something that only the two of you find hilarious, when suddenly, there’s a shift in the air. Without thinking, you both lean in—there’s a subtle tension that builds between you, not uncomfortable, but something that both of you are finally ready to confront.

The kiss comes unexpectedly, almost out of instinct. At first, it’s a soft brush of lips, tentative, unsure—almost as if neither of you is certain what to do with this newfound closeness. But as the seconds stretch on, something clicks, and the kiss becomes more confident, more passionate. The uncertainty fades, and you both find yourselves completely immersed in the feeling of each other. It’s not the kind of kiss you’d plan for a perfect moment, but it’s real, and it’s full of raw emotion. In that moment, you feel an overwhelming sense of clarity. All the words you hadn’t been able to say before suddenly rush to the surface, but this kiss speaks louder than any confession ever could. You feel connected in a way that doesn’t need perfection or timing—just pure emotion, raw and unfiltered.

Pile 3).

A Rush of Passion

Your first kiss with your lover is nothing short of explosive. There’s an undeniable chemistry between you that ignites the moment your eyes meet. It’s not a soft, romantic kiss filled with tenderness—it’s fiery, driven by a burning desire to close the space between you. Picture this: you're both at a vibrant party, the room filled with the rhythm of upbeat music, people laughing, and the energy in the air crackling. The atmosphere is alive, buzzing with excitement, and neither of you can deny the magnetic pull that’s drawing you closer with every passing moment. There’s no time for hesitation—this is a moment of pure impulse, an unspoken understanding that neither of you wants to wait any longer.

When your lips finally meet, it’s fast and full of passion. There's no soft build-up, no waiting—it’s an explosion of energy, a collision of bodies and emotions. Your hands are on each other almost immediately, pulling one another closer, as if you can’t get enough of the contact. The kiss is messy, intense, filled with a hunger that feels almost insatiable. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your heart race and leaves you breathless, as though the world has suddenly narrowed to just the two of you. You both pull back for a moment, your breath mingling in the space between you, but the chemistry is undeniable—this isn’t just a kiss, it’s the ignition of something wild and thrilling. The night feels like it’s just beginning, and with every second, the connection grows stronger, more intense. It’s a moment that leaves you both breathless, but also craving more, knowing that this is just the beginning of something unforgettable.

[hauntsoul]

— Beneath the Spotlight.

SYNOPSIS: You, a devoted fan, are thrilled when Park Sunghoon, a famous idol, slips a secret note into your pocket at his fan meeting. But as the days pass, you start to wonder if his fleeting attention was ever meant to last.

GENRE: 18+ (minors dni), toxic, angst, little fluff.

WORD COUNT: 7.1k

PAIRING: idol!sunghoon x obsessedfan!reader (sunghoon is pretty toxic)

WARNING: toxic dynamic, oral (f. receiving), fingering, overstimulation, no protection, bathing together, phone sex?, masturbation (f), choking, creampie, reader has no self respect. halfway through is not proofread.

AUTHORS NOTE: hello! this is my first ever post so i hope you all will enjoy it. this is actually based off a manga i read a while ago, so full inspiration from there. i hope you all love the story. <3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Park Sunghoon.

A name that tastes like honey on your tongue.

A name that echoes in your mind, sending you through spirals.

A name you’ve engraved into your heart.

His face dominates your world. His posters cover every inch of your walls, his piercing gaze watching you wherever you go. Your lockscreen? A candid shot from his last concert, sweat dripping down his jawline, his expression so intimidating it feels intimate. His voice? It fills every moment of silence, every song on your playlist filled with his songs, his melodic tone.

You’re obsessed. Not the dangerous kind, not yet, but close enough to feel the lines blur. You know him better than you know yourself, or so you tell yourself. For three years, you’ve followed his journey. From him starting his path on the ice rink, his movements elegant, to the idol on many global stages, with millions of fans following him. Including you of course.

Currently, he stands in front of you. Well, in front of thousands. The stage lights catch every angle of his sharp features, making him appear almost otherworldly. The microphone amplifies his voice: smooth, melodic, and commanding, as he speaks to the audience.

You’ve been to countless fan meetings before, how could you ever miss one? But no matter how many times you see him, the sight of Park Sunghoon always leaves you fascinated.

He smiles as he talks about the little things, the cheery moments he shared with his family during his break. The crowd laughs, cheers, and some even shout desperate attempts to catch his attention. And he rewards them with a polite smile, a small nod, or a fleeting glance.

But to you, every gesture from him gives you butterflies. His black hair falls effortlessly into place, framing his flawless face. His piercing eyes scan the crowd, and even though they never land on you, it feels like they do. The tiny mole near his eye, the way he smiles, it’s all too perfect, too intoxicating.

You can’t stop staring. You can’t look away.

"Now, it’s the fun part!” Sunghoon exclaims, his voice sparking excitement through the crowd.

The audience buzzes with anticipation, murmurs spreading around rapidly. Fun part? Your stomach tightens, a mix of curiosity and hope swirling inside you.

The stage lights brighten as staff members hurry onto the platform, carrying a small table with a large glass bowl resting on top. Sunghoon steps forward, his presence catching everyone’s attention.

“In this bowl,” he announces, his voice smooth and teasing, “are slips with seat numbers. If I pick your number, you’ll get the lucky chance to come on stage and take a photo with me.”

The crowd explodes into cheers and screams, the energy palpable. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Could it be you? Out of thousands of people, could you really be the one?

Sunghoon dips his hand into the bowl, the motion slow and deliberate. Your breath catches as you watch his fingers swirl through the slips of paper, your body tense. The air feels heavy, and every second stretches longer than it should.

Finally, he pulls out a slip, holding it between his fingers like it holds the secrets of the universe. The audience hushes, a sharp silence falling over the room. Your palms are clammy, and you press them against your thighs.

“B14!”

Gasps ripple through the crowd as heads twist, scanning for the lucky winner. You glance down at the back of your seat, where “G25” is engraved, and disappointment sinks in. Not you.

“It seems like B14 isn’t here,” Sunghoon remarks, his tone light. He reaches back into the bowl, his hand swirling through the papers again.

Your heart races faster, the hope creeping back in. Your fingers clutch the armrests, nails digging into the fabric. Time slows as he pulls out another slip, unfolding it with a teasing smile.

“G25.”

Your heart stops. For a moment, the world seems to blur, the only thing you hear is the pounding of your pulse.

Your seat number.

Your heart thunders wildly in your chest. You’re going to be up close with Park Sunghoon.

Slowly, you rise from your seat, your knees shaky, the weight of thousands of eyes falling on you. But it doesn’t matter, not when his eyes find yours. For a brief moment, Sunghoon stares, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your breath hitch. The corner of his lips curls into a slow, deliberate smirk. He lifts a finger, motioning for you to come on stage.

And you do.

Each step toward him feels surreal, like you’re walking through a dream. The bright stage lights blind you for a second, but then you see him. Right in front of you. Closer than you’ve ever imagined.

He’s perfect… no, more than perfect. Up close, he seems almost unreal, his features sharper. The crowd murmurs, some fans letting out squeals of excitement, but all you can focus on is him.

Sunghoon extends a hand, his fingers long and steady. Tentatively, you place yours in his. His palm is warm, his grip firm, and it swallows yours completely. With a gentle tug, he pulls you closer, so close you can feel his breath ghost against your skin.

Then, he wraps his arms around you.

Your heart threatens to burst as he holds you, his embrace firm yet careful, like he knows exactly what this moment means to you. His scent: fresh and intoxicating, fills your senses, and for a second, the world disappears. You don’t want to move. You don’t want this to end.

A camera flashes, and Sunghoon tilts his head toward you, his lips brushing close to your ear.

“Look at the camera, princess.” he whispers, his voice low, sending shivers down your spine.

You glance up, dazed, and meet his smirking gaze as the camera captures the moment.

You plaster a smile on your face as the cameras flash, capturing the moment that feels too perfect to be real. But then, you feel it; a subtle movement, his hand slipping into your pocket. Your heart skips a beat. Did he just…?

You turn your head slightly to look at him, confusion flickering in your eyes. Sunghoon doesn’t say a word, only meeting your gaze with a soft, knowing smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes your knees weak.

Your heart flutters, the moment feeling surreal, almost too good to be true. His closeness, the way his presence dominates everything else, leaves you breathless. But as quickly as it began, it’s over.

The staff gestures for you to step down, and disappointment washes over you like a cold wave. You force yourself to walk off the stage, each step feeling heavier as the distance between you and Sunghoon grows. Your chest tightens as you return to your seat, the memory of his warmth already fading.

But still, you smile faintly to yourself. You got a picture with Park Sunghoon, not just a picture, the picture. His arms were around you, holding you like you mattered, even for a fleeting moment.

As you settle back into your seat, a strange sensation tugs at your memory. The pocket.

Your hand shoots down to check, your fingers brushing against a small slip of paper. Pulling it out, your breath catches. Written in messy handwriting are the words:

“Call me. +0 xxxx xxxxx xxx”

Your heart stops, the paper trembling in your hands. You glance up at the stage, where Sunghoon continues to smile and interact with the crowd, as if nothing had happened.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed, clutching the small slip of paper in your trembling hand. Your eyes scan the number over and over, your thoughts racing uncontrollably. Is this a joke? Why would he do this?

Your heart pounds in your chest as doubt creeps in. Was he just playing with you? Or could this really be real?

Your other hand hesitates as it slips into your pocket and pulls out your phone. The paper crinkles softly in your grasp as you stare at the digits, debating with yourself. But before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers move almost instinctively, typing the number into your contacts.

You pause. Your thumb hovers over the screen for a long moment before you finally gather the courage to send a single message:

“hello?”

The moment the message delivers, you throw your phone onto the bed, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest. You bury your face in your hands, convinced this is all some elaborate prank. Maybe he does this at every fan meeting. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

The sound jolts you, and your head snaps up. Your breathing falters as you reach for the screen, hands shaking slightly. With a swipe, the notification pops up:

“hello princess.”

Your heart freezes. The room feels smaller, like the air’s been sucked out of it. Staring at the message, you feeling your heart beat rapidly.

It wasn’t a prank. It was real.

And Sunghoon had just texted you.

“R u real..?” you type, your hands trembling as you hit send.

The response comes almost instantly, as if he was waiting for you.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I put my number in your pocket, after all.”

You stare at the screen, biting your lip. The words feel surreal, like something straight out of a dream or maybe a cruel joke. You sigh, still unable to shake the doubt crawling through your mind.

Before you can respond, another message pops up:

“By the way, I told you to call me, not text me.”

“So call me.”

Your heart races, the pounding in your ears almost drowning out everything else. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the screen.

Could this really be happening?

Your thumb hovers over the call button, hesitation gripping you. But the curiosity, the chance that this might be real, pushes you forward.

With a deep breath, you press it.

The phone rings twice. Just twice.

Then, the other line picks up.

Your heart stops as silence falls between you, your hand gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turn white. You stay quiet, your mind scrambling for what to say, still half-convinced this is some elaborate prank.

But then you hear it:

“Are you gonna speak to me?” His voice is smooth, teasing yet commanding, the kind that makes your chest tighten.

It’s really him. You’re actually talking to the real Park Sunghoon.

“H-Hello…” you manage to stutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles softly on the other end, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “You sound nervous, princess. Didn’t I tell you to call me? And here you are, all shy now.”

“I-I just didn’t know if it was really you…” you admit, your words tumbling out awkwardly.

“You doubted me?” he asks, his tone light but with a faint edge of amusement. “Do you think I go around giving random fans my number?”

“No! I just—” you stammer, but he cuts you off."

"Relax,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, more serious now. “I wouldn’t waste my time playing games like that. If I put my number in your pocket, it’s because I wanted you to use it.”

The way he says it... so certain, makes your heart race even faster.

“O-Okay…” you stutter, unsure of what else to say.

“Good.” He pauses, and you hear the faint sound of him shifting, like he’s getting comfortable.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of confusion and excitement talking to him.

"I’m sorry, but I just want to know… why did you want me to have your number?" You ask, your voice trembling slightly, unsure of how to phrase it. "I mean… isn’t this kind of dangerous for your reputation?"

He laughs, the sound low and rich, like it’s just for you. "Anything’s worth a risk if it’s with a pretty girl like you."

The words hit you like a wave. Pretty. Park Sunghoon just called you pretty. Your heart flutters uncontrollably, a rush of warmth flooding your cheeks. You can almost feel the heat spreading across your face as your mind tries to catch up with his words.

"Y-You think I’m pretty?" You manage to ask, barely able to form a coherent sentence.

"Did you think I was just playing around?" He pauses, a smirk evident in his voice. "I don’t give out my number to just anyone, princess. I gave it to you because I wanted to."

You swallow hard, trying to steady your breath. The idea of him wanting you feels almost impossible, but his confidence, his voice, so sure of itself, makes it feel like nothing could be truer.

"You’re still quiet," he adds, his voice dropping lower. "You’re shy, aren’t you?"

"I’m not shy," you lie, but even you can hear the hesitation in your voice.

"Mm, sure you’re not." He laughs again, but this time, it feels more teasing, like he’s enjoying every bit of your nervousness. "You’re just nervous because you know I’m real. You can hear my voice, feel the heat between us already. Don’t tell me it doesn’t make you want me, too."

Your breath catches. The way he speaks, so sure of himself, like he already knows everything about you, makes your pulse spike. "I… I don’t know what to say."

"You don’t have to say anything," he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. "Just listen, and let me show you how real this is."

Your heart beats faster, the line between fantasy and reality blurring with every word he speaks.

"Just admit it," he continues, his tone turning more seductive. "You wanted this. You wanted me to notice you. And now I have."

You can barely breathe, his words echoing in your mind. "I… I didn’t think it would be like this."

"Of course, you didn’t," he says, his voice full of confidence. "But now that we’re here, don’t pretend you’re not enjoying it. Don’t pretend you don’t want more."

You bite your lip, your thoughts racing. How could you want anything else? He made it clear that he was interested in you, and the idea of it is too thrilling to ignore.

"Tell me," he presses, his voice low and husky, "do you want more?"

Your heart stops at the question. But the truth is, you don’t even have to think about it. "Yes." The word slips out before you can stop it.

"Yeah, princess?" His voice is a low, teasing drawl, almost like he's savoring every moment.

You can feel your breath hitching, your nerves on edge, unable to believe this is really happening. Just a few hours ago, you were in the crowd, just another face in the sea of fans, and now your here, getting wet while he's on the other line.

You couldn't help it. The way he teased you, the tone of his voice, dominant and authoritative. You could feel your panties grow increasingly wet the more he talked to you.

You needed him, and you wanted him to know that.

"Sunghoon.." you murmur as you slowly slide your hand underneath your underwear, your fingers feeling your aching clit.

"Mm, I'm listening princess. I know what you want." His voice gets raspy, which only led to you to rub your clit in a faster pace. God, it felt so good. This wasn't the first time you've touched yourself to Sunghoon.

But this was different, he could hear you. He could hear your light whimpers as you rubbed your clit to his voice. You imagined his large veiny hands slowly going down on your aching wet cunt and fingering you till you couldn't take it anymore.

Suddenly, he hangs up the phone.

You stare at your phone screen, wide-eyed and in disbelief. The call abruptly ends, leaving you in the sudden silence. Your heart pounds, a mix of confusion and frustration clouding your thoughts. Was that it? Did he just... hang up?

For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to move. You stare at the blank screen, hoping he might call back. Maybe it was an accident, right? Maybe he had to go. But as the seconds tick by, you feel your disappointment kicking in.

You clutch your phone tighter, trying to calm your racing mind. Was he playing with you? Why would he do that? You thought everything was going well. But now... there’s only silence, and it makes your thoughts spiral.

"Did I do something wrong?" you whisper to yourself, unsure if you even want an answer.

Minutes pass. You’re about to convince yourself that it was all a mistake when your phone buzzes suddenly, breaking the silence.

It's a message from Sunghoon.

When you click on the notification, your shocked to see that it wasn't a message he sent, but a location.

Your pulse quickens as your eyes scan the address. It’s a motel, not too far from where you live. The realization hits you like a cold wave, leaving you both excited and nervous at once. What was he thinking? Why here?

You stare at the screen, your heart racing as your fingers hover over the keys. Is this real? You ask yourself.

But before you can talk yourself out of it, you find yourself typing a response, your mind still whirling.

"I’m on my way."

The ride to the motel feels like it takes forever, your thoughts bouncing between excitement and anxiety. You keep imagining what will happen when you get there, what he’ll say, what you’ll do. Your hands are clammy, your stomach doing flips with each passing minute.

Finally, you arrive, the dim lights of the motel casting long shadows over the parking lot. The nerves in your body are almost overwhelming, and yet, you feel a magnetic pull urging you forward.

You take a deep breath and step out of your car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Every step feels heavy as you walk toward the entrance. Your heart beats faster with each step closer to the room.

You reach the door, and before you can even knock, it swings open.

There he is. Park Sunghoon. Standing just a few feet away, his expression unreadable. His eyes meet yours, and in that moment, the world around you seems to disappear.

"Come in," he says, his voice calm but holding an intensity that makes your pulse race.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should take the step forward, but his gaze holds you in place, pulling you in. You don’t say a word as you walk into the room, your breath shallow, your body tense with anticipation.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and you’re left standing there, face-to-face with him.

As you step into the dimly lit room, the door softly closing behind you, the air shifts. The space feels smaller somehow, as if the weight of what’s about to happen is pressing in around you. Sunghoon stands in the center of the room, looking at you with that familiar intensity, his eyes dark yet filled with something more.

He doesn’t speak at first, just watches you with a quiet sort of patience, as if giving you time to adjust to the moment. Your heart races, and you feel the familiar flutter of nerves settle deep in your stomach.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low, coaxing.

You hesitate for a moment, the air thick with the unspoken tension. You know what he wants, but there’s still something inside you that holds back, unsure of whether you should take that next step. But Sunghoon doesn’t wait for you to make up your mind. With a few slow steps, he closes the distance between you, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek.

His touch is soft but firm, as if he’s grounding you, and you can’t help but lean into it. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow, soothing circles, and the tension between you builds, an electric current crackling in the space around you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his words so quiet you almost think you imagined them. But you didn’t. His eyes never leave yours, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses your face, as if he’s searching for something, something to pull him closer.

You swallow hard, your pulse quickening at his words, feeling like they hold more weight than they should. There’s something in the way he says it, the way his voice dips, just turns you on.

The space between you seems to disappear in an instant, and Sunghoon leans in just enough to rest his forehead against yours. The proximity makes your breath catch in your throat, the tension between you almost suffocating, but at the same time, you can’t tear yourself away.

For a moment, neither of you moves, both of you just breathing in the same air, letting the silence stretch between you, heavy with anticipation. You feel like you’re on the edge of something, but you’re not sure what that something is yet.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to be close to you.”

Before you can react, Sunghoon tilts his head just slightly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a light, lingering kiss. His breath is warm against your skin, and the softness of his kiss sends a flutter through you. It’s gentle, but the weight of it makes your chest tighten, a quiet but undeniable ache building inside you.

When he pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes again, you can see it in his gaze, he wants you right now.

It’s your turn now, and without thinking, you close the space between you, your lips meeting his in a rough, intense kiss. It’s everything—the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer with a quiet urgency. The kiss deepens, his tongue making way into your mouth. His free hand makes it's way under your shirt, as he manages to unclasp your bra easily.

You pull away from the kiss, looking at his piercing eyes. Sunghoon breathes slowly, staring right you with a smirk on his face. And just like a flash, you could feel him roughly pull up your shirt, causing your bra to fall in the process. Now you stood completely topless infront of him.

He stared at your delicate breasts, before lowering himself to lick your hard nipple. You bite your lips to hold back a whimper that dared to escape. He looked so fucking good. His eyes wander back up at yours before he latched his mouth on your entire nipple, sucking softly. You could feel yourself grow wet at his actions as you whimpered softly at the gentle pleasure Sunghoon was giving you. He slowly pulls away and gives small kisses to your breast before trailing it down your stomach.

"You're so fucking pretty. I need to taste that pussy princess." Sunghoon whispers before pulling down your skirt, revealing the cute pink lacy panties you wore, just for him.

He smirks at the sight of them, your stomach churned in embarrassment as he slowly pulled down your panties, a trail of your wetness sticking onto the pantie as it went down.

Sunghoon almost drools at the sight of your wet pussy. All you guys did was just kiss and yet your already this turned on? He felt himself getting hard just at the mere sight of you being this pathetic. He pushes you lightly against the wall, making you lean on it before spreading your legs slightly more open. Your whole pussy is now in clear view infront of him and the scent of your cunt is driving him crazy.

His lips make contact with the plush of your inner thighs, planting small kisses in different spots. His teasing only further driving you crazy and more needy. You let out a breathy whisper saying his name, and he just smirks while looking up at you.

His hands hold your thighs apart while he uses his thumbs to spread your pussy lips, giving your clit more space. He brings his mouth closer to your cunt before licking a small stripe from your leaking hole to your clit, spreading your wetness alll over. That action alone leaves your stomach churning. His tongue starts to give your clit small kitty licks.

"Mpmh, oh.. fuck-" you whimper as you bite your lip to prevent any more noises from leaving your mouth.

Feeling riled up, Sunghoon starts to suck on your clit. His eyes never leaving yours, staring at you while his tongue works wonders. Your fingers fists his hair as he slowly brings his fingers up to cunt, inserting a finger in. You tug his hair harder at the sudden feeling of his long finger inside you, making him moan into your wet cunt. Your moans can't stop leaving past your lips, this only motivates Sunghoon to insert another finger inside, thrusting them at a quick pace.

"It's so fucking good Hoon!-" You cry out loud, his thick fingers feeling inside your warm walls, already having you see clouds.

“Taking it like such a good girl..” he mumbles, the vibrations of his voice stimulating your clit even further.

You could feel your stomach forming a knot, it was too intense. Your legs feeling weak and the only support being Sunghoon's hands that are gripping your thighs tightly. You couldn't take it anymore.

"H-Hoon- 'm close!" You babble out. Sunghoon continues to curl his fingers inside you at an even faster pace, his tongue pressed hardly against your clit making an '8' motion. The knot becomes too tight, and you couldn't hold it in anymore.

You finally let loose, letting your orgasm wash over you. Your legs begin to tremble as you grip Sunghoon's hair so tight, you almost felt like you were about to rip some of it off his hair. His tongue and fingers slowed down a little, helping you ride off your orgasm. You take heavy breaths, looking at him as he just smiles before starting to thrust his fingers in and out of you at a rough pace.

"Hoon- I can't take it-" Your choke out your cries as now he starts to overstimulate your cunt. Your legs start to shiver and kick around gently, trying to get him off your pussy.

"Be a good girl and stay still." His voice, raspy and dominant. He only looks up at you with a smirk as his fingers ram in and out of you, making you feel the familiar feeling of the knot in your stomach again.

Not even two minutes had passed by since your first orgasm, and your already feeling your second orgasm wanting to unleash all over his fingers. Sunghoon curls his fingers, directly feeling your g-spot which sends you over the moon. And with that, you squirt all over his fingers. Making a sticky mess from your cunt to his fingers to the floor.

You look at him, still in a daze, your heart pounding relentlessly inside your chest. You were nervous—really nervous. You hadn’t done anything like this in forever, and now… with Park Sunghoon? The thought sent your mind spiraling as a bead of sweat trickled down your temple.

He seemed to sense your hesitation, his sharp gaze softening just enough to catch your unease. Without a word, his hand moved, fingers still dirty with your cum, and cupped your cheek.

“Let’s take a bath together, yeah?” His voice dropped, low and smooth. His lips curved into a faint smile. “We can’t have you all tensed up here.”

Before you could gather your thoughts, he straightened, turning with an almost lazy confidence as he headed toward the bathroom.

The warm water sunk you, soothing your tense muscles as you leaned back against the tub. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single light above the sink. You ran your fingers absentmindedly along the surface of the water, thinking about him.

A soft knock at the bathroom door startled you.

“You decent?” Sunghoon’s familiar voice called out, teasing but warm.

You managed a nervous chuckle, “We’re way past that, don’t you think?”

The door creaked open, and there he was, his dark hair slightly damp from the steam, clinging to his forehead, his eyes catching the soft light. Without saying a word, he stepped into the room, letting his towel drop with casual ease.

You quickly looked away, your cheeks flushing as the sound of water shifted behind you. You felt the weight of him stepping into the tub, the water level rising as he sank in across from you.

The space between you felt both small and vast, the soft lapping of water, the quiet hum of his breathing. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence hanging comfortably in the air.

“You’re quiet,” he finally said, his voice low.

“I just…” You paused, searching for words. “I’m still trying to process all this. It feels… surreal.”

He leaned back against the edge of the tub, his dark eyes studying you. “I get that. Believe me, I do.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Do you?”

“More than you think.” He let out a soft sigh, his gaze dropping to the water. “People always see me as… well, him. The idol. The perfect image. The untouchable Sunghoon.” His lips twitched into a bitter smile. “But that’s not who I am. Not really.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you felt your chest tighten. You leaned forward slightly, resting your arms on your knees. “Then who are you? Really?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, something raw and unguarded glimmering beneath the surface. “I’m just a guy. A guy who’s scared of letting people see the parts of him that aren’t perfect. The parts that don’t shine on stage.” He paused, his jaw tightening for a moment before continuing. “There’s so much I keep buried. So many things I’ve never told anyone.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

He hesitated, his fingers tracing small circles in the water. “Because… with you, it feels different. Like I don’t have to try so hard. Like maybe, just maybe, I can be myself for once.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you felt your chest swell with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. He looked up again, his gaze softer now, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“It’s scary, you know,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the water. “Letting someone see all the messy parts of you. But with you… it doesn’t feel so scary.”

The weight of his confession settled between you, and you realized how close you’d leaned toward him without noticing. You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing against his beneath the water.

“I’m glad you trust me,” you said softly, your voice trembling with sincerity. “It… means a lot.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, the intensity of his gaze making your breath hitch. “You’re special,” he said finally, his voice steady, resolute. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

The warmth of his words wrapped around you like a blanket, and for the first time since stepping into the tub, you felt completely at ease. The space between you... it felt safe.

The two of you sat there, the water cooling slightly as time slipped away, sharing stories and moments that no one else would ever know. And in that quiet, steamy bathroom, you felt a connection deeper than you’d ever imagined.

"It-It's too big.. fuck I can't-" you hiss out, your words coming out breathy as Sunghoon inserts his tip inside your wet hole. Of course, you both being naked in a bathtub together would lead to you being bent over the tub, his hands on your hips as he slowly inserts himself in.

"You can take it for me princess, be good and let me do the work." He says in a husky whisper.

Your walls suddenly feel full as he inserts himself fully inside your cunt. You led out a load moan, the pleasure overwhelming you. Sunghoon adjusted himself, gripping onto the flesh of your hips before starting to move.

He first moved slowly and carefully, putting just enough force to make his dick enter you all the way and make you feel completely full. His movements were perfect, the mixture of his precum and your cum from your previous orgasms creating the perfect lube for his dick. His hand on your hip tightened as he was feeling drunk every time your pussy swallowed his cock and he felt the warmth of your walls covering every inch of it.

"Fuck princess, you feel so fucking good. God, I love you and this sweet cunt of yours."

The sudden confession from your idol only makes you further clench around his cock, making him groan as he frees one of his hands from your hips to wrap them around your neck, lightly choking you.

“I-I love..- ngh-” you muttered out barely, “you..!” you emphasized that word really loudly, causing him to chuckle and to only quicken his pace, knowing the affect he had on you.

His cock twitched inside your pussy, making you understand that he's going to cum soon. You weren't getting any further from your orgasm as his movements became more rough. The sound of your guy's skins slapping each other and moans echoed throughout the bathroom. You could feel your chest burn up as he continues to quicken his pace, his balls hitting your cunt which vibrated towards your clit, giving you extra stimulation. His thrusts became more needy, and you could barely form coherent thoughts and the grip on your neck only become tighter, having you take quick breaths between each thrust.

“Hoon...!” you moaned out his name before you couldn't take it anymore. You could feel you wet yourself around his cock, causing him to let out a small chuckle as the scene got more messy. Sunghoon, no longer able to hold back, thrusted a few more times before he finally came. The sudden feeling of his warm cum filling you up inside made your legs twitch, Sunghoon groans from the feeling of satisfaction of the long needing orgasm. You both pant heavily as you both ride out your orgasms, before he pulls out, leaving your cunt empty with only his cum inside.

He admires the sight infront of him. You, bent over, with his cum dripping out of your pussy. His fingers grabs any cum lingering outside and brings it up to your hole before inserting his finger in gently, preventing anything from spilling out of your sweet cunt. His gentle action causing you to let out a small moan as he pulls his finger out of your sensitive pussy.

"You really enjoyed that didn't you?" He teases, making you turn your head to look at him and nod.

The two of you walked side by side, the soft hum of the city filling the silence between you. You clung to his arm, your grip firm as if afraid he’d slip away. The cool night air kissed your skin, but despite your closeness, something felt off.

Sunghoon’s focus was on his phone, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. His brows furrowed occasionally, his thumbs tapping away with an ease that made it clear whatever he was doing held more importance than your presence beside him.

You glanced at him, your chest tightening with unspoken words. You tried to shake the creeping feeling of being invisible, telling yourself it was just nerves. After all, he had spent the night with you. That had to mean something, right?

“Did you have a good time tonight?” you asked softly, your voice barely above the hum of passing cars.

“Hmm?” he murmured, his eyes still glued to his phone. “Yeah, it was fine.”

Fine. The word stung more than you wanted to admit. You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping he’d elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, he typed something quickly and let out a quiet chuckle—clearly amused by whatever was on his screen.

Your fingers tightened around his arm as you tried again, forcing a smile. “It’s nice out tonight. The city looks so pretty at this hour.”

“Mm,” he muttered, nodding absently.

Your smile faltered, and you turned your gaze to the ground. Each step toward the train station felt heavier, the initial glow of the night dimming with every passing second.

When you finally reached the platform, the faint rumble of an approaching train filled the air. You stopped walking, turning to face him. He didn’t notice at first, too busy scrolling on his phone, but you gently tugged on his sleeve, catching his attention.

“Sunghoon,” you said, your voice wavering slightly.

He looked up, his expression unreadable as he slipped his phone into his pocket. For a moment, you thought you’d see the same warmth he’d shown earlier, but his face remained calm, distant.

“I’ll text you when I get home, okay?” he said, his tone light but firm.

Your chest tightened at his words, but you nodded, forming a smile “Okay.”

The train screeched to a halt in front of him, and he took a step back, creating just enough space between you that it felt like miles. He gave you a small nod, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, then turned to board the train.

You raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, watching as the doors closed behind him. The train pulled away moments later, leaving you standing alone on the platform.

It had been two weeks. Fourteen days of silence that chipped away at you, piece by piece.

After that night, after the promises whispered between breaths, you had waited. You’d replayed every moment, every touch, every word, trying to hold onto the warmth of him. But as the days stretched on, that warmth faded, replaced by an icy void in your chest.

You had convinced yourself that he was just busy. He was an idol, after all. His life wasn’t like yours. He had schedules to follow, appearances to make, fans to please. But even those excuses began to crumble under the weight of the silence.

At first, you’d kept it casual.

"Heyy! Did you make it home safe?"

"How are you?"

But when days passed with no reply, you became more vulnerable.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Please, just let me know if you’re okay."

Each message went unanswered, some marked with the cruel sting of seen, others left on delivered, hanging in the void like a conversation with yourself.

The realization crept in slowly, like a shadow swallowing the light. He had used you. What felt so real to you—his touch, his whispered words, the way he’d held you so close—had been nothing more than a fleeting moment for him. A single night. You were just another girl to him.

And yet, even as the bitterness settled in your heart, there was a part of you that couldn’t let go. You couldn’t delete the messages you’d sent. You couldn’t bring yourself to block his number. A part of you still held onto the foolish hope that he’d text back, that he’d tell you it wasn’t what you thought, that he cared.

When you received the email reminder about his next fan meeting, your stomach twisted. The ticket had been booked weeks ago, back when the idea of seeing him again filled you with joy instead of dread. You debated not going, but the ticket was non-refundable, and deep down, you couldn’t resist the thought of seeing him again. Even if it hurt.

The day of the fan meeting came, and you moved through it like a ghost. The outfit you’d chosen weeks ago: a perfect blend of cute and casual now felt heavy on your body now. The usual excitement you felt while waiting in line, surrounded by fans buzzing with energy, was absent.

When Sunghoon finally stepped onto the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers, screams, and tears. You looked up at him, your breath hitching for a moment. He looked just as perfect as you remembered, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his smile as radiant as ever.

But as you watched him laugh and interact with the crowd, you felt none of the joy you used to. Instead, it felt like watching a stranger. The man who had held you, who had whispered promises in your ear, felt so far away now.

Your eyes followed him as he scanned the crowd, his gaze briefly landing on yours. Your heart leapt despite itself, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. His expression didn’t change. There was no flicker of recognition, no smile, no warmth. He simply looked away, moving on as if you were just another face in the sea of fans.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but it refused to go away. The rest of the fan meeting blurred together, the moments dragging on painfully. By the time it ended, you felt relief—relief that you could finally leave, that you wouldn’t have to keep pretending you were okay.

You stood up, clutching your bag tightly as you made your way out of the venue. The noise of excited fans filled the air, but it all felt muffled, like you were underwater.

As you stepped outside into the cool evening air, your phone buzzed. You paused, your heart skipping a beat. Without thinking, you pulled it out, expecting it to be a notification about the event.

But it wasn’t.

His name flashed across your screen.

Your breath caught as you opened the message, your fingers trembling.

“Same place. Tonight.”

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. Deep down, you knew you’d go.

For a moment, you felt like the world was spinning too fast, like you were losing control. And maybe that’s exactly what he wanted.

Because even though you knew better, even though every part of you screamed that this wasn’t love, you stayed.

And he knew you would.

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,707

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

———

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. 🔞Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

[just-aake]

A Feline Connection Part 6

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha is confronted by someone from your past and faces a new troubling situation that requires her to find you.

Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Warnings: angst, violence, hurt/comfort, toxic relationship/emotional manipulation (not from Natasha)

Words: 4905

Natasha carefully rewraps the bandage around her bruised knuckles, her gaze drifting toward the night sky outside your apartment window. 

The faint glow of distant city lights only emphasizes the darkness around her, leaving her alone in the dim room.

She flexes her hand experimentally, wincing at the ache, but the pain is almost welcomed—a distraction from the raw, defeated feeling inside her. 

Her phone beeps in her pocket, and for a fleeting second, a hope flares within her. 

Hope that it was you. 

But when she pulls out her phone, the screen immediately dashes away that spark. 

Her heart sinks slightly, but she still answers the call as she makes her way to the kitchen. 

“Did you find anything?” Her voice still carries a thread of hope she can’t entirely hide. 

There’s a pause before Tony’s voice comes through, his tone uncharacteristically serious. 

“Sorry, Nat, the kid and I searched everywhere. There’s nothing left. The place has been stripped clean—completely abandoned. Same as last night.” 

Natasha closes her eyes, inhaling deeply as she absorbs his words. 

After being forced out, she had to regroup and call for backup. But by the time they returned to the site, it was as if the place had never been occupied. 

No trace of guards, no equipment, and worst of all—no sign of you. 

“How are you holding up?” Tony asks, his tone softer, catching the weight in her silence.

Natasha clenches her fists, testing the tightness of her grip. Her knuckles ache, a dull, persistent pain, but it barely scratches the surface of what she feels inside. 

“I’m fine,” she replies, her voice steady but carrying a tired edge. “Just some bruises.” 

Natasha sighs, her frustration and concern bleeding into her tone as she continues. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” 

Natasha glances toward the front door, where Widow sits, her little black form almost statue-like, staring intently at the door as if willing it to open. 

Her tail swishes softly, but her gaze remains fixed, waiting. 

“I’m going to stay here for now,” Natasha declares, her resolve solidifying. She reaches for a small bowl and fills it with water, setting it on the kitchen counter. 

There’s a pause on the other end, then Tony’s voice, understanding and resigned. 

“Alright. Take care of yourself, Romanoff. Call us if you need anything.” 

“I will,” she murmurs, ending the call as she heads toward the cat by the door. 

“Widow,” she calls softly with a gentleness reserved for only a few. 

The cat’s ear twitches in acknowledgment, but she doesn’t turn, her entire focus still on the door. 

Natasha watches her for a moment, a pang of sympathy tightening her chest. 

She crouches down, setting the bowl beside her as she tries again to coax her. 

“If you’re not going to eat, at least drink something,” she urges, hoping the cat will respond.

But Widow doesn’t move, her tiny body tense, her gaze unwavering as she guards the USB drive tucked protectively beneath her paw. 

Natasha reaches a tentative hand toward her, but Widow’s yellow eyes narrow, and a low, warning warning sound escapes from her. 

Sighing, Natasha withdraws her hand, understanding that the cat won’t easily surrender what you entrusted her. 

She glances at the USB, reflecting on the mysterious mission you had given to the little animal, who seemed so intent on completing it. 

The cat’s dedication and loyalty is admirable, but Natasha knows that this kind of behavior will only become more harmful to her the longer she waits. 

Still, she hesitates, feeling the weight of what she needs to say. 

Widow had held her stance for a full day now, refusing anything Natasha had offered. 

And as much as Natasha respects her determination, she can’t let the little cat continue like this, clinging to a promise that may never be fulfilled. 

Steeling herself, she leans closer, her voice soft but steady with reluctant honesty. 

“She’s not coming, Widow,” Natasha murmurs, her tone carrying the painful truth.

The reaction is immediate. 

Widow’s body stiffens and tenses, her eyes flashing with defiance as she finally meets Natasha’s gaze. 

A small, angry growl escapes her as she clutches the USB tighter, then pointedly turns her back to Natasha, ignoring her completely. 

Natasha sighs softly, feeling the sting of the cat’s rejection. 

She leaves the bowl close by, in case Widow changes her mind, then moves wearily to the couch. 

Lying down, she keeps her eyes on the cat, watching as the minutes drag into hours, the room settling into a quiet stillness. 

Eventually, exhaustion overtakes her, and she drifts into a dreamless sleep. 

It’s a soft nudge on her hand that wakes her. 

Natasha blinks, momentarily disoriented, and glances down to find Widow on the couch beside her. 

The cat's head is lowered as she lets out a sad, mournful meow. 

With a gentle motion, she pushes the USB toward Natasha, nudging it forward with a paw, her posture dejected. 

Ignoring the device, Natasha opens her arms in a silent invitation. 

Widow hesitates, then pads into her embrace, curling up tightly against Natasha’s chest. 

Natasha pulls her close, one hand resting gently on the small, trembling body, the other stroking her soft fur in an effort to soothe her. 

Widow had offered her comfort in countless moments since she had met the small animal, so Natasha’s grip tightens protectively, offering what little comfort she can in return. 

She can feel the cat’s sorrow in the small, heartbreaking whimpers that escape her.

The sad sounds eventually fade as Widow drifts into an uneasy sleep, her small body occasionally twitching, as if the dreams that find her are anything but restful. 

A pang of sympathy tightens in her chest, understanding the feeling the cat must be going through.

After a moment, Natasha’s gaze on the sleeping cat is pulled away when her phone on the table lights up, vibrating softly with an incoming call. 

Her heart skips a beat when she sees your name flash across the screen. 

Moving carefully to avoid disturbing the little creature, Natasha grabs and answers the phone, pressing it to her ear with barely contained urgency.

“Hey, where are you? Are you okay?” she blurts out, her voice low but charged with concern.

Silence greets her, stretching unbearably long, and Natasha’s unease grows. She’s just about to call your name when a low, mocking chuckle crackles through the line.

“You know, she had you saved under an hourglass icon,” an unfamiliar voice drawls. 

Natasha’s brows knit in confusion, a cold sensation settling over her as she realized this wasn’t you. 

“Who is this?” she demands, her tone sharp and dangerous. “Why do you have her phone?”

The voice lets out a thoughtful hum as if savoring her reaction. 

“Let’s talk,” the voice taunts. “One on one. Come to the address I sent you—if you really want to know.”

The line goes dead, leaving Natasha staring at the phone, a notification already lighting up the screen with a set of coordinates. 

She exhales, steeling herself as her gaze drifts back to Widow, still curled beside her, her tiny body twitching restlessly in her sleep.

Determined, Natasha slips from the couch, pulling on her jacket as she glances back one last time. 

The sight of Widow sleeping restlessly stirs her resolve. 

This stumbling in the dark can’t go on—not for her and certainly not for the cat. 

She leaves quietly, heading to confront whoever this mysterious stranger is.

The coordinates bring her to the entrance of an unmarked underground bar. 

A brawny guard stands watch by the door, his gaze impassive but sharp. He sizes her up briefly, then steps aside without a word, opening the door and allowing her in. 

The door closes behind her with a definitive slam, trapping her in the dim, smoky atmosphere of the room.

The bar is quiet, empty save for a single figure sitting casually at the counter, her back turned to her. 

Natasha’s gaze sharpens, taking in the woman’s straight posture and the aura of confidence that radiates from her. 

Jet-black hair cascades down her back, and a strange glint of metal catches Natasha’s attention—the unmistakable shimmer of a gold mask covering her upper face.

Natasha moves forward, her steps soundless as she approaches the counter. She sits two stools away, close enough to talk but keeping a cautious distance. 

The woman remains silent, seemingly content with the space between them, focusing on the glass before her. 

Another shot glass slides across the counter toward Natasha. 

She catches it mid-slide but doesn’t raise it to her lips, choosing instead to study the stranger beside her. 

The woman’s casual, almost indifferent demeanor betrays an underlying edge, a danger that Natasha can feel. 

The woman lifts her own glass, taking a slow sip, before finally breaking the silence without so much a glance in Natasha’s direction.  

“What’s wrong?” she murmurs, a smirk lacing her words. “Afraid I poisoned it?”

Natasha furrows her brows, coolly setting the glass back on the counter as her response.

The woman glances at her before shrugging and pouring herself another glass. ​​The lightness in the air feels false, loaded with an unspoken tension. 

Finally, Natasha breaks the silence.

“You already know who I am,” she says evenly. “So who are you?”

The woman turns, the gold mask covering her upper face catches the dim light, casting her in a half-shadow that only sharpens the piercing gray eyes staring back at her. 

A smirk plays at her lips, and she leans in, resting her elbow on the counter with a relaxed yet predatory air. 

“Straight to business. I respect that,” she says, chuckling softly as she swirls the liquid in her glass. 

“My friends call me Whitney,” she continues, pausing to take a slow, deliberate sip before setting it down on the counter with a soft clink.

“My enemies? They know me as Madame Masque.” 

Her voice drops as she tilts her head, gray eyes narrowing. 

“So…which do you believe you are, Miss Black Widow?”

Natasha catches the faint edge in her words when she says her title, half-mocking with a hint of hostility that’s barely disguised. 

It’s clear this woman has her own thoughts about who Natasha is. 

“Seems you’ve already made that decision yourself,” Natasha says pointedly.

Whitney lets out a short chuckle as her fingers tap against the counter as if contemplating whether her statement is true or not.

Natasha’s gaze flicks down to the counter at her action before drifting to where a familiar device rests.

Your phone. 

Whitney’s eyes follow Natasha’s line of sight, her hand reaching over to take the phone. She handles it with a casual, almost mocking nonchalance that makes Natasha’s blood simmer as she’s reminded of how she doesn’t know your whereabouts. 

As if reading Natasha’s thoughts, Whitney’s lips curve into a taunting smile. 

“Don’t worry, she’s safe,” she says smoothly, raising the phone and pointing it toward Natasha. Her eyes glint with dark amusement. “But tell me, how much do you really know about her to care?” 

Natasha’s eyes narrow, her jaw clenching slightly as she meets Whitney’s gaze, holding back the irritation clawing at her composure. 

“I know enough.” 

Whitney’s laugh is soft, laced with an air of superiority. 

“Enough?” she echoes, as if savoring the word, rolling it around in her mouth with condescension. 

She brings the phone up to her lips, brushing them lightly on the edge as if placing a delicate kiss.

“That’s nothing compared to who I am to her,” she purrs, her gaze locked onto Natasha’s, a challenge in her expression. 

Natasha frowns slightly at the implication, piecing together the hints of what sort of relationship you and this woman may have shared. Though, she doesn’t let the idea shake her composure.

“Funny,” Natasha counters, her tone ice-cold. “You say you’re so important, yet she’s never mentioned you. Not even once.”

The barb hits its mark. 

Whitney’s smirk falters, just for a split second, before her expression hardens, her grip tightening on the phone. 

Her gaze sharpens with a flash of anger, but she recovers, her voice dropping to a dangerous, low murmur.

“Careful,” she warns, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “People have disappeared for less.”

Natasha meets her gaze head-on, the threat passing over her like a breeze. 

The silence stretches between them, tense and unyielding. 

Then, as if suddenly bored of the exchange, Whitney tosses the phone across the counter. 

Natasha catches it effortlessly, not breaking eye contact.

“However,” Whitney says, standing up smoothly and tossing her hair back over her shoulder, “That is not the purpose of this meeting.” 

Her posture shifts, deliberate and commanding, as she steps closer. 

Whitney’s presence fills the space between them, a wall of cold authority. Her gaze bears down on Natasha, sharp and assessing.

“This is your only warning—a courtesy if you will,” she continues, her tone chilling in its calculated calm. “In recognition of the…friendship you shared with her during her time away from my side.” 

Her words are laced with a venomous undertone, and her eyes narrow, each syllable cutting with a precision that makes her intentions painfully clear.  

“Stay away from my business,” Whitney demands, her voice dropping into a steely edge. “And stay away from her.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air, but Natasha remains calm, her expression steadfast. Underneath, though, a flicker irritation stirs in her chest.

It’s not the words themselves that bother her—it’s the way Whitney carries herself, the way she exudes control, as if she owns you. That smug arrogance, that predatory assumption of power over someone else’s life, is something Natasha knows all too well.

She’s spent her entire early life under the thumb of people like Whitney, people who believed they had the right to decide her fate.

Natasha recognizes the pattern instantly, and the familiarity sets her teeth on edge.

“She can make her own choices,” Natasha counters, her tone calm but firm, a subtle steel threading through her words.

Whitney’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. There’s something predatory in the way her gaze lingers like she’s savoring an unseen advantage. 

She arches a brow, her response almost mocking.

“Yes,” she says smoothly, “and tell me, whose bed did she choose to sleep in tonight?”

Even though Natasha sees through the obvious attempt to provoke her, her fingers still tighten instinctively around the sleek metal of the phone, the only outward sign of her restraint. Her jaw sets, the tension visible in the small but deliberate motion. 

Whitney catches the reaction, and the satisfaction in her expression is unmistakable. Her smirk widens as though confirming a victory. 

Without waiting for a response, she pivots on her heel and strides confidently toward the door, her heels clicking in the silence. 

At the threshold, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. Her voice drops to a whisper, low and laced with a chilling sweetness.

“You should forget about her,” Whitney murmurs, her eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. “Or else…she’ll hurt you even more than she already has.”

The words twist in the air, lingering like smoke long after Whitney disappears into the night.

Natasha remains seated in the dimly lit bar, the emptiness pressing in around her. 

As much as she tries to brush it off, Whitney’s parting shot reverberates in her mind, a shadow that clings to her thoughts, refusing to disappear.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It’s early morning by the time Natasha finally makes it back to your apartment. She slips in through the front door, her steps weary, her mind weighed down by the revelations of the night. 

As she enters, her boot bumps into the bowl she’d left for Widow, the water still untouched and the food uneaten. 

Natasha’s frown deepens as her concern shifts to the little cat. 

The absence of any sound or movement from Widow sends a flicker of unease through her. 

Moving quickly to the couch where she left her, Natasha feels her stomach twist as she sees Widow, lying in the same spot, seemingly untouched by the passing hours. 

But as Natasha leans in closer, worry edges into panic. She notices how shallow the little cat’s breathing has become, her tiny body rising and falling with only the faintest of movements. 

Natasha kneels beside the couch, reaching a hand to gently stroke Widow’s back, calling her name softly. 

“Widow?” Her voice is tentative, hoping for any sign of life, any flicker of response.

But there’s nothing. 

Widow doesn’t stir or twitch, only the faintest breaths giving away the fact that she’s even alive. 

Panic surges in Natasha’s chest, and without hesitation, she carefully lifts Widow into her arms. 

The cat remains limp, her tiny body almost weightless, as Natasha cradles her close, rushing toward the door and heading straight for the nearest emergency vet clinic. 

In the waiting area, Natasha’s leg bounces with anxious energy, her fingers wringing together as she stares at the clinic doors. 

Every time a nurse or doctor passes by, she looks up, her heart in her throat, hoping for news about Widow’s condition. 

The minutes crawl by, and then hours, the feeling of helplessness pressing down on her with each passing second. 

Finally, a voice calls out. “Ms. Romanoff?” 

Natasha stands instantly, her gaze meeting the veterinarian’s. 

The vet’s eyes widen for a moment, recognizing her.

“Oh, wow, it really is you,” the vet mutters, then clears her throat, refocusing and offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry—I meant to say, your cat is stable now.” 

“She’s not actually my…” Natasha begins to clarify, but then thinks better of it, shaking her head. “What was wrong with her?”

The vet gives her a curious look but remains professional as she continues. 

“We gave her some fluids for the dehydration. Other than that, there doesn’t appear to be anything physically wrong. Her lack of movement was likely due to severe exhaustion and lack of energy.” She pauses and studies Natasha for a moment. “Has she shown any changes in eating habits recently? A loss of appetite?”

Natasha nods, the previous day playing back in her mind. 

“She wouldn’t eat or drink anything yesterday,” she admits, her voice tinged with guilt.

The vet shakes her head. 

“That’s not good for cats, especially one her size. Going without food or water for even a day can lead to complications—some of them severe—if it continues. Has there been anything recently that might have caused her stress? Emotional factors can have a significant impact on animals.” 

Natasha exhales deeply, her chest tightening.

“I might have an idea,” she says, her voice quieter.

The vet nods, offering a small, reassuring smile. 

“That’s good. Addressing the source of her stress is key. Cats are incredibly resilient, but the sooner she feels safe and secure again, the faster she’ll recover. She’s stable now, but we’ll keep monitoring her for the next few hours. After that, she’ll be ready to go home.”

“Okay,” Natasha murmurs, her voice tight with relief.

Sitting back down, Natasha releases a deep breath, a mixture of relief and lingering worry filling her chest. 

The most likely reason for Widow’s condition would be your sudden absence and the overwhelming sense of abandonment the little cat must be feeling. 

If Natasha wants to truly help her, she knows she’ll have to find you—and fast.

But that’s already a difficult task. She doesn’t even know where to start, especially now that she can no longer reach you.

She pulls out your phone, the screen lighting up with a photo of you and Widow, a rare moment captured in happier times. 

A soft, sad smile tugs at her lips as she studies the image, but it quickly fades as determination takes over.

Natasha swipes through the phone, scrolling through messages, contacts, and any notes that might give her a lead. 

As her focus sharpens, a small notification banner suddenly drops from the top of the screen—a reminder. 

Natasha’s brow furrows as she reads it, her instincts and training automatically kicking in. Her eyes narrow as she considers the information. 

It’s a long shot, but it’s her only lead.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha remains hidden in the shadows, her eyes fixed on the building across the street. The crisp night air chills her skin, but she doesn’t waver. 

Hours of waiting finally pay off as she spots a figure emerging from a rooftop window, their movements precise and practiced.

Natasha’s breath catches as she recognizes the silhouette.

You move with fluid grace, scaling down the side of the building as if you’ve done this a hundred times before. Blending seamlessly into the night, you pause briefly on the ground, scanning your surroundings. 

Natasha watches and follows intently, her heartbeat quickening. She takes a steadying breath and steps out of the shadows.

“Hey, can we talk?” she calls, her voice low but firm.

You whip around, your body immediately tensing as your eyes meet hers. 

Surprise flickers across your face for a split second, but it’s quickly replaced by a guarded, hardened expression. 

Without a word, you turn on your heel and dart into a nearby alley. 

“Damn it,” Natasha mutters, breaking into a sprint after you. Her boots hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, her heart pounding as she pushes herself to keep up. 

She can’t lose you—not again.

“Wait!” she yells, her voice echoing through the narrow streets. 

But you don’t stop. 

You dart through the labyrinth of the city’s back alleys, vaulting over debris, slipping into tight corners, and using every trick in your arsenal to stay ahead. 

Natasha grits her teeth, frustration mounting as the gap between you grows.

Just when it seems like you might disappear into the night again, Natasha yells, desperation seeping into her voice. 

“It’s Widow! She’s sick!” 

The words stop you dead in your tracks. You skid to a halt, spinning around to face her. Disbelief and fury war on your face as you close the distance in a blur of motion. 

Before Natasha can react, you slam into her, knocking her off her feet. The impact sends her sprawling onto the pavement, the air forced from her lungs. 

You’re on top of her in an instant, pinning her down with your weight. Your knees trap her legs, and your hands grip her wrists, holding her firmly against the cold ground. 

“What did you do to her?” you demand, your voice low and intense. Your face hovers inches above hers, anger radiating from you. Your eyes bore into hers, alight with fury and something deeper—fear. 

Natasha’s breath catches as she processes the sudden shift, but her calm never wavers. 

“I didn’t—”

“I can’t believe you’d do something like this!” you snap, cutting her off. “Hurting her just to get to me!” Your voice rises with each word, the accusation stinging like venom, your emotions boiling over into your words. 

Natasha struggles against your hold, her frustration mounting. 

“Listen to me!” she bites back, her tone firm despite the compromising position. “I didn’t hurt her! She’s sick because she won’t eat or drink anything since you disappeared!”

Your grip falters slightly, confusion flickering across your face. Natasha seizes the moment, her voice softening but retaining its urgency.

“She thinks you abandoned her,” Natasha says before continuing, her tone quieter but no less resolute. “She misses you.”

Your fingers loosen their hold on her wrists, the anger in your eyes giving way to guilt and vulnerability.

Slowly, you push yourself back, but instead of moving off her entirely, you remain seated atop her, your posture easing into something less confrontational as the tension between you softens.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, running a hand through your hair. The bitterness in your voice is evident as a hollow chuckle escapes your lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I forgot…you’re not the kind of person who would do something like that.”

Natasha props herself up on her elbows, her sharp gaze still studying you, though the edge in her eyes has softened.

“But Whitney is,” she says evenly, her words carrying a pointed weight. 

Your eyes snap to hers, widening slightly.

“How do you know about her?” you ask, your tone shifting to one of shock and apprehension. 

Natasha sighs at the memory of her encounter with Whitney, slightly regretting bringing the woman into the conversation.

She hesitates, but before she can answer, her gaze flickers to where you’re still straddling her, pinning her in place.

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, a spark of mischief breaking through the lingering tension. 

“You know,” she drawls, her voice teasing as she tries to lighten the mood, “if you’re planning to keep me in this position much longer, at least buy me dinner first.” 

The unexpected quip catches you off guard. For a moment, her words hang in the air before a soft laugh escapes you, easing the remaining tension.

Natasha feels her heart quicken at the sound and the shift in your expression, relieved to see the shadow of a smile on your face, even if it might be fleeting.

But then your smirk returns, playful and familiar, as you lean down slightly, closing the space between you, your face hovering just above hers.

“Does this affect you that much, Miss Black Widow?” you ask, your voice lowering as you draw out her title, teasing her the way you often do. 

Natasha’s breath catches, her heart practically pounding now.

Unconsciously, she leans closer, her lips parting slightly. Her gaze flickers to your mouth, lingering for just a fraction of a second too long as she remembers the last time those lips had touched hers.

Something in her gaze must have surprised you as your eyes widen slightly, as if just noticing the intensity of how she looks at you and seeing the possible depth and truth of her feelings for you.

The realization shakes you, bringing you out of the moment. Blinking, you pull back quickly, the teasing edge in your expression vanishing as the weight of the realization sinks in.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, though even you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for—crossing a line, or simply acknowledging what you cannot reciprocate right now.

You lean back and plant your hands on the ground behind you to give her space.

Natasha blinks, as though snapping out of her own thoughts, and shifts slightly, reclaiming her composure as she remembers the boundaries you’ve placed between yourself and her.

Her expression flickers briefly, something unreadable passing over her face, before she clears her throat.

She sits up smoothly, brushing off her arms and legs as if the act might rid her of any lingering emotions.

“It’s okay,” she says quietly, her voice steady, though there’s a faint undercurrent of something unsaid, something painful.

You shift back further, leaning on your hands for support, as you exhale deeply, rubbing the back of your neck.

“How do you know about Whitney?” you ask again, this time quieter, more cautious.

“We talked,” Natasha says, her tone neutral but pointed. “She made it pretty clear how much she doesn’t like me meddling in her business…or with you.”

A shadow crosses your expression, and you let out a low sigh, your gaze flickering between her and the ground. 

“She shouldn’t have done that,” you mutter.

Natasha tilts her head, studying you carefully as she wonders about your relationship with the woman. She pushes herself to her feet and steps closer, her gaze locking with yours as she reaches her hand out to you. 

“Come back with me, please,” she says after a moment. “Widow needs you.”

You hesitate, the conflicting emotions playing out on your face, but Natasha holds your gaze, steady and unwavering.

Finally, your hand raises tentatively toward hers. 

But before you can close the gap, a sharp kick slams into Natasha’s side, sending her stumbling back. She rolls to her feet smoothly, her sharp gaze snapping at her attacker.

“I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself,” a voice warns coolly.

Natasha straightens, brushing herself off as she locks eyes with Whitney.

The woman strides forward with predatory grace, pulling you to your feet. 

You avoid Natasha’s gaze as Whitney wraps her arms around you from behind, her chin resting possessively on your shoulder.

“She’s mine,” Whitney finishes, her tone dangerously low, laced with a chilling confidence.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her green eyes narrowing. 

“For someone so confident in that fact, you seem awfully insecure whenever I’m near,” she says, her words meant to provoke the woman.

Whitney’s expression hardens, her gray eyes flashing with anger. She makes a move toward Natasha, but you turn in her arms, placing a firm hand on her shoulder to stop her. 

Your other hand gently tilts her face toward yours, redirecting her attention.

“You promised you wouldn’t,” you whisper, your tone calm but firm. You lean in, pressing your forehead lightly against hers, as if grounding her.

Natasha’s chest tightens at the sight, an unfamiliar sting of pain settling in her heart. Her hands clench at her sides as she watches the exchange, feeling both helpless and infuriated.

Whitney holds your gaze for a long moment. Finally, she sighs, her lips curving into a slight smirk as her eyes flick toward Natasha. She seems to notice Natasha’s clenched fists, her smirk deepening.

“See?” Whitney says lightly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “I told you she’d only hurt you.”

Your eyes flash with a pained expression at her words. Still, you refuse to meet Natasha’s gaze.

With that, Whitney pulls you closer, turning to lead you away, leaving Natasha standing in the shadows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

a/n: I know, updates on both series in the same week surprises me too, it probably won’t happen too often but we’ll see. Again, thanks for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it or if the tag did not work for you, please let me know.

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