#and the tag is so empty still *clenches fist*

[ateezscupid]

omg pls do more angst with wooyoung maybe 🫣 ur yunho one was so good and i usually never read angst ….

everybody buckle up! this is so angsty -- you might get mad at me with how angsty this is. 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭.

warnings ✩ ANGST. LITERALLY JUST ANGST. you will cry and sob and wail and scream. toxic relationship, toxic!wooyoung, toxic!reader, the both of you are the toxic ones in the relationship, on & off relationship, intense argument (about literally nothing. it started because of miscommunication, but it's a stupid argument), cheating (BOTH PARTIES CHEATED.), wooyoung brings up a sensitive topic in the argument, addiction, getting replaced, reader falls out of love with wooyoung in the end and he has a really bad panic attack

tags ✩ @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @skzkias

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST

Wooyoung sat at the corner table of the bustling cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the distant chatter of the afternoon crowd. His fingers danced over the keyboard of his laptop, crafting emails with a practiced ease that belied the turmoil in his chest. He had hoped that the comforting routine of work would distract him from the persistent ache of missing your, but it was a futile endeavor. With a sigh, he saved his document and pushed the laptop aside, reaching for the comfort of his phone instead.

The screen lit up, a stark contrast to the shadows playing across his face. His thumb hovered over your name, the digital embodiment of temptation. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. He had to see you. Your Instagram profile filled his screen, a curated collection of moments that no longer included him. He scrolled through your stories, each tap a silent confession of his lingering obsession. The images passed by in a blur until he saw it: your smile, brighter than the neon lights of the city, directed at someone else.

The guy was leaning against the wall, one arm casually draped around your shoulders. It was him. The same guy Wooyoung had caught you with, the one you had claimed was just a friend. The one he had lost you to. The betrayal stung as freshly as the day he found out. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to shatter the screen. He knew he couldn't be mad. He had cheated first, in a moment of weakness that had cost him everything. But why were you with him? He had hoped that time would erase the memory of that painful chapter.

Wooyoung's eyes narrowed as he studied the background of the photo. Recognition dawned. It was the alleyway behind the art gallery where you had shared your first kiss. His heart skipped a beat, and a strange mix of anger and nostalgia flooded his veins. He knew that place like the back of his hand. And now, it was the backdrop for your new life. Without another thought, he shoved his laptop into his bag and stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. He had to go there, to confront the ghosts of his past and the woman who still haunted his every waking moment.

The cobblestone streets of the city were a blur as he walked, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The anger boiled in his chest with every step, a cauldron of emotion that threatened to spill over. The cool autumn air did nothing to ease the heat coursing through his veins. The alleyway grew closer, a dark spot in the vibrant tapestry of the city. His footsteps grew heavier as he approached as if the weight of his own regret was pulling him down.

When he finally reached the narrow strip between the buildings, he paused, his heart pounding in his ears. The walls were adorned with graffiti, the vibrant colors a stark contrast to the shadows that had claimed the space. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. The alley was empty, save for a couple of stray cats darting between the dumpsters. The silence was deafening, a stark reminder of the emptiness he felt without you.

He stepped into the alley, the sound of his shoes echoing off the walls. The smell of damp earth and discarded food filled his nose, a stark contrast to the sweet scent of your perfume that lingered in his memory. He walked slowly, his eyes searching for any sign that you had been there. His hands trembled with a mix of anger and longing. He knew it was irrational, but he needed to see it for himself, to understand why you had chosen this place to flaunt your new relationship.

The alley twisted and turned, leading him deeper into the past. The walls closed in, the pressure of his own emotions suffocating. He could almost feel your presence, the echo of your laughter, the warmth of your touch. He rounded a corner and there it was - the spot where you had shared that first kiss. A piece of gum stuck to the wall, the only evidence of your history together. The sight of it brought a fresh wave of pain crashing over him.

Wooyoung leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and let the memories wash over him. He felt the phantom warmth of your body, the softness of your lips. The anger slowly dissipated, replaced by a profound sadness. He knew he couldn't change the past, couldn't take back his own mistakes. But he had to find a way to move forward, to let go of the love that still held him captive. He took one last look at the spot, the ghosts of your past whispering your goodbyes, and turned to leave. As he walked away, that face. That beautiful face was in front of him again.

"Wooyoung?" you questioned. "Why the hell are you here?" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. He spun around, his eyes meeting hers. You were standing there, alone, with no guy in sight. Your eyes searched his, a storm of confusion swirling within them.

Wooyoung's mouth went dry, his mind racing. He hadn't anticipated this. "I have free will. I can be wherever the hell I want." he spat. The words felt hollow, even to his own ears. He knew his true intentions were anything but innocent.

Your eyes searched his, looking for a glimmer of the man you used to know. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice softer now.

Wooyoung's gaze fell on the phone in your hand. "You posted a story here." It was a statement, not a question. "With him."

A look of understanding flashed across your face, quickly replaced by something else. Something that made his stomach twist. "And what? You want to fight for me now?" you scoffed, your voice laced with a bitterness he hadn't heard before.

"No, I-" He stumbled over his words. He didn't know what he wanted. He hadn't come here with a plan, just a need to see, to feel, to somehow make sense of it all. "You think I miss your whore ass?" he said, the words slipping out like venom. It was a poor attempt to mask his pain with anger.

Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step back, the phone slipping from your grasp. It clattered to the ground, the screen shattering. The sound echoed through the alleyway, a stark metaphor for your relationship. "You're the one who couldn't keep it in your pants," you snapped, your voice a mix of anger and hurt. "Don't you dare come here acting like you're the victim."

The words hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind out of him. You were right. He had been the one to cheat first. He had broken your trust, shattered your bond. And yet, here he was, feeling betrayed. The irony was not lost on him. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out to grab hers. You immediately stepped back, which made him angry.

"Well maybe if you had stopped being a bitch and actually treated me like your boyfriend, I wouldn't cheated." Wooyoung's voice was low, a dangerous rumble that seemed to resonate through the very bricks of the alley.

"And maybe if you had actually talked to me about what was going on instead of sticking it in every hole that walked by, I could've done that!" you shot back, your voice echoing off the walls, each word a dagger thrown with precision.

"Oh right, it's my fault! You acted like you didn't even fucking like me! You hated being in fucking public with me!" Wooyoung's voice was laced with a rage that had been simmering for months, now unleashed in a torrent of accusations.

"You're the one who couldn't keep your dick in your pants, Wooyoung!" you screamed, your voice bouncing off the alley's walls. "You never appreciated what we had!"

"Appreciate? You're the one who couldn't keep your legs closed for five fucking minutes!" he roared back, the echoes of your curses bouncing off the graffiti-covered walls.

"Right. Sure. I'm not doing this with you." you turn around, beginning to walk off. But Wooyoung wasn't letting it go, following you and yelling at you.

"You're just going to walk away again?"

"What do you want from me?!" you spun around, your eyes flashing with anger. "You destroyed us, and now you're mad because I've moved on?"

Wooyoung clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "I'm mad because you're with him! The guy you used to hide from me!"

"You had no right to hide shit from me either, Wooyoung!" you screamed, your voice bouncing off the alley walls. "You didn't even try to fix us, you just went out and fucked around like a dog with a new toy!"

"Fine, maybe I did," he roared, "but you didn't exactly make it easy! You were cold, you were distant, you never talked to me about anything!"

Your words hung in the air, the echo of your anger bouncing between the graffitied walls. The tension was palpable, a living thing that grew and morphed with every accusation. The cats had long since fled, leaving them alone in your war of words.

"You never listened!" you shot back, your voice cracking with emotion. "You didn't care about my feelings, about what I was going through!"

"How could I, when you never talked to me?!" he yelled, taking a step closer, his chest heaving with the effort to contain his rage.

"You know why I never talked to you about it! I can't open up to people about shit like that! You never understood!" you yelled back, your eyes welling with unshed tears.

"Well, maybe if you had tried, I could've been there for you! But no, you had to go behind my back and fuck him!" Wooyoung spat, the anger in his voice raw and unbridled.

The argument grew more heated, a dance of accusation and pain. Each word thrown was a dagger that found its mark, drawing blood that stained the alley with your shared history. You were locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to concede defeat.

"You're the one who didn't understand!" you screamed, your voice shaking. "You were never there when I needed you! You were too busy screwing around to care about me!"

"You pushed me away!" he shouted, his voice hoarse from the force of his emotion. "Every time I reached out, you pushed me away! What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, maybe tried?! You never gave a shit about me!" you yelled, your voice trembling with rage and sadness. That was it. That was the breaking point. Your words were a slap in the face, a stark reminder of his failures as a partner. The anger swelled in his chest, a volcano about to erupt. He stayed silent, and it only egged you on to say something worse.

"You know what, Wooyoung?" you spat, your eyes ablaze. "I'm happy with him! He doesn't treat me like a fucking object!"

Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. He saw red. He took a step forward, his hand shooting out to grab your arm. "You're happy with him? After all the shit I went through for you?" His grip was tight, his nails digging into your skin.

"Wooyoung, let go!" you yelped, trying to pull away.

He leaned in, his breath hot and heavy on your face. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're just trying to hurt me, because you're fucking pathetic." he spat, the words leaving a bitter taste in the air. "I wish I never fucking picked you up off that sidewalk. I wish I had left you to fucking rot on that goddamn concrete. Maybe then you'd know how much you need me."

Your eyes widened in shock, your body trembling with the sudden surge of fear and anger. "You son of a bitch," you hissed, trying to jerk away. But his grip only tightened, almost pinning you to the wall.

"You're just a fucking tease, leading me on and then giving it up to the first guy who actually shows you attention," he sneered, his voice a mix of disgust and desperation. "You're not worth the fucking ground you walk on."

He didn't know why he was saying these things, didn't recognize the monster his pain had turned him into. But the words kept coming, each one a bullet aimed at your heart. "You're nothing but a whore," he said, his voice cold and hard. "And he's just using you like I did. You're just a thing to be used."

Your eyes filled with tears, but you didn't dare let them fall. You stared at him with a mix of anger and hurt, your voice steady despite the tremble in your chin. "Let go of me," you said, your voice low and dangerous.

For a moment, he just held you there, his eyes searching hers for some sign of regret, some indication that you knew you had hurt him as much as he had hurt you. But all he saw was anger and defiance. He knew then that you had moved on, that you weren't his to save or to claim.

With a snarl, he released you, watching as you stumbled backward, rubbing your arm. He took a step back, the gravity of his words settling in his stomach like a rock. "Fuck," he murmured, the fight draining from him.

You stood there, in the alley that had once held the promise of love and now bore witness to your destruction. The air was thick with tension, the silence between them a stark contrast to the cacophony of your fight.

"I never asked you to save me," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I never wanted to be your fucking project."

Wooyoung felt his chest tighten, the truth of your words a knife twisting in his gut. He had thought he was doing the right thing, thought that by saving you from your ex he could somehow fill the void in his own life. But all he had done was push you further away.

"You don't get to talk to me like that," you continued, your voice growing stronger. "Not after everything we've been through. I deserve better than you."

He stared at you, his anger turning into regret. Why would he say that? He didn't mean it. He still loved you. "Look, I'm sorry," Wooyoung began, his voice softer, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

"Don't," you said, your voice shaky. "Don't you dare apologize. You don't get to do this to me. You don't get to hurt me and then pretend it's all okay."

Wooyoung took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the alley as if searching for a way to fix this mess he had created. "I know I messed up," he said finally. "I know I hurt you. But I can't just let you go. I need you to know that."

"Why?" you asked, your voice a mix of anger and sadness. "Why do you need me to know that when you couldn't even be honest with me when we were together?"

He took a step toward you, reaching out his hand again. "Because I'm an idiot," he said, his voice cracking. "Because I know I don't deserve you, but I can't imagine my life without you."

But you didn't take his hand. Instead, you took another step back. "You had your chance," you said, your voice firm. "You threw it away when you decided to cheat. I'm not going to let you do that to me again."

The finality in your tone was like a door slamming shut in his face. He felt the weight of his own mistakes pressing down on him, crushing any hope of redemption. "But I've changed," he whispered, his voice desperate.

"Maybe," you said, "but it's not enough. You need to figure out what you really want before you can have anything."

With that, you turned and walked away, your heels clicking on the cobblestone as you disappeared around the corner. Wooyoung watched you go, his hand still outstretched, his heart feeling like it was being torn from his chest. He knew he had pushed you too far this time. He had to accept it. He had to move on. But the thought of living without you was unbearable.

He slammed his fist into the wall, the pain a welcome distraction from the agony in his heart. The plaster crumbled under his hand, leaving a dent and a smear of blood. He stared at it, his breathing heavy. He just stood there, staring at his fist. He started to shake, his chest hurting, head hurting, what was happening? He couldn't breathe. He stumbled, trying to find something to hold onto. His legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come. The world around him swam, and his vision blurred. He had never felt so lost, so utterly destroyed.

The alley was spinning around him, the colors of the graffiti becoming a jumbled mess of anger and sadness. His heart raced, pounding in his chest like a drum, a rhythm that matched the sob that was trying to claw its way out of his throat. He leaned against the wall, his body heaving with the effort to take in air. It was like someone had your hands around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter with every second that passed. His lungs burned, begging for oxygen that was being denied.

He felt like he was going to be sick. His stomach lurched, and bile rose in his throat. He doubled over, retching, but nothing came out except for the pain and the regret. He could hear his own ragged breathing, the harsh, wet sounds of his sobs echoing off the walls. The cold concrete ground was the only thing keeping him grounded as the panic consumed him. His phone slipped from his pocket, clattering against the ground, forgotten in the chaos of his breakdown.

The tears fell in a torrent, stinging his cheeks and mixing with the snot that dripped from his nose. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care about his pride, about the fight you'd just had, about the people who might see him like this. All he cared about was you, and how much he had lost you. The sobs grew louder, his body shaking violently. It was as if his very soul was being torn apart, piece by piece.

The alley was cold and unforgiving, the concrete beneath him a stark reminder of the hard reality he faced. His knees were scraped from the fall, his hands raw from punching the wall. But the pain was a comfort, a reminder that he was still alive, still feeling. He leaned his head back against the gritty bricks, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a keening wail that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him.

He had never felt so empty, so utterly devoid of motivation. The words you had thrown at him echoed in his head, a chorus of accusations and anger. But it was the pain in your voice that had done the most damage. The pain that he had caused. The pain that he couldn't take back. He had thought that seeing you with someone else would bring him closure and would make him realize that he didn't need you. But all it had done was show him that he needed you more than he ever had.

And it only got worse. His stomach began to rumble as if he were about to throw up.

[verm1c1de]

diffurent types of affection

[floatmeintothesun]

Utterly Enraptured

Pairing; Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

tags; breeding, little bit of overstimulation, Miguel goes into rut, creampie, wordcount 4k

Summary; Miguel seems to have forgotten about a certain side effect from having half of his genetic makeup being spider DNA

EXPLICIT - MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

—

Wet, warm, perfectly molded to his length. Large palms pressing against thighs, his mouth quieting your little gasps and hiccups. His murmured praise, his filthy tongue pressing against your hole wetly, licking long stripes up your skin. Hungry. The twitch of his hips, the choked whimpers, he wants it. Needs it. 

You’re gasping, trying in vain to muffle your moans into the pillow while he completely and irrevocably rearranges your insides. You’re so fucking sweet – god, he wants nothing more than to stuff you full of his seed, pull out and admire the view of him seeping out from your weeping pussy. 

He wants to push it all back in with spit slicked fingers, kiss away all of your tears and do it all over again until you’re sobbing in pleasure, begging for more, more, more –

Miguel wakes up feeling fire burn at the base of his spine and the undeniable hardening of his cock. He immediately wants to just roll over and go back to bed. 

It’s 7:47, he has to get up in ten minutes, he’s way too hot but the floors are probably freezing, his blankets are so so comfortable and his dick is aching. So far, great start to his morning. Miguel turns to his side, finding your side of the bed empty. He resists the urge to groan. 

Right, you have your early work shift today.

 He mourns the loss of the warmth as he kicks off his blankets with one languid motion. For a moment he’s tempted to just indulge himself right now, right here. Your scent is still in the air, soaked into your pillow, heady and intoxicating. 

Absent-mindedly he palms himself, cupping the sizable bulge and considers. Miguel wants you, to be completely honest. Always does. Like a thirst that will never be quenched, he craves you. All of you. Your hands, your flesh, your blood — if he could, he’d worship every single inch of you for the rest of eternity. 

And you’re not here. Unfortunately. He imagines your hand, smaller than his, wrapping securely around his length, the other curled loosely around his hot, swollen balls, and slowly exhales. 

He can wait. He has self control. He doesn’t have time to fist himself like a wild animal. He has an online meeting to attend since he, for once, is taking a break from the Spider Verse for a day or two.

Miguel heaves a sigh and gets up, stretching lazily. The chill seeps into his skin and he resigns himself to taking a cold shower. 

(He ends up having to clean spurts of creamy white off of the shower walls anyway. He is so fucked.)

—

There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with today. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Miguel can’t get you out of his head. 

You usually don’t leave his mind regardless, but at the moment, all he can think of is bending you over the nearest flat surface, letting you slather at his tip, feeling your sweet, tight pussy clench around him while he whispers obscenities in your ear.

He thinks of you all day, but his thoughts are never this…vividly vulgar. Miguel will admit to having the stray passing instance but right now? He’s practically been a depraved fucking dog for the past three hours straight. 

This morning didn’t help. That damn dream didn’t help. He’s been staring at his laptop for the past thirty minutes trying desperately to redirect his thoughts to something more productive, his board members are droning on and on about stock values and whatnot  – he has work to finish, but jesus, he can’t think of anything but you.

Your taste, your heat, your everything. He’s hard as rock as he mumbles some bullshit excuse to his meeting members before shutting off his laptop with a definite click. It’s as if a fog has filled his head, keeping him drunk and dizzy. Miguel’s body feels unbearably hot right now, scorching, needing. 

“Lyla,” his voice is strangled. “What’s the date?” 

His assistant flickers to life next to him, drawing up a calendar.

“Mm…it’s the 8th,” she says, blinking down at him. “Ah, I see. Your uh, time of the month, y’know?” She wiggles her eyebrows and he growls, waving her away. She pops up a little ways away, putting her hands on her hips.“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Lyla frowns. “Just telling you,”

“Thanks,” He says bitingly, dismissing her and groaning into his hands. You won’t be home until later – and later means that he’s going to have to suffer for the next few hours, alone and unbearably horny. Wonderful. 

Mentally, he berates himself with a low hiss, feeling annoyed that he didn't connect the dots earlier. His throat is dry and he swallows raspily.

He should’ve looked at the date, how could he have forgotten? Heightened sensitivity, overheating, inability to focus, the urge to fuck you into next week — all signs pointing to a very large neon billboard that says “SPIDER INSTINCT FUCKERY” in big bold letters. In other words, mating period.

 It happens every other month through the 8th to the 10th when his body decides that it’s time to procreate and do nothing else for the next two days. 

He sucks in a ragged breath slowly, trying to calm his fast beating heart. It doesn’t work, only serving to remind him of the pulsing in his chest and between his legs. 

It wasn’t this bad before he started dating you. All he had to do was tug on his cock a few times and he was fine, for the most part. Anything else could be burned off by fighting criminals and doing his usual dimensional overseeing.

That was before you. You and your gorgeous smile, you and your honeyed scent, you and your burning touch. He’s so hungry — greedy. He wants your flesh in his hands, your slick on his chin, your hands on his body. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s getting up from the couch and migrating to your shared room until his knees hit the mattress and his huge frame curls up on your side of the bed. His cock is stupidly hard, twitching and throbbing from where it’s formed a tent in his sweatpants. 

Miguel can already feel the precum seeping out of him and staining his boxers. A whine rips itself out of his throat as he buries his head into your pillow, basking in your familiar sweet smell. 

A heady mixture of your favorite shampoo, perfume and body, all swirling around him as he grinds his lower half into the bed desperately like a dog in heat. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. 

He needs you, craves you. His large hand snakes down to wrap around his weeping length, the other pulling down his sweat pants and boxers to give him some relief. It’s agony, waiting for you to come home. 

He wishes you were here right now, wishes that he could pepper your face with kisses and croon apologies while he slowly bottoms out in your tight cunt while you writhe beneath him. 

Or on top of him. He doesn’t give a damn. Any position you want, he’ll do it. 

Just imagining your sweet whines and whimpers has his breath labored. He presses the heel of his palm against his stiff length, hissing at the jolt of pleasure and sensitivity that burns through him. It’s painfully dry, but he takes the slick precum dripping out of his tip to aid the tight slide of his fist over his fat cock. God, he just needs to pump you full of him and fuck it all back into you. The thought of you, all swollen and glowing with his kid makes him nearly feral.

His hips jerk upwards and he can’t help but imagine your hand instead of his, can’t help but imagine how much better it would feel. 

He gasps quietly as his thumb presses against his slit, jaw tightening, fangs threatening to break skin. The hand currently not wrapped around his cock is clenching the bedsheets hard enough to rip. 

He just needs to wait. He just has to wait a little longer. You’ll be home soon. 

—

You slip off your shoes at the door, setting them aside on the rack near the entrance. The warmth from the apartment chases away the chill and you set down your bag, heaving a sigh of relief. You’ve been looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend all day since he has a rare day at home today. 

You peek around the hall, letting your aching feet be comforted by the rugs near the living room. Where is Miguel anyways? 

“Heyyyy,” Lyla pops up in front of you suddenly, grinning when you startle. “Looking for Miguel?”

You set a hand on your chest trying to calm your jackrabbiting heart, before giving her a small smile.

“Yeah. Is he here right now? I mean he said he would be, but I don’t know if he’s doing his Spider-man thing right now,” You tilt your head as Lyla’s expression flickers. She adjusts her glasses, glancing at your bedroom door.

“Well uh, he’s in there. Might wanna be careful though,” She mutters, checking out her bright pink nails absentmindedly. You raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

In lieu of explanation she draws up a calendar and materializes a glitching pen in her hands, circling the date. Your frown in confusion. 

“The…8th?” You blink and she nods. Why would today be significant? It’s not your anniversary, the only thing that comes to mind at the moment is… “Oh.” You swallow dryly, remembering vague flashes from two months ago. Two months ago when he had fucked you silly for what was basically two days, interspersed with breaks in between. Then the sheepish explanation of what he calls "mating period" where his DNA practically drives him insane with rampant horniness. 

 Lyla nods empathetically.

“Yeah…well, good luck! I've heard that massages really help with soreness.” She vanishes with a pop of golden glimmers, leaving you alone in the hall. 

You glance where she had been moments prior before sighing. Dating a man with half of his makeup being spider DNA came with its quirks. Your feet carry you down the hall and you open the door to find –

Oh fuck.

Miguel, in all of his bare glory, strong thighs spread wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. His sweatpants and shirt are in a heap on the floor, most likely thrown in his haste. His heaving chest is gleaming with sweat, abdomen twitching, looking like a Greek God. 

And there, his throbbing, swollen cock squeezed tightly in his fist, his hips working back and forth at a languid pace. Long and thick, the tip shining slightly with precum. It makes you salivate, sticky heat beginning to grow between your legs. 

The room's atmosphere is heavy as you mindlessly draw closer. Fuck, his gasps and whimpers sound so pretty. Half of his large frame is hanging off the bed as you realize he's on your side, face buried desperately in your pillow.

"B – baby," His words stutter in his throat as your scent overwhelms him, his nostrils flaring. "Please, please, please —fuck, need you so bad," he quivers, taking his hand off of his face to look back at you. He's grimacing, gorgeous plush lips stretched into a pathetic pout and you hum in acknowledgement, putting a hand on his thigh. He twitches but makes no other move.

Your clit throbs in response to the pure neediness in his voice, high and whiny. He sounds utterly wrecked, squeezing his cock and waiting for you to touch him. You’re so close, your hand is on his body, but it’s not where he wants it. 

“You’re so desperate, Miguel,” You croon, reaching out slowly and wrapping your hand around his base. He makes a choked sound, his hand falling away to run through his sweaty hair. “Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, visibly trying to contain himself before he speaks, low and ragged.

“Yes,” He finally hisses, crimson irises foggy and clouded with lust. You hum in approval at his answer, squeezing lightly as you begin to pump him, going at a pace you know is wholly too slow for his taste. “Don’t t — tease me, cariño. Faster, baby, please,” He begs, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

You rock back on your heel as you begin stroking faster, your thumb tracing the veins on the underside. Miguel’s eyes roll back as your deliciously hot mouth descends on him, your tongue circling his tip juuust the way he likes it. Fuck, you can feel yourself getting wetter with each trembling hiss and moan you pull out of this man — your man. You separate from him with a pop, licking pre from sticky fingers while he watches hungrily.

The smell of arousal — your arousal, invades his senses and his hands twitch and he lunges, pulling you up to him and flipping you over. You yelp in surprise as his hands immediately squeeze flesh, your hips, your thighs, your ass, anywhere he has access to. 

You tilt up to kiss him and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours firmly. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and when you allow him access inside he moans quietly, fangs digging into your lower lip lightly. 

Your shirt is practically discarded at the speed of light and you shiver for a second at the cold washing over your skin before Miguel's all over you again.

He leans forward to fumble with your bra, fingers struggling to unclasp the hooks on the back. You laugh and pull it off yourself, to which he rolls his eyes fondly before his mirth is devoured by desire.

Thick fingers nimbly pull at your pants waistline.

"Take these off too, sweetheart," He whispers, leaving wet open mouth kisses trailing down your neck. You shiver, obliging quickly and kicking them off. They land somewhere on the floor and you don't care enough to look for them. Not when Miguel is between your legs, staring down at your clothed pussy like it's his last meal.

He inhales slowly, leaning down to press his head against your thigh. You smell so fucking intoxicating, he wants nothing more than to bury his face between your legs and make you scream in pleasure. But first he has to get rid of your panties.

"Hurry up, Miguel, please," You whine, wiggling your hips as if to try and encourage him. As if he needs any sort of encouragement. 

"Do you care about these panties?" He asks, quick and low. You blink.

"No…? –! " You gasp as he lowers his head and fucking rips them off of you in one quick motion with his damn teeth. "Miguel!"

"I'll get you new ones, baby. Promise." He kisses your inner thigh, holding you down with two large searing hands. "As many as you want. As long as I get to have this goddamn pussy, I'll get you anything."

Your glistening lips look absolutely delicious, all wet and soaked from watching him play with his cock in front of you. He wants to put his mouth on your throbbing, swollen clit until you sob, wants your pussy in his face, wants his tongue in you while you grab at his hair and urge him for more. You'd taste divine, and he nearly just decides to do it anyway.

But his cock is so hard it almost hurts and he's about three seconds away from getting blue balls, so instead he sinks one finger in your drenched cunt. Your breath hitches and you turn your head into a pillow as he begins to finger fuck you in earnest. The obscene sound of slick gushing out from your hole makes Miguel nearly feral, nearly has his eyes rolling back into his head as he feels your tightness squeeze and pulse around his thick digit. You hiss at the stretch, slow pain and growing pleasure intertwining as Miguel goes slow adding a second. 

"You're doing so good, so good, baby. You feel so – fuck, so good. Can you take one more?" He asks breathlessly. "C’mon, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You nod amidst blurry vision, gasping as he slides another finger in. His pace is fast and punishing, and the final goddamn nail on the coffin is the way his fingers press into your g-spot, while his thumb rubs messy circles on your puffy clit. 

"Cum, baby, you can do it, you can fucking cum for me, can't you?" He latches onto your tit, swirling his tongue around your nipple in such a way that makes your head foggy. 

“Mig – guel!” You whine brokenly as he rolls it between his teeth, sharp points of pleasure burning up your spine like wildfire. Miguel can’t help but groan at the feeling of your sweet cunt clamping down on his fingers, and he increases his speed at the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. You're so so close and when the building coil in your lower stomach finally snaps, you sob, gushing all over his palm.

Your bare chest heaves as he murmurs sweet praise in your ear, telling you that "You did so good, cariño," and "Look at you, you're so gorgeous all spread out like this,". Miguel drags his tongue down your neck, pulling away for a second to suck your juices off his fingers in an awfully erotic display of tongue, saliva, and a flash of a grin. 

He presses kisses to your face, trying his absolute damndest not to hump you like a fucking dog but he’s waited so long and he’s going to go fucking insane if he doesn’t get your pretty pussy wrapped around his cock in the next two seconds. 

“C’mere, baby,” Miguel takes himself in hand, his other keeping your thighs spread so he can see your twitching hole all wet and ready for him. “Can’t wait any damn longer – I’ll fuckin’ – explode or something.”

Looking up at him from your position is absolutely deadly. His hair is disheveled, strands slipping from their usually neat positions, his expression is utterly and completely devoted as his chest heaves. Your eyes travel down to shamelessly stare at his massive package, complete with his proportionally large hand curled around the weeping length. 

He’s so stiff that he splits your lips easily, and he groans at the feeling of your slick coating the underside of his cock. You can’t help but gasp as he grinds against you slowly before the head catches on your clit and pushes inside. 

And oh god, he could die right here and be happy, he could fucking die with the tip of his dick buried in your tight pussy and think that his life is fulfilled. It takes everything in him not to cum and paint your insides in a creamy white. Your wet walls are so slick and he hisses as they clamp down on him.

“Fuuuuck… baby you — you gotta loosen up for me, relax — mnnshit — “ he gasps, and you cry out, shifting underneath him. He rubs sloppy circles on your clit, his breathing labored as a few more inches of his monstrous cock slide in, “There we go, there we — nnngh, okay, good, so fucking good, you’re such a pretty girl,” he babbles nonsensically, practically losing his mind in the warmth. 

“M — Miguel,” You hiccup, nudging him out of his daze. “Move — please, s’not enough,” You want him in your guts, you want him to fuck you until the only thing you can remember is the shape of his cock. 

And who is he to deny you?

He shoves the rest of himself in in one fluid motion, his throat closing in on itself as he bottoms out, his pelvis flush to yours. His mouth parts slightly as his lips form an o shape, and he thrusts once, caging you in his burly arms. 

“Oh shit — I’m gonna move, okay? M’gonna move,” he warns you, before pulling out slowly only to slam his hips back into yours with wild abandon. You suck in a startled breath as he begins to absolutely fuck your brains out, fire igniting deep in your lower stomach again. There’s none of his usual careful approach, there’s no teasing, no smug remarks. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: stuffing you full of his seed until he physically can’t anymore. 

You can barely get anything out as he grinds against you, his dick so deep inside that you’re sure that he’s showing through your lower stomach. Fuck – he feels so good as he fills your tight pussy, rocking precisely in all of your sensitive spots. The head of him practically kisses your damn cervix, sending you rocketing towards your second orgasm of the night. 

Your brain is so mushy and pleasure-drowned that it takes you a second to realize that he’s still talking and oh fuck.

“Let me fill you, le— let me cum inside, please, please, baby, I wan – nngh, I want you all round and swollen f’me,” he sounds utterly wrecked, desperate and hungry all rolled in at once, “Wouldn’t you look so pretty an’ gorgeous? Pleas – e, please? Need you full, all full of me,” Miguel begs, grunting lowly when you clamp down on him from the downright filth flowing from his mouth. 

“Yes – Miguel, just –nnhgod, oh shit, oh fuck,” You lose the tail end of your sentence as your head melts out of your ears and pleasure sears through your veins. Miguel whimpers at your words, shoving himself deeper than you thought was humanly possible. 

“Waited so long for you, baby, was so – was so lonely, needed you – need you – “ He hits a spot that has you keening, eyes rolling back and your head bumping against the headboard of the bed. You’re driving him utterly insane, your moans and cries sounding like a blended symphony of bliss pounding through his eardrums. He leans down to litter any inch of bare skin he has access to in dark marks, his burning mouth trailing wetly down the valley between your breasts.

“M’close, Mig – uel, I’m going to cum, baby –” You manage to gasp out before you’re overwhelmed completely and your vision erupts into stars as you gush around him for the second time in one day. It feels like someone has poured molten pleasure down your veins and you’re incandescent with it. 

Miguel chokes, low and deep in his throat, feeling your slick pussy tighten around his girthy cock, slathered in your juices. It tears a downright animalistic sound out of him, a trembling snarl from somewhere in his chest as he thrusts once, twice, then finally pumps you full of creamy thick seed. 

His mouth is agape, transfixed in a silent ‘o’ as his hips stutter and his balls draw up tight, every atom in his body devoted to filling you completely. When he’s finished, he rolls his hips a few more times, fucking his cum deeper inside of you despite his hiss of overstimulation. 

Your limbs are putty in his hands as he slides out slowly and adjusts you into a more comfortable position, his eyes lingering on the way some of his cum drips out of your loose hole. He pushes it all back in with two fingers, giving you a small smile of apology at your choked mutter, before collapsing down next to you and dragging you close to his chest. 

“...How long does this last again?” You rasp, voice sore from screaming. Miguel hums in contemplation, nosing your shoulder from where he’s draped over you.

“About a day and a half more to go,” He responds languidly after a moment. “Are you okay with that?”

You know you’re going to be so sore by the end of it. You know you’ll probably be feeling it for weeks on end after. You know you’ll probably have to take a few sick days to recover too. 

“Mhm,” You answer, kissing his cheek. “I can handle it,”

“That’s good,” He replies quietly, and you stiffen, feeling his fat softened cock twitch against your thigh. He raises his head to give you a semi sheepish look and you gulp.

Maybe you can’t handle it, actually. It’s okay though, since Miguel will take care of you long after. 

—

Man im so sorry this was pretty late. At least i managed to get it in before October ended. Also I’d let that man dick me down any day of the week, 24/7 😻😻

[erwinsvow]

ain't nothing better for me

summary: at half past midnight, you get call from your ex-boyfriend. and though you really, really shouldn't answer, you still do.

now spinning: poison by brent faiyaz

word count: 8.8k

warnings/tags: toxic exbf!rafe, heavy angst, mentions of past breakup/fighting, reader knows she deserves better but can't stay away (classic), car sex feat. fingering, backshots, unprotected sex. thank you so so so much to @zyafics for all her help with reading and editing ♡

your phone goes off when you’re putting on your nightly skincare. in between layers of moisturizer and serums, a hopeful smile graces your face. you think you know who it is, and you’re actually a little excited to check your messages.

you let the anticipation soak in for a little longer, finishing your routine first before taking a look to reply. it’s been months since you’ve even felt a hint of excitement about talking to a boy, and this one—the one you know has just texted you—is making you feel somewhat normal again. 

you’re not just someone hung up on her ex-boyfriend, pretty much unable to escape him and the ghost of your old relationship wherever you go anymore. now you’re just another girl—talking to a new boy and feeling the excitement that a new crush brings.

you rub on the last layer, the one that makes your skin all glowy and soft before bed, before deciding to go check the text. you rush over to your phone, which is resting on your nightstand next your books and your water, picking it up and tapping the screen to read the message you’ve been waiting for.

rc: are you asleep?

you think your beating heart has just fallen through to your stomach. the phone falls out of your hand, thudding against the counter and hitting your glass of water before falling onto the rug. 

“shit. oh, shit,” you repeat to yourself, picking up the now spilled, half-empty cup. you look at the water drip off your nightstand, dark specks of water painting your rug while you try to catch your breath.

it feels impossible to do so, and you wonder how one short text can get you so winded. you scramble to the other side of the room, grabbing a towel but unable to walk back to where your fallen phone is. picking it up and rereading that text feels impossible. every muscle is frozen in place, the towel clenched in your fist while you realize nothing you could ever do is going to make you normal again. all it takes is a few words from rafe cameron to get you completely unglued.

“okay. deep breaths,” you say quietly, as though rafe could hear you through the phone. you tread back carefully, watching your screen fade back to darkness. letting out yet another deep breath, you blot the wet patches with the towel and take a seat on the floor against your bedframe, resting your back and bringing your knees in.

it’s pathetic, you know that already. no one should permit one text to get them curling up half-fetal with a new fear of their phone, but that’s what rafe has done to you.

a tumultuous relationship had brought you here now—for every up, there was a down, and though you had once thought rafe was the most misunderstood guy you had ever met, you know now that there was a reason for it. 

all of your friends had warned you, and you hadn’t listened. and it’s not as though you have something hard, something concrete to blame. maybe it would have been better if rafe had just cheated on you or gotten bored of you, maybe that would make getting over him easier. 

instead you’re left the gutting realization that there was still, to this day—even four months after you two had officially broken up—no lack of love between you two. the way you’re sitting on the floor with tears brimming in your eyes is enough to prove that to you.

and of course, there’s that other feeling nudging through in the back of your mind. the one you’re trying so hard to avoid feeling the full brunt of, to avoid letting that feeling stand on its own two feet in your heart and head. rafe cameron still wants to know if you’re asleep or not. 

he still wants to know what you’re doing, where you are, even how you are. and that feeling is a beast of its own, impossible to even begin to understand. 

you try to let yourself soak in the feeling, when your phone screen lights up again.

rc: i know you’re up

rc: stop ignoring me

fuck. how does he know you’re even awake? setting aside yet another impossible feeling, you finally pick up your phone, rereading his texts for the third time in sixty seconds. gone was the cute profile picture, the emojis next to his name and the butterflies in your stomach when you got a text from him.

instead you stare down at messages from a boy who has always seemed to know you better than you know yourself, wondering why you had even unblocked his contact to begin with. actually, you know why, but you decide to ignore that for now.

you need to grapple with your current reality. you need your best friends to read these texts and tell you how you should feel, because you know you can’t trust your own feelings. you need an hour just to work out how you should respond, and another hour to work up the courage to actually do so.

but you don’t get any of that. your screen glows with a red button and a green button, rafe’s contact appearing and a call coming through.

“oh god,” you get out, wondering why the hell he’s calling you. you didn’t even respond. briefly, you think if you let it go to voicemail, rafe will think you’re asleep and leave you alone. you wrestle with that idea for a moment, thinking it’s the best course, coming to terms with the fact that the boy you had once loved more than anyone in the world is now getting his call screened.

and then, as if your heart has a mind and body of its own, you feel your finger hover over the green answer button. what if rafe’s hurt? what if he really needs you and you’re ignoring him, what if it’s something serious? you shouldn’t just ignore him because of your feelings when it’s closer to one in the morning than midnight, and your boyfriend knows you always sleep early.

shit. ex-boyfriend. you let this new idea of the freudian slip take over your mind, feeling like your head might explode from the amount of emotions you just went through in the last ten minutes. 

heartbreak, anxiety, and a terrible sadness even imagining telling your friends about this. they’d praise you for not answering and deep down wonder how you didn’t immediately text back. everyone in your life knows how you much you love rafe cameron.

shit. that’s the wrong word. not love, but rather loved. you need to get better at this.

“oh.” it comes out in one short breath, more a noise of relief than anything else. the call went away, your screen returning to your home wallpaper, a pretty picture of the sunset on the water. you stare at it, thinking that you really, really need to go to bed now.

rc: your light is on. answer before i-

you don’t even finish reading the text, eyes going wide. you should scramble up and turn your lights off, but you don’t even get to it before the call screen comes back on. fuck, he’s calling again. 

and fuck. because this time, you answer.

bringing the phone to your ear, you wait with bated breath.

“hey, kid,” rafe says, and true to form, like something out of a dramatic teen movie, you slide down against your bedframe because those two words will always, always make you feel weak in the knees.

your eyes are closed now, a stray tear making its way down your cheek. you think you’ve missed the sound of rafe’s voice like nothing else in this world. and now, realizing what an impact it’s having on you, you wonder if cutting him off cold-turkey was the smartest idea.

“how did you know my light’s on?” you ask quietly, and it seems the whole world has stopped spinning. you can picture it now, wherever he is, running a hand through his hair at your question, licking his lips before speaking. 

“i’m outside.”

oh no. no, no, no. rafe cannot be outside your house right now, he can’t be anywhere near you. and he certainly can’t be looking through your bedroom window and texting you about your lights or about anything else.

“rafe, why are you-”

“‘cause we need to talk.”

“i don’t have anything to talk about, rafe.” the words sound foreign coming out of your mouth, feels like it’s wrong to even speak this way to him. 

“then just listen. c’mon, kid, come outside. gimme ten minutes, okay? s’it.” 

you hang up the call without answering his last question. and letting your heart call the shots again, you get up, slipping on your shoes and grabbing your phone. and then, though you know you shouldn’t, you climb down the stairs and open the front door, being greeted by rafe’s blue truck parked alongside your curb. 

you stand there frozen for a moment, thinking about every time before this you had snuck out for rafe. and then you really take it in—how the hell had a two minute phone call convinced you to do this? 

the night air nips at your exposed legs, and you cross your arms to feel less cold. usually you couldn’t help yourself, ignoring the chill and running up to the passenger side door that rafe would open from the inside for you.

at first you’d been too shy to greet rafe with a kiss but it had come to you over the early months of your relationship. there were times you two spent hours in his truck on the same deserted street by the forest, coming back home before dawn and soaking in the feeling that you finally had what you wanted.

now you stare at the truck, wondering why it felt so hard to even walk closer. your body tenses up at the muscle memory coursing through you, but you hold back this time. releasing a breath, you tell yourself one thing.

“ten minutes. that’s it.” 

slow steps lead you to rafe’s truck, and then when you’re just a foot away, reaching for the doorhandle, you can make out rafe leaning over your seat and pulling the handle, opening the door for you like he always does. 

you should turn around and run back inside.

instead, you climb up and take a seat, gently closing the door. you stay seated, eyes focused on your lap, trying your hardest not to look around and take everything back in from the countless times you’d been here before. 

moments later you fail, feeling your entire body soften like butter upon taking in the memories of yourself in this car. your lip gloss sits in the cupholder, a photo of you and rafe that you had clipped into the passenger side mirror pokes out, and the air freshner you’d bought for rafe hangs around the rearview. 

you smile without realizing it, thinking that maybe rafe had erased the memories of you like you had tried to do to him. you turn, finally, to look at rafe. he’s already looking at you.

“you could have thrown this away,” you say, picking up your lip gloss and avoiding his gaze quickly. 

“nah. kept it safe for you.” you bite your lip, tugging on the skin much too hard. words are becoming harder and harder to find, and you want the ache in your chest to go away more than anything in the world.

“y-you said ten minutes,” you get out, your expression dipped in sadness. without knowing why, fresh tears brim at your eyes, and you stay turned ahead to make sure rafe doesn’t see.

“that was just to get y’out here.”

“rafe-” 

“c’mon, kid. m’sorry. how many times do i have to say it, huh?” unfortunately, tears start streaming down before you can control them. wiping them away, you turn to look at rafe for the first time tonight, and for the first time in a while.

he looks like he always does. some of his hair falls into his forehead, and every time he runs a hand through it, it falls back in exactly the same place. his blue eyes are completely focused on you, and though there was a time where nothing could have made you happier, right now it feels like they’re burning into you. he looks upset, like this is all very serious and like you’re not getting out of this car until you accept his apology. that last thing may be the truest part.

but worst of all, rafe looks just as handsome as always. he doesn’t have to do anything to completely take your breath away, to be that guy you would give up anything for, do anything for. that boy is still here, you just had thought that you weren’t that girl anymore. but now you don’t know.

“if you think this is about.. apologizing, then i don’t know what to say to you.” 

and you mean that. you don’t know what to say to him. you don’t know any sentence you can utter that will get you out of this car with your heart still in one piece.

“kid,” rafe says, and your entire body tightens up. he moves one hand to your exposed knee and you feel your skin turn to fire underneath his touch. “you wanted time. i gave you time. i gave you months. you really so much better off without me that you won’t even let us try?” 

“it’s not like that,” you say through tears, a sob wrangled in your throat. 

“then what’s it like? ‘cause i’ve been waiting. first you didn’t answer my calls, my texts. then you fuckin’ blocked me and you said you needed time. this is enough time.” rafe looks at you like he’s ready for this whole thing to be over, like all the two of you need to mend this relationship in the next few minutes.

“it’s not about the time, rafe. you still think this whole thing is about flowers and-and attention, and it’s just not-”

“i know i fucked up.”

the sentence hits you like a wall of bricks. the entire break-up had started from what was mostly a simple thing—you felt like rafe never got you flowers anymore. the two months leading up to this relationship starting had been everything you had dreamt of. rafe would check in on you everyday, go out of his way to see you, make sure you were okay even when you had already lied that you were fine. spontaenous dates, car rides, boat trips, he had done it all.

but it was really the effort behind the actions that had made you so head over heels. you didn’t care about anything but that simple word—effort. and rafe had put in the effort the entire time before you two agreed to date. 

truth be told, you didn’t care about all the stuff you two did together. everything with rafe was fun for you, but it was really just being with him that you wanted. and for the first six months of your one-year relationship, you had his complete effort and attention. there was never anything pressing when the two of you were together, never anything that was worth leaving you for.

and the flowers. the boy who had taken you on the first date had brought you flowers. and you, being you, had beamed. those peonies had lived on your nightstand for much too long, and then you had taken one and kept it on your windowsill. 

the single dried peony was still on your windowsill—you had never thrown it away, and the realization makes your heart hurt. it had been a stupid argument about flowers that had made you decide you wanted, or rather that you needed to end things with rafe. you had been sitting in this very seat, noticing for the hundredth time in the last few months that rafe was stressed about something, unhappy about something else. instead of talking to you about it, he was neglecting you. 

conversations were one-sided. your efforts to try and help him, and to try and figure out what was even going on were met with silence or a gruff leave it alone, kid. a couple dates were forgotten or cut short, but that wasn’t a big deal. you wanted to be supportive, and you tried as best as you could, but you couldn’t keep burning the candle on both ends. 

you wanted to take care of rafe while he was going through this, but in that process, you had to take care of yourself too. and when it came to it, sitting where you were sitting now, you had decided to put yourself first.

you snap out of your thoughts at once. you’re reflecting as though something is about to change, and for your own sanity, you know it can’t. rafe admitting he did something wrong is nice, so at least you don’t have to blame only yourself anymore, but it can’t change what you’ve decided. 

“you..” you falter, unsure where your sentence is going. “it wasn’t just you. but maybe we both need to stop, rafe. this isn’t healthy.”

“no, no, it was just me.” your shut your eyes tightly, holding back a painful noise that you don’t want to release. 

“rafe, please-”

“you got upset about flowers. i didn’t know what it was really about. and that’s my fault, okay? it’s not about the fuckin’ flowers. it’s about us, i get that now.” 

your eyes open, though tears have made your vision blurry and your eyes hurt. you keep looking at rafe, wondering when he realized all this and when he decided he was going to keep chasing you. you don’t think you really want to know the answer. holding back another sob, you try to reply, but it comes out in a teary whisper. 

“why couldn’t you figure this out four months ago?” 

you start crying again, though you really wish you wouldn’t. it’s been more than ten minutes, but you have a feeling you’re not getting out of this car anytime soon. rafe grips the steering wheel so hard you see his knuckles lose color. 

“‘cause i wasn’t.. i wasn’t paying attention. and m’sorry. what else can i do, huh? y’know i can’t live without you.” 

the words bring up more tears, and you wipe them away with your hands. 

“c’mon kid, don’t cry.”

“i can’t just forget about all of that because you’re saying this now. if this happens again i’m gonna-”

“it won’t,” rafe says it firmly, moving his hand back to your thigh. there’s goosebumps on your skin. “it won’t happen again.” 

you’re staring at rafe while he stares at your thigh, where he’s touching you. you sniffle, a million thoughts running through your head. you want to know what to do, what to say. unfortunately, the one person in the world you ask every question to is the one sitting next to you right now.

you focus on wiping your tears away, crossing your legs. rafe stretches his arm to the backseat, grabbing something and bringing it to the front. he offers it to you—one of his hoodies, the navy one from his alma mater that you used to wear almost every day. 

“i-i’m fine,” you say, though you’re still cold. it’s the idea of wearing it that provokes you to say that. you don’t know how you’ll feel if you put that sweatshirt on again. 

you could remember the first time you wore it like yesterday. at the bonfire, wearing a dress you had thought rafe would like, you were freezing by the water with him and his friends. rafe had left to get you two new drinks and come back with it, and you had spent the rest of time curled up next to him, refusing to take it off even when the group migrated near the fire. when had you given this hoodie back? it seemed to have a new permanent home in your bedroom or your car. 

“stop lyin’ to me. just put it on.” suddenly too sad to fight about this, you comply, pulling it over your head and covering your pajamas—a big shirt and your sleep shorts getting hidden. 

you shouldn’t take in the scent, but you do, inhaling deeply. it smell like rafe’s cologne—which is enough to bring more tears to your eyes, since it’s been months since you’ve smelled that scent—and the laundry detergent he uses and something else you can’t place.

“thank you.” 

you know what you’ve just done. someone staying in the car for another few minutes doesn’t put on their ex-boyfriend’s hoodie. you think you’ve just signed your death warrant through this simple act. 

“i don’t want one of your neighbors to call the cops,” rafe says, looking into the side mirror. 

this is your chance. the logical part of your brain screams at you to tell rafe to leave, to take off this hoodie and run back inside. it reminds you that no one can change instantly, no matter what they tell you and how much better they seem.

it says that the next time rafe gets stressed out, you might suffer through everything you went through all over again. you see it in flashbacks—nights spent crying into your pillow, waiting on your front porch for dates that never happened, asking rafe for flowers and deciding that you need to break up with him after he finally gave them to you. 

“do you want ice cream?” you ask, blinking up at rafe.

“where are we gonna get ice right now?” you shrug at his response.

“you always found somewhere.” 

rafe laughs at a little, and your heart soars.

“yeah, guess i did.” 

rafe looks down at you, perched in his passenger seat like you always are, like you always should be, your face a little flushed from the tears. 

“you sure you want ice cream, kid?” you don’t miss the implication in his words, the tone of his voice, or what he’s really asking you. you nod. “alright. let’s go then.” 

changing gears, he pulls the car away towards the road and takes off down your street while you fasten your seat belt.

you had only suggested getting ice cream because you couldn’t find it in yourself to go back to your room and sleep after everything you just went through. rafe’s words were having an immediate, visceral impact on you, making you reevaluate everything the two of you had gone through these last few months.

he did seem different. you’re probably one of the only people in the world who would notice, but you know he has. there’s small changes—the way he talks to you, the words he’s using to apologize, how much he seems to understand everything you were feeling during the end of your relationship and the following months. 

but you’re not sure yet. you can’t let a few nice words or what could end up being empty promises change your mind completely, as heartbreaking as that idea now seems.

you need to think about it, and you need more time. you push down some of your inner thoughts—they’re telling you what you really need is a good night’s sleep and an hour-long conversation with your best friends. instead you’ve decided for yourself that you need some more time with rafe. hence; the ice cream.

rafe pulls up to the drive-through window of the only place still open on figure eight. the parking lot is mostly deserted, but not empty. you don’t recognize any of the cars, but you keep looking, staring off into space, distracted with your own thoughts. you don’t look up until rafe’s driving towards the second window to pay, not realizing he’d already ordered.

“oh, i didn’t tell you-”

“s’okay. i got you what you always get.” 

“oh.” you’re left a little stunned. it’s been four months since you’ve had a real converastion with rafe and he still remembers your ice cream order—is that normal?

rafe pays and hands you one of the ice creams to hold, keeping the other in his hand while he drives away, parking in an empty corner of the lot. you stare at him stupidly while holding your ice cream, watching as he picks up your lip gloss from the cup holder and puts it in your lap. he takes the ice cream in your hand first, putting it into the holder, and then does the same with the one in his hand. 

you look away finally, now peering at the lip gloss on your lap. 

“sorry, kid.” rafe says, picking it up from your lap. his hands are cold and even with his hoodie on, you shiver at the touch. he drops the bottle into the center console, and then looks up at you, one hand still on your thigh. 

“huh?” you ask quietly, a little overwhelmed. there’s so many thoughts running through your mind, you don’t know which to focus on first. rafe remembers your order. rafe doesn’t want you to hold the ice cream since you’re cold. rafe brought you a hoodie because he knows that you wouldn’t put one on before coming out. the last thought is particularly biting—rafe knew you would come to his car if he called.

“you okay?” he asks, and truly, you don’t know how to answer.

“fine. yes, i’m fine. just tired,” you murmur, reaching for your ice cream with your hand covered by your sleeve.

“yeah. s’late for you.”

before you even take a bite, you look up at rafe. he’s just eaten a bite of vanilla soft-serve, licking the spoon before going back for another scoop. you feel your defenses slipping away while the scene infront of you unfolds. rafe doesn’t even like ice cream that much, not like you do. but he still always gets some because you hate getting it alone, and he knows that. if he remembers your order, he remembers that. rafe looks up and catches you staring, your melting ice cream in your hand.

“you sure you’re okay, baby?”

you turn away, staring down at your ice cream.

“you can’t just do that,” you mutter, all of a sudden upset at yourself more than at rafe. you’re doing it—the very thing you had told yourself to watch out for before even getting in rafe’s car. falling for him all over again, without any thought of your own mental well-being if this all goes south another year from now. 

“do what? check on my girl, huh?” there’s a teasing lilt in his voice that makes you want to chuck your ice cream at him.

“i’m not your girl anymore, remember? and you-you can’t just call me baby and act like everything’s back to normal-” you feel so stupid. why were you even here? why had you even suggested this?

“i thought we just went over this, kid, i’m-”

“i can’t rafe,” the words come out a little too loud, and you put your half-eaten ice cream back in his cupholder. “i can’t just.. go back to you. you’re gonna hurt me again, i-i know you are. i know you’re fine and-and you wanna get back together but it’s gonna tear me apart all over again.”

you stay silent, holding back what you really want to say. the words even rest at the tip of your tongue. no matter how much i love you, i can’t do that to msyelf again. you hope rafe understands, that he’ll try to make this easy on you.

“there’s no.. no amount of ice cream and hoodies and flowers that can make us okay again.” your words linger in the air and you stare at your hands now, trying to avoid looking at rafe because you’ll start crying the moment you do.

“kid, i-i know i fucked up. this stuff is just to show you m’still tryin for you. m’never gonna stop. that’s all.”

your shoulders sink down, all the tightness leaving your spine. 

“can y’just look at me, please?” you glance up, meeting rafe’s eyes again. “i’m gettin’ better, baby. i can’t do it without you.”

“don’t i deserve someone who doesn’t have to get better for me?” you ask, though your heart isn’t really in the question. 

“you do. i know you do. and maybe m’just the idiot hopin’ for another chance, even if i don’t deserve it.”

“then why are y-”

“‘cause i can’t live without you. and i’ll hate myself forever if i don’t try again.” 

rafe can see it happen, the way your eyes soften immediately. you hate when he says stuff like that, mostly because you believe every word coming from his mouth. your lips turn into a small pout, eyes looking down again.

“finish your ice cream before it melts,” he says, and you listen immediately, picking it back up.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever, eating ice cream. you glance up every now and then but then look back down when you catch his eye. 

“you-uh, found anyone like that yet?” rafe asks, while you eat another spoonful of your own soft-serve. “that doesn’t have to get better and all that?” 

you let the sugary dessert melt in your mouth, licking your lips while you try to think of the best answer. rafe’s staring at your mouth, but you don’t notice.

“no. not really, i guess.”

“you guess?”

“well, i.. i was waiting for a text from this guy, but it’s nothing, i-i barely know him.” 

you notice what you’ve just done as the sentence finishes—trying to undermine everything you were going through before rafe came back into your life suddenly earlier tonight. and you know why—you don’t want rafe to think this guy means anything to you. and watching rafe finish the last of his ice cream, the one he only got because he knew you’d hate eating yours alone, you know that boy doesn’t mean anything anymore.

“waiting for? so you didn’t get it?” 

“no, i don’t think so. i haven’t looked since you called. actually, when you texted me, i-i thought it was him.” 

“really?” rafe asks. you nod. “were you happy? that it wasn’t?” 

“i don’t know,” you say it immediately. and truthfully, you don’t. “i need to think about it.”

“what’s your gut tellin’ you?” 

“my gut said not to answer your call. but here we are.” you put your empty ice cream in his cup-holder, listening to rafe laugh. 

“sorry, kid. that’s my fault.”

“your fault?” you question, looking at rafe. your confused expression stares back at him while he debates the best way to tell you this.

“i had a conversation, y’know, man to man. it was his choice.”

“rafe,” you start, turning in your seat to face him. “what did you say?”

“nothin’, kid. just, y’know.. if he texted you he’s gonna get a black eye.”

“rafe-”

“if he took you out, he’s gonna get two-”

“what the fuck-” 

“what? you just said it was nothin’-”

“but you decided for me! before i even had a chance. it’s not your choice to make, it’s not your-”

“-but it is. if it’s about you, s’about me.” 

exasperated, you sink into the seat, unsure about how to reply to that. 

“how many times have you done this?” 

“not a lot,” rafe says. you don’t believe him, staring with a look that tells him as much. “once.. or twice.” 

“once or twice? please tell me-oh my god. that guy last month—i thought he stood me up, you dick!” you swat at rafe’s arm, but only manage to get a few taps in before he holds your wrist in place, stopping you from moving at all. “i thought there was something wrong with me.”

“there’s nothin’ wrong with you. just thought you deserved better than those assholes, s’all.” 

“oh, but your type of asshole is fine, is that right?” 

“yeah, it is.”

you lock eyes with rafe for a second, before the two of you start laughing. it feels so stupid to think back to the last few months and realize you couldn’t even remember the last time you and rafe laughed together. you keep looking at him, your laugh dying down until you bite your cheek and watch rafe run a hand through his hair. 

“i didn’t like him anyways,” you finally say after enough silence has passed.

“good. i didn’t either.” 

“is there any guy you would like for me?”

“just one, kid.” rafe stops, taking in the way you’re looking at him. he knows where and when he fucked up, even knows how to be better for you and not let it happen again. convincing you is the hard part, and he thinks he’s even making progress with that, with the way your pretty eyes shine up. your expression is as close to hope as he’s ever seen before. hoping that he’s not just saying these things, hoping that it won’t end like last time.

but you care enough to hope, and that’s enough for him to run with.

“m’sorry about the.. threats. but it’s me, so-”

“what did i expect?” you finish, smiling back at him. the way rafe looks at you right now makes you feel things you wish you could bottle up. instead you redirect your gaze, staring at the street lights illuminating the now-empty parking lot.

“exactly. and if i let you go on a date with some guy, i couldn’t give you these.” 

“rafe,” you start, though you’re not sure where your going with it. you shut up though, because rafe leans back, behind your seat. he picks up a bouquet of flowers and puts them on your lap, and the whole time you watch holding in a breath, tears automatically springing to your eyes. 

it’s a nice sentiment, you think, trying to justify it to yourself. the flowers on your lap are pink peonies, dark and light wrapped in brown paper. they look just like the ones rafe had give you on your first date and you smile down at them, still trying to wrap your head around the sentence that had you dizzy all night long—maybe rafe really had changed.

“this is really cheesy,” you finally admit, your eyes flickering back up at rafe with another smile. he keeps his eyes on you for a while, not saying anything, though you’re sure you know what he’s thinking. something along the lines of how you’ve wanted cheesy, you’ve wanted flowers without asking for them.

“i wanna be cheesy for you.” you inhale, not realizing how much such simple words mean to you. “it’s not flowers. it’s you, it’s for you. the things i do. the way i show it. i thought you wanted flowers but you just wanted me, didn’t you?”

“yeah,” you breathe out.

“well i’m here now. and you have me. you have all of me. and i’m not goin’ anywhere this time.”

the feeling coursing through your veins right now is unlike anything else. you feel more than just happy, more than just like a girl about to get back together with her ex-boyfriend. you feel like you’ve just become whole again.

what a shitty metaphor—as though you’d been totally and utterly incomplete without rafe in your life. that thought lingers for much too long, because haven’t you? you’ve always been attached to rafe, teetering on the edge of codependence, but there’s no denying the plain truth so obvious to both of you right now.

you can’t live without rafe and rafe can’t live without you.

“i gotta take you home. can you imagine what your parents will say? one day back with me and already sneakin’ out until-”

“i don’t wanna go home,” you say quietly, watching as rafe reverses out of the parking spot. he swings his arm around the headrest of your seat, watching behind him. back on the road, he drives in the direction of your house.

“don’t worry, kid. i’ll see you in a couple hours, probably-”

“will you take me by the water? where we used to go?” the truck comes to a halt at the stoplight. rafe looks over, the entire car glowing in the dim red light. the two of you meet eyes for a moment.

“yeah. sure.” you smile, watching rafe take a left instead of heading straight to your street. it’s not a long drive to the water from here, but the place the two of you always frequented is tucked away between trees and dead-ends.

it’s a bit of a maze to get there, and you don’t think you could figure it out in the broad daylight. but here in the dark, with rafe driving and music playing faintly in the background, you remember it like the back of your hand.

you entire body tenses up, a tingling running from your fingers to your toes. the mere feeling is electric, to be back in yours and rafe’s spot—almost like nothing has changed. it feels like maybe nothing has changed—you’re just as happy as you once were.

the tell-tale bumpiness of the road signifies you’re close to the spot. there’s a small outlook just beyond patches of gravel, a parting between trees where you can see the ocean. it’s private, almost completley inaccessible unless you were searching for it.

and maybe something’s changed in the last few months, maybe someone is searching for it, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. rafe puts the truck in park and you take a moment, first to stare down at your peonies, then to look over the water. 

“it’s late,” you say, taking in how dark the sky is. stars sparkle above you, and when rafe turns the car off, you can even hear the waves rushing on the beach.

“nah, kid. it’s early.” 

“yeah, i guess you’re right.” holding another breath, and without knowing exactly why you are, you lean forward, resting your elbows on the dash and staring up at the sky through the windshield. you release the breath suddenly when you feel rafe’s hand on your knee, first just the touch, but followed by a squeeze.

“say the word and i’ll take you home.”

 “no, i don’t wanna go. it’s just so late. i’m never up at this time anymore.” you bring your arms back, sitting in your seat and staring at rafe again, like you’ve been doing this entire time. “thank you, rafe.”

you prepare yourself for his usual answer, waiting to explain why you’re thanking him and how you still feel nervous but you’re ready to jump back into this relationship if he is, the sentences and words forming in your head already. 

instead he doesn’t say anything, leaning in suddenly and taking your face in his hands, bringing you into a kiss. and fuck, you’re a liar if you say you hadn’t missed this. rafe kisses you—always has, and seems like now he always will—like you’re about to slip away if he’s not holding you tight enough.

the hand on your face hold your jaw securely, tilting your face up for him. the kiss has you reeling from your seat, a wave of heat coursing your entire body. your face is hot, your palms clammy, eyes clamped shut while you try to remember if his lips have always been this soft, or felt this good on yours.

your flowers fall to the floor, rolling off your lap and landing with a rustle. you’re sure there’s loose petals and stray leaves littering the car now, but still, it’s hard to care. rafe moves his hands away from your face, pulling away from the kiss for just a second.

while you try to look down and see the damage you’ve just caused your peonies, you feel his hands on your hips, picking you up and bringing you onto his lap. you let out a noise of surprise, looking back at your boyfriend now. he doesn’t hesitate, leaning in again for a kiss.

this time, you don’t hesitate either, both of your hands migrating, traveling from his arms to his shoulders, gripping him as hard as he’s holding you. 

you feel wandering hands on your waist, traveling down to your ass and grabbing hard, making you let out squeals into rafe’s mouth. it feels like nothing has changed, like the last four months have never happened, with the way you fit so comfortably, how it feels so right to be back on his lap. you move your hands again, running through his hair like you always did—how you always loved doing—when you pull away this time to catch your breath. 

you meet rafe’s eyes, letting out a shuddery breath and a laugh all in one. you move your hand to his chest, pressing down against it, trying to make sure this is really happening. rafe follows your movement, taking your hand into his. your fingers intertwine with his, and rafe brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the back of it.

you think you’ve just melted all over again, lips curling up into a happy smile but finding it so much harder to keep looking into his blue eyes. he doesn’t say anything, just brings you back for another kiss. 

this might have been enough for you tonight, but everything rafe had said in the last few hours rushes back into your mind, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you. before you can even think about what you’re doing, you’ve moved to the backseat. propped up against the door, you wait for rafe to join you, biting your lower lip so hard it’s about to bleed. you watch rafe—he sighs, turning to look at you smiling in the back. 

“jesus, kid,” he says, opening the driver’s door and getting out of the car. you sit up a little straighter, confused until he opens the other door, meeting you in the back. you tilt your head at him, rolling your eyes.

“you couldn’t just hop over?” you question, blinking up at him. 

“no, ‘cause i’m not a runt,” rafe says, shutting the door once he got in beside you. you stay still for a moment, looking at him again. 

but it really is just a moment this time—you’ve become far too impatient to wait any longer. normally you’d savor it—there’s a lot that you and rafe can get done in this tiny space—but today your mind can’t focus on any of it.

your hands go to rafe’s polo first, moving it up his abdomen, fisting the bunched cloth to get it off your boyfriend as fast as you can, until he finally pulls it over his head. you crawl back onto his lap, hands perched on his shoulders while you start kissing again.

your brain goes numb and fuzzy, feeling rafe sneak under your shirt and rub the soft skin of your back and stomach, before making his way up to your tits. he gropes while you keep kissing—and it’s a vicious cycle. you moan at every teasing touch, rutting harder against his erection. 

it’s quick—he lifts your shirt up and off, and you both stay like that for a while, until you feel rafe paw at the waist of your shorts. leaning into his touch, you let him move you around like a rag-doll, now on your back on the seat, with him in between your legs. you lift your hips compliantly, letting him slide the shorts and your panties off together, laying completely exposed before him.

“not fair,” you breathe, watching as his eyes rake you over from top to bottom, like he’s memorizing every detail. “you’re still dressed.”

“don’t worry ‘bout that, kid,” he says, and you feel your walls flutter at the words, it’s nothing but it feels like everything right now, with anticipation driving you insane.

“can you just.. hurry? please?” you whine, even though it’s against your best interest. rafe likes taking his time with you, a fact you are well aware of.

“no,” he says, and you’re meant to understand the word is an entire sentence and your only answer. “y’know how long i’ve been thinkin’ about this?” you glance up at rafe from your position, watching as he hovers, your hand reaching out to touch his chest again. his silver chain glimmers in the light around his neck, and you loop your fingers around it. you want to tug, pulling him on top of you for another kiss, but you refrain for now.

“i don’t know,” you answer. “four months?” rafe laughs and so you laugh too, the sweet sound filling the tense air. he brings a hand to your exposed stomach, trailing up and down and taking in how your breath catches. 

“needy, huh?” rafe starts talking and your body tenses up immediately, knowing what’s coming. “when’s the last time you came? hm?”

“i-um,” you trail off, paying more attention to how he’s unbuckling his belt and undoing his zipper. you’re close to getting what you want, the question getting lost in your mind in a swirl of thoughts—all of them revolving around how rafe’s stroking himself, his eyes scanning over you. 

“s’not an answer, kid,” he says, leaning over you again. his chain dangles on your skin and the mere touch of it transports you back to every other time rafe had you like this. you clench hard around nothing, positive that you’re humiliatingly wet for rafe right now. and he’s still waiting for you to answer a question you’ve clean forgotten. “the last time you came. tell me. or y’not cummin’ this time.”

you whine, toes curling. rafe’s teasing your pussy with his fingers, two of them prodding through your folds and hovering over your wet hole. you think an answer might get him to actually fuck you with his fingers, but you still can’t piece it together with how fast your heart is beating.

“i-i think-” his fingers press into you without actually pushing inside your tight walls.

“don’t think. jus’ tell me.”

“last-last week. i was-” he gives you a little more pressure, you can feel them almost inside but it’s not nearly enough-

“you were what?”

“thinking about you-!” it comes out all in one quick gasp, rafe plunging both fingers inside you quickly. you moan, back arching off the seat, but restrained by rafe that you can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything but take it. he keeps going, finger-fucking you faster until you’re positive you’re about to tip over the edge. 

“good. good girl. wasn’t so hard, was it?” he keeps going, leaning over you to bring you in for another kiss, and it seems that’s all you need. that feeling—his chain grazing your face and his fingers deep inside you is enough to have you cumming, the tightness in your stomach unwinding while you make a mess over his hand. rafe swallows your moans, keeps his motions going while you ride it out. 

when he finally pulls his fingers out, you feel empty. you try to catch your breath and level out your heartbeat, looking back at him with your dopey, teary eyes. he’s stroking himself with his glistening hand, getting ready to fuck you, you think dreamily. 

rafe brings one hand to where your head is, pressing his palm flat against the seat. you watch him with big, wet eyes how he lines himself up with your throbbing pussy, how he leans in for another kiss. that’s when he pushes inside—no teasing words or questions, just a kiss you groan loudly, feeling the impossible stretch you’ve missed so much again, eyes rolling all the way back. your noises are muffled by rafe’s kiss, until he pulls away to bury his face in your neck. he bites at the sensitive skin there, leaving marks you’ll have to deal with later today, but it seems like a fair exchange in this moment. 

rafe pulls out and slams back in, and you moan in response with each thrust, forgetting how good he was at this. your legs are quivering, pussy impossibly sore already but you don’t think you’d make him stop even if someone knocked on the window right now. you move your hand, holding onto the seat while rafe keeps battering into you, your eyes wandering down to where the two of you are connected. rafe sucks hard above where your pulse is, and you arch your back up, legs wrapping around him.

“feels good, doesn’t it baby? better than you fingers?” he asks, and you nod, still speechless. “tell me how good-”

“rafe, rafe, i-” you moan his name but he interrupts.

“no, kid, lemme hear you-” he brings his face close to yours, your foreheads almost touching. you close the gap, kissing him again, feeling the tickle of his chain on your neck now. 

“i missed you,” you cry out. you realize later it wasn’t the answer he was asking for, but you don’t really care. the words fly out of your mouth, you’ve been so desperate this entire night to keep them tucked away, but it can’t stay down any longer. “i missed you, i missed you, i missed-” 

he shuts you up with another kiss, his pace picking up, if it’s even possible. your senses abandon you again, toes curling while rafe hits a spot inside you that’s been so neglected these past months. a white-hot sensation rushes over you, exploding from your stomach and spreading out, while your walls clench tightly against rafe. rafe presses back to your neck, murmuring let me hear you, and you do—finishing with a moan so loudly you’re sure someone in the vincinity has just heard you. 

you need to catch your breath, but rafe doesn’t give you the chance. he pulls out of you, letting your sore pussy flutter around nothing, before he turns you around, your body folded up while he slaps your ass so hard it starts stinging.

he pushes back in and your eyes roll back again, gripping the seat and then the door handle just to stabilize yourself for a moment. rafe likes backshots—the only thing he likes more is mean backshots, slamming into you from behind while you cry out. everything feels even more sensitive like this, coming down from two highs and blindly chasing a third.

rafe’s talking but you don’t hear what he’s saying, you can’t make it out over the ringing in your ears. so you turn your head, looking up at him from this position, but you still don’t actually hear him. instead you feel it—his hips stuttering, the weight of his body collapsing on you, hot, wet streams of his cum shooting inside you. 

you two stay like that for what feels like forever, listening to birds chirp and the waves crash over rocks. it’s rafe who untangles the two of you, separating sweaty, sticky limbs. he leans against the seat and brings you in to his chest, holding you tight while you let your eyes shut again. it’s comfortable—even more so when rafe picks up the discarded clothing, using it to cover you like a blanket. 

you move your hand until you find his, bringing your palms together on his chest, close to your face so you can rest your cheek on his hand. 

“shit. i gotta get you home,” rafe says, and you sigh in agreement, listening to the thud of his heartbeat from your position. outside, the sky is lighting up a little bit with soft early blues. 

“can’t we sleep first?” you murmur back, eyes still closed. 

“don’t think we’ve ever stayed here ‘til sunrise. have we?” he asks you, and you try to rack your exhausted brain for the answer.

“first time for everything.” finding some strength, you turn your head, looking up at your boyfriend. “rafe? can i ask you something?”

“yeah, kid?”

“did you mean everything you said?”

“yeah. i did.”

“oh. good.” the words are quiet coming from your mouth, and you lean back against his chest, getting comfortable again. “thanks for the flowers.” 

“yeah, kid,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. your breathing evens out, and he knows you’ve fallen asleep. it’s fine—it’s way too late for you anyways. “thanks for answering.”

♡

[aquaticmercy]

Bloodlust

Part 1 of Dark Necessities

Summary : You are a starving daywalker who needs to feed on human blood. Bucky offers himself to you. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader (she/her in mind)

Warnings/tags : Blood. Cursing. Sexual tension. Pleasure from a vampire bite (?). 

Word count : 2.6k

Note : Reader is a daywalker like Blade, though it is not specified how she became one. They are in an established relationship. Happy Halloween!

Event : Trick or treat (trick/treat, food source! Bucky, half-vampire! reader, “You’re mine. It’s all fucking mine.”)

You’ve been barely holding it together for weeks now.

You had been surviving on animal blood from clueless farmers and willpower alone. It wasn’t working anymore. You could feel the hunger taking over, the control slipping away.

The worst part of this was that Bucky saw it too. He was watching you fade into a shell of the daywalker you were, right before his eyes.

Bucky had tried everything to reach Eric Brooks. He left messages that grew more urgent, more frustrated. His pleas over the line were becoming more and more desperate. He’d even been willing to track Eric down himself, but the daywalker they called Blade was off the grid. And no synthetic serum that he concocted monthly was coming your way. Nothing to stave away your craving. Your starvation.

“You’re paler,” Bucky muttered one morning, worry carving new lines into his face. He traced his thumb along your cheekbone, tracing your hollowed cheeks. His heart broke, seeing the way your eyes had dulled from their usual brightness.

“I’m fine,” you managed to say, though even you could hear the weakness in your voice. 

But it wasn’t the truth. Far from it.

The ache of starvation echoed through your ribs, a painful emptiness that you tried to hide.

You tried your best to push away the temptation— the constant, all-consuming urge to sink your teeth into the first human that came close enough. 

And Bucky knew it. Every time his scent drifted toward you—warm, alive, so rich with the power of his super-soldier serum—it made you weak. Drove you insane.

You’d found yourself waking up in the middle of the night, your fangs bared, fists clenched in the sheets as you lay beside him, listening to his heart beat. You’d nearly lost it more than once.

You could feel your body betraying you, your gaze following the strong curve of his throat, watching his pulse with a raw, shameless hunger.

Bucky was keeping a close eye on you now, his touches tender, protective. He kept the distance if you said you needed it, but he lingered in your peripheral vision, making sure you didn’t die out of this hunger.

Tonight, after your latest mission, that final sliver of control was gone.

You’d been drenched in enemy blood, and that faint taste—a drop of your attacker’s blood splashed against your lips— sent your senses into a frenzy. You could still taste it, feel it. You had not tasted human blood in so long.

It was all you wanted, all you could think of. But not just anyone’s blood.

His. Bucky’s.

You stumbled back into the safehouse, body shaking, fangs clenched so tight it hurt your cheeks. You were woozy now. The last drop of your energy was gone. 

You were starving.

Bucky was beside you in an instant, his hands steadying you.

“Hey. It’s alright,” he murmured, his grip strong, pulling you in. “We’re done. We’re safe.”

He hadn’t noticed your hands shaking or your eyes fixating on the bare line of his throat, following the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“No, Bucky, you don’t understand,” you whispered, as he helped you stumble into bed. “I can’t… I can’t be near you right now.”

“Tell me what you need,” he said, his voice steady, unflinching. His hand cradled your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Let me help.”

“Bucky…” you barely choked out, eyes widening at the implication of his words. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying.” His voice was lower now, rough. His fingers tightened around your wrist as he sat next to you. “I can handle it.”

The words sank in, and then came a rush of dark and heady desire, the thrill of his offer— but how could you?

“No. It’s not safe,” You were shaking your head before, backing up. You wanted to run, to protect him from you. “I could hurt you. I could turn you…”

Of course, you knew you shouldn’t be able to turn him unless you wanted to, but with no control over your starvation, who knows if it could happen by accident— you’ve heard stories of it one too many times.

He let out a frustrated laugh, his grip firm. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve survived worse. And Hydra’s pumped my blood full of so much shit…” he murmured. His blue eyes pierced yours, as if daring you to look away, “… I don’t know if I can even be turned.”

“I can’t risk it,” you whispered, your voice shaking. The hunger was clawing at the edges of your mouth, threatening to consume you if you didn’t consume him.

“You’re half-vampire. I’m a super soldier. If anyone stands a chance at surviving this, it’s me.” he countered, his hand cupping the back of your neck. “Take what you need.”

The words shattered any scrap of control you had left.

The thought of him had filled every corner of your mind. The fear melted into a raw, primal need, your fangs aching as you gave in, surrendering to the urge that had been haunting you for weeks. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed your forehead, a soft, quiet invitation.

Your fingers twisted on his tactical undershirt as you lifted it up, throwing it on the floor. You dipped your head, lips grazing along his jaw, savouring the warmth.

His breath hitched as his hands roamed down your back, his heartbeat racing faster as you trailed down, your lips brushing the pulse on his neck. 

The moment your fangs touched his skin, he let out a shuddering breath. His fingers tightened around you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the power of his blood thrumming in your throat.

He tasted like fire and sunlight, flooding your senses in a dizzying rush. His blood was different—thicker, richer, carrying that unmistakable power of the serum.

A moan tore from his low in his throat, his hands tangling in your hair. His hands gripped you as you drank, his body arching into yours, his head falling back as the high hit him.

“Fuck…” he rasped, “don’t stop.” His voice was rough. His grip on you unrelenting, desperate, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear to let go. He was so potent that it drove you mad with need.

His body trembled against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps, a low groan slipping from his lips as his hands moved down, gripping the curve of your ass. The rush was mutual, his heartbeat thundering in your ears, his voice roaring with urgent pleasure.

When you finally pulled away, your tongue trailed over the wound. 

He let out a broken sigh.

“More,” he murmured, pleading, “Please.”

It sent a jolt through you, fanning the flames of your hunger.

You felt his hands exploring your back, his breath hot against your skin, peppering kisses on your shoulders. 

“Are you…” you started, voice barely a whisper. He cut you off, his lips capturing yours in a fierce, desperate kiss. His fingers slid through your hair. 

The taste of his blood still lingered in your tongue.

“I’m fine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice soft but exhilarated. His fingers traced down your cheek, stopping at your jaw.

Before you knew it, Bucky’s lips were on yours again in a feverish kiss. His tongue searched for the remnants of himself in your blood, almost pleading. When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his eyes dark and filled with a wilderness you have never noticed before.

“Bite me again,” he whispered. His fingers tightened around your waist. He pressed his forehead against yours. “Please. I didn’t think… I didn’t know it could feel like that.” His voice dropped. “I’ve never felt anything so good.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of his words, of the way he was looking at you—like he’d tasted something addictive, something he couldn’t live without now. 

His hands slid down to your thighs, pulling you against him, his body pulsing with that same primal energy that hummed through your veins now.

It was more than just hunger now. It was pleasure. 

“Bucky…” You tried to keep your voice steady, but you eyed the open wound you had created. “If I do this again, I might…” 

“Might what?” he murmured, one hand moving up to brush his thumb over your lips, “Hurt me?” 

His mouth tilted into a slight, knowing smirk. You could sense how much he wanted it, how much he trusted you.

How much he knew you would never ever take more than he could give.

You whispered, unable to look away. “I might not be able to stop.” 

But he only pulled you closer, “Then don’t.”

Bucky’s lips crashed against yours once again, his hands running feverishly over your body, fingers exploring, like he couldn’t get enough of you. 

His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, tracing up your sides with insistent, deliberate touches. His body trembled beneath your touch, pleading for more. Your hands moved over to his chest as you followed the hard lines of his muscles and scars. 

“Bite me,” he whispered, his voice rough, edged with a need that was eerily similar to your own. He tilted his head back, offering his throat, his fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you there with an urgency that sent a shiver down your spine. “Take what you want.”

Your hands roamed over his shoulders, gripping, pulling. Your lips hovered at the base of his throat. 

You could feel his pulse fluttering beneath his skin, steady and strong, drawing you in like a hypnotic pattern. 

Your teeth grazed his skin, and his metal hand slid down to grip your waist, pulling you so close it felt like you might sink into him entirely.

The second your fangs pierced his neck, he let out a low, guttural noise. His nails dug into your hips. 

His blood rushed over your tongue —a heady, intoxicating rush that flooded your senses, burning and sweet.

It was an overwhelming heat spreading through you both at the same time.

His hands explored every inch of you, fingers tracing down your spine, gripping your shoulders, roaming across your back with an unrestrained passion. 

Every drop of his blood bound you closer to each other, connecting you in a way that went beyond flesh.

He was gasping, his breath hitched against your earlobe.

His voice let a hoarse murmur of your name out of his lips, the quiet sounds of pleasure leaving his lips like a prayer.

He succumbed to the rush, the sheer ecstasy of it all.

“Don’t stop… please, don’t stop,” he begged, his voice filled with both desire and surrender. He was giving himself completely to you. 

It was erotic, maddening, the rush binding you in a loop of pleasure and need. You could feel his every reaction, every small gasp, every desperate shiver. The sounds he made—raw, breathless—were as addictive as his blood, music to your ears.

You could feel his pulse slowing as you finally drew back.

Still, his hands pulled you closer, his eyes dark and hazy, beautifully vulnerable.

In that moment, with his blood coursing through you, his heartbeat was still a steady anchor.

It felt like the world had always been just the two of you. The intensity of the bond was stronger than any pull you’d ever felt before.

Bucky’s eyes were hazy, darkened with the remnants of that high, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, looking at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s like… like you’re part of me now.”

You felt your chest tighten, his words resonating in your stomach. He smiled softly, running a hand through your hair, pulling you in for a slow, gentle kiss that left no doubt in your mind that he would want this again, that the need wasn’t yours alone anymore.

You held him close, savoring the warmth radiating from him. Whatever blend of serum— Hydra experimentation, maybe multiple super-soldier tests— that coursed through his veins had left him remarkably steady despite everything you’d taken. In fact, he seemed almost… blissful. Euphoric.

You gently eased him down, guiding him back against the pillows, brushing his hair from his face.

You were amazed at his strength. This would have killed a full grown adult, and here you were, marvelling at how peaceful he looked. His face was bright in the low light, eyes heavy-lidded, just slightly unfocused as he gazed up at you. Bucky’s hand slid up to yours, his fingers threading as he gave you a lopsided smile.

“Whatever Hydra did to me left some silver lining, huh?” he murmured, his voice thick with the remnants of that heady pleasure, a quiet wonder behind his tired gaze.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe it’s the reason you’re okay, the reason you found it… pleasurable.” You hesitated, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “The reason I couldn’t turn you. Even if I wanted to.”

The thought filled you with relief. The fear you’d held for so long—that you’d lose control, that you’d harm him in a way that couldn’t be undone— it had finally eased. Whatever Hydra had broken in him had given you both something unbreakable. A chance at a bond you hadn’t thought possible.

He nodded, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. His thumb traced slow, comforting patterns against the back of your hand. “Makes us even more perfect for each other, doesn’t it?” His voice was steady with certainty, as if he’d known it all along.

“Perfect for each other,” you echoed, a warmth spreading through you as he pulled you to lay in the pillow next to him. He let his arm rest around your waist. You could feel his heart beginning to recover to a steady, unhurried rhythm. 

His fingers traced idle circles on your skin. His voice was a low rumble that reverberated against your shoulder. “I don’t want you biting into anyone else"

You blinked, feeling his words settle deep in your core— primal. Almost jealous? 

He brushed his lips along your collarbone, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your bite is mine. And my blood is yours."

He lifted his head to meet your eyes, those stormy blue eyes dark with a possessive hunger that made your stomach flip. 

“You’re mine,” you traced your hand over the bite mark you left. “It’s all fucking mine.”

"Fuck Eric and his subpar serum," he continued, "All you ever needed… is me.”

You were his in that moment, bound by more than hunger or desire—it was an instinct, a natural bond now—shared and undeniable.

"I mean it," he murmured, "If anyone else so much as tries, I'll… fuck, I don’t know what I’d do."

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

“Just ours,” you promised.

Pressing a kiss to his temple and enjoying the silence, you finally muttered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He let out a soft, contented sigh as his eyes finally fluttered closed.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you felt a peace. The super-soldier blood would be enough to last you weeks, maybe months. When the time would inevitably come that you’d need to feed again, you knew he’d be there, waiting.

You brushed a final, lingering kiss against his brow, murmuring a soft goodnight.

You both knew that the pieces of yourselves that had been broken and twisted by forces beyond your control had somehow, impossibly, found a way to fit. The bloodlust you’d carried, the pieces that Hydra had broken in him—they’d found a home together.

-end (?)

—

Companion piece / bonus text: What is a blood bond?

Part two out now! : Blood Bound

[barleyo]

678-999-8212.

Real Dad! Leon Kennedy X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: part two for my last fic!! ermmmm once again ily if you know the title's reference :3 this is a short addition too but idk i don't think part one required a super long part two! please read the tags, leon is mean in this one :c

Part One: here

Tags: incest (daddy-daughter), age gap (21-50s), degradation, choking, hate-sex, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, non-con, striking/smacking of the face, alcohol mention

Wordcount: 1k

Leon had never driven this fast before. To hell with every red light in his way, he needed to get home. Foot sat firmly on the gas pedal, inching further and faster the more he thought about the series of events that led him here. 

His daughter was an absolute slut. How many men had you 'entertained' like that before? How many filthy calls had you made to men who were possibly even older than himself? More than that— how had he fallen into your trap? 

He made a silent promise to himself to put the bottle down, seeing as it left him in that situation. A promise that was an empty one, but it offered him solace in the moment as he pulled into his driveway. 

Leon's feet struggled against the pavement. He was still unbearably drunk and dizzy, now with added anger and unfounded horniness. He felt gross, disgusted by the erection popping in his slacks, but he couldn't help it. He was fathering a damn siren, and god did you know what you were doing. Your sickening voice, overly sweet moans, and your slick and noisy cunt that cried for him over the phone. It was all too much.

"You fucking slut!"

Leon had never been a rough dad. He wasn't a yeller, not one for heavy discipline. After his unfortunate discovery about you, though? He was quick to slam the front door shut and run up the stairs, feet clashing against each step with a violent speed. 

Whatever you had been watching on your television was quickly shut off when you heard his tone. You scampered under your blankets and feigned sleep. You had zero clue what he was on about, but you knew it would turn ugly just by the sheer anger in his voice. He couldn't yell at a sleeping beauty like you, could he? 

Yes, obviously he could and would. Stubborn old man.

"I know you aren't asleep," Leon spat, ripping the covers off of you. You stayed still, breath pausing in your chest. "Don't act innocent, brat."

Fine, so there was no escaping this. Damn it, what was this all about?

You begrudgingly relented and opened your eyes. Arms crossed defensively over your chest, an equal mix of fear and discomfort on your face as you scanned over your dad. 

You took in everything about him. His eyebrows were drawn together. His jaw was clenched tight enough that you thought it could pop at any minute. Fists balled up at his sides. Eyes dark. Dick hard— oh. Oh?

"You wanna tell me what you were doing earlier? Any specific calls y'made?" 

"Say it."

You had never heard your father speak so roughly, and anything close to the tone he used was never directed towards you. You were his sweet girl, daddy's baby forever. Now, though, each slam of his hips into yours made you feel like a cheap whore. 

"It's not true," you said. "I'm not a slut! I'm not, I promise."

You felt his large hand's grip over your neck tighten. Tears were threatening to spill, to run down your red, stinging cheek where the mark of his hand was freshly placed. You held it in. Daddy told you not to cry, that you had no right to. 

"Was just a mistake. I'm sorry!"

"Yeah, real convincing." Leon sneered down at you. It stung more than the unrelenting thrusts, more than the way his palm met your cheek. He never looked at you like that, like you were nothing. You wanted it to stop. "I didn't raise you to be a whore. You think you're fuckin' grown, huh? Showing off for whoever rings you up like some call-center bitch?"

You wanted to kick and cry, but the words stopped in your chest. Shameful wails sprouted from you. It was all true, every word he said.

"I just wanted attention," you were finally able to make out, despite the ever firmness of his hand around your throat. "I'm sorry, I'll never do it again. Promise."

Deep down, Leon felt awful for treating you like this. He tried to reason with himself. You needed to learn. How could you learn from a 'mistake,' as you called it, without a proper punishment? He was doing the right thing. He was sure of it. He couldn't have a whore-daughter, at least not such a shameless one. 

"Yeah? How's it feel now? You're getting all the attention you want now. Not enough for you, greedy bitch?"

Thankfully for you, he released you from the chokehold he had you in. He internally winced at the already forming bruise he left. His hands found your lower stomach and he pushed down. Hard. 

"There you go. Feel every bit of my cock."

God, he was so mean. His head knocked into your cervix roughly, no regard for your pleasure. It hurt, but the friction of his girthy cock dragging against your abused walls helped a little. 

Small flutters of pleasure peaked through the rough treatment, making it semi-worth it. Maybe if you came, if you focused real hard on getting over the edge, then maybe you could forget his awful words.

He wasn't nearly that nice, though. He kept grumbling under his breath, spitting out vile insults about you. Even as his voice cracked, he couldn't help but let his hips stutter forwards into you, whispering the harshest things. 

With a final, especially rough thrust, he came. He didn't bother to pull out, he didn't even try. Rather, he burrowed further into your sore walls and marked you with his seed, claiming you like the territory you were. 

As you tried to pull away, feeling utterly used and unsatisfied, you felt his strong arms yank you back. 

"Where do you think you're going?" 

His face softened a little. Good, at least he wasn't scowling at you any more. 

"We aren't done...?"

"Not even close." He pushed your legs back, resting them over his shoulders. "Whores don't get breaks. We aren't done until I'm good and fucking satisfied."

He leaned down, dipping his head so he could spit. He watched the dribble of saliva coat your hole. 

"If you aren't gonna be my good girl anymore, the least you could do is put out."

[floatmeintothesun-2]

Utterly Enraptured

Pairing; Miguel O’Hara x f!reader

tags; breeding, little bit of overstimulation, Miguel goes into rut, creampie, wordcount 4k

Summary; Miguel seems to have forgotten about a certain side effect from having half of his genetic makeup being spider DNA

EXPLICIT - MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

—

Wet, warm, perfectly molded to his length. Large palms pressing against thighs, his mouth quieting your little gasps and hiccups. His murmured praise, his filthy tongue pressing against your hole wetly, licking long stripes up your skin. Hungry. The twitch of his hips, the choked whimpers, he wants it. Needs it. 

You’re gasping, trying in vain to muffle your moans into the pillow while he completely and irrevocably rearranges your insides. You’re so fucking sweet – god, he wants nothing more than to stuff you full of his seed, pull out and admire the view of him seeping out from your weeping pussy. 

He wants to push it all back in with spit slicked fingers, kiss away all of your tears and do it all over again until you’re sobbing in pleasure, begging for more, more, more –

Miguel wakes up feeling fire burn at the base of his spine and the undeniable hardening of his cock. He immediately wants to just roll over and go back to bed. 

It’s 7:47, he has to get up in ten minutes, he’s way too hot but the floors are probably freezing, his blankets are so so comfortable and his dick is aching. So far, great start to his morning. Miguel turns to his side, finding your side of the bed empty. He resists the urge to groan. 

Right, you have your early work shift today.

 He mourns the loss of the warmth as he kicks off his blankets with one languid motion. For a moment he’s tempted to just indulge himself right now, right here. Your scent is still in the air, soaked into your pillow, heady and intoxicating. 

Absent-mindedly he palms himself, cupping the sizable bulge and considers. Miguel wants you, to be completely honest. Always does. Like a thirst that will never be quenched, he craves you. All of you. Your hands, your flesh, your blood — if he could, he’d worship every single inch of you for the rest of eternity. 

And you’re not here. Unfortunately. He imagines your hand, smaller than his, wrapping securely around his length, the other curled loosely around his hot, swollen balls, and slowly exhales. 

He can wait. He has self control. He doesn’t have time to fist himself like a wild animal. He has an online meeting to attend since he, for once, is taking a break from the Spider Verse for a day or two.

Miguel heaves a sigh and gets up, stretching lazily. The chill seeps into his skin and he resigns himself to taking a cold shower. 

(He ends up having to clean spurts of creamy white off of the shower walls anyway. He is so fucked.)

—

There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong with today. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Miguel can’t get you out of his head. 

You usually don’t leave his mind regardless, but at the moment, all he can think of is bending you over the nearest flat surface, letting you slather at his tip, feeling your sweet, tight pussy clench around him while he whispers obscenities in your ear.

He thinks of you all day, but his thoughts are never this…vividly vulgar. Miguel will admit to having the stray passing instance but right now? He’s practically been a depraved fucking dog for the past three hours straight. 

This morning didn’t help. That damn dream didn’t help. He’s been staring at his laptop for the past thirty minutes trying desperately to redirect his thoughts to something more productive, his board members are droning on and on about stock values and whatnot  – he has work to finish, but jesus, he can’t think of anything but you.

Your taste, your heat, your everything. He’s hard as rock as he mumbles some bullshit excuse to his meeting members before shutting off his laptop with a definite click. It’s as if a fog has filled his head, keeping him drunk and dizzy. Miguel’s body feels unbearably hot right now, scorching, needing. 

“Lyla,” his voice is strangled. “What’s the date?” 

His assistant flickers to life next to him, drawing up a calendar.

“Mm…it’s the 8th,” she says, blinking down at him. “Ah, I see. Your uh, time of the month, y’know?” She wiggles her eyebrows and he growls, waving her away. She pops up a little ways away, putting her hands on her hips.“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Lyla frowns. “Just telling you,”

“Thanks,” He says bitingly, dismissing her and groaning into his hands. You won’t be home until later – and later means that he’s going to have to suffer for the next few hours, alone and unbearably horny. Wonderful. 

Mentally, he berates himself with a low hiss, feeling annoyed that he didn't connect the dots earlier. His throat is dry and he swallows raspily.

He should’ve looked at the date, how could he have forgotten? Heightened sensitivity, overheating, inability to focus, the urge to fuck you into next week — all signs pointing to a very large neon billboard that says “SPIDER INSTINCT FUCKERY” in big bold letters. In other words, mating period.

 It happens every other month through the 8th to the 10th when his body decides that it’s time to procreate and do nothing else for the next two days. 

He sucks in a ragged breath slowly, trying to calm his fast beating heart. It doesn’t work, only serving to remind him of the pulsing in his chest and between his legs. 

It wasn’t this bad before he started dating you. All he had to do was tug on his cock a few times and he was fine, for the most part. Anything else could be burned off by fighting criminals and doing his usual dimensional overseeing.

That was before you. You and your gorgeous smile, you and your honeyed scent, you and your burning touch. He’s so hungry — greedy. He wants your flesh in his hands, your slick on his chin, your hands on his body. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s getting up from the couch and migrating to your shared room until his knees hit the mattress and his huge frame curls up on your side of the bed. His cock is stupidly hard, twitching and throbbing from where it’s formed a tent in his sweatpants. 

Miguel can already feel the precum seeping out of him and staining his boxers. A whine rips itself out of his throat as he buries his head into your pillow, basking in your familiar sweet smell. 

A heady mixture of your favorite shampoo, perfume and body, all swirling around him as he grinds his lower half into the bed desperately like a dog in heat. 

It’s not enough. It’s not enough. 

He needs you, craves you. His large hand snakes down to wrap around his weeping length, the other pulling down his sweat pants and boxers to give him some relief. It’s agony, waiting for you to come home. 

He wishes you were here right now, wishes that he could pepper your face with kisses and croon apologies while he slowly bottoms out in your tight cunt while you writhe beneath him. 

Or on top of him. He doesn’t give a damn. Any position you want, he’ll do it. 

Just imagining your sweet whines and whimpers has his breath labored. He presses the heel of his palm against his stiff length, hissing at the jolt of pleasure and sensitivity that burns through him. It’s painfully dry, but he takes the slick precum dripping out of his tip to aid the tight slide of his fist over his fat cock. God, he just needs to pump you full of him and fuck it all back into you. The thought of you, all swollen and glowing with his kid makes him nearly feral.

His hips jerk upwards and he can’t help but imagine your hand instead of his, can’t help but imagine how much better it would feel. 

He gasps quietly as his thumb presses against his slit, jaw tightening, fangs threatening to break skin. The hand currently not wrapped around his cock is clenching the bedsheets hard enough to rip. 

He just needs to wait. He just has to wait a little longer. You’ll be home soon. 

—

You slip off your shoes at the door, setting them aside on the rack near the entrance. The warmth from the apartment chases away the chill and you set down your bag, heaving a sigh of relief. You’ve been looking forward to spending time with your boyfriend all day since he has a rare day at home today. 

You peek around the hall, letting your aching feet be comforted by the rugs near the living room. Where is Miguel anyways? 

“Heyyyy,” Lyla pops up in front of you suddenly, grinning when you startle. “Looking for Miguel?”

You set a hand on your chest trying to calm your jackrabbiting heart, before giving her a small smile.

“Yeah. Is he here right now? I mean he said he would be, but I don’t know if he’s doing his Spider-man thing right now,” You tilt your head as Lyla’s expression flickers. She adjusts her glasses, glancing at your bedroom door.

“Well uh, he’s in there. Might wanna be careful though,” She mutters, checking out her bright pink nails absentmindedly. You raise an eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

In lieu of explanation she draws up a calendar and materializes a glitching pen in her hands, circling the date. Your frown in confusion. 

“The…8th?” You blink and she nods. Why would today be significant? It’s not your anniversary, the only thing that comes to mind at the moment is… “Oh.” You swallow dryly, remembering vague flashes from two months ago. Two months ago when he had fucked you silly for what was basically two days, interspersed with breaks in between. Then the sheepish explanation of what he calls "mating period" where his DNA practically drives him insane with rampant horniness. 

 Lyla nods empathetically.

“Yeah…well, good luck! I've heard that massages really help with soreness.” She vanishes with a pop of golden glimmers, leaving you alone in the hall. 

You glance where she had been moments prior before sighing. Dating a man with half of his makeup being spider DNA came with its quirks. Your feet carry you down the hall and you open the door to find –

Oh fuck.

Miguel, in all of his bare glory, strong thighs spread wide, leaving nothing to the imagination. His sweatpants and shirt are in a heap on the floor, most likely thrown in his haste. His heaving chest is gleaming with sweat, abdomen twitching, looking like a Greek God. 

And there, his throbbing, swollen cock squeezed tightly in his fist, his hips working back and forth at a languid pace. Long and thick, the tip shining slightly with precum. It makes you salivate, sticky heat beginning to grow between your legs. 

The room's atmosphere is heavy as you mindlessly draw closer. Fuck, his gasps and whimpers sound so pretty. Half of his large frame is hanging off the bed as you realize he's on your side, face buried desperately in your pillow.

"B – baby," His words stutter in his throat as your scent overwhelms him, his nostrils flaring. "Please, please, please —fuck, need you so bad," he quivers, taking his hand off of his face to look back at you. He's grimacing, gorgeous plush lips stretched into a pathetic pout and you hum in acknowledgement, putting a hand on his thigh. He twitches but makes no other move.

Your clit throbs in response to the pure neediness in his voice, high and whiny. He sounds utterly wrecked, squeezing his cock and waiting for you to touch him. You’re so close, your hand is on his body, but it’s not where he wants it. 

“You’re so desperate, Miguel,” You croon, reaching out slowly and wrapping your hand around his base. He makes a choked sound, his hand falling away to run through his sweaty hair. “Aren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, visibly trying to contain himself before he speaks, low and ragged.

“Yes,” He finally hisses, crimson irises foggy and clouded with lust. You hum in approval at his answer, squeezing lightly as you begin to pump him, going at a pace you know is wholly too slow for his taste. “Don’t t — tease me, cariño. Faster, baby, please,” He begs, his breath stuttering in his chest. 

You rock back on your heel as you begin stroking faster, your thumb tracing the veins on the underside. Miguel’s eyes roll back as your deliciously hot mouth descends on him, your tongue circling his tip juuust the way he likes it. Fuck, you can feel yourself getting wetter with each trembling hiss and moan you pull out of this man — your man. You separate from him with a pop, licking pre from sticky fingers while he watches hungrily.

The smell of arousal — your arousal, invades his senses and his hands twitch and he lunges, pulling you up to him and flipping you over. You yelp in surprise as his hands immediately squeeze flesh, your hips, your thighs, your ass, anywhere he has access to. 

You tilt up to kiss him and he leans down, pressing his lips to yours firmly. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and when you allow him access inside he moans quietly, fangs digging into your lower lip lightly. 

Your shirt is practically discarded at the speed of light and you shiver for a second at the cold washing over your skin before Miguel's all over you again.

He leans forward to fumble with your bra, fingers struggling to unclasp the hooks on the back. You laugh and pull it off yourself, to which he rolls his eyes fondly before his mirth is devoured by desire.

Thick fingers nimbly pull at your pants waistline.

"Take these off too, sweetheart," He whispers, leaving wet open mouth kisses trailing down your neck. You shiver, obliging quickly and kicking them off. They land somewhere on the floor and you don't care enough to look for them. Not when Miguel is between your legs, staring down at your clothed pussy like it's his last meal.

He inhales slowly, leaning down to press his head against your thigh. You smell so fucking intoxicating, he wants nothing more than to bury his face between your legs and make you scream in pleasure. But first he has to get rid of your panties.

"Hurry up, Miguel, please," You whine, wiggling your hips as if to try and encourage him. As if he needs any sort of encouragement. 

"Do you care about these panties?" He asks, quick and low. You blink.

"No…? –! " You gasp as he lowers his head and fucking rips them off of you in one quick motion with his damn teeth. "Miguel!"

"I'll get you new ones, baby. Promise." He kisses your inner thigh, holding you down with two large searing hands. "As many as you want. As long as I get to have this goddamn pussy, I'll get you anything."

Your glistening lips look absolutely delicious, all wet and soaked from watching him play with his cock in front of you. He wants to put his mouth on your throbbing, swollen clit until you sob, wants your pussy in his face, wants his tongue in you while you grab at his hair and urge him for more. You'd taste divine, and he nearly just decides to do it anyway.

But his cock is so hard it almost hurts and he's about three seconds away from getting blue balls, so instead he sinks one finger in your drenched cunt. Your breath hitches and you turn your head into a pillow as he begins to finger fuck you in earnest. The obscene sound of slick gushing out from your hole makes Miguel nearly feral, nearly has his eyes rolling back into his head as he feels your tightness squeeze and pulse around his thick digit. You hiss at the stretch, slow pain and growing pleasure intertwining as Miguel goes slow adding a second. 

"You're doing so good, so good, baby. You feel so – fuck, so good. Can you take one more?" He asks breathlessly. "C’mon, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

You nod amidst blurry vision, gasping as he slides another finger in. His pace is fast and punishing, and the final goddamn nail on the coffin is the way his fingers press into your g-spot, while his thumb rubs messy circles on your puffy clit. 

"Cum, baby, you can do it, you can fucking cum for me, can't you?" He latches onto your tit, swirling his tongue around your nipple in such a way that makes your head foggy. 

“Mig – guel!” You whine brokenly as he rolls it between his teeth, sharp points of pleasure burning up your spine like wildfire. Miguel can’t help but groan at the feeling of your sweet cunt clamping down on his fingers, and he increases his speed at the telltale signs of your impending orgasm. You're so so close and when the building coil in your lower stomach finally snaps, you sob, gushing all over his palm.

Your bare chest heaves as he murmurs sweet praise in your ear, telling you that "You did so good, cariño," and "Look at you, you're so gorgeous all spread out like this,". Miguel drags his tongue down your neck, pulling away for a second to suck your juices off his fingers in an awfully erotic display of tongue, saliva, and a flash of a grin. 

He presses kisses to your face, trying his absolute damndest not to hump you like a fucking dog but he’s waited so long and he’s going to go fucking insane if he doesn’t get your pretty pussy wrapped around his cock in the next two seconds. 

“C’mere, baby,” Miguel takes himself in hand, his other keeping your thighs spread so he can see your twitching hole all wet and ready for him. “Can’t wait any damn longer – I’ll fuckin’ – explode or something.”

Looking up at him from your position is absolutely deadly. His hair is disheveled, strands slipping from their usually neat positions, his expression is utterly and completely devoted as his chest heaves. Your eyes travel down to shamelessly stare at his massive package, complete with his proportionally large hand curled around the weeping length. 

He’s so stiff that he splits your lips easily, and he groans at the feeling of your slick coating the underside of his cock. You can’t help but gasp as he grinds against you slowly before the head catches on your clit and pushes inside. 

And oh god, he could die right here and be happy, he could fucking die with the tip of his dick buried in your tight pussy and think that his life is fulfilled. It takes everything in him not to cum and paint your insides in a creamy white. Your wet walls are so slick and he hisses as they clamp down on him.

“Fuuuuck… baby you — you gotta loosen up for me, relax — mnnshit — “ he gasps, and you cry out, shifting underneath him. He rubs sloppy circles on your clit, his breathing labored as a few more inches of his monstrous cock slide in, “There we go, there we — nnngh, okay, good, so fucking good, you’re such a pretty girl,” he babbles nonsensically, practically losing his mind in the warmth. 

“M — Miguel,” You hiccup, nudging him out of his daze. “Move — please, s’not enough,” You want him in your guts, you want him to fuck you until the only thing you can remember is the shape of his cock. 

And who is he to deny you?

He shoves the rest of himself in in one fluid motion, his throat closing in on itself as he bottoms out, his pelvis flush to yours. His mouth parts slightly as his lips form an o shape, and he thrusts once, caging you in his burly arms. 

“Oh shit — I’m gonna move, okay? M’gonna move,” he warns you, before pulling out slowly only to slam his hips back into yours with wild abandon. You suck in a startled breath as he begins to absolutely fuck your brains out, fire igniting deep in your lower stomach again. There’s none of his usual careful approach, there’s no teasing, no smug remarks. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only: stuffing you full of his seed until he physically can’t anymore. 

You can barely get anything out as he grinds against you, his dick so deep inside that you’re sure that he’s showing through your lower stomach. Fuck – he feels so good as he fills your tight pussy, rocking precisely in all of your sensitive spots. The head of him practically kisses your damn cervix, sending you rocketing towards your second orgasm of the night. 

Your brain is so mushy and pleasure-drowned that it takes you a second to realize that he’s still talking and oh fuck.

“Let me fill you, le— let me cum inside, please, please, baby, I wan – nngh, I want you all round and swollen f’me,” he sounds utterly wrecked, desperate and hungry all rolled in at once, “Wouldn’t you look so pretty an’ gorgeous? Pleas – e, please? Need you full, all full of me,” Miguel begs, grunting lowly when you clamp down on him from the downright filth flowing from his mouth. 

“Yes – Miguel, just –nnhgod, oh shit, oh fuck,” You lose the tail end of your sentence as your head melts out of your ears and pleasure sears through your veins. Miguel whimpers at your words, shoving himself deeper than you thought was humanly possible. 

“Waited so long for you, baby, was so – was so lonely, needed you – need you – “ He hits a spot that has you keening, eyes rolling back and your head bumping against the headboard of the bed. You’re driving him utterly insane, your moans and cries sounding like a blended symphony of bliss pounding through his eardrums. He leans down to litter any inch of bare skin he has access to in dark marks, his burning mouth trailing wetly down the valley between your breasts.

“M’close, Mig – uel, I’m going to cum, baby –” You manage to gasp out before you’re overwhelmed completely and your vision erupts into stars as you gush around him for the second time in one day. It feels like someone has poured molten pleasure down your veins and you’re incandescent with it. 

Miguel chokes, low and deep in his throat, feeling your slick pussy tighten around his girthy cock, slathered in your juices. It tears a downright animalistic sound out of him, a trembling snarl from somewhere in his chest as he thrusts once, twice, then finally pumps you full of creamy thick seed. 

His mouth is agape, transfixed in a silent ‘o’ as his hips stutter and his balls draw up tight, every atom in his body devoted to filling you completely. When he’s finished, he rolls his hips a few more times, fucking his cum deeper inside of you despite his hiss of overstimulation. 

Your limbs are putty in his hands as he slides out slowly and adjusts you into a more comfortable position, his eyes lingering on the way some of his cum drips out of your loose hole. He pushes it all back in with two fingers, giving you a small smile of apology at your choked mutter, before collapsing down next to you and dragging you close to his chest. 

“...How long does this last again?” You rasp, voice sore from screaming. Miguel hums in contemplation, nosing your shoulder from where he’s draped over you.

“About a day and a half more to go,” He responds languidly after a moment. “Are you okay with that?”

You know you’re going to be so sore by the end of it. You know you’ll probably be feeling it for weeks on end after. You know you’ll probably have to take a few sick days to recover too. 

“Mhm,” You answer, kissing his cheek. “I can handle it,”

“That’s good,” He replies quietly, and you stiffen, feeling his fat softened cock twitch against your thigh. He raises his head to give you a semi sheepish look and you gulp.

Maybe you can’t handle it, actually. It’s okay though, since Miguel will take care of you long after. 

[cherubfae]

"𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔅𝔏𝔒𝔚" || {𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢}

tags: nsfw, smut, blowjobs, cum eating, 69, gn!afab!reader, angel!reader for Adam, ftm/masc reader (still using gn pronouns but mentions of reader having tdick/use of the term cock for reader!) for angie and stolas <3, daddy kink/degradation in blitz's, mutual masturbation, manhandling, bit of corruption kink/blasphemy in Adam's oop, striker needs to calm down lmao, size kink/size difference, this kinda got away from meeeee

Angel Dust

"Oh, fuck, baby. You really know how to work that tongue of yours." Angel gasps, one arm covering his face, legs parting wide with a subtle shake to make more room for you to work your magic on his weeping cock. Guiding you gently, his hand cups the back of your head panting in tune to the soft humps he gives your mouth going deeper with every micro-thrust. "You're doing so good for me, baby. Gonna keep stretching out that mouth.. Move your legs over my face. Gonna get you off too, pretty." Suddenly gripping you with every set of his arms, Angel holds your hips over his waiting mouth. His warm tongue laps at your erect tdick, smirking against your soft skin at your whiny moans.

Lucifer

Wings sputtering at his back, he wrenches out a deep gasp, body bowing over your hunched form. His impish tail sways and flicks, swirling the nearby area as if wagging like a dog. "Gosh, stardust. Your mouth feels divine. Oh, fuck, just like that, baby. Gonna fuckin' burst. Fuck, lemme fuck you on my tongue please-- pleaseeeee!!" Lucifer moans, pulling back cumming thick ropes of cum across your cheeks and face. Ever the gentleman, he's quick to fall to his knees and lap up his own cum. His cock drools between his legs, clawing at your thighs to make way for his hungry mouth.

Vox

Grunting low, Vox keeps his gaze on you as he jerks his cock. Slick precum coats his fists, glitching eyes watching the way you toy with your entrance for him. "Fuck, baby, fuckfuckfuck. You're so hot. C'mere. I need you. Please, I need you." Vox gasps, sharing a quick, sloppy kiss before relinquishing his cock into your care. You take him immediately, hollowing your cheeks out. Clawing his hand into your hair, Vox fucks into your mouth without abandon throwing his head back with a staticy cry. He cums harshly, keeping your face pressed to his crotch tightly as he empties every last drop of cum down your throat.

Adam

He'd been having a horrible, shitty day. Nothing seemed like it was going right and he couldn't even fuckin get himself off properly. And there you were, his sweet little subordinate, ever so eager to please him. It truly warmed his heart. "Hey there, babe. Your captain here is in need of some help. Can you lend your mouth? It's what God would want..." Adam frees his thick cock from his robes. Your hot breath sending shivers down his body hard enough to make his balls clench in anticipation. Eagerly, you take him into your mouth and down your throat bobbing your head. Adam's strong thighs flex, his large, warm hand rests against your nape encouraging you to take him all the way. His other hand soothes across the bend of your delicate wings, toying with the sensitive silvery-white feathers.

Blitzø

His hand tightens around the base of his cock, he smacks his tip against your waiting tongue gasping sharply with short jolts of pleasure. "Fuck, aren't you precious? So eager to suck such a nice, hard cock, eh, babe?" Growling affectionately, Blitzø grips your chin and slowly pushes himself into your waiting mouth. Humping himself against you, Blitzø snarls, tail swaying behind him. "Gonna take every drop I give you? Be a good little slut for daddy and maybe I'll fuck whatever hole you want me in tonight."

Stolas

He certainly wasn't expecting you to sink down to your knees before him in such a public area. His cloak drapes around your shoulders the second you pull his cock free. Taking him into your mouth quickly, Stolas slams his fist into the wall desperately clawing for anything to find purchase. You look like a dream, taking care of him so sweetly. The wet slick noises make him feel dizzy and lightheaded, legs trembling as he holds your chin softly rocking himself into your mouth. "Oh, goodness, my love. I'm afraid I won't last much longer if you keep this up. We should head home. I need to see you sprawled beneath me toying your cock for me in more agreeable lighting, my darling~."

Striker

He's not nearly all tough bravado as he likes to make himself seem. Not with how hard he's clenching his teeth and how rapidly his tail is thrashing about, knocking down anything in its vicinity. You blink up at him with your tongue on his balls, clearly a bit unimpressed. Taking one into your mouth, Striker hisses, hips lifting off the ground for more friction. Your hands force his lower body back down, keeping him pinned and unmoving. Taking his tail, much softer than how you're sucking at his cock, winding the prehensile appendage around your wrist to keep him still. "Fuck, darlin'. That ain't fair, keepin' me restricted like this." Striker grunts yet makes no means to free himself. The precum leaking from his cock is more than enough to tell you how much he's enjoying this.

|| ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ, ʀᴇᴜꜱᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴀʏ! ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ. ᴀʟʟ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ © ᴄʜᴇʀᴜʙꜰᴀᴇ 2024 ||

[stevebabey]

@scooprtroopr ur tags on this post inspired a lil something and well, here you go friend <3 / also omg this fits for @steddie-week’s prompt pining! tehe / you can also read it over on ao3 :)

Steve gets that this is how karma works.

You do something bad, you don’t have the best intentions, you trample on one or two people’s feelings selfishly, yadda yadda. Then what do you know? Next month, it’s happening to you. What goes around comes around, right?

That’s how karma works. Steve gets that.

And yet, the sting in the morning when another hookup has crept out in the night feels so goddamn unshakeable. It slices through his ego, hitting every feeling on the way, and cuts right down the bone, and it hurts.

But it’s karma though, Steve knows that. He’s left a girl more than once or twice, and snuck back out the window he had crept into. Stumbled back to his car in the early morning hours.

(Steve pointedly ignores the old part of him that was- is so hesitant to stay — after the iciness of his first ever hookup, who had wrinkled her nose at the thought of him staying the night.

Who had patted him on the cheek in a near condescending way, a girl the year above him, and said, “Don’t overstay your welcome, yeah?”)

So when the other side of the bed is empty when he wakes, he knows he’s lost another game of ‘who can sneak out on who?’

Which Steve hates — it’s why he stopped going over to his dates house and instead started bringing them back to his. Hoping they might read that his invitation to stay the night extended right out til breakfast. Hell, til lunch if they wanted.

No one has come close to overstaying their welcome in the Harrington house.

Empty sheets rip a new ache in Steve’s chest and he groans, a pitiful noise because— of course, he hasn’t stayed.

Karma has the biggest bone to pick with Steve Harrington and he was really hoping it would be done after all these years. Evidently not.

But… Steve can’t help how much more this one hurts because this one was Eddie.

Steve tries to not let regret coil in his gut. Rolling over he buries his face into his pillow, eyes scrunched shut as he tries to think it over logically. Rationally. Ignores the burning in his throat.

Maybe he’s a fool for thinking Eddie would be different from the past.

But the buildup — before there had been flirting, there had been friendship, proper company between the two of them where there were no expectations. That may very well be due to the fact both of them were dudes but… Steve was so sure. So much of him believed Eddie would still be here when he woke up.

Steve huffs a loud sigh into the pillow. Pretends his chest doesn’t hurt a little bit.

“It’s fine,” He murmurs to himself, voice thick with sleep. His fists clench into the sheets for a moment. “It’s fine.”

He drags himself up and out of bed. Tugs on some stray sweats hanging over the back of his desk chair and ducks into the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, hair tousled and eyes still sleepy, Steve eyes the shower through the reflection. He should, probably, but he might get stuck on a loop in there.

Where did he go wrong this time? Why didn’t he stay? Why didn’t any of them stay? Why did—

Steve splashes cold water on his face instead, rubbing probably a bit too forcefully at his eyes. He spies the faint pink shape of Eddie’s lips, a mark left on his neck. His fingers grace over it lightly, softly, like a lover would.

Memories hazed with lust remind him of how it had got there, Eddie’s body on his, Eddie’s hands in his hair, Eddie— without thinking, Steve scrubs at the skin harshly. He wishes it wasn’t there. Wishes there wasn’t any remnant of Eddie left behind.

Steve doesn’t need any mementos to remind him he’s been left behind again.

He needs food, needs to get on with his day, Steve decides. The bathroom door swings closed behind him and Steve tries his best to wrangle his thoughts as he wanders out to the top of the stairs.

A run. That’s what he needs to clear his head. A long run til his heart is pounding in his chest so hard it hurts, til his muscles start burning, breathes coming too fast and his head is finally fucking quiet. Yep, that’s precisely what he needs to shake the sting of last night.

Steve’s so enwrapped in his head, thoughts swirling, that he get manages to get halfway down the hall to the kitchen before he hears the radio. It’s not loud, just enough to carry out the kitchen. Strange. He doesn’t remember leaving it on last night.

His feet carry him into the kitchen, another yawn creeping up and he rubs at his eyes, blinking a bit blearily and— and stops in his tracks. There’s someone at the stove.

Eddie’s at the stove.

Standing in the morning sunlight, hair lighter than ever, puckered scars along his arms standing out. He’s clearly ransacked Steve’s drawers, a pair of Steve’s plaid pj pants hanging low on his hips, his own softened band tee from yesterday still on. It’s had its sleeves hacked off, the fabric curling up into little rolls. Steve feels his stomach rise halfway up his throat, his hopes going with it. His heart does a strange stumbling pitter-patter.

He must make a noise because suddenly Eddie’s peaking over his shoulder and smiling at him.

“Hey,” Eddie says, shifting a bit to turn more toward him. Steve can see that he’s cooking, something delicious wafting up from the sizzling pan. His chest tightens, pure surprise wrapping around his sternum and gripping - so much, he can’t control the expression on his face.

“Hi,” Steve breathes. He’s still frozen where he is. He stayed. Steve blinks, taking in the scene before him; Eddie has clearly been puttering around, putting together some sort of breakfast. He fucking stayed and he’s cooking.

Eddie takes it the wrong way. He skittishly looks over the benches, covered in his mess, and tugs on the ends of his hair nervously. “I- it’s a mess, I know, I’m real sorry. I was gonna clean it, I just thought you might like…”

He trails off, unable to get a read on Steve’s expression. Steve doesn’t blame him but he can’t fucking stop his chest from feeling like it’s being pulled open, his heart from feeling like it’s soaring. He huffs an awed laugh, a smile curling at his lips.

Eddie deflates a bit in his relief, giving his own smile. He turns back to the stove quickly, giving the skillet a bit of a shake to keep it from burning and Steve draws closer, feet finally moving. Eddie watches him from the corner of his eye, barely biting back his grin as Steve gets closer. He hovers, feels the heat of Eddie’s back they’re so close.

He tries to feel brave — he stayed — and keeps his closeness, peering over Eddie’s shoulder at the skillet on the stove. It’s the Munson Special that Eddie’s cooked a few times for him over at the trailer; eggs, potatoes, shit tons of cheese, maybe a vegetable if he’s feeling healthy.

“Was gonna bring it to you in bed, but,” Eddie laughs, still tinged in nervousness. He sets down the spatula to tuck his hair behind both ears, glancing sideways at Steve as if trying to understand his silence.

He stayed and he cooked and he’s nervous. Steve thinks he might be holding his breath in disbelief, head dizzy with relief. With affection.

Very slowly, Steve’s hands move and, like he’s waiting for Eddie to flinch away, settles then very gently onto Eddie’s waist. His fingers curl into the soft fabric and Eddie makes a little chirp of happiness and leans back.

Leans into Steve a bit, like he wants his touch the morning after everything and Steve releases a shuddering breath, hooking his chin over Eddie’s shoulder. His hands grow a little more bold, sliding around to hug him around the middle.

Eddie’s cheeks have turned pink and his grin hasn’t faltered.

“Made me—” Steve starts, but his voice is a bit raspy. He clears his throat, avoids Eddie’s burning stare. “Y’made me breakfast?”

Eddie nods, his curls brushing against Steve’s cheek as he does. His tummy is warm beneath Steve’s hand and his hair smells good and Steve just wants to burrow into him- he tucks himself closer and is rewarded with a content noise from Eddie.

“That’s not weird, is it?” Eddie asks suddenly, picking up the spatula again and beginning to fiddle needlessly with the food. He flips it once, then again, so it’s on the same side as it was before.

He sounds a bit sheepish when he says, “I’m not sure- I haven’t ever really— I’m actually just gonna shut the hell up before I say anything stupid.”

Steve laughs quietly. His hands tighten around Eddie’s middle, head tilting so he can bury his grin into his shoulder— his heart is going haywire, going a million miles an hour, because karma is finally through with Steve Harrington and he gets to have this.

“S’not weird,” Steve mumbles. He thinks about pressing a kiss into Eddie’s shoulder.

“Ha, you said snot,” Eddie retorts with a childish snort and Steve can’t help it, he laughs at that too, muffled laughter into his t-shirt. Then he presses a kiss to Eddie’s shoulder, quick as lightning. Rests his chin back on it like nothing happened.

Eddie still stiffens just a bit- turns his head just a bit to glance at Steve and fuck, Steve can’t help the way his stomach swoops.

Because Eddie softens him unbearably with those nervous brown eyes, his pink lips twisted as he tries to hold back his grin. Steve’s beginning to understand that both of them seem equally surprised that this is happening.

Eddie’s free hand moves, pausing only briefly in a moment's hesitance, before it covers one of Steve’s on his tummy. It’s cold, much colder than Steve’s, and he covers it with one of his own instinctively.

Eddie’s trembling fingers give him a little squeeze. Steve thinks he must be able to feel how hard his heart is beating from where his chest is pressed against his back. It’s a lot to deal with; this perfect morning in the sun, the soft sound of the radio, the sweet boy in his arms.

They’re both grinning to themselves. Eddie focuses back on the food before him, doing all his work with one hand, and starts a little hum.

The radio switches to a love song.

[wh1msic4lwasab1]

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

synopsis: After he hears of your low test score, Veritas and his bad temper get the better of him and especially you.

tags: degradation, harsh language, explicit, spanking, edging, semi-dubcon, penetration

wrd cnt: 0.7k

a/n: this was a request and LORD did i love writing it

You watch as Veritas paces back and forth in front of you, his expression dark. You can feel the heat radiating off his body as he clenches and unclenches his fists and rubs his temple, still fuming over your disappointing exam score.

'How could you be so careless?' he growls, stopping in front of you and looming over your small form. 'You know how important these tests are. And yet’ he chuckles, ‘yet you still, manage to fail.'

You hang your head, feeling the tears well up in your eyes as his words cut deep. You've always struggled with tests, and his high expectations only make it harder.

'I'm sorry,' you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. 'I'll do better next time, I promise.'

But Veritas doesn't seem to hear you. Instead, he grabs a hold of your chin and forces you to look up at him, his eyes blazing with an intense mixture of anger and desire.

'You'll do better, hm?' he sneers. 'I'll make sure of it.'

Before you can even react, he's pushing you down on the couch, his strong hands holding you in place as he roughly yanks up your skirt. You let out a small whimper as he tears off your panties, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

'Please,' you beg, your voice quivering with fear and arousal. 'Don't be so harsh-!” Your cut off, feeling his large hand take a smack at your ass.

Veritas only scoffs, his fingers roughly parting your folds as he begins to circle your clit. You gasp at the sudden sensation, your back arching off the cushion as he continues to tease and torment you.

'You think this is harsh?' he growls, his fingers moving faster and faster. 'You have no idea.'

You cry out as he edges you closer and closer to the brink, your body trembling with need. But just as you're about to reach your peak, he stops, leaving you panting and desperate.

'Beg for it,' he commands, his voice low and dangerous. 'Beg for me to let you come.'

'Please, Veritas,' you whimper, your hands clenching the sheets as you plead with him. 'Please let me come. I need it so badly.'

But he only smirks, his fingers beginning to move again, edging you closer and closer to the edge until you're sobbing with frustration.

'Please, I can't take it anymore,' you beg, your voice broken and desperate. 'Please, I'll do anything. Just let me come.'

And with a cruel twist of his fingers, he pulls them completely out of you. But even as you come down from your lack of high, Veritas isn't finished with you.

He pulls off his own pants, his cock hard and ready as he positions himself between your legs. You can feel the heat of him as he presses against you, and you whimper as he enters you, taking you roughly and without mercy.

'I’ll make sure you remember this,' he growls, his hips slamming against yours as he thrusts deep inside you. 'And I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you never forget it.'

You cry out as he fucks you, his movements harsh and unyielding as he takes his fill of your body. And even as you beg him to stop, even as you plead for mercy, he only laughs, his cock pulsing inside you as he reaches his own peak.

'Only smart girls know what’s good for them,' he growls again, his seed spilling deep inside you as he collapses on top of you, his body heavy and sated. ‘You’ve got some work to do.'

You lie there, panting and exhausted, your body spent and trembling from the force of your orgasm. And as Veritas pulls out of you, leaving you empty and sore, you can't help but wonder if you'll ever be able to live up to his expectations.

But even as the doubts and fears creep in, you can't deny the way your body responds to his touch, the way you crave his dominance and control. And as you curl up in his arms, his warmth surrounding you and comforting you, you know that no matter what, you'll always belong to him.

And with a contented sigh, you drift off to sleep, your dreams filled with the promise of more punishment and pleasure to come.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩ ☾⋆｡𖦹

whimsic4alwasab1 ™ - do not copy, translate, modify, or claim any of my work as your own.

[angelltheninth]

im a sucker for the electro men in wuwa... might i ask for calcharo, xiangli yao, and yuanwu having their s/o ride them for the first time? <:3

You have good taste in men Anon.

Pairing: Calcharo, Xiangli Yao, Yuanwu x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, orgasm encouragement, cock riding, hair-pulling (for Reader), clit stimulation, pussy slapping, brat taming, doggie style

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters

A/N: You can say they have a... electrifying effect on me. Ha! No? I think it's funny.

Calcharo chuckled when he heard you hiss as you were pulled back onto his cock. "Faster. Sweet little thing, ride my cock faster. Or do you want me to give you a little more incentive?" 

Before you could say yes he pulled your hair back harder, a tight fist against your scalp, forcing you back against his cock with a loud clap. It hurt in a good way. You only had so much space to move, enough to get in inch off his cock and then take it all back in. The distance you were able to move might be tiny but the speed at which you move wasn't, encouraged by the mercenary's hand in your hair.

Letting you have control over the thrusts was a temporary luxury. He didn't move an inch, you had to do all the work here.

"Definitely motivated enough now." You met his gaze for a second before shutting your eyes in pain from the next pull. "S-Sorry. Gonna make you come, soon." You promised, pussy pulsing around him every time he was balls deep in you.

Each time he tightened his grip so did your pussy tighten around his dick. "You want it baby? Ask me properly, like the whore that we both know you are." Calcharo taunted you, making you sob with need and your poor cunt so desperate to get his cum in it.

"Come inside me." You weren't gonna say please, your inner walls could do that for you. Finally he released his grip on you only to push your head against the bed as his cock sank in balls deep to empty itself in your womb. The new position didn't stop you from grinding your ass against him to get everything you could from him.

Xiangli Yao was almost relaxed under you as you went up and down on his hard cock. He didn't even need to do anything in order to come, or to make you come either. But he doesn't want to be lazy.

"Let me do this for you, let me make my love come on my dick." He smiled from his position below you as his fingers found your clit and pressed it in quick, tight swipes. "There's that clench. I know what you like."

His fingers worked you up so fast but you didn't want to come yet, not until he did. But your legs didn't listen to you, turning liquid as your pussy walls fluttered around him. "Hold... me." You moaned out as you leaned against his chest and kept bucking your hips despite your mind being overtaken by pleasure.

"I've got you, always got you." He kissed your shoulder slowly, one hand still between your legs.

The other hand was on your hip, going down to your ass then back up. Your hips smacked down against his wildly, feeling his cock pulsing inside you and emptying ropes of seed soon after. You didn't stop moving.

Making a mess of you both, his cum staining both your stomach, thick and sticky and warm. "Messy. I don't mind, you know I don't, not when it's the result of this."

Yuanwu rutted into your pussy with no intention of slowing down at all. "Babygirl, what's the matter, can't you meet my thrusts?"

You grunted as you tried to do so but you also enjoyed him fucking you. You didn't expect him to halt fully when he was half-way in your cunt. "What the fuck Yuanwu?!" You complained but were met with a slap on your exposed clit.

"Ride it. Go on, ride it if you want to come." He smirked down at you as he didn't move at all, but he wiggled his eyebrows in a challange. "Brat. Didn't you fucking hear me?" He slapped your pussy again. "If this is what I need to do, punish your cunt, then I will."

Secretly you wanted just that. With your pussy already sensitive it would almost hurt. Acompamying every wet slap was your moan and your hips grinding upwards, taking his cock to his balls. Empowerimg your orgasm further was his cock curved slightly upwards and hitting your sweetspot every time.

"Open up those legs. Let me see your cunt get full!" He grunted deeply as he sunk down on his hands, letting you hug him close and ride his cock like a dildo stuck on a wall.

"Look down then, Sir." He almost didn't want to but at the same time he wanted to see the exact moment when his cock sank balls deep and be emptied.

[spiicii]

jey uso / save water, shower together 

x fem!reader  word count → 2.2k summary → come on, everyone knows showering together is better for the environment (this is literally just porn without plot) tags → oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, daddy kink, shower sex, jey likes to praise you and tell you how good you make him feel

He had his long arms slung across your hips, effectively pinning you to the bed as he licked up into you, his eyes closed as he savored your taste. His tongue felt positively transcendent, soft moans spilling from your mouth as he continued to explore deeper inside of you. 

You reached out to curl your fingers in his hair, letting out a sigh as pleasure began to unfurl between your legs, his tongue licking further up to taste the sweetness as it dripped out. 

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” he breathed against you, staring up at you with hooded eyes. “You taste so fuckin’ good, mamas.”

You scratched his scalp as a thank you, throwing your head back with a moan as he resumed his ministrations, the feeling of his tongue against you making you almost vibrate out of your skin with want. 

When his lips wrapped around your clit for the first time, pulling the bud into his mouth, your hips instinctively bucked forward, letting out a surprised gasp. He chuckled against your skin, his strong arms keeping you firmly in place. 

“Greedy little girl, ain’t you, baby?” He teased, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. ”But you gon’ sit still fo' me and be good, right?” 

You nodded, your fingers tightening in his hair as he continued to lap at your pussy.

He seemed content to eat you out slowly, languidly. He wasn’t hurried, using his tongue to trace slow circles around your spasming hole, occasionally moving back up to swirl around your clit. Jesus, he was a fucking tease. 

“Jey, please,” you gasped, wriggling your hips pathetically beneath his strong hands. 

“What happened to bein’ my good girl, huh?” He asked, his grin lazy as he looked up at you. “Thought you was gon’ sit still fo' me.”

“You’re teasing me,” you protested, your voice strained. 

Jey chuckled. “You’ll take what I give you, little girl, or I stop right here.” 

He wasn’t normally this mean and you felt the urge to pout, though when his tongue began sinking deeper into your empty hole you quickly forgot to be upset, your head falling back against the soft mattress. 

You tried to be still, keeping one hand clenched at your side while the other remained fisted in Jey’s soft curls. The feeling of his tongue against your gummy walls had tendrils of pleasure shooting across the sensitive nerves of your body. You felt your walls flutter around him, even as he slid his tongue out just to push back in deeper, his nose nudging at your clit. 

“Taste so fucking good, baby,” he praised, his breath warm against you. “So tight and wet. You leakin’ just for me?”

You wanted to answer him, but the intensity of his tongue sent your eyes rolling back into your head. You resisted the urge to grind your pussy deeper into his waiting mouth, remembering that he wanted you to be good. 

You hadn’t realized that he’d removed one of his arms from your hips, now nudging a finger beside his tongue. You let out a groan as two of his fingers sank deep inside you, down to the knuckles. 

“There we go,” he cooed, scissoring deeper into you to explore your depths. “Such a good girl. Just made to be played with, huh?”

Your pussy spasmed in response to his words and he laughed, his fingers curling as he searched for that little bundle of nerves. He let out an appreciative hum when his fingers grazed across that sweet spot, your muscles tightening in pleasure, small pants of breath falling from your mouth. 

He was unhurried as he lapped at your clit, moving his fingers to pump slowly in and out. You wanted to beg him to pick up the pace, his movements slow and deliberate, but you could barely string a coherent thought together. It wasn’t until his grill grazed across your clit that you let out a moan, louder than before, and felt the vibrations of his chuckle against your core. 

You were already embarrassingly close, clenching and contracting around his long fingers. Your legs fell open further, needing more more more. 

“So desperate fo' me, ain’t you, baby?” he taunted, his fingers now hitting your sweet spot dead on every time, picking up the pace you so desperately needed. “Gonna make a mess of yourself, sweetheart? Gonna come on Daddy’s fingers?” 

You felt the tension building, heat coiling at the base of your spine, your walls spasming as he scissored in and out of you. 

“Fuck, Jey,” you whined, writhing from the intensity of the feeling, the pleasure of his touch and the heat from his tongue sending you over the edge. Your fingers yanked at his hair in warning before the tension finally snapped and you came. 

Waves of pleasure rolled through your heated form, threatening to drown you as you gasped for air. You clenched down around his fingers, juices gushing around the long digits. He let out a moan, his mouth still enclosed around your clit, the vibration sending another tendril of pleasure shooting down your spine. The feeling was overwhelming, your legs trembling as he continued to lap at you, savoring the taste of your release. 

You finally relaxed, your body sinking back into the mattress as Jey slowly removed his fingers from inside you. You shuddered at the feeling of emptiness, scratching at his scalp in a wordless apology for how hard you’d pulled on it. He looked up at you and smiled, his lips and beard still shiny with your release. 

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against your thigh. “You alright?” 

You nodded, watching as he leaned up to crawl towards you. His lips were on yours in an instant, your taste still on his tongue as he kissed you. You felt his wet beard brush against your chin, the smell of your own release now in your nose. He flicked his tongue into your mouth and you could feel him smile into the kiss. 

“You taste yourself, baby?” he whispered, his hands moving to grip your hips. “You taste yourself on me?” 

You nodded again, watching as he hovered above you, his gold chain glinting in the soft light of the bedroom. He gave you a soft smile, pressing sweet kisses against your lips.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured in between kisses and you didn’t miss the feel of his erection pressing against your hip, a reminder that there was more to come. 

He led you to the shower, his lips still attached to yours as he started the water and invited you in. It wasn’t uncommon for him to bring you here. You weren’t sure what it was about the shower that he liked so much, but you never protested. Not when he always made you feel so good. Besides, save water, shower together. It was better for the environment. You were just doing your civic duty, of course. 

The water was warm on your exposed skin, but Jey’s arms were warmer as they wrapped around you. He pressed more kisses on your neck, his hands roaming your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. You felt his length pressed up against your backside, but he made no move to bend you over. Not yet. 

Instead he turned you around, capturing your lips again in a passionate kiss. 

“So perfect fo' me, baby,” he murmured against you, his hands tangling in your wet hair. “So perfect.”

You felt yourself melt into his arms, reaching up to rest your hand against his cheek. He looked down at you adoringly, a small smile on his lips. 

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

You allowed him to reach between your legs again, still soaked from your earlier orgasm. You felt the rough pads of his fingers find your clit and you let out a small moan, leaning against his toned chest as the water rinsed down your back. 

He was gentle at first, dipping his fingers inside you to make sure you were still open and ready for him, watching you with hooded eyes as you clung to him. 

“Please, Jey,” you gasped, your eyes meeting his. “I need you. Please…”

He smirked, his fingers curling inside you and you groaned. “Whatchu need, babygirl?”

You trembled in his arms, even though the water was warm around you, steam already fogging up the glass doors of the shower. “I need you inside me,” you begged, pressing yourself closer to him. “Please, Jey. I need it.”

You felt his chest rumble with laughter. “Always gettin’ what you want, huh?” He teased, grabbing you by the hips and pushing you back against the shower tile. “You gettin’ spoiled, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

You would agree with anything he said if it just meant that he would fuck you right now. You’d waited long enough, wanting more than anything to just feel him inside you. 

“Please, Daddy,” you whispered, watching as his eyes darkened at the word. “I need it.”

That was all Jey needed to hear. Before you realized what was happening he was picking you up with ease, your legs instinctively wrapping around him to stay balanced. He shoved you back against the cool shower tile, his pupils blown wide with lust. 

“How bad you want it, mamas? Tell me.” You felt the head of his cock tease your empty hole and your skin prickled in anticipation. 

All of this went straight to his ego, you knew, but you didn’t care. Not when he was about to fuck your within an inch of your life. You shivered when your eyes met. 

“I need it so bad, Daddy,” you begged, using your legs to try to pull him closer to you. “Please, I’m so empty without you. I need you.”

Something in his gaze shifted and now there’s something darker, more predatory there.

With a growl he slipped inside you and you felt your walls contract around him, pussy spasming around his thick length. You felt so full and he wasn’t even fully inside you yet. 

“So fucking tight,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he resisted the urge to thrust further into you. “Feel so good fo’ me, baby.” 

Your eyelids fluttered as he gave you another inch, your hands scrabbling for purchase against his toned chest. 

“Gon’ give you what you want, pretty girl,” he was saying, his hands holding you steady as he filled you up. “Just relax and let Daddy take care of you.” 

You gasped as he bottomed out, every inch nestled deep inside. You threw your head back against the tile, feeling completely helpless as he kept you suspended in the air, speared on his cock. 

His first thrust had you moaning. You felt like he was in your guts now, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. He leaned forward and pressed burning kisses against your neck, keeping his thrusts steady as he pumped into you. 

“You my pretty girl, ain’t you, sweetheart?” You heard him say against your neck, his breath fanning across your collarbone. “All mine.”

You tried to find the words to respond, but all you can really think about is how good he feels inside you, pleasure licking across your body like wildfire. He shifted slightly, his aim curving a little until he hit that sweet, perfect spot inside you that caused your whole body to stiffen. 

You heard him chuckle. “That’s it, baby. Such a good girl.” 

Steam from the hot water was beginning to cloud your vision, your skin soaking wet as you clung to him. You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him even closer and he let out a deep groan at the movement, dragging the hell out of your g-spot. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “Feel so fuckin’ good, babygirl,” he praised, though his voice sounded strained now, his grip on your ass tightening as he kept you in his arms. “Always makin’ me feel so good.” 

He continued to piston his hips into yours, eagerly meeting your bouncing body above him. You felt your orgasm rapidly approaching, your eyes rolling back into your head as he continued to pound into you. 

“So close,” you managed to whisper, your voice shaky and weak. “Jey…” 

“I gotchu, baby,” he groaned, his breath coming out in short, rapid pants. “Imma give you whatchu need.” 

The overwhelming feeling of him inside you, jamming against your g-spot over and over again finally sends you over the edge. Your vision went white, your mouth parted in a silent scream as you came. You continue to squeeze him like a vice, milking his thick cock as you gushed around his length. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he swore, gripping you even tighter as his hips began to stutter. He came with a groan, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he emptied himself into you. You let out a soft sigh at the feeling, spreading your legs further to take in more of his seed. His thrusts began to slow, and you feel him pant against your neck as the steam from the hot water steals some of the oxygen from the air. 

You begin to come back to your senses, your eyelids fluttering as you lean back up to look at him. His eyes meet yours and you realize that he’s not pulling out of you, his strong arms still holding you against the wall with ease. His gaze at you is still hungry, his pupils still blown wide with lust. Maybe showering together wasn’t saving as much water as you thought. 

[anakinstwinklebunny]

ANAKIN SKYWALKER never really got over you. It gnawed at him constantly—the thought of you with someone else, especially here, in this university that he once thought was your shared world. He sees you walking across campus, your laughter carried on the wind, and it digs into him like a blade. It's not just any guy, but that guy—the one whose name he refuses to learn, who stands by your side, touching what’s no longer his.

He hates the way you smile at him, how you lean in as if he’s the one making your world brighter. Every time Anakin’s eyes catch yours from across the hall, he feels that familiar, seething fire in his chest. His brows knit together, and his jaw clenches tightly because that guy? He’s not worthy. Not even close. His gaze, icy and sharp, follows the two of you, dissecting every movement, every small touch between you like it’s a personal offense.

Who could love you the way he did? Who could understand your nuances, your quirks, the way you crave affection yet shrink from vulnerability? Anakin knew all of that. He still knows. His mind is flooded with memories of you—how you fit perfectly in his arms, how your laughter filled the empty spaces in his life, how your lips felt soft against his, like they were made for him, how you seemed so perfect in his eyes. Every single moment with you is etched into his mind, vivid and haunting. And now, every time he sees you with someone else, it’s like a thousand shards of glass cutting into him, drawing familiar stars you once draw with your fingers on his skin.

No one else could love you as fiercely, as completely, as obsessively as he did. He sees the other guy’s casual touches, his easy confidence, and it makes Anakin's blood boil. There’s no way this man could ever match the depth of Anakin’s feelings. No way he could understand how you need to be cherished, how your soft heart yearns for someone to protect it, how you always wanted someone who could handle both your strength and your fragility.

And who could compete with him? Who has the audacity to even try? Anakin’s mind spirals with thoughts of confrontation. He pictures pulling the guy aside, making it clear that he’s playing with fire. And oh, how it feels right to do so. His fists clench at the thought of it—his possessiveness surging like a storm. Because to Anakin, you were his. Still are, somewhere deep in his heart. And this other man? He doesn’t know what he’s walking into.

The thought that you might’ve moved on—that you could actually feel something for someone else—chokes him. It makes him feel weak, vulnerable, like the world is shifting beneath his feet. He should be over this by now, but every time he sees you, it’s like reopening an old wound that never quite healed.

He can’t look away. It’s a strange kind of torture, watching you be happy with someone else, and yet he itches every day to gaze at you at least for a moment. Part of him is convinced you’ll come back to him. That one day, you’ll see the truth—you’ll realize no one else can love you the way he can. No one else will ever know you the way he does. And that guy you’re with? He’s just a temporary distraction.

Because in the end, how could you ever belong to anyone but him?

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @deceptiive @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentine @sevinax

[emilys-bangs]

if your cascade ocean wave blues come | e.p

Tags: established relationship, vague details of a case gone wrong, hurt/comfort, fluff, non-sexual nudity, taking a bath, use of petnames, no use of yn, reader feeling guilty

Summary: After a bad case, Emily suggests a bath to get your mind off it. Requested here.

Word count: 2.4k

The unsub is in cuffs, but that doesn’t make you feel any better.

In the jet, you walk past Emily as she sits on the couch—where you usually join her—and make a beeline for the lone seat in the back. It’s nothing against her, but right now you’re desperately craving comfort—her comfort—and you know that if you sat with her you’d cling to her like honey, curling into her lap so she can somewhat ease the tightness in your chest. The case ripped you raw, leaving your emotions splayed out for anyone to see, let alone profilers, and the thought of them seeing you collapse into her makes you shirk away and head to the single seat with steady steps.

Her eyes follow you; you ignore them as you sit down, sure if you looked into the endless depths of them you’d crumble right to the floor. Instead you turn to rest your head against the window and close your eyes.

Even though you do it just to avoid her gaze, sleep takes you quickly. Exhaustion had steadily seeped into your bones throughout this past week, day after day spent trying to catch the unsub who left dozens of bodies in his wake. Now it catches up to you.

Your brief sleep isn’t dreamless. The unsub’s remorseless face swims in your head, his smile slowly creeping over his lips at the sight of your clenched jaw in the interrogation room. He’s smug, boasting the deaths of the slaughtered women whose names you’ve memorized, your shoulders rising up to your ears as you try in vain to get him to reveal your kidnapped victim’s location. Her cold corpse comes next.

Emily wakes you with a silent hand on your shoulder. You startle awake, looking up to find her eyes concerned when you blink up at her sluggishly. The clenched fists in your lap don’t escape either of your attention. You blink the sleep from your eyes as you uncurl your fingers, stifling a wince at the tender imprints of your nails on the heels of your hands.

“Let’s go,” Emily whispers. Your bag is slung over her shoulder, its strap laying on top of the handle of her own bag. 

Ridiculously, it makes you want to cry. She holds her hand out for you and her love is so quiet but so, so loud; steady and patient even when you ignore her hand and stand up, tears burning the back of your eyes as you walk past her and out of the empty jet.

No one’s here, but you still can’t accept her touch. It would break you, and the pieces of you would shatter on the asphalt, glinting under the fluorescent lights of the parking lot. So you hold yourself stiffly and walk to the car without looking back to see if Emily follows.

Her heels click resignedly against the floor, sounding far enough away that you know she’s keeping her distance. The lump in your throat only grows as you pull open the car door and get into the passenger seat, hearing her throw both of your bags in the backseat. When she opens her own door your eyes are closed, tears dampening your lashes as you turn your head away.

She doesn’t deserve this. She was working the case same as you, losing sleep over it and pouring herself into finding the unsub. You know that, but you fear any apology would soon be followed by your sobs, the force of them shattering your body into pieces.

So you stay quiet, let the lump in your throat grow as Emily drives you both home in silence.

She quietly picks up the bags again when you arrive, her eyes briefly flitting over you as she fits the key in the lock. You see her brows draw together, her lips pressing into a thin line as she unlocks the door and swings it open.

It barely clicks shut before you barrel into her. Her chest caves as she huffs in surprise, the breath knocked out of her, but in seconds her arms are around you. Emily holds you tight, one of her hands cupping the back of your neck as you exhale shakily.

“Hey,” she breathes, her lips gently nudging your temple. “Hey, I got you, honey.” Her fingers weave into your hair, the cold inside of her palm pressing against the nape of your neck. “It’s not your fault.” She says. There’s a firmness to her low voice, ready to defend you against your own mind.

You press your lips together, trying to keep your tears at bay. “I know it’s not.” Do you, though? Your voice is croaky and unconvincing. “It just fucking sucks.” The last word breaks and shatters, along with what’s rest of your composure. 

Tears blur your vision. You close your eyes, trapping them inside. “Just wanna forget,” you mumble, stuffing your face further into Emily’s warm neck, “help me forget, Em.” 

Her breathing stutters. 

Emily squeezes you tighter. “How about we take a bath?” She whispers.

Weakly, you nod into her neck. You know she won’t let go before you do, so you do it even though your body screams in protest. Emily sets down the duffle bags and takes your hand, gently leading you through the dark apartment while switching the lights on, her fingers steading your shakier ones. She passes by Sergio with a quiet hello before pulling you into the bathroom.

You’re too drained to protest when Emily gently pushes you down on the closed toilet seat. She turns on the tap as you watch, running her fingers through the water and making sure it’s warm enough before she bends to plug the drain. The sound of it splashing against the sides of the tub almost loosens something in you. You close your eyes, smelling rather than seeing it when Emily sprinkles in bath salts.

Your eyes are still closed when she gently takes your hands. Her fingers wrap around yours, securely curling around your wrists as she tugs you up. You stand, opening your eyes as Emily lets go. She gives you a small smile and the ghost of a kiss on the corner of your mouth before slowly tugging at your clothes, as if waiting for you to say no. 

You don’t. You let her take care of you, peeling your clothes off and gently nudging you into the tub. The water is almost hot enough to burn, but you’re glad for the sting as you sink into it.

Water laps at the sides of the tub as Emily joins you. It sloshes over the edges and drips to the floor when you lean forward and hide in her neck, closing your eyes as her hands wrap around your shoulder blades.

Emily doesn’t say anything. She just holds you, quietly pressing kisses to your forehead as she rubs warm circles on your back. You let out a shaky breath as something in you unwinds, a product of her steady hands and the warm bath water swirling around you. Again you know she won’t let go until you do, so you reluctantly loosen your grip on her waist.

“Gonna wash your hair now,” she murmurs. 

You nod and hear the water as she gathers it in her palms; some of it drips onto your body before she pours it onto your head, soaking your scalp. Warmth cascades down your face, your shoulders. It takes a few more scoops before your hair is fully drenched, and when that happens, Emily grabs your shampoo bottle.

“No,” you rasp and she stills. Her brow raises in question. “Your shampoo,” you say quietly, the twist in your stomach telling you it’s a ridiculous request. Emily probably thinks the same; you lower your eyes and draw your knees into your chest, the very tips of them peeking out from the water and getting exposed to the cold air of the bathroom.

The comforting scent of Emily’s shampoo floods your senses. Soon after her gentle hands follow, raking through your hair and lathering the shampoo until it bubbles on your scalp. Her repetitive motions are soothing; your shoulders loosen and slump further into the warm water, some tension leaking from your body if not your restless mind. You keep your eyes down, chin on your knees, tilting with her movements as she moves your head this way and that to properly clean your hair. Her short nails scrape against your scalp as she generously massages the shampoo into your locks. You breathe out a quiet sigh.

Conditioner follows on your roots, Emily’s chin nudging against your forehead as she leans forward to reach them. This takes less time, though she’s no less thorough as she spreads it through your hair. When she’s done, you hear her dip her hands into the water, washing the conditioner off before gently nudging your chin.

“Head up, baby.” Emily whispers.

You oblige. Her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small smile, concern visibly swimming in her dark irises. You can’t bring yourself to return her smile, but as she leans forward and kisses your temple, you grab her hand under the water and squeeze. Emily squeezes back.

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Gonna wash this off.”

Too tired to reply but not wanting to leave her with silence, you hum. Even that sound is thready and weak, drowned out by the splash of the water as Emily pours it over your head. 

Her arms must ache; she repeats it over and over, runs her fingers through your soaking hair to wash out any lingering shampoo or conditioner, and she does it all with endless patience. She doesn’t take the easy route by dipping your head backward into the water, or better yet telling you to wash your own damn hair yourself. Painstakingly, she cups her hands under the water and pours it on your head until your hair is clean.

Her love only brings tears to your eyes. You feel them gather beneath your closed eyelids, a lump forming in the back of your throat as something clicks and you smell Emily’s body wash next. Opening your eyes, you find her lathering it between her palms, letting it froth into bubbles before she starts rubbing it into your chest and shoulders.

“Emily?” You say, your voice thick with tears.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Tell me something good.” 

Tears balance on your lashes. You blink and they drip into the cloudy bath water, leaving small ripples in their wake. 

Emily stops lathering the body wash into your skin. Her hand slips down your chest, her fingers pressing into the left side of your ribs. “You’re alive.” She says quietly. Your pulse rises to meet her fingers. “We’re both home. We’re okay.” Her other hand gently cups your cheek, her thumb tracing the underside of your jaw. “It won’t always be like this.”

Maybe it’s the intensity of her stare. Or it could be her words, both firm and gentle. Or her hand against your heart, making the both of you feel your pulse. It could be all of these things, or none of them, that makes more tears drip down your chin, a choked exhale leaving your lips as you cover the hand on your cheek with your own.

“How do you always know what I need?” You ask, the tremble of your words echoing through the bathroom tiles.

Emily kisses the tip of your nose. “Because I know you.” Her hand leaves your chest and goes to the back of your neck, gently nudging you into her arms. Water sloshes as you sink into her again. “And because we’ve all been in this place before. We’ve been in it and we’ll continue to deal with it in the future, because that’s the price of the job.” She whispers into a kiss, this one to your damp hairline. 

“We can only do so much, honey. We have to remember that.”

The two of you are quiet after that. Emily trails her fingertips up and down your spine, again waiting until you move from her arms to continue taking care of you. She wipes the leftover tears on your face before grabbing her body wash, rubbing it onto your skin and chasing the bubbles off with rapidly cooling water and her soft lips. 

By the time you get out of the tub and pad into her bedroom, you feel somewhat lighter. Not as heavy as before, your tears and Emily’s touch taking away some of the heaviness in your chest. More of it is chased away when Emily hands you her pajamas and spreads her lotion over your skin, enveloping you in a bubble that’s purely her; her hair products and pajamas and lotion, her arms around you when she nudges you into bed and brings you into her chest.

Her fingers again delve into your hair, gently detangling the knots that have formed over the past few days. “Make you some tea?” She murmurs, her lips tracing your forehead. A kiss is pressed there.

“No.” You whisper, curling your fingers into the collar of her pajama shirt. Her pulse beats steadily under your knuckles—we’re okay. You swallow and nuzzle under her jaw, your eyes falling closed. “Just stay with me.”

“Okay.” Emily says.

Her fingers continue running through your hair, ever so carefully working through the knots in it. There’s the occasional scratch of her nails against your scalp, and even when you shift to get more comfortable in her arms, her lips follow your forehead. Sometimes they lay there, still, but every few minutes she’ll press an absent kiss to your temple.

The events of the day sink heavily onto your bones. With your girlfriend soothing your weary soul, her heart thumping steadily under your ear as she murmurs sweet nothings in a language you don’t understand, everything feels just a little bit better. The bed dips as Sergio climbs onto it, finding his way into the small space between Emily’s arms and your body. He curls into your side and one of Emily’s hands goes to your back, rubbing small circles at the base of your spine as she runs her fingers through your combed hair.

You didn’t think you’d find sleep again. But with her holding you like this, you’re helpless to stop it.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics

[innorogers]

Dusk

Steve Rogers x Reader (You / OFC)

Summary: Wait, WHAT? After everything you’ve been through, you thought he wasn’t serious about you? Oh no, Steve had to make sure you understood how committed he was.

Warning: Angst but then Fluff? / Sad Steve / Angry Steve / Protective Steve / Past Revelations / Hurt & Comfort / Past Trauma / Happy Ending / Comfort Steve / This one is actually funny

Characters: OC, Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton

Also: Thanks in advance for repost or any feedback ❤️ Let me know if you want to be included in the taglist (DM, comment, repost and tag, whatever works)❤️ You don't need to read the previous chapters but it will definitely enhance the experience if you do.

1: Insomnia | 2: Lucid | 3: Reverie | 4: Nightmare | 5: Awakening

The compound is silent, bathed in the faint silver glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. Soft lights illuminate the hallways, leading the way. Steve’s steps echo through the room as he opens the training room door.

His insomnia hits again, harder and stronger than ever before. The adrenaline runs through his veins. His mind is restless. Burning. And this time, there was no bedtime story that could soothe the pain or anger he was going through. He doesn’t bother with gloves or wraps. He’s too pissed for that, too lost in his thoughts. All he wants to do is hit something.

His fists make contact with the heavy bag, sending it swinging in response. The sound of the impact echoes in the empty room, but it’s not enough. Not even close.

The image of you, standing alone against Frazer, fists clenched, blood dripping between your fingers, glass embedded in your palms. You were fighting back so hard against the control Hydra still held over you with those damn keywords. You were panting, agonizing, trying to survive. And the only thing he could do was watch.

He hits the bag harder, faster. The chains holding it creak from the force.

You were kneeling before a laughing Agent Frazer, desperately looking for the tranquilizer and pressing it into your neck before he could stop you. Before he could do anything. 

Your body going limp in his arms, your eyes closed, and your breath going soft for what felt like an eternity as you slipped away from him.

He growls through gritted teeth, his punches landing with brutal strength.

This… horrendous lab. Children—your siblings—taken. Sacrificed. Experimented on. Killed. Their golden threads snuffed out as you hoped you were helping them. Steve’s heart clenches painfully, his vision narrowing. The memory of your voice, the anguish in it when you told him how you’d watched each of them fade, haunts him. You were forced to be part of it. They lied to you—how could they.

His punches grow more erratic, fueled by the rising storm inside him. Sweat drips from his brow, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down. His knuckles split open, blood streaking the bag, but the pain barely registers. He isn’t stopping. Not until he can soothe these invisible scars in you.

Your soft voice, telling him how you watched helplessly as your siblings died around you. Your power shut down in self-defense, a last-ditch effort to survive the nightmare Hydra forced on you.

Steve clenches his jaw, his breaths coming in ragged gasps now. His fists slam against the bag like hammer strikes.

Each punch is harder, faster, more desperate. He can’t stop. He can’t fight the guilt, the rage, the sorrow. You had been through hell, and he hadn’t been there. He couldn’t protect you. He couldn’t save your siblings. He failed.

Your words, soft and kind despite everything. You caress his cheek, smiling in his arms, trying to comfort him.

"What happened to me isn’t a burden for you to carry, you know that, right?”

His rage peaks, spiraling out of control. He roars in frustration and punches the bag with all the strength he can muster. His fist collides with it, sending shockwaves through the air.

The bag explodes.

The canvas tears apart, sand spilling out in all directions like dust from a broken hourglass. The chains snap, and the bag slams into the floor, rolling limply as Steve stumbles back, chest heaving, fists bleeding.

He stares down at the mess he’s made, panting, his mind racing. But the anger doesn’t fade. It lingers, burning beneath his skin. Cause he knows…no matter how hard he hits, how much he punishes himself, it won’t change what happened to you.

It won’t change a fucking thing. 

Not the fact that he wasn’t there when you needed him most, nor the fact that he failed in the first attempt at eliminating Hydra, or the second. You only escaped because the fucking popsicle machine ran out of power. Tony and Natasha rescued you. He wasn’t there. He doesn’t even remember where the fuck he was.

He drops to his knees, fists still clenched, blood dripping onto the floor. His breathing slows, and the silence creeps back into the room.

Grateful. The word echoes in his mind, like a bitter reminder. You were so grateful, so kind. To be alive. To be here, seeing everything. You loved every breath you took, and you loved him, with every glitter of your own golden thread.

But Steve couldn’t be grateful. Not yet. Not a bit. Not with all the pain, all the suffering, you had endured. 

It’s so fucked up. It’s so wrong. It’s so terribly, terribly wrong. He couldn’t be grateful for something so broken. And he wasn’t going to be. He wasn’t stopping until he crushed the last being on this fucking earth that would hurt you like Agent Frazer. He wasn’t stopping until he’d made sure of that.

"Your girlfriend told me once that we should invent some kind of power-resistant punching bag, especially for you. At least to help with your sleeping issues when it's late, and you'd hang around the campus looking for bags to hit." A voice behind him. Tony leaned against the doorframe, watching him.

"Then one day, she told me that you slept well every night, so maybe you didn’t need them anymore." He chuckled. "I didn’t even know where to start to ask—like, why, when, how’d she know how Steve sleeps? But I didn’t, of course, because she blushed, and I just… didn’t want to tease her."

Steve didn’t turn back. He stayed quiet for a while. "She’s not my girlfriend. I haven’t asked."

"Oh, so… she’s your ‘I’ll make all the best gear for my baby so he won’t get hurt’ genius engineer, and you’re her ‘you touch my girl, and I’ll mash you with the new shield she just made for me' kind of relationship?”

Tony nodded. "And also, you both have this ‘I’d sacrifice myself for you’ vibe that makes you a great couple. I think it’s cute, actually."

Steve sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the couch. "Why are you here, Tony?"

"Maybe you won’t believe it, but I’m here for a friend." Tony sighed and sat next to him, keeping a safe distance, so as not to invade his space. "Just checked on her. Vital signs are fine. Injuries are starting to heal. She’s tough, and you don’t hear it, but… this is nothing compared to how we found her."

"You’re right." Steve frowned, looking down at his knuckles, the bleeding already stopped. "I don’t want to hear it."

They sat in silence for a while until Steve shook his head with a mixture of resignation and frustration.

"Why didn’t I know?"

Tony glanced over at Steve, sympathy softening his usual sharp edges.

“How would you? She never let anyone see the cracks. And that’s something we’ve been working on for the past few years. Hiding her. Blending her in. So no one would noticed, so she could be safe.”

Tony took a breath, weighing his words carefully.

“You’ve only met her due to an unexpected, and beautiful surprise. A sleepless night, I believe?” 

Tony smiled. He pauses for a moment.“She thinks that was a gift, you know? Some kind of universe retribution for all the years of suffering and torture...and…” He patted Steve’s shoulder. “I think that too.”

“If you weren’t with her... what would have happened today?” Tony softened his voice. “If you hadn’t ended Hydra… maybe we’d never have found her, and she would have died... alone, in the dark, frozen, and without knowing that she was meant to be cherished, cared for, or loved. And…”

He glared at Steve as his expression shifted. “And no one would ever know that she even existed. Her siblings gone, all the memories about her would be…nothing, she would have been a file number. Lost within thousands of archives.”

Steve felt his whole body tense as Tony’s words landed. The mere thought of it was like a blast of icy water rushing down his spine, numbing him. A world where you were nothing but a forgotten experiment, a nameless file in some dusty Hydra archives, erased from existence. It twisted something in his chest. 

The image of you dying cold and alone in some abandoned Hydra lab. No one to mourn you, no one to even know that you were gone. No trace left behind. It clawed at him, settling like a vice around his heart, tightening with every beat.

“Stop with this self-pity and self-destruction mode, Steve.” Reading his expression, Tony knew his words had an effect. “It’s in the past. She made it, she survived, and she’s happy. Put yourself together and stop bringing it up in the present.” 

He grunted as he stood up and looked at Captain America with seriousness. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Someone out there is trying to get and hurt your girl, Cap. Are you going to let them?”

Steve looked at the silent floor and the exploded bags for a while, then nodded. “You’re damn right.” He held Tony’s hand to stand up.

“Yup, I always am.” Tony smirked at him. “Go and get some sleep because tomorrow…” He clicked his tongue. “We have a briefing meeting since Nat is going to spend the night interrogating this guys and probably... you know, just a little bit of tango. Then analysis with Hill—shit, I shouldn’t have accepted that—and we have only 1,278 security protocols to discuss if you and your ‘not-my-girlfriend’ are going public or whatever.”

“And…” Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “Clean up this fucking mess, Steve, this is a 12 million training room for gods’ sake.”

Steve chuckled reluctantly. “Fine.” As he started tidying up the debris, he muttered: “This thing today, this agent, was straight after her.”

Tony was already at the door when he turned back. “Clearly. But I’m not gonna discuss this with you now at…” He looked at his watch. “3:22. My brain’s checked out. Unless it’s another half-the-universe-disappearing disaster, we’ve got this under control.”

Steve nodded, the weight of Tony's words settling into him. But it was more than that—your words still echoed louder. The reminder of how you wanted to move forward, how much you needed new memories. He knew Tony was right, but you... you were the one who truly brought him back from the edge. He inhaled deep, and started to pick up the mess he made.

“This is the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen…” says a cross-armed Sam, standing in front of a glass wall, observing a room filled with white lab coat experts. Led by the only two people wearing regular shirts: Tony and Bruce.

“That’s because you’re not a regular on this side of the compound.” Natasha tilts her head towards the unified silence and the steady room full of geniuses. “This is just… a normal Tuesday.”

“They haven’t moved for 15 minutes!” Sam says with an incredulous look. “You can’t tell me this is normal. Look at Bruce, he’s not even blinking.”

Both Maria and Natasha chuckled before Commander Hill explained, “Their brains are working. They’re deciphering that code.” She gestured toward the screen displaying the tangled mess of numbers and symbols. “Until they crack it, they won’t move.”

“If you turn on the neuro-transmission scan right now...” Natasha grinned, “it’s like the Fourth of July in there.”

“So, what exactly are they doing?” Sam considered turning on the scan just to see what was happening inside their heads.

“The guy that attacked us yesterday had this retinal lens used as spyware; it was transmitting everything he saw. We cracked the code and followed it to the hub where it was connected and transmitting data,” Hill finished her coffee and said, “And of course, it’s encrypted. There’s the source code…” She gestures towards the huge screen filled with numbers and letters that reads as Asgardian to Sam.

“That’s… one code?” Sam is shocked. “How’d they look if there were ten?”

“Technically… that’s one piece of the code. Not the complete…” Natasha begins to explain, then gives up. “Never mind.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just… asked the dude?”

“I did. And… it got messy…” Black Widow answers as she pours some coffee and hands another mug to the Commander, which she accepts gratefully.

“You killed him?! Are we allowed to do that?” Sam’s eyes widen, not entirely in disaproval.

“No! Of course not!” Natasha thinks about it for a second, then replies, “No. We can’t do that.” Although Steve would’ve loved to. She pauses. “He got, um… it looks like his brain was programmed. After he woke up, he was entirely a different person. He didn’t remember anything. He was… is, actually, Charles Frazer. A normal MI6 agent who lives in London with a beautiful family and was sent here to respect the New Era Project. He doesn’t remember anything from yesterday.”

“What?” The Falcon is stunned. “Can they do that now? Program someone’s brain?!”

“We talk to a tree that calls a raccoon his father, so…” Hill comments without taking her eyes off the screens.

“And the raccoon shoots big guns.” Natasha adds, as if that’s a valid point. “Well… the thing is, we don’t know when this programming thing happened. Has he always been like this? A spy with sleeper cells that suddenly woke up? Is he really a normal agent who underwent modification just before coming here? We’re doing a lot of background checks, but this guy is… immaculate. Clean. Like this glass.”

“That’s… even more suspicious.” Sam frowns. “But Dr. Lancaster said he looked just like her brother, and… I’ve seen the files. He does look like Four. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Probably his face was altered too. We just have to figure out when.”

“In any case, I don’t think the guy is normal.” Shaking his head, the Falcon isn’t buying it for a second. “No regular person takes a punch like that from Cap and wakes up. I thought the dude’s skull was broken.”

“Where are they, anyway?” Natasha starts typing on the screen. “I think Steve should be part of this conversation. Where is he? Making the windows foggy?”

“Unfortunately, no,” says Steve as he walks into the room, resignation in his voice, though his steps are steady and recovered. “She’s in R&D3 already. Back to work.”

He shakes his head. There was no way you’d go home and rest after being discharged, and honestly, he wasn’t comfortable leaving you alone. So, the best place for you (after promising for the 26th time you wouldn’t do any heavy work) was a lab full of people where you could put your mind elsewhere.

“As we all should.” Natasha raises an eyebrow at Steve. “No one here can afford to be a porcelain doll, y’know?” She’s not easy to break and far from being easily corrupted. She doesn’t say it, but her expression makes it clear.

“I know.” Steve nods with a serious expression. Yesterday, you had shown remarkable strength, remaining composed even when restlessness set in.

“Since we’re on the same page…” Commander Hill approaches the table and leans with a professional smile. She really doesn’t have time to waste. “We need to talk about the 1,278 security protocols that Stark wanted me to discuss with you.”

“Ugh,” Steve says with irritation. But then, this is your security they’re talking about, so he surrenders. “Fine.”

You didn’t know about the struggles Steve was going through as he listened to the extensive, detailed, laser-focused report Maria was giving him regarding ‘how many scans people had to pass just to approach you or your lab’ or ‘the perfect plan for your girlfriend to walk through the campus with you holding hands without being posted on social media’.

No, you were in another state of pink haze because the man you loved had said, “I love you.”

Ahh, the sky was blue, the clouds were like cotton candy (not that you’d know because you’d never tasted it before), your plants were growing strong, and yes, you had a terrible past. There was this guy who had leaked information to God knows who super dark organization, letting them know you were an ex-Hydra agent blended within the Avengers.

And by the way, that guy looked just like your dead brother and he tried to manipulate you through brainwashing. You had stitches in your knees and arms, and you shot yourself enough tranquilizer to kill a cow…but ha… who gives a shit, the most perfect, gorgeous man has said that he loves you. Like, priorities, right?

“Someone is in a good mood…” Your colleague slash friend Dr. Lin observed you and swirled around in the chair. “Alright, alright, so the mysterious date has become…a boyfriend?”

“Oh no, he is not…” You were caught off guard, and that made you think for a moment.

Wait…

What are the social protocols for calling Steve your boyfriend? Is that something people would assume after some steps of development in their relationship? Or was it a conclusion people would reach after certain premises: like intimacy, living in the same house, or having to face some dude who tried to brainwash you together?

Is it something that you or he would be entitled to call each other after those steps were fulfilled? And also, there’s this thing about… are you the only one? Yes, you live in a society that has historically been monogamous in most cultures. But things are different now. Polygamy is becoming more accepted. You wouldn’t like that, but of course, you couldn’t force him into that. Like, there are gorgeous women around him, that’s true…

“Honey…” Dr. Lin could see the ‘loading…’ sign on your forehead now that you were frozen in thought. “Is there something you wanna talk about?”

“I have some questions, Dr. Lin… no, Robert.” You put the computer in sleep mode and turned around. “Would the fact that he said ‘I love you’ make him my boyfriend?”

“Well… did he introduce you to his friends as his ‘girlfriend’?”

“Um… no.”

“Did you talk about it? Like, in which place are you standing? Or where are you heading?”

“Um…” You looked up as you remembered. “No. But we did talk about ‘making more beautiful memories’ together”.

“Oh shit.” Robert’s face shifted to ‘Gurrlllll…’ He carefully chose his words but wanted to be really clear: “And, uh… did he mention or hint that he wanted to be your boyfriend?”

“Mmm… no.” You shook your head. Not literally, at least.

“And you’re sure there’s no one else in his life?”

“Well. Yeah.” You made an obvious face. It’s not like he has the time; he is with you (or inside you) every night.

“I’m just saying…” Robert raised his hands. “There are a lot of dudes who’ll say anything to keep their bed warm.”

“Well… he is special.” You felt compelled to defend Steve. “He never lies.”

Robert almost choked. “Alright, darling… look, just make sure he’s not just banging you and planning to break your heart, okay? There are a lot of assholes out there, and trust me… you’re like a blank canvas for them, which makes you incredibly hot and attractive, but still… there are a lot of douchebags…”

“Mmm.” You were immersed in your thoughts again, analyzing what Dr. Lin had said, and as your “Loading…” sign appeared on your forehead, Robert just left you to it.

You had this way of getting so lost in your thoughts that the outside world faded away. You operated on autopilot, so you didn’t even realize how you’d gotten up at lunchtime and wandered into the common area where Steve was waiting. You didn’t notice the worried look on his face, nor the glance he exchanged with his teammates when you all sat down at the table, ready for lunch.

‘Ask her if she’s okay.’ Natasha’s eyes silently urged Steve.

‘Of course she’s not okay. After everything she’s been through.’ Steve replied with his glare.

‘Maybe she is just tired?’ Said Maria from the other corner. 

‘She does look sad…or confused.’ Observed Tony too.

‘Can you pass me the salt, please?’ Sam added to the silent conversation.

While the Avengers exchanged silent signals, you made up your mind to ask the questions that had been gnawing at you directly.

“What does it mean when people say that ‘you’re just banging me’?” You turned to Steve and asked.

Natasha spat her water out in Clint’s face, and Sam choked on a peanut.

"And I’m not against polygamy, but I think I’d be better in a monogamous relationship. If… we’re not just ‘banging.’" You nodded, speaking with honesty.

“I…” Steve tried to respond, but was interrupted by the hysterical laughter from Tony and Natasha as they rushed to save Sam from choking. (“Why would you have peanuts at lunchtime?!” Black Widow asked in a mix of laughter and disbelief.) Steve didn't know what to say, but a smile finally spread across his face as he looked at you in awe.

After the nightmare you’d all gone through yesterday, it felt like a lifetime since he’d actually smiled or felt any joy. Yet here you were, as you always are when he’s with you, with your clever, unexpected comebacks that washed away all his anger, anxiety, and rage. And your strange yet brilliant mind made him feel… so happy.

“Babe…” he chuckled, squeezing your hand and using a word he never imagined he’d use: “We’re not just banging…”

“We’re not?” You looked at him, a little confused, noticing his ears turning red. Lowering your voice, you added, “But that’s what we do every night… isn’t it?”

“OMG!” Clint stood up, covering his ears, trying not to burst out laughing. “Dr. Lancaster, may I kindly remind you this is a room full of people with extraordinary powers, including super-sensitive hearing… something we can’t exactly control?”

“Oh.” You blushed slightly, realizing how blunt you’d been, and leaned closer to Steve. “So ‘making love’ would be the right word?”

Steve chuckled as the rest of the team erupted in laughter. He squeezed your hand and smiled. “Yes, honey, that would be correct.” he said, amidst laughs and coughing.

Of course, you weren’t just banging. Steve had made up his mind to ensure you had no doubts about that. After the hilarious, "we'll talk about this for years" lunch, he gathered everything he needed to prove it to you and headed to the lab.

It was well past dinner when he arrived, and the place was empty, the only light coming from your desk. You knew he'd be late, so you waited for him to pick you up.

Leaning against the doorway, Steve watched you quietly for a moment, a soft smile forming on his face. You were completely absorbed in your work, brow furrowed in concentration. He didn’t want to interrupt, captivated by the focus you showed, his heart swelled as he took a few steps toward you.

"Hey… just… one minute…" You noticed his footsteps and quickened your typing. "I’ll wrap this up."

"There’s no rush at all." Steve sat in the chair beside you, smirking, though you didn’t notice, still immersed in your work.

"Just… borrow your hand, please?" he asked softly, knowing you were on autopilot. Without looking away from the screen, you automatically lifted your hand.

You felt something delicate wrap around your ring finger. Glancing up, you saw a slender golden thread circling it, secured by a tiny knot. Your eyes followed the thread as a delicate silver ring slid down, fitting perfectly. Startled, you looked up to see Steve raise his hand, revealing the other end of the thread tied around his own ring finger.

"What… what is this?" you asked softly, surprised.

"Well… I didn’t get the exact ‘sparkling glitter golden thread’ like you described, but… you get the idea." Steve smiled, standing up to kiss the back of your hand. "This is proof that I’m not just banging you, or…" He chuckled, "something that asks if I could bang you for the rest of our lives."

He paused, trying to remember Tony’s exact words.

"And it’s also a 'high-frequency, multi-sensorial ring capable of real-time biometric and geospatial transmission. Embedded with micro-electromechanical systems that continuously monitor and broadcast vital stats—heart rate variability, galvanic skin response, and core temperature—with GPS coordinates. Plus, a predictive analytics algorithm to interpret physiological fluctuations, allowing for real-time detection of anomalies in health and emotional state.'"

"Oh wow…" you breathed, genuinely shocked. "Did you memorize all that?"

Steve laughed and nodded. "Tony insisted you should know exactly what you were wearing."

"Awww, babe…" You couldn’t stop laughing. "This is the most romantic stalker device I've ever had."

He let out a hearty laugh and showed you his ring. "It’s connected to mine," he said, pulling you closer, his hands settling at your waist as he pressed his forehead against yours. "And I used a golden thread—the one that represents life—because you’re my life now."

"Steve…" You gently caressed his face, looking down at your hands, the rings connected by the golden thread. Really in shocked.

"And… you’re sure? Won’t people notice?"

"Trust me, I went through 1,278 protocols before deciding on this. Honestly, I made up my mind long before that. Hill said I could've spared her the torture of explaining all those, and she wanted to punch me right in the face afterward, but…" His voice softened. 

"I don’t want you living in shadows or secrets anymore. I’ll be with you, always, by your side. And…"

"And since whoever our enemy is already knows about me, they’ll think twice before coming after us, seeing that I’m with the Captain of the Avengers." You nodded.

"Yeah, that. But more importantly…" He kissed you softly after laughing. 

"Because I don’t know how to live without you. This ring… it’s just a way of showing how serious I am. How much I love you." 

He smiled suddenly, a memory flashing in his eyes. "Do you remember what you asked me the first day we met?"

"I think so…?" You hesitated, unsure which moment he was referring to. "We talked for like 10 hours that night."

"You asked me, when you added your number to my phone, 'What do you want me to be, for you?' And I answered…"

"‘My Everything,’" you whispered.

"That’s right." He sealed it with a kiss. 

"You are my everything."

You were quiet, and in awe. Just like the night you met him. For so long, you’d been searching, drifting in and out of the shadows, living in the remnants of broken fairy tales. But now, standing here with him, you realized those tales had never really been broken. They’d just been waiting — for this. 

You were no longer lost, no longer broken and sifting through the ashes of old stories. You’ve found this. Your own spectacular fairy tale, and the best part? It’s real. You had been given the right to love, to be loved, to finally be someone’s everything.

And for the first time, you truly believed it.

End

Continue to:

7: Hypnagogia |

8: Lull |

9: Vigil |

10: Eclipse |

Divider Credits: to the wonderful @cafekitsune

Andddd I'm sorry I'm posting so late today, but having two full time jobs is hitting really hard, will try to maintain regularity as I can. But its getting hard! Thanks for reading thus far and I hope you enjoyed the chapter, mayb posting a different story next friday ;) See you then!

Tag list: @vioplay19 / @jamneuromain / @steviebbboi / @heletsmelovehim

Love.,

Moon.

[novaursa]

The Crown of Winter Roses

- Summary: Rhaegar starts the Rebellion by stealing his sister, you.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 18+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

Rhaegar sat alone in his chambers. The silence of the Red Keep was stifling, yet he welcomed it, for it was in these moments of solitude that he could allow himself to be truly vulnerable, to grapple with the emotions that he kept so tightly locked away.

He thought of you, his sister, Y/N. The memory of your face haunted him, a ghost that lingered at the edge of his thoughts. He could still recall the first time he had held you, a small babe with a crown of silver hair and eyes that mirrored his own. He had been only a boy then, but even at that tender age, he had felt an overwhelming protectiveness. You were more than just his sister; you were a part of him, as if the gods had split his soul and given half of it to you.

He had watched you grow, seen the child you were slowly transform into the woman you would become. The court whispered of your beauty, the poets sang of it. “The Jewel of Westeros,” they called you, and not without reason. But it was not just your beauty that captivated him. It was your spirit, the fire in your eyes that spoke of strength and intelligence beyond your years. You were the only one who could calm the storm within him, the only one who could make him forget, even for a moment, the heavy weight of prophecy and destiny that lay upon his shoulders.

But then, the gods – or perhaps it was his father’s madness – had intervened. Aerys had refused to wait, refused to allow you to come of age. Instead, he had bound Rhaegar to Elia Martell, a match that, while strategic, felt like a betrayal. The memory of that day still burned in his mind. He had stood before the Great Hall, the words of his vows leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Elia had been kind, gentle even, but she was not you. The thought had shamed him then, and it shamed him still.

His father had sent you away not long after, to Storm’s End, to serve as Lady Cassana’s ward. It was a cruel twist of fate, separating the two of you when he needed you most. He had protested, of course, but Aerys had been adamant. He had raved about alliances and security, about keeping you safe from those who would use you against him. But Rhaegar knew the truth. His father had seen the way he looked at you, had seen the way you looked at him. And Aerys, mad as he was, could not abide the thought of losing control, not over his son, and certainly not over you.

He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking in the quiet. He had tried to be a good husband to Elia, tried to fulfill his duties as prince and father. But there was always that emptiness, that hollow space where you should have been. He had convinced himself, for a time, that it was for the best, that you were safer far from the intrigues of King’s Landing, away from the poisonous whispers and plotting eyes. But in his heart, he knew that he was lying to himself. You were his other half, the light to his shadow, the calm to his storm. Without you, he was incomplete.

And then there was the prophecy, the haunting words that had plagued him since he was a boy. “The dragon has three heads.” He had believed, with all his heart, that you were meant to be by his side, that you were the key to unlocking the secrets of the past, to ensuring the future of their House. But instead, you were betrothed to Brandon Stark, a match that made him seethe with a jealousy he could not control. Stark was a brute, a man of the North, with no understanding of the fire that burned within you, the dragon’s blood that coursed through your veins.

He rose from his chair and crossed the room to the small table where his harp lay. The strings were cool beneath his fingers, and he plucked at them absently, a soft, mournful melody filling the air. He had written this song for you, though he had never played it where others could hear. It spoke of loss and longing, of a love that could never be. His voice, when he sang, was low and rough, each word a plea to the gods who had denied him what he desired most.

“You were always meant to be mine,” he whispered, the words breaking like waves against the shores of his despair. “And now you are lost to me.”

He thought of you in Storm’s End, surrounded by strangers, your laughter no longer echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Did you miss him as he missed you? Did you think of him in the quiet moments, as he thought of you? He did not know, and that uncertainty was a blade that twisted in his chest.

He set the harp down and turned away, unable to bear the sight of it any longer. Duty and destiny, love and loss – they were chains that bound him, unbreakable and cruel. He had tried to be strong, to be the prince his people needed, but he was only a man, and men were weak, fallible. They loved, they lost, they yearned for things they could never have.

Rhaegar closed his eyes, and in the darkness, he saw your face, your smile, heard your voice like a whisper on the wind. “Forgive me, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “Forgive me for not being strong enough, for not being able to fight for you.”

But it was too late for forgiveness, too late for regrets. The path had been set, and he was bound to it, as surely as he was bound to Elia. All he could do now was move forward, step by painful step, and hope that, in the end, the gods would grant him some measure of peace.

But deep in his heart, he knew that peace would never come. Not without you.

The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was filled with the roar of voices, the excitement of the crowd palpable as the knights readied themselves for the next tilt. Yet, amidst the clamor and the spectacle, Rhaegar Targaryen found himself strangely detached, his thoughts drifting far from the tourney field.

It had been years since he had last seen you, years spent trying to bury the longing that never truly left him. He had told himself, time and again, that it was for the best, that you were safer away from him, from the web of power and madness that ensnared their family. But the distance had done nothing to quell the ache. If anything, it had only deepened it, the emptiness in his heart growing more profound with each passing day.

The knights before him clashed, steel against steel, but Rhaegar’s eyes were drawn inexorably upward, to the royal stands. There, amidst the fluttering banners and the noble lords and ladies, he saw you.

The sight of you struck him like a blade, sharp and sudden. You had changed, as all must with the passage of time, but the essence of you remained the same. Your beauty, once remarked upon by the poets and whispered about in the courts, had only grown, maturing into something almost otherworldly. You were resplendent, a beacon of silver and violet, your hair catching the sunlight as it streamed through the high windows, your gown a cascade of pale blue and gold.

For a moment, the world around him seemed to still, the noise of the tourney fading to a distant murmur. It was as if time itself had paused, granting him this fleeting, stolen moment to simply look at you. He drank in every detail, the curve of your lips, the grace with which you moved, the way your eyes sparkled with a light he had not seen in so long.

He could see the way others watched you, their admiration barely concealed, but none dared approach. There was something untouchable about you, something that set you apart from the rest. You were a Targaryen, with all the fire and blood that name carried, and you wore it like a mantle, like a crown.

It was then that his gaze met yours. For a heartbeat, everything else fell away. He saw the recognition in your eyes, the soft widening as you realized who was staring back at you. In that brief exchange, a thousand unspoken words passed between you. There was shock, yes, but also something deeper, something that stirred the embers of hope he had long thought extinguished.

He could not look away, even as his heart hammered in his chest. The years apart had not dimmed his feelings; if anything, they had only grown stronger, more desperate. You were not just his sister; you were his other half, the missing piece that made him whole. Seeing you now, after so long, was like stepping out of a darkened room and into the light. And he knew, in that instant, that he would do anything, anything, to have you by his side once more.

But then the world rushed back in, the cheers of the crowd, the calls of the heralds, the thunder of hooves as the next pair of knights charged. Rhaegar tore his gaze from you, the loss of your eyes on his a physical pain. He tried to focus on the match before him, but his mind was a tumult of emotions, his heart warring with itself.

He had a wife, children. His duty lay with them, with his family, with the kingdom. But the gods were cruel, and they had given him a glimpse of what he could never have. It was a torment, one that he bore with quiet anguish.

When his turn came to ride, he moved almost on instinct, his mind still consumed by thoughts of you. The lance felt heavy in his hand, the armor a suffocating weight. As he rode onto the field, he felt the eyes of the crowd upon him, but there was only one pair that mattered.

He did not know what possessed him in that moment. Perhaps it was the need to show you, to prove that he had not forgotten, that you were still, and always would be, the center of his world. Or perhaps it was something deeper, something primal that he could not control.

When he unhorsed his opponent, the cheers of the crowd were distant, hollow in his ears. His gaze sought you out again, and when he found you, he saw something in your expression that made his heart clench. There was pride there, yes, but also something softer, something that spoke of shared pain and longing.

Without thinking, he dismounted and approached the stands, his steps slow and deliberate. The murmurs rose around him, whispers spreading like wildfire as the crowd sensed something unprecedented was about to happen. His heart pounded, each beat a drum in his ears, but he did not falter.

He stopped before you, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. He could see Brandon Stark’s eyes burning with anger, Robert Baratheon’s face twisting with something darker, but they were of no consequence. Not now. Not in this moment.

Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted the crown of blue winter roses, the flowers fresh and vibrant against the silver circlet. He could feel the tension in the air, the breathless anticipation of the crowd, but he did not care. This was for you, for you alone.

When he placed the crown upon your head, his fingers brushed your hair, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. He held your gaze, his voice a low murmur that only you could hear. “For the queen of love and beauty,” he said, the words heavy with a meaning that went far beyond the ritual they were meant to serve.

For a moment, he allowed himself to hope, to dream of a world where you could be his, where you could stand beside him as you were always meant to. But the dream was fleeting, shattered by the reality that loomed just beyond this fragile bubble of time.

He saw the fury in Brandon’s eyes, the confusion and hurt in Robert’s. He knew what they would say, what they would think, but none of it mattered. Not now. Not with you looking at him the way you were, as if you, too, felt the same unbearable pull that had haunted him for so long.

He wanted to speak, to say something, anything that could convey the depth of what he felt. But the words would not come. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect, of devotion, and then turned away.

As he walked back to his horse, he felt the weight of what he had done settle upon him. He had defied convention, defied expectation, and in doing so, he had set events in motion that he could not control. But for that single, shining moment, he had been true to himself, to what he felt. And as he rode away, the image of you crowned with winter roses burned bright in his mind, a beacon of hope in the gathering storm.

For good or ill, he had made his choice. And whatever came next, whatever price he would have to pay, he knew it would be worth it, if it meant having you, even for just a moment, in his life once more.

Rhaegar’s pulse thundered in his ears as he waited in the shadows of the godswood, his hands trembling beneath his gloves. The cool air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by what he was about to do, the irrevocable act that would change the course of their lives forever. He could hear the distant sound of laughter, of celebration, the wedding feast in full swing. Lyanna Stark, the Wolf Maid, would be wed to Robert Baratheon tonight, and the halls of Storm’s End would echo with the revelry of that union.

But Rhaegar had no place among the revelers. His heart, his soul, his very being was elsewhere—focused solely on you. The thought of you, promised to another, made his blood boil. The pain of it was unbearable, a gnawing, relentless ache that had driven him to the brink of madness.

It was madness, he knew that. To steal you away on such a night, under the very roof of the man who would wed Lyanna, under the watchful eye of your betrothed, Brandon Stark. But he had no choice. He had tried to resist, had tried to stay away, to let you go, but the gods—those cruel, capricious beings—had bound his heart to yours, and no force in the world could sever that bond.

He had watched you from afar, seen the way you carried yourself, poised and proud, even as you stood beside the Stark boy, your future husband. It had taken every ounce of his will not to storm the hall then and there, to tear you away from the one who claimed you. But he had waited, biding his time, knowing that this was his last chance to act.

He thought of the prophecy again, of the words that haunted his every waking moment: “The dragon has three heads.” He needed you, not just as a man craves a woman, but as a king needs his queen, as a dreamer needs his vision. You were part of his destiny, the key to everything. And if he let you slip away now, if he let you be bound to another, all would be lost.

The sound of approaching footsteps jarred him from his thoughts, and he tensed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. But then he saw you, slipping quietly through the trees, your face pale in the moonlight, your eyes wide and searching. You had come. He had not been sure that you would, had not been sure that you would heed the message he had sent. But you had come.

“Y/N,” he breathed, your name a prayer on his lips as you drew closer. You looked at him, and in that moment, he saw everything—fear, hope, confusion, love. The conflicting emotions in your eyes mirrored his own, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated. What right did he have to do this, to tear you away from the life you knew, from the family who loved you?

But then he thought of Brandon Stark, of the vows you would be forced to speak, the life you would be forced to live. And he knew, with a certainty that bordered on madness, that he could not let that happen.

“Rhaegar, what are you doing?” your voice trembled, a note of desperation creeping in. You had always been strong, unyielding, but now, faced with the enormity of what he was about to do, he saw the cracks in your armor. “This is insane. If they find us—”

“They won’t,” he interrupted, his voice firm, resolute. “We will be gone before they know it. I’ve made arrangements, planned everything. We can be across the border of Stormlands by dawn.”

You shook your head, taking a step back, and his heart lurched in his chest. “And then what? We run? We hide for the rest of our lives? What about the realm, Rhaegar? What about your children? What about—”

“I love you.” The words burst from him, raw and unguarded, and he saw the shock in your eyes. He had never said it before, never dared to, but now, standing here in the dark, with everything on the line, he could hold it back no longer. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you since the day you were born. And I know it’s selfish, I know it’s wrong, but I can’t let you go. I can’t let you marry him.”

Your eyes softened, the fire in them dimming for just a moment. He reached out, his hand trembling as it brushed your cheek, and you did not pull away. “Please, come with me,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can’t do this without you. I can’t be who I’m meant to be without you.”

He saw the conflict in your eyes, the war between duty and desire, and he held his breath, waiting. For a long, agonizing moment, you said nothing, your gaze locked on his. And then, slowly, you nodded.

“Alright,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Alright, Rhaegar. I’ll go with you.”

Relief, so intense it was almost painful, flooded through him. He took your hand, gripping it tightly, and together you turned toward the waiting horse, your steps quick and silent. He glanced back only once, at the great, shadowed bulk of Storm’s End, at the hall where Lyanna Stark would be married to Robert Baratheon, where Brandon Stark would soon discover that his bride had vanished into the night.

He knew what would come next. Knew that Robert would not let this insult stand, that Brandon would be furious, that Aerys, his father, would react with the same madness and cruelty that had come to define him. He knew that blood would be spilled, that the realm would be torn apart, that everything he had tried to build would come crashing down around him. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not with you beside him.

He mounted his horse and reached down to help you up, his hands steady now, his heart calm. This was right. This was what was meant to be. You fit against him perfectly, your body warm against his, your arms wrapped around his waist as the horse moved beneath you.

He glanced back once more, a final farewell to the life he was leaving behind, and then turned his gaze forward.

He knew, deep down, that there would be no forgiveness, no redemption for what he had done. He had stolen you, taken you from those who cared for you, had set a flame to the tinder that would ignite the realm. But he could not bring himself to care. The thought of you with Brandon, with anyone but him, was a torment he could not bear.

And so he rode on, his arms tight around you, his mind a storm of guilt and desire, fear and hope. The rebellion would come, and with it, death and destruction. But for now, in this moment, you were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

The journey south had been a blur, days and nights merging into one endless ride. He had spoken little, lost in his own thoughts, his guilt and desire warring within him. He knew what they would say, what they would think: that he was mad, that he was his father’s son. But this was not madness, not truly. It was something else, something far more terrible. He could not live without you, could not let you be bound to another when you were meant to be his. The gods themselves had decreed it, and who was he to deny their will?

The feeling of you now, riding with him, was both a comfort and a torment. Your face was pale, drawn, but there was a strength in your eyes that had always been there, a fire that burned even in the darkest of times. He wanted to speak, to tell you that he was sorry, that he knew what he had done was unforgivable. But the words would not come. How could he explain what he barely understood himself? How could he make you see that this was the only way, the only path left to him?

He glanced down at you, his heart aching with a pain that was almost physical. You were staring straight ahead, your posture rigid, your hands clenched tightly around the sleeves of your dress. He could feel the tension in your shoulders, the way you held yourself as if preparing for some unseen blow. You were afraid, and that knowledge cut him deeper than any blade.

He had sworn to protect you, to keep you safe from harm. And now he had become the very thing you needed protection from. It was a bitter irony, one that left a foul taste in his mouth. But he could not, would not, let you go. Not now. Not when he had come so close to losing you forever.

The inn where they would rest for the night loomed ahead, a small, nondescript building nestled among the trees. He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, turning to help you down. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of something there, something that gave him hope.

“We will rest here,” he said softly, his voice rough with fatigue and emotion. “It’s not much, but it’s safe. No one will find us.”

You nodded, saying nothing, and he felt his heart twist in his chest. He had expected anger, rage even. But this silence, this quiet acceptance, was worse. It felt like a condemnation, like you had already resigned yourself to whatever fate he had chosen for you.

Inside, the inn was warm, the fire crackling in the hearth casting a soft, golden light across the room. Rhaegar watched as you moved to sit by the fire, your gaze distant, unfocused. He wanted to go to you, to hold you, to tell you that everything would be alright. But he knew that was a lie. Nothing would ever be alright again.

He turned away, his hands trembling as he poured a cup of wine. He needed to think, to clear his head. But his thoughts were a tangled mess, a whirlwind of guilt and desire, fear and hope. He had done this, had set this course, and now he must see it through. But the cost, gods, the cost was more than he had ever imagined.

He thought of his children, of Elia, of the family he had left behind. What would they say when they learned of what he had done? What would they think of him, the man who had torn his family apart for the sake of a love that could never be? The thought made him sick, a cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach. But even that was not enough to change his mind.

He took a long drink of the wine, the taste bitter on his tongue. He had to be strong, had to see this through. For you. For the prophecy. For the future that only the two of you could create. He would be remembered as a villain, a madman, but if it meant having you, if it meant fulfilling the destiny that had been written in the stars, then it was a price he was willing to pay.

The door to your chamber stood open, a dark, yawning void that seemed to beckon him. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to go to you, to hold you, to make you understand. But he knew that he could not. Not now. Not yet.

Instead, he turned and made his way outside, the cool night air washing over him like a balm. He stood there, staring up at the sky, the stars bright and cold above him. He had read once that the stars were the tears of the gods, weeping for the fates of men. He wondered if they were weeping for him now, for what he had done, for the path he had chosen.

He thought of you, lying alone in the dark, and his heart ached with a pain that was almost unbearable. He had wanted to save you, to protect you from the cruelty of the world. But now, he was the one who had brought you pain, who had torn your life apart. And for what? For a dream, a prophecy, a destiny that he could not even begin to understand?

He sank to his knees, the cold earth hard beneath him. He had made his choice, and now he must live with it. But gods, it was hard. Harder than he had ever imagined. He had thought that love would be enough, that it would carry him through the darkness. But now, he was not so sure. Now, he wondered if he had been wrong, if he had been a fool.

He looked up at the sky, at the cold, distant stars, and he felt a despair so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. He had done this for love, for a dream of a future that only the two of you could create. But now, standing here, alone in the darkness, he wondered if he had not, in truth, destroyed everything he had ever held dear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. “Gods forgive me, I’m so sorry.”

But there would be no forgiveness, no absolution. Only the long, dark road ahead, and the terrible, inexorable march of fate. He would be remembered as the prince who loved too much, the man who brought the realm to ruin for the sake of a woman he could never truly have.

And yet, despite it all, despite the guilt and the pain and the fear, he knew that he would do it all again. Because you were his, and he was yours. And in this world of fire and blood, that was all that truly mattered.