#but every now and then!!!! i do think he spirals a bit……

[rhettrosunsets]

Too Much? - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Reynolds X Fem!Thunderbolt Reader

Category: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: You knew you could be a bit much, a bit too excited, a bit too talkative, a bit too loud even at times? But you loved yourself, and that included those things. But after a rough day, your brain spirals and tries to convince you otherwise. But when things get too much for you to handle, Bob is right there to pick up the pieces and assure you that you're just enough.

Masterlist

Warnings: Reader overthinks a lot in this. Reader has some self deprecating thoughts wondering if she's off putting, too much, etc. Bob calls reader petnames like Baby and Sweetheart. Reader is described to be very talkative most times and very bright. Reader sort of shows ADHD symptoms but it is never mentioned (based off my own experiences.) Bob and reader cuddle on the couch. Reader doesn't eat lunch cause she's feeling off. No description of reader. No use of Y/N.

Notes: This is based off of things I have felt at some points with ADHD. Reader is not described as having ADHD, however some of her traits do link up to some of the things you see with ADHD. Like I said her traits are based off mine, and everyones experiences may be different! ❤️

You weren’t sure when you had started second guessing yourself again.

It wasn't something you had made a habit of since becoming a member of the thunderbolts. You'd began to truly love yourself for you since being on this team, and you had done so much healing.

Maybe it was just the kind of day it had been?

You’d had a rough day of training, your body ached and was sore. You hadn't expected to feel so exhausted, but exhaustion didn't typically cause this.

Maybe it was when you’d tried to joke around with Yelena. Your normal partner in crime when it came to your long banter and tangents, she was too exhausted to even think about trying to banter with you in the hall after you guys had finished up.

It had left you alone with your thoughts and a dejected feeling you hadn't felt since you were a kid and tried to go up to others and they'd ignore you. Just finding you off-putting or too much for them.

You knew Yelena meant no harm, she was simply exhausted just like you were, but while you knew that your body seemingly didn't and it unleashed a wave of unwelcomed thoughts into your brain all at once.

Now a few hours later you’d barely touched your lunch, and that should’ve been the first sign that something was wrong. Your mind was just swirling with thoughts, and you couldn’t get them to leave you alone.

It was like a complete overload of every negative thought all hitting you at once, overthinking every choice you've made recently.

Did you speak too loudly? Did the joke not land the way you wanted that one time and you never noticed? Did everyone hate you and you just were blissfully unaware?

The thoughts just wouldn't stop and they were slamming at the fore front of your poor brain.

You always wondered if you were just a bit too much, a bit too offputting. You’d always been a bit loud in your own way, always trying to light up the room, as awkward silences just made you cringe.

You know people would get frustrated when you’d go on long stories with a thousand mini stories in between, but it was just how you were, you couldn't help the way you told stories.

But now? Now you were wondering if that was too much this whole time.

The tower halls were quiet as you padded through them. You felt like a ghost in your own body at this point. You felt swallowed alive in your favorite hoodie, and like your pants were too itchy even though they were your favorite sweats that you wore on bad days.

You didn’t even really know where your body was taking you too, until you had walked into the living room and saw Bob.

Your boyfriend who knew you like the back of his hand.

He was sitting on the couch in soft sweats and his blue hoodie. He was reading a book that you had recommended to him. You had gone on a long tangent about the love arc and how much it had annoyed you but how much you loved it anyways. His hair was slightly falling into his face as he looked down at the book on his lap.

He looked so peaceful, so content, and you didn't want to ruin that peace. But you also really wanted your boyfriend right now.

He looked up as soon as he heard your footsteps. His eyes are soft and lit up like always when he sees you. “Hey, baby.” he says gently, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi.” you whispered, your voice light and barely there while your gaze was focused on your fuzzy sock clad feet, rather than your boyfriend in front of you.

He frowned a bit in concern. You were never this quiet, you were always, well? You. 

You were always so bright and talkative. You laughed at your own jokes, even when they were terrible. You'd get distracted mid sentence by your own thoughts and ramble into something else before finishing the story.

You bounced when you walked when you were excited. You told long stories about the smallest things even if the conversation could’ve been cut in half.

And you had somehow even made Bucky chuckle with your ridiculous theory about who on the team would survive the longest in a haunted house.

You had said Bob because “if you think about it, he technically was kinda like a haunted house that one time” before promptly gasping and covering your mouth when you realize what you had implied.

He’d laughed at that, even if you apologized a thousand times afterwards because you said your brain had seemingly disconnected from your mouth.

But right now, you just looked defeated. You were swallowed in a big hoodie and sweats, your face was set in a sad frown, and your eyes just seemed dull. And Bob didn’t like it one bit.

Bob sat up straight and reached his hand out to you, before motioning and whispering a soft “C’mere, baby.”

You didn’t even hesitate. even when your brain was completely spiraling your body always trusted him. You curled up beside him slowly, like you were afraid to move too fast, your brain still spiraling with thoughts of being too much.

He gently tugged you closer until your head was resting on his lap and your arms were tucked close to your chest as he draped a soft blanket over you. 

His hand went to your temple immediately, warm and soothing as brushed gentle soothing motions across your temple and cheek bone. “Bad day?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but didn’t say anything. He didn't ask for details and he didn’t push you. That was part of why you’d fallen for him so fast, he was calm and patient and always made you feel confident in who you were as a person.

But the silence stretched for too long and even with your head in his laps and Bob’s soothing motions, your thoughts still spiraled.

You felt so off. Like the spark that made you, you had just sputtered out completely. You began doubting everything you knew, and while you knew so much of it was self sabotage and your brain playing mean tricks, you just couldn't shake it.

Bob must’ve noticed the way your shoulders curled tighter, and the way your eyes started to glisten as a tear slowly slipped down your cheek.

 His hand stilled it’s soothing motions and he quickly whispered, “Hey.” His voice was soft as he continued “What’s going on in that head of yours, sweetheart?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I just-I don’t feel like myself today. And I know I talk too much and I know I ramble and say dumb stuff and it's like my mouth doesn't connect to my brain sometimes and it’s probably annoying and I’m sorry I’m so-”

“Hey.” He said it a little firmer that time as his thumb resumed its gentle motions. “Don’t do that, Baby. Don’t ever apologize for being you.”

You blinked up at him, tears still slipping down your cheeks slowly.

“I love that you talk so much, baby. I love that you’re always telling me about your day or your insane theories, or the random stuff you think about when you can’t sleep. I even love you when you ask me if I'd still love you if you were a worm."

You tried to look away, embarrassed at how you were feeling, but his hand gently guided your gaze back to him making sure he got his point across to you. “You know what your voice is to me?” he asked.

You shook your head no.

“It’s grounding. It helps keep me here on my bad days. You keep me here, baby. You talk, and I feel safe because I know you’ll always love me, even on my worst days.”

The lump in your throat got heavier, as you tried not to outright start sobbing in your boyfriend's lap.

He continued softly, his voice staying a quiet melodic hum as he talked “when you shut down like this, I know you’re hurting baby. And I hate that. It's not because you’re being quiet, but because I know it means something inside you is trying to convince you that you’re too much. But you don’t know that you could never be too much, sweetheart. I always want more of you, because I love you.”

And that's when the floodgates broke.

Small broken sobs escaped your mouth as you covered your eyes with your hands, just feeling so confused by the different emotions and thoughts in your head. Your breathing picking up as your body just reaches it's breaking point of becoming overwhelmed.

Bob quickly told you to breathe with him, and copy his breaths. And you tried, and after a few more shaky tries, your chest loosened a little. You were still shaky and tears were still slipping past your eyes, but you felt lighter.

“There you are.” Bob whispered softly as he saw your breathing begin to slow, and the way you sagged a bit more into his lap.

You sniffled burying your face into the soft fabric of Bob’s sweats. “I don’t wanna be like this, I hate this. I just feel broken, and I don’t understand why.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with needing to cry. Everyone has off days and I’m not going anywhere. I love you loud and I love you quiet. You don’t have to be a certain version of yourself for me to stay, sweetheart.”

You closed your eyes as you nodded, his voice was so calming and so steady that it felt like almost a lullaby.

Bob looked at you relaxing as he spoke and then an idea popped into his head. He knew you loved reading when you were tired, and he knew how much his voice was helping you right now. So what better than to read to you.

“I have an idea baby.” he said after a moment. He reached for the book he’d left open, gently shifting your head just enough to rest more comfortably in his lap, readjusting the blanket over you and then he opened the book, his thumb brushing a few pages before he found his bookmark.

He started reading his voice low and slow. His other hand not holding the book stayed rubbing your temple and cheek, occasionally rubbing over your shoulder and rubbing some of the tension out.

It was so soothing, and the longer he read the more the ache in your chest faded away to nothing, your eye's blinking slower and slower by the minute.

Bob paused, before he went to turn to the next page, gently whispering into your ear. “I think the next time you start worrying you talk too much, I’m gonna remind you how much I love the sound of your voice.”

You sniffled, a soft smile beginning at your lips. “Even when I go on long tangents about which of us would win in a pillow fight?” you ask as you look up at him, your voice still teary.

“Especially then, baby. And for the record, my money’s still on Ava.” he said, grinning down at you. “She phases through things! That's like cheating.” You exclaim as your voice cracks a bit. “That’s strategy.” he countered back, squeezing your shoulder gently, with a soft shake.

You giggled, it came out a little watery but it was still a giggle.

Bob's face lit up like he’d just won the lottery with that single laugh. “There’s my girl.” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple.

You shifted slightly, just enough to curl deeper into his lap as your arms wrapped around his knee. “I love you.” you whispered out, but with a soft smile gracing your face this time.

Bob leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose, his fingers reaching up to wipe the remaining tears before whispering. “I love you, too. Good days, bad days. I love all of you, baby, and I'll always remind you of it.”

You smile and closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him and the softness of his voice reading to you soothe you into a soft sleepy state.

Maybe tomorrow would be better, maybe not.

But tonight with him holding you and reading your favorite book to you? You felt just a little more like yourself again, and that's all that mattered.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hello!! I wanted to ask you something real quick… SORRY FOR THE LONG TEXT BTW

We all know Seongje has that full-on psychopath energy when he wants to.

that smile, the way he moves, the control freak vibe HEHEHEHE. I would LOVE to see a oneshot where he’s with the reader but still acts like the same guy we saw in the series.

Most fics turn him into this soft, romantic version, but that’s just not how I see him😩. He’s the type who needs to know everything. Every step his partner takes, every person she talks to, every little interaction, he has to be aware of it all, really in control. (Preferably with an F!reader.)

So here’s my idea😛:

Seongje and the reader recently had a fight because of how jealous, possessive, and obsessive he can be.

But, and this is important, I don’t want the reader to be some sweet, innocent girl who just takes it. No. She’s got her own fire. She’s a bit unhinged too in her own way. She teases him, she likes seeing that insane side of him, but she also knows when to push and when to pull back. She’s more logical. She knows when she’s right, when she’s wrong, and when to act.

He, on the other hand? Acts first, thinks later. That’s what makes her the smarter one.

BUT I want Seongje to be that smart dumbass... like, clever in his own twisted way but still completely reckless when it comes to her.

They both have each other’s locations on (like that app Si-eun used in Season 1), but one night the reader completely ghosts him🔥🔥 ignores all his messages and calls, sneaks out late at night, and even leaves her phone at home so he can’t track her.

Somehow though… he finds her.

And when he does? He’s completely UNHINGED.

I want DRAMAAAA. I want TENSION. I want them screaming at each other, pushing each other’s buttons, absolutely going insane

and then finally, him snapping and reconciling with her like only he would.

Pleaseeee make it long AND DRAMATIC AND FULL OF TENSION AND AT THE SAME TIME PASSION AND OBSESSION COMING FROM BOTH SIDES😭😭🥺💃🏻😦 sorry but a seongje fan will always be out of her mind😋

pleeeease pls pls pls IM CRAZY

Title: Where the Hell Were You?

Pairing: Na Seongje x F!Reader Genre: Dark romance, psychological tension, obsession, angsty lovers, NSFW themes implied Word count: ~500 words TW: Toxic dynamic, possessiveness, shouting, cursing, physical confrontation (non-violent), manipulation, obsessive behavior, unhealthy attachment, implied smut Note: You asked for psychopath Seongje, and he’s here. With his whole chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with the phone calls. Then the messages. Then the silence.

You stared at the little device sitting so innocently on your nightstand, screen down, Seongje’s name long since stopped lighting it up. You could imagine him now—sitting in that godforsaken car, probably gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather would start to tear. You hadn’t brought your phone. No location, no texts, no breadcrumbs.

For the first time in months, you vanished from his radar.

And God, the feeling of it was electric.

You weren’t running away. You weren’t hiding. You just needed one night—one fucking night—to breathe. To go out, exist, not have your every movement stalked by that wolfish stare of his.

It wasn’t even about the guy at the party. You hadn’t done anything. You’d danced. Laughed. Threw your head back in a way you knew would make Seongje spiral.

He always spiraled.

“You like making me lose my mind?” he’d asked you once, voice raw with something that tasted like pain and need. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

And the answer had always been yes.

—

He found you anyway.

You didn’t even hear the car pull up—just felt it, like a pressure drop in the air. Like a storm cell rolling in.

You had just walked out of the small club. Quiet back street. The kind of place he’d never let you go to alone.

And then: “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. The kind of tone that made your skin break into goosebumps before you even turned around.

You turned anyway.

There he was—standing half in shadow, jaw locked so tight it could snap, black hair messy like he’d dragged his hands through it a thousand times. His chest rose and fell like he’d run here. Maybe he had.

Your lips curled. “Took you long enough.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Home.”

“You left your fucking phone?” He was already storming up to you, his voice rising with every step. “You turned off your location? Ignored all my fucking messages—and you think this is funny?”

You shrugged. “Little bit.”

“Y/N,” he ground out, stepping so close your backs hit the wall behind you. “You think you’re clever, right? You think this is a fucking game?”

“No. But you do.” You smiled, slow and sharp. “You wanna be the one who controls the board. I just flipped it over.”

His eyes flashed. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Why not?” you shot back. “You think because you know who I text, where I go, what I wear—suddenly I’m yours? You think that means you get to scream at me every time some guy breathes in my direction? You’re not my fucking warden, Seongje.”

He leaned in, voice like broken glass. “You are mine.”

“And what if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll make you be.”

You blinked at him, not even flinching. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

He was silent. Dead silent. And then—bang—his hand slammed against the wall next to your head, just missing your face.

You didn’t even move. “There it is.”

He stared at you. Breathing hard. Eyes burning. That slow, deranged smile stretching across his lips.

“You like this,” he muttered.

You tilted your chin up. “Don’t you?”

Silence crackled between you. Not calm. Tension. A live wire hanging just between your bodies.

“I should’ve dragged you home the second I found your location was off,” he hissed.

“You didn’t.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

He looked like he might explode.

So you stepped forward. Into his space. Your lips almost brushing his.

“You’re smart, Seongje,” you said softly. “But when it comes to me, you stop thinking. You always do.”

“I don’t need to think,” he snapped. “I just need to keep you where I can see you.”

“Then maybe you should’ve chained me up.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

That made your brow rise.

And then—it broke.

The moment cracked like thunder between you. One second you were glaring at him, and the next you were on him. Arms around his neck. His hands gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. His lips crashing into yours like punishment. Like apology. Like pure rage.

“You drive me insane,” he growled between kisses.

“I know,” you gasped. “That’s the fun part.”

His mouth trailed down to your neck. You let him bite. You let him mark. You let him show you—like he always did—that he could never love you normally.

This wasn’t gentle. This wasn’t healing. This was ownership.

“You can’t just disappear on me,” he rasped. “Not again.”

“Then learn how to handle it.”

“I don’t want to learn. I want you.”

He yanked you closer. You felt every line of him—every frantic breath, every angry heartbeat.

“I hate the way you make me feel,” he said against your skin. “I hate that I lose my head for you. That I fucking spiral. That I can’t even think straight.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “Then maybe I’ll do it again.”

His laugh was breathless. Dangerous.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I don’t run.”

“I’d find you.”

“I know.”

You both stood there, clinging, shaking, still burning with fury—but you needed it. Needed this cycle of chaos, of destruction, of passion. Because love for you two was never gentle. It was always a war. And in war, the one you fight hardest is the one you can’t live without.

So when he pulled back, gripping your chin, eyes crazed and glassy with something too heavy to name—

And said, “Get in the car.”

You did.

But only because you wanted to.

—

🖤 END 🖤

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

✨If we’re doing this, we’ll do it properly!✨

Day 5 (July 5th, 2025)

The wheel did not disappoint today because I get to do one of my favorite tropes 🥰

Pairing: Lucifer x f!reader

Warnings: NSWF, first time sex, fingering, p in v

After countless months of dancing around your feelings, lack of communication, and general disarray of admittance of your love for each other, here you were—laid half naked on Lucifer’s king bed with the man hovering above you kissing you senseless. He explored your mouth like he would keel over if he couldn’t have it. You did the same in return, matching his passionate and starving demeanor. But unexpectedly, he pulled away to your dismay.

“Wait wait wait,” he said trying to catch his breath. “This isn’t right.”

“Lucifer?” you asked, feeling your heart sink into your stomach. “I…I’m sorry…if we’re going too fast, we can stop…”

“What? OH! No no no no no no!” He was quick to halt your downward spiral. “That’s not what I meant, hon! Believe me, I would very much like to keep going. But, if we’re doing this, we’ll do it properly!”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that until the lights in his room began to dim with the snap of his fingers. Another snap followed, summoning a bunch of candles to liter the room. A final snap summoned a record player that began to play soft, sensual music that filled the large bedroom.

A tiny chuckle left your lips, flattered that he wanted to set the mood for you. “You’re sweet, Lucifer. But I don’t think we need all this.”

Lucifer smiled down at you. “We don’t need it, but…considering what we’re about to do, I want to make it special. I want to remember this night with you, I want to remember every single detail. The aroma from the candles, the beautiful music playing, the way you look beneath me and the way you feel in my arms…”

Lucifer lost his train of thought as he leaned down to devour your mouth once again. He was nothing if not a showman, of course he wanted to impress you. The scene had definitely been set and he was determined to make it a night you’d never forget.

But as you began to drink him in once more, his hands started to wander, stopping at the hem of your panties. You breath hitched, Lucifer noticed.

“May I?” he murmured against your lips. Everything about him was intoxicating, your head was dizzy and you could hardly think straight. But you were able to cobble together a soft “yes” before you felt his slender fingers dip beneath the fabric.

He found your clit almost instantly, sending electric shocks throughout your entire body. He captured your moans with his lips, keeping you focused on only him. Tentatively, one of his digits breached your entrance, dipping into slowly. You felt your body grow hotter and hotter with each of his movement.

“You’re so cute, you know that?” he chuckled. Of course the sin of pride would revel at the sight of you coming undone because of him. But he himself couldn't hide the very obvious golden blush spreading across his cheeks as he fingered you. He was trying desperately to maintain as much composure as he could. You both knew how long it's been for him since he's been so intimate with another person.

"Y-You're cuter," you whimpered, attempting to wither away his resolve. It worked a bit as he was unable to meet your eyes for a few seconds while he took deep and steady breaths.

"You're gonna be the death of me one of these days," he responded, sinking an extra digit into you. After a few more minutes of warming you up, he slowly removed his fingers from your entrance, now covered in your slick. His tongue wrapped around them, licking them clean before he stared you down like a man starved. "W-Wow, I uhh...you taste...really good, sweetie. I'll have to have more soon. But for now..." he snapped away the remainder of his clothes as well as yours, his very obvious erection pressed against your needy core. "Are you ready? You're sure you want this? Because if not, we can stop right now and-"

"Lucifer," you said bitingly, "if you don't fuck me right now, I'll never forgive you."

Lucifer's eyes widened by the boldness of your words, but promptly lined up his member, taking deep breaths and telling you to do the same. Lethargically, the head of his cock pushed past your lower lips, sinking deeper and deeper into you. Inch by inch, you enveloped him until he bottomed out in you. Your arms flung around his neck, making any attempt you could to ground yourself. The noises he made when he finally felt you fully was something you would remember for the rest of time.

"You can move, Luci, it's alright." With no more prompting, Lucifer began to shift his hips, pulling out almost all the way before sinking back into you. Over the next minute or two, he began to pick up the pace. Neither of you could form any coherent words except for the curses that fell from your lips. He was everything you could want and more. You knew you weren't going to last much longer with the way his hips were slamming into you now. And judging by the way he was struggling to maintain compose, neither was he.

"I-fffuck, I'm close, love," he panted, "Please, c-can I...I need t-to..."

You found it hard to breathe normally as you desperately clinged to your lover. "Luciferrrrr, fuckfuckfuck...cum in me. P-Please...want you to cum in me!"

It didn't take long for Lucifer to come barreling over the edge at your request. But once you felt his release, yours followed not a second later, squeezing his cock tight and milking him for everything he had. Lucifer collapsed on top of you. Luckily, the man was not very heavy, you could only laugh as you pet his hair as his head was laid on your bare chest.

Lucifer gave you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him before this point. An expression of pure bliss plastered on his face. "Thank you, darling. That was...you were incredible. I love you so much. So so much."

You brought his face up to yours and kissed him tenderly. "I love you too, my sweet little angel."

[alldthoughtsinmyhead]

Stolen: Part Four

Summary: A seemingly innocent chat between a bored housewife and a handsome stranger spirals into something darker.

Warning: Dark romance, Psychological thriller.

Candy woke up sore all over.

Deliciously sore.

She closed her eyes as guilt washed over her.

“I’m taking you against your will.”

Terry had said that before taking her like a man possessed. Like a demon who knew exactly how to make her body sing. He had said it to spare her the guilt of infidelity.

She smiled dryly.

That might’ve worked—if she hadn’t screamed his name all night while he took her over and over again. He’d done things to her body she hadn’t even known were possible.

And she’d begged him not to stop.

“Against my will, my Black ass,” she muttered, rubbing the spot where he’d passed out beside her, wrung out from pulling every last orgasm from her body.

Cold.

He was gone.

Probably making breakfast again.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door opened, and there he was, shirtless, wearing black joggers, a tray of food balanced in his hands.

Candy started to laugh, covering her face with both palms.

“We’ve already fucked, Terry. You don’t have to keep up this act.”

He said nothing at first, just stood there, watching her with that wolfish calm.

She peeked through her fingers and let her gaze run over him, his chest, his arms, the way those pants hung just right on his hips.

She bit back the urge to lick her lips.

She wanted him again already.

He entered her room just as she sat up, pulling the sheets up to her chin.

He paused and gave her a weird look, like he didn’t understand the sudden modesty, before placing the tray gently across her lap.

She glanced at the spread and giggled.

“You made some of everything. Are you some kind of chef?” she teased. “I remember you said you liked cooking, but this is next-level.”

His eyes crinkled, his lips tugging into a shy smile—her first real compliment since waking up on his boat. Unless he counted all the things she’d mumbled last night, breathless and begging, while he was buried inside her.

Candy watched him—watched how that smile made him look almost boyish. It was disarming. Part of her wanted to touch him. Just a hand on his cheek. Something soft. Something... stupid.

Instead, she picked up a fork and took a bite.

“Why do you think this is an act?” he asked, pouring orange juice into a glass.

“You’ve been cooking since you brought me here,” she mumbled around a mouthful. “Aren’t you trying to impress me?”

She took the glass from him, sipping carefully.

“I’m cooking because I want to take care of you. I want to serve you, Candy.”

Candace rolled her eyes and focused on her food, pretending not to notice the intensity in his stare. He waited—like he expected a reply—but when none came, he continued.

“I’d like to take you to Rio with me.”

Her fork paused mid-air.

Her heart kicked up in her chest.

Calm down, Candace, she told herself. He's asking. Not dragging. Be careful.

She took another bite, buying herself time to think.

“You want to take me to Rio?” she said, finally. “Why?”

“Just… Rio’s beautiful this time of year. There’s the carnival. You said you’ve never been.”

He was checking off another item from her bucket list.

Her tension softened a little.

“That would be nice,” she murmured, then added, carefully, “but I need to be back home… by Monday.”

She held her breath.

Terry’s jaw clenched.

She still wanted to go back.

She’d screamed his name last night. Moaned and cried for more like her soul had finally found home. For one blissed-out moment, he thought they were starting something real—like he’d married her in spirit and the bed was their altar.

But now she wanted to leave.

He stared at her, his fist bunching the edge of the sheet beside her as he tried to rein himself in. He wouldn’t scare her—not if he had a choice. She’d lived under that no-good husband’s thumb for a decade. Of course she was confused. She probably had Stockholm.

He’d cure her of it.

Candy watched the vein ticking in Terry’s temple.

Goosebumps lined her arms.

She had hoped—naively—that maybe after the intense night they’d shared, he would’ve had his fill and let her go.

“Okay,” he said suddenly.

She blinked.

Air rushed from her lungs. “Okay?”

He reached for her hand and kissed it softly, eyes fixed on hers.

“Come with me to Rio,” he said gently. “We’ll call your husband—ask him to give you the whole of next week. Consider it a much-needed vacation. God knows you’ve earned it.”

“I can’t leave him alone with the kids for an entire week,” she said, voice tight. “He’ll go mad.”

Terry’s smile didn’t falter, but the bitterness crept behind his teeth.

“They’re his kids. He’ll be fine.”

She hesitated. “Well... how would we even do it? I don’t have my passport.”

“Leave it to me, baby.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “What exactly does your programming entail?”

He laughed, tossing his head back. “Don’t worry. I’m not forging you a passport. I know a guy in Immigration. We’ll get you a valid emergency one by Monday. We’ll be in Rio by Tuesday, tops.”

He removed the empty tray from her lap, then leaned over her, crawling slowly up her body like a shadow made of heat.

“But first,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers, “spend the weekend here. With me.”

He kissed her, tugging the sheet down her body.

She kissed him back. Her hands threaded the fine hairs on his chest before gliding up to cup his jaw.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet voice whispered:

Now what’s your excuse?

************************************************************

Another vase shattered, and Andre had had enough.

He’d been trying to reach Candace since Friday, after she'd called, but every attempt ended straight to voicemail.

A distant cousin, she’d said. No name. No address.

His frustration finally bubbled over. He called her mother.

Andre: "Hi, Issa."

Issa: "Hello, Andre. How are you?"

Andre: "Barely breathing. Have you heard from Candy? I’ve been trying to reach her all weekend."

Issa: "No, I haven’t. Where did she say she was going?"

Andre: "She left early Friday morning without telling anyone. Later, she called and said she was at a cousin’s—someone who just had a baby. But she didn’t give me a name or an address."

Issa: (pause) "That doesn’t make sense. There’s no one in the family who’s even pregnant. Did she sound… off to you?"

Andre: "No. Just tired, maybe a little stressed. But now her phone’s dead. Nothing since then."

Issa: "That’s not like her. Something feels wrong."

Andre: "I know. If I can’t get through by tonight, I’m going to the police."

Issa: "I’ll make some calls too. Please, Andre... find her."

Andre sat down slowly.

He heard her voice again in his head: “What would you do if I’d been kidnapped and taken out to sea?”

He had laughed it off at the time.

But now?

There had been no signs of struggle that morning. Her essentials were gone—like she had packed quickly, deliberately.

He redialed her number. Still dead.

One by one, he called the few friends of hers he knew. No one had heard anything about a pregnant cousin. No emergency. No visit. No plans.

His chest tightened.

He scrolled down to a familiar contact.

Jerome.

An old friend. FBI.

He hit call.

“Jerome?” His voice cracked. “I... I think Candy’s missing.”

Previous Next

Tag list:

@23jammy @ovohanna24 @determinednot2fall (Your mark is on this one) @transparentphantomface @fakxmbj @secret89sblog

Let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list.

[minhohaze]

❖ Dating All 5 Saja Boys at Once ❖

(Poly!Saja Boys x Fem!Reader)

Tone: Fluffy, spicy-leaning, chaotic, domestic, emotional.

---

✦ It starts like this:

You're not sure when the line was crossed—when occasional flirting during dance rehearsals became lingering looks, when couch cuddles turned into shared beds, when “Don’t fall for me” turned into “You’re mine, ours.”

But now you’re here, in their shared penthouse, wearing Abby’s oversized hoodie, Mystery’s socks, Jinu’s chain around your neck, Baby's scratch marks on your thigh (he swears it was accidental), and Romance’s lipstick smudged across your collarbone.

You’d ask how this happened, but your brain short-circuits every time you try.

---

✦ JINU: The One Who Pretends It’s All Under Control

Jinu handles the logistics.

He schedules cuddle rotations. Sets alarms so everyone gets a proper goodnight kiss. Makes sure no one hogs you for more than a week straight.

But the mask slips sometimes—when you kiss him too hard, or curl up in his lap when he’s deep in lyrics. He’ll freeze, look at you like you’re made of galaxies, and whisper:

"Do you even know what you’re doing to us?"

He means himself. He means the part of him that once swore off love, especially chaotic, all-consuming kinds like this.

But you always cup his cheek, lean in, and whisper:

"Let go, Jinu. You're allowed to love me back."

He does. Over and over again.

---

✦ ABBY: The Jealous Sweetheart

Abby’s the sunshine—until he’s not.

You’ll be kissing Romance and feel a sharp tug on your wrist. Suddenly, you’re pulled into another room and crushed into Abby’s chest.

“Not mad,” he says. “Just… missed you. Missed your smell. Your voice. Your everything.”

He pouts like a kicked puppy when you laugh, but it fades fast when you kiss the corner of his mouth and wrap your legs around his waist.

He’s the most physically affectionate—always pulling you into his lap, always whispering how proud he is, how lucky he feels.

He doesn’t mind sharing.

He just needs reminders you’re his, too.

---

✦ MYSTERY: The Silent Worshipper

He doesn’t say “I love you.” He shows it.

He draws you. Every version of you—smiling, sleeping, fighting with Baby, tangled in Abby’s hoodie, bathed in stage lights.

He sleeps closest to you when you’re all in one bed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist. Never possessive. Just… holding.

Sometimes he just stares—eyes glowing dimly—watching you laugh with the others. You ask what he’s thinking. He tilts his head.

You never get an answer.

But his kiss says everything.

---

✦ ROMANCE: The One Who Will Die If You Don’t Compliment Him Every 10 Minutes

Romance lives for the drama.

He calls you his eternity, his destruction, his muse. He writes songs about your hands. About your sneeze. About the time you dropped your phone and caught it with your foot.

He demands morning kisses, lunchtime kisses, mid-conversation kisses.

The others call him annoying—but even they soften when he pulls them into kisses while holding you.

Because Romance is the glue when things get tense. When Jinu gets distant. When Baby snaps. When Abby spirals. He turns every fight into laughter, every rough night into a performance.

He may act fragile. But he’s your strongest link.

---

✦ BABY: The Brat Who Falls the Hardest

He was the last to say “I love you.”

He pretended to hate the idea—scowled when you kissed the others in front of him, bit down hard on his jealousy until it bled out in sarcasm.

But the night he fell asleep curled into your stomach and woke up with you tracing his horns, he cracked.

"Why would you love me when you’ve got all of them?"

You kissed his brow.

"You’re not a backup. You’re one of five puzzle pieces that complete me."

He still denies being soft.

But you catch him baking cookies in your favorite shape. Stealing your perfume to spray on his pillow. Taking pictures of your sleeping face and setting them as his lock screen.

You don’t call him out.

You just kiss him harder.

---

✦ Group Dynamics: 5 Demons, 1 Girl, Infinite Chaos

Living with five demons is… loud. Very loud.

Romance keeps trying to make chore charts into musical numbers.

Jinu stress-cleans.

Abby eats everything in the fridge.

Mystery vanishes into the ceiling like a cat.

Baby refuses to let anyone sit next to you without biting them.

But on rainy nights, you all pile into one bed. No one talks. No one fights. You’re in the middle—limbs tangled, warmth shared, hearts thumping in unison.

And one of them—maybe Abby, maybe Jinu—always whispers:

"You're ours. No matter what."

And you smile.

Because you know.

---

❖ BONUS: Their Pet Names For You

Jinu: darling, my anchor, firefly

Abby: baby, babe, honeybun

Mystery: mine (only in whispers), my silence

Romance: angel of desire, beloved, symphony

Baby: idiot (affectionate), my pillow, star-gut (don't ask)

---

Want more?

[bbywhitefox123]

summary: the camerons were having a family game night but rafe failed to keep it pg-13 by the end of the night.

warnings: kitchen sex, fingering, p in v, breaking the headboard, doggy, breeding kink, degradation and praise, multiple orgasms, more+

It started the way all Cameron game nights did: with Mason already trying to sneak Monopoly money before anyone had even sat down.

“I saw that,” Bradley said flatly, not even glancing up from the rulebook he cradled like it was law. “You can’t just start rich.”

“It’s called strategy,” Mason replied coolly, sliding two extra fifties beneath the board like he was doing something subtle. “Ever heard of capitalism?”

“Ever heard of cheating?” Bradley shot back, flipping to page three of the rulebook with grave intensity. “That’s literally against regulation play.”

“Regulation play?” Rafe echoed from the couch, eyebrows raised as he leaned back and pulled Catherine against his side. “Brad, it’s Monopoly, not a congressional hearing.”

Bradley ignored him, muttering about property tax and dishonesty like his life depended on it.

Lara, who was sitting cross-legged beside Catherine and still way too little to play, rolled the dice with a dramatic flourish and immediately claimed Boardwalk for her pink glitter unicorn figurine. “This is my house now,” she said with absolute conviction.

“You know what?” Catherine laughed, smoothing back Lara’s curls. “I support that.”

“Thank you,” Lara said, primly. Like a woman misunderstood by society.

Meanwhile, under the table, Rafe slid a hand onto Catherine’s thigh, warm and casual, like it had every right to be there. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles on her skin just beneath the hem of her hoodie. She flinched—only slightly—and turned to give him a sharp look.

“Don’t,” she warned under her breath.

“Don’t what?” he asked innocently, grinning like a devil. “It’s game night. I’m just playing the game.”

“Oh yeah?” she murmured, leaning closer so her words wouldn’t carry. “And what game exactly are you playing, Cameron?”

He smirked, squeezing her thigh once. “First one to make the other blush loses. Bet’s still on.”

Her face was already pink, and they both knew it, but she lifted her chin anyway. “You’re going down.”

“Not the way I’d like,” he muttered, low and filthy.

“What was that?” Mason asked suspiciously, squinting across the board.

“Nothing,” Rafe replied, straight-faced. “Focus on your sketchy little real estate empire.”

About twenty minutes in, the game spiraled into chaos. Lara had plastered the board with glitter stickers, Mason had been thrown in Monopoly jail for fraud (again), and Bradley was now cradling the rulebook like a newborn, eyes narrowed at everyone like a disappointed dad.

Catherine leaned over to roll again, and Rafe’s hand was right back where it had been—only higher now. Bolder. Teasing.

“Still think you’re gonna win?” she whispered, not looking at him.

“I already am,” he replied. “You’re flushed. You’re fidgeting.”

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m right.”

She rolled her eyes and bit her lip, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Wait till the kids go to bed,” he said, brushing his lips against her ear, low and dangerous. “I’ll show you how impossible I can get.”

She turned to him, narrowed eyes and a too-sweet smile. “You’re gonna lose this bet.”

Rafe just leaned back, smug and entirely content with himself.

Across the table, Mason suddenly yelled, “HEY! Why does your game piece have lipstick on it?!”

“Mind your business,” Rafe replied coolly, and Catherine choked on her laughter.

🌤️

The house was finally quiet. Lara had fallen asleep mid-cartwheel on the couch, Mason and Bradley were in their rooms arguing about whether game night outcomes should count in their “life scoreboard,” and Rafe had locked up, flicked off the lights, and made his way back to the kitchen.

Catherine was still there, leaning against the island in his hoodie, barefoot, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t just spent the past hour trying not to blush in front of the kids. Her hair was a little messy, cheeks still warm, lips pink from biting back too many laughs.

Rafe stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her shoulder with a groan. “You lost,” he mumbled.

She smirked. “I did not.”

“Baby, you were bright red for half the game. You literally choked when Mason asked about the lipstick.”

“I choked because you panicked and knocked the game piece over. I was covering for your dumb ass.”

“You’re cute when you lie,” he muttered, and then, without warning, his hands slid down, tugging her back flush against him. “But rules are rules.”

“Oh my God,” she said through a laugh, bracing herself on the edge of the counter. “You’re actually cashing in your win?”

“You think I let Bradley go full IRS on Monopoly just to not collect my prize?”

Catherine turned slightly, head tipped to the side. “What exactly is the prize?”

Rafe leaned in, lips brushing her jaw. “You. Right here. Just for a little while.”

She turned fully then, wrapping her arms around his neck. “In the kitchen?”

“Don’t act surprised. It’s our sex spot.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

Catherine laughed softly, but it melted into something quieter when his mouth finally found hers. It started slow—sweet, soft, teasing—but within seconds his hands were gripping tighter, like he couldn’t get close enough. She made a little sound against his lips, and he deepened the kiss instantly, like he’d been starving for it all night.

Her fingers tugged at the collar of his shirt. “They’re asleep, right?”

“Dead to the world,” he murmured, lifting her easily onto the kitchen counter. “We’ve got time.”

“Then you better make it worth it,” she whispered, eyes hooded.

Rafe smirked, slipping between her legs as his hands slid up her thighs. “Oh, baby. I’m about to collect interest.”

Catherine leaned back against the smooth, cold marble of the kitchen island, the contrast making every nerve in her body buzz. The oversized hoodie hanging off her shoulders was his—soft cotton, worn just enough to be perfect—and underneath, a short silk nightgown barely long enough to cover her hips. She wasn’t wearing any panties, like she never did around the house, and Rafe loved the way the thin fabric clung to her, teasing and revealing in all the right places.

His eyes darkened as he took her in, slow and hungry. “My pretty little wife,” he growled, fingers curling into her hips, pulling her flush against his hard body. His breath was warm on her skin, lips brushing the sensitive skin along her jawline. “You look so damn good like this… makes me want to get you all round for me, right now.”

Catherine shivered, her breath catching as he trailed kisses down her neck, teeth grazing softly, leaving a slow-burning heat. “Then don’t wait, Rafe,” she whispered, voice thick with need.

“Mrs. Cameron,” he murmured, voice low and possessive, his hands sliding lower, thumbs stroking the bare skin of her thighs. “I’ve been dying to have you all day—wanted to touch you, taste you, take you like this.” He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes burning with a mix of love and raw desire.

She tipped her chin up, lips parted, heart hammering. “You know I don’t wear panties so you can have me whenever you want. You’ve seen all this before.”

“That’s exactly why you’re perfect.” His grin was dark and slow. “So fucking devoted and beautiful for me.” He slid his hands beneath the hem of her nightgown, fingers brushing over her soaked pussy through the thin silk, teasing her, making her breath hitch.

“Please, Rafe,” she gasped, hips instinctively pressing forward, desperate for his touch.

His fingers slipped inside her, slow and sure, curling deep as he whispered, “You’re so tight for me, baby.” His mouth found her neck, warm and insistent, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, sucking just hard enough to make her shiver.

She clutched the edge of the island, legs tightening around him as he pumped his fingers in steady, skilled rhythm. “Fuck, Rafe… harder,” she moaned, her body trembling under his touch.

He smiled against her skin, voice rough and full of hunger. “That’s my good little wife. Come for me, baby. Come all over my fingers.”

Her body tensed, breath ragged, as waves of pleasure crashed through her. She clenched around him, arching into the delicious torment of his touch. He held her close, lips brushing hers in a rough, needy kiss.

“God, you’re mine,” he whispered against her mouth, voice raw and low. “My perfect little wife.”

He gripped her hips and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he stood between her legs, pressing her back against the cool marble. His dick pressed against her, warm and hard, and when he slid inside her, slow and deep, a soft gasp escaped her lips.

“You ready for this, baby?” His voice was thick with need, hands gripping her hips so tightly she could feel the heat in his palms. “You’re gonna be carrying my baby again, yeah?”

Catherine whimpered, wrapping her legs around him, moving with him as he set a slow, steady pace that made every nerve in her body come alive. His hands held her firmly, guiding her hips as she rode him, eyes locked on his, feeling every raw, hungry thrust.

“You feel so fucking good,” Rafe growled, voice ragged. “You’re mine, Catherine. All mine.”

She bit her lip, breathless and desperate, as they moved together—wild, urgent, and perfect in their own messy, beautiful way.

Rafe’s hands dug into Catherine’s ass, gripping tight as he slammed into her harder, every thrust deep and claiming. Her hips trembled beneath him, shaking with how much she needed it—how much she needed him.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight, Mrs. Cameron,” he growled low, voice rough like gravel. “Goddamn, you make me lose my head.”

Catherine bit her lip hard, trying to keep quiet, but her moans spilled out anyway—soft gasps turning into desperate whimpers. Her whole body clenched around him, muscles trembling with every sharp, wild movement.

“Shh, baby,” Rafe hissed against her ear, fingers tightening even more. “You gotta keep it down. Kids are just through that wall.”

She tried to nod, but the way he moved inside her—rough, relentless—made her whimper and moan like she couldn’t stop it.

“Please, baby,” she begged, voice shaky. “I’m so close.”

His breath hitched, jaw clenched as he picked up the pace, fucking into her with a desperate hunger. “Come on, then. Come for me, my pretty little wife. Come on my cock.”

Her body shook, trembling and burning, hips jerking as she tumbled over the edge—moans breaking free like a wildfire despite herself.

Rafe pressed a hand to her mouth, fingers curling around her jaw. “Quiet, Mrs. Cameron,” he growled. “We don’t want the kids to end mommy and daddy’s fun, yeah?”

She bit down hard on his fingers, nodding, breath ragged but muffled now.

He didn’t let up—driving into her with everything he had, making her legs wrap tighter, her nails dig into his back. “You’re gonna be dripping all over my cum by the time this is over.”

Her body trembled again, every nerve alive, every inch of her soaked and trembling under his brutal, hungry thrusts.

“Fuck, baby,” she gasped, “I’m yours— A–Ah–Always.”

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice thick and rough. “My perfect, fucking obedient wife.”

Rafe didn’t break the sloppy kiss as he pulled Catherine from the kitchen, hands roaming over her curves, peeling the oversized hoodie and silky nightgown off piece by piece. Each bare inch revealed sent his hunger soaring higher.

She melted into him, breath hot and heavy, her fingers clutching at his shirt as they stumbled toward the bedroom, lips barely parting between heated kisses and gasps.

When they reached the bed, Rafe swept her up effortlessly, pressing her down onto the soft sheets, his eyes dark and wild with need.

Without hesitation, he slid her legs up over his broad shoulders, taking his time as he pushed inside her—deep, hard, and slow.

“So good for me,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, “My perfect little wife, so fucking good for me.”

Her breath hitched, body trembling as he moved with a fierce rhythm, every thrust driving her closer to the edge.

But Rafe wasn’t done. When she was trembling and gasping beneath him, he shifted, pulling her up, turning her around, and driving into her from behind—rough, relentless.

The headboard creaked, then cracked under the force of their passion, a sharp, satisfying sound that made Catherine’s heart pound in disbelief.

“Fuck, baby, we’re gonna break the bed,” Rafe growled, voice thick with lust and possessiveness. “So fucking filthy— you don’t even care, do you? You just want me to fuck you dumb.”

Catherine’s mind spun—overwhelmed by the raw pleasure and his relentless dominance, the mix of degradation and praise sending her over the edge again and again.

She whimpered his name, breathless and undone, utterly his.

Catherine’s hands scrambled against the sheets as Rafe drove into her from behind, his grip firm on her hips, anchoring her. The rhythm was hard, relentless—but not careless. It was purposeful. Familiar. Like he knew exactly how her body responded, exactly how far to take her without letting her fall too fast.

“Faster, baby,” she gasped, her voice strained and shaking. “Please—don’t stop.”

She rocked her hips back into him, chasing the friction, needing more. Her legs were starting to shake from the pressure, but she didn’t care. She just needed him—needed all of him.

Rafe leaned forward, his chest brushing her back as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder, lips hot and breath heavy. “You gotta keep it down,” he whispered, tone gruff but tender. “Kids are sleeping, baby.”

“I’m trying,” she breathed, a quiet whine caught in her throat.

He slid one hand into her hair, gathering it gently before giving a controlled tug, not too rough—just enough. Then he reached around with his other hand, slipping two fingers into her mouth. “Here,” he murmured, “bite down if you have to.”

She did, lips parting to let him in, teeth pressing gently against his knuckles as she tried to stay quiet through the pleasure. Her breath stuttered every time he bottomed out, the stretch perfect and consuming.

“You take me so well,” he murmured close to her ear. “Every time. Like you were made for this.”

The praise hit just right—making her whimper around his fingers, legs buckling slightly. He held her steady, easing his hand under her belly to keep her upright.

“Don’t fall on me now,” he said with a low chuckle, sweat sliding down his temple. “We’re just getting started.”

The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard thudding softly against the wall. When she moaned again, louder this time, he whispered, “Hey—shhh. That mouth of yours.”

She nodded, barely able to think through the way he kept hitting the exact spot that made her toes curl. Her fingers dug into the mattress, her whole body flushed with heat.

Catherine collapsed forward on her elbows, her breathing uneven and fast, hair sticking to her flushed skin. Rafe stayed behind her for a moment, chest rising and falling as he held onto her hips, eyes locked on where they were still joined.

He pulled out slowly, gently, his hand trailing along her lower back. A low exhale escaped him as he watched the aftermath—his cum slipping down her thighs. He swallowed hard, lips parted as if the sight stole the words from him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, almost in awe. “You drive me insane.”

Her body trembled slightly, overwhelmed but so soft in his hands now. He bent down and kissed her spine, slow and sweet, grounding her.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, brushing her damp hair off her neck.

She turned her face toward him, dazed but smiling, the kind of smile that was only for him. “No,” she whispered. “You ruined me, and I liked it.”

That made him grin, all teeth and boyish charm. He cupped her hips and leaned in, nudging her gently back onto the bed, careful with her shaky legs.

“You think you can handle more?” he asked, hovering above her with a hand pressed into the mattress. “I don’t wanna break my wife in one night.”

She reached up, tugging him down by the front of his shirt. “You won’t. Just—don’t stop yet.”

That was all the permission he needed.

He kissed her hard this time, deeper, hungrier—his hand sliding up her thigh again, anchoring them both as the night settled thick around them, full of warmth, sweat, and everything unsaid between two people who knew exactly what the other needed.

[riddlerosehearts]

Guiding Star

Summary: After leaving Mystra behind for good, Gale decides it's time to get a new earring. Elenion, his hopelessly dramatic bard of a partner, is determined to help.

Word count: 3,339

Notes: Most of this is post-canon but the beginning is set in act 3, the post-canon stuff is ridiculously fluffy and silly, Elenion uses he/they pronouns!

AO3 Link

All right, so, this is the thing I said I was writing about two weeks ago now! I finally found enough time to finish it and post it after nitpicking it a hundred thousand times. It is based on a post I made about this exact topic a couple months ago so if you read and remember that post then I guess you know roughly how this story goes. However, I managed to make the fic nearly 5 times longer than my post was and I think it's better this way. 💖 I haven't posted a fic of any kind since 2019 but I think this one turned out all right.

Credit goes to @/saradika for the dividers I used below the cut.

Tagging @ranger-jahen and @nerdalmighty since I know you both wanted to see this!

Elenion waited outside Mystra's statue in Stormshore Tabernacle, his heart and mind both racing. He knew Gale had said time worked differently in the Outer Planes. That his absence would be brief. But standing there in the cold, quiet stillness of the tabernacle, it felt like an eternity. He fidgeted nervously with the rings and necklaces he wore as his mind spiraled through every possible way Gale's confrontation with Mystra could go wrong.

What if I never should've encouraged this in the first place? he thought to himself. What if we made a huge mistake by coming here? What if Mystra does something to Gale? To hurt him, or punish him for defying her orders? What if—

Relief surged through him the moment Gale reappeared, and Elenion pulled him into a tight embrace, not even bothering to hide how anxious he'd been.

"Goodness, was I really gone that long?" Gale asked, his voice low and a bit breathless, like he'd been holding his own fear at bay. He leaned into Elenion's embrace, holding them close and resting his head against their shoulder.

"No… Only ten minutes, maybe?" Elenion murmured, their voice trembling slightly, "But I got scared... That you might not come back. I'm sorry."

"Oh, you have nothing to be sorry for, my love," Gale said softly. He ran his fingers through Elenion's long platinum blond hair, as if the touch would keep them both steady. "I'm here. And I promise you I will never abandon you. I want to be by your side every night from now on, and I won't let Mystra take that from us."

Gale lifted his head and looked into Elenion's eyes. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know. I—" He sniffled, then let out a wobbly laugh. "Gods, Gale, don't go making me cry, you'll ruin my eyeliner."

"Well, you look beautiful either way," Gale replied with a soft, amused smile.

Elenion grinned and kissed his forehead. "I love you. So much," they said. "But... enough about me. What happened with Mystra? Tell me everything."

Gale took a breath, then began to tell them what he had learned about the Karsite weave. He told them how foolish he felt for failing to understand the power he’d unleashed, but how proud of himself he was as well, for summoning the courage to face her. How seeing her again had only reminded him of what he already knew: that he would much, much rather have the love of the man standing before him than that of a goddess who had condemned him to death.

And when all had been said, Gale went quiet for a moment. His gaze drifted back toward the statue of Mystra.

“There’s… one last thing I need to do,” he murmured, giving Elenion’s hand a gentle squeeze.

"Don't worry, love," he whispered, brushing a kiss to their cheek. "I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right where you can see me.”

Elenion watched as Gale stepped forward and lowered his head in front of the altar. He's not... praying to her, is he?

No. Of course not—not now. Instead, he reached for the Mystran sigil that hung from his ear. With slow, deliberate hands, he removed the earring and laid it at her feet. Elenion said nothing, but his breath caught quietly in his throat as he watched.

Gale straightened and dusted off his hands. “Well. That’s done. I suppose we should head back to the others, shouldn’t we?”

Elenion nodded and took Gale’s hand with a smile, studying his face—they saw something new there. A quiet, newly-earned peace. And as they left the tabernacle, they reached over to tuck a loose curl behind Gale’s ear. Their fingers lingered there, lightly grazing the now-empty spot where Mystra’s sigil had once been.

“Does it feel lighter now?” they asked.

Gale hesitated. “It does,” he said at last. “Though I’m not sure if it’s from relief… or loss.”

“It’s okay to feel both, you know.”

Elenion didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

The rest of their journey was full of ups and downs, with moments of peace growing rarer and all the more precious amid the dangers their party faced. Elenion often caught themself glancing at the empty spot on Gale’s ear, quietly wondering if maybe removing the earring had been Gale’s way of telling Mystra he finally understood that there was more to life than her. Of letting her know that while he’d always love the magic she brought into existence, he couldn’t love her the way he once had. That he’d found someone else he truly loved, and who loved him in return. That he no longer needed to wear her sigil on his body. And sometimes, they also found themself wondering if he ever planned to replace it.

If we make it out of this alive, I’d love to take him jewelry shopping, Elenion often thought. But he never said any of this aloud. He promised himself he wouldn’t—not unless Gale came to him first. He didn’t pretend to understand all the ways Mystra had left him hurting. But he’d be there, always, whether Gale needed someone to listen, or simply someone to wait with quiet patience until he was ready to speak.

Besides, Elenion thought, it doesn’t matter what is or isn’t on his ear. Not really. As long as I still have him—safe, happy, alive—by my side at the end of all this.

By some stroke of luck, they survived.

More than once the party came close to losing everything, but somehow, somehow, they all made it through. And Gale remained by Elenion’s side, just as he’d promised.

Elenion still found himself questioning how they ended up here. What he could’ve possibly done to deserve this beautiful, ridiculous miracle of a life. But every day he spent with Gale—his beloved, his muse, his moonlight illuminating the dark, his fiancé—made it a little easier to believe that he might deserve this happiness after all. Days filled with quiet mornings, shared books, starlit nights on Gale’s balcony (their balcony now, he reminded himself) where he played songs meant for no other audience but the two of them. Love that was real and meaningful, and—for once—not something he had to perform for. A life Elenion hardly dared to dream of, back when his nights were full of fleeting lovers and hollow embraces. A life he now never wanted to let go of.

Countless times he’d walked the streets of Waterdeep alone, his head held high and his heart painstakingly guarded. But now the city bustled around him, made brilliant and bright again because he shared it with the man he loved.

One peaceful afternoon the pair wandered hand-in-hand through the marketplace, with no particular destination in mind. Elenion’s heeled boots clicked rhythmically over the cobblestones and their star-shaped earrings glinted in the sunlight as Gale walked beside them. They were in the middle of a passionate rant about an old Rashemi folk song they were convinced scholars had been misinterpreting for decades, speaking so quickly that only Gale could possibly keep up, when they noticed his pace had slowed. They followed his gaze, and saw him peering into the window of a jewelry shop.

I can’t count how many times I’ve seen him reach up to his ear as if he’s trying to dangle something that isn’t there, Elenion thought, watching the expression on his face. And he’s doing it again now…

Elenion gave Gale’s hand a tug, his ice-blue eyes gleaming with mischief. “Heh. Thinking of getting something sparkly, love? You’d look absolutely stunning in something dramatic, like…”

He paused for a beat, then clapped his hands together. “A silver lightning bolt earring! Or maybe a skull-shaped one with sapphires for eyes!”

Gale chuckled softly. Elenion leaned in, their voice gentler now. “We can take a look if you want.”

Gale smiled. “I’d like that,” he replied.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside the shop together, and Elenion lit up like someone had just cast an enchantment on the displays. He had a mission now.

Hmm, what to make Gale look at first…?

They tugged Gale by the hand over to one of the racks and, before he could even say anything, they held something up next to their own ear and then Gale’s. “Here, a little purple dragon clutching a pearl! What do you think?”

Gale made a face, and Elenion waved it off with a dramatic flair, already holding up another option. “Not your style? Well then, here’s a cat-shaped one that almost looks like Tara without wings.”

“Wait, really?” Gale studied it intently. “It does, actually! But… no.”

Elenion fired off a flurry of equally ridiculous suggestions, each one more dramatic than the last, and all of which were met with fond but firm refusals. Then he practically danced over to the other side of the store, Gale trailing after him with amused resignation.

“Oh! This one, look, it’s shaped like a real star map!” Elenion exclaimed as he excitedly picked another earring off the rack. “Gods, I wish I hadn’t left my journal at home, I know I sketched this constellation somewhere, I…”

His voice trailed off. Focus, he thought. I’m here to bedazzle my fiancé, not spiral into a lecture about constellations.

Gale smiled. “You can tell me all about it when we get home, dear. Also, I think you should buy that one. It'd look lovely on you.”

Elenion couldn't stop himself from smiling as he tilted his head and inspected the rack, already thinking of taking Gale up on that suggestion. He held up the next earring with a flourish. “How about this one? It’s shaped like an ornate key, for unlocking your future…”

He leaned closer to Gale with a smirk. “Or it could be the key to your heart, which I believe someone very handsome and charming is actually already holding.”

Gale rolled his eyes fondly. “You’re absolutely insufferable,” he murmured, taking Elenion’s hand and pressing a kiss to their knuckles. “But yes, the key fits perfectly in your hands, Elenion.”

For the briefest moment, Elenion froze—he knew full well he’d brought that upon himself, but the instinct to shy away from something so gentle, so genuine, was still there. He smoothed his expression with practiced grace and twirled back around to the rack, his fingers almost starting to fiddle with his rings before he caught himself. No, not now, he thought. Not this time.

Elenion flashed a mischievous grin as they dangled the next candidate in front of Gale. “Oh, look, this one’s shaped like an open book! It could symbolize how you’re no longer hiding part of yourself… Or, you know. How you never stop talking.”

Gale let out a soft laugh, crossing his arms in mock offense. “Ahem. That could just as easily represent you, and you know it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Remind me, which one of us once claimed that his worst fear was something as trivial as hitting a wrong note onstage, again? And which one of us is melodramatically monologuing their way through a jewelry store as we speak?”

Elenion gasped and pressed their hand to their chest in theatrical affront. “I am not—!”

(He was. He knew he was. And he’d been doing it on purpose the whole time.)

“You are,” Gale said, grinning as he stepped closer. “But keep going. It’s adorable.”

Elenion nearly dropped the earring he’d been holding as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I—excuse you,” he said, his voice pitching a little too high. “You cannot just call me adorable in public!”

Especially not after you just kissed my hand like we’re in some kind of cheesy romance novel, he thought to himself. Are you trying to fluster me to death?

“Maybe if you weren’t so cute, I wouldn’t have to,” Gale replied, utterly unfazed.

Ah, yes. Clearly he is trying to fluster me to death.

Elenion looked away, very much failing to hide the blush that was rising up across his freckled cheeks. “Well, who’s being ‘absolutely insufferable’ now?”

Before Gale could answer, Elenion spotted something in another corner of the store and made a dramatic pivot toward it with all the exaggerated elegance of someone clearly trying to flee the scene. Gale, of course, followed close behind.

Elenion gasped and swooped in front of the display, snatching up the earring that had caught their eye. “Oh—oh, oh, look at this one, Gale! Now this is perfect.”

They held up a golden sunburst earring with a ruby in the center and turned to face Gale with a gleam in their eye. “This could represent how you’re finally stepping into the light. Embracing your future. Beautiful. Radiant. Poetic.”

“And…” They slipped an arm around Gale with a wicked grin, their hand resting dangerously low on his waist. “You’d also look hotter than the sun wearing it, babe.”

Gale’s eyes widened, and his face immediately flushed red. Then, as he realized Elenion was stealing a page right out of his own playbook, Gale tilted his head back and burst into laughter.

“Len, please—! Need I remind you we’re still in public?” He said, nearly wheezing. “Honestly, you’re being utterly ridiculous! You’ve been no help at all since we got here!”

Exactly as intended, they thought smugly.

Elenion batted his lashes in mock innocence. “What? Of course I’m helping!”

“You’re a menace.”

Elenion planted a quick kiss on Gale’s cheek. “And you love it.”

Gale huffed a quiet laugh, the color still lingering on his face. “You know I do.”

Elenion tilted their head and began to scan the display again. “Oh! This one looks like a little owl with black opals for eyes!” they exclaimed. “You know, that reminds me—there’s an ancient Moonshavian legend about—”

Gale listened, shaking his head fondly at the way Elenion’s voice sped up. Fortunately, he already knew the story—in fact, if he remembered correctly, Elenion himself had recited it while the two of them were stargazing one night—which made it the perfect chance to slip away unnoticed into the corner of the store where his partner had lit up over a star map earring earlier.

He always gets like this when he’s excited, Gale thought. I wish he understood how much I love that about him.

He also noticed how Elenion was treating the jewelry store like a stage, even though their only audience was the shopkeeper and the occasional curious glance. And he wondered if, beneath the wild suggestions and theatrics, there was something they were trying to hide. He knew he’d have to ask when they were alone again.

But for now, he let his eyes wander over the display. It held rows and rows of glittering pieces, each one beautiful, but none of them quite right.

Until something tucked away in the bottom corner caught his eye: a gold crescent moon, its curve studded with tiny purple gems. Of course, he thought, his breath catching a little. Of course it would be the moon.

He picked it up and, glancing into the small mirror beside the display, thought about how perfectly it would pair with Elenion’s favorite earrings—silver stars with blue jewels at their centers. The moon and the stars, two celestial bodies that shone brightest together, each one making the sky more beautiful with its light.

It was, admittedly, still a bit sappy and overly dramatic of a choice… and Gale knew it was perfect.

When Gale returned to Elenion’s side, he was still rambling on about that old Moonshavian legend, having yet to notice that Gale was gone.

“—so in some versions of the story, the owl wasn’t just a symbol of wisdom, but a guardian of lost travelers, guiding them safely through the dark. Isn’t that fascinating? And…”

He paused, suddenly realizing that the space around him felt emptier, and then turned around just in time to see Gale stepping back into view. A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“Gale! Did you seriously wander off mid-lecture?” he teased.

Gale held the crescent moon earring carefully in his palm. “Elenion, look at this.”

He lifted it up beside his ear. “What do you think?”

Elenion’s breath caught, his usual flood of words stilled by the sight. He stepped closer, eyes fixed on the earring, before leaning in and brushing a lock of Gale’s hair back. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Gale tucked the earring back into its box, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

“So,” Elenion smirked, “we getting out of here before I find something else absurd for you to try on?”

Gale chuckled and slipped his hand into theirs. “Lead the way.”

Elenion laced their fingers together and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The two of them paid for the earring and exited the store, the bell above the door chiming softly as they stepped back into the bright bustle of the market.

That evening, Elenion was curled up on the couch in the home he and Gale shared, his fingers gently coaxing a soft melody from his lute. Gale rested beside them, leaning his head on their shoulder and absentmindedly threading his fingers through their hair.

After a while, he sat up. “Hey, Elenion?”

“Hm?”

“Are you feeling alright, my love?”

They stilled, and the last few notes faded into silence. “What? Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“At the jewelry shop, you kept acting like you were performing for a crowd. You know you don’t have to do that when you’re with me, don’t you?”

“I know. I’m fine, I promise.” They rested their hand on Gale’s. “I just wanted to make you laugh. And it worked—quite well, I might add.”

Gale smiled, though he raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing there was more to it than that.

Elenion sighed. “Okay, and, I guess I just…” They paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to be the one to choose your new earring. I wanted it to be something you found for yourself. Not just something you wore for someone else again.”

“I was hoping every piece I suggested would be so ridiculous that you’d end up rejecting them all and go looking for something on your own. But you wouldn’t leave my side, so… The story about the owl? I knew I’d already told you that one—I was counting on you remembering it, actually. I thought if I rambled on enough you might get bored and use it as an excuse to sneak off.”

“Bored? Len, you could tell me the same story a thousand times and I’d never get bored of you.”

Elenion chuckled, covering his mouth with his hand. “Still worked, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did. Honestly, that’s brilliant. You’re brilliant.”

“I love you.” He pressed a kiss to Elenion’s forehead. “My guiding star.”

Elenion just barely suppressed a strangled noise and buried his face in his hands, but the flush of red on the tips of his ears wouldn’t let him hide anything from Gale.

He groaned into his hands. “I love you too. But if you ever call me your ‘guiding star’ in public I will faint dramatically on the spot.”

“Then I’ll just have to catch you, won’t I?”

“You’re impossible,” Elenion muttered, but his voice was warm and fond. There were worse fates, he supposed, than spending his life in a beautiful home by the sea, constantly being flustered by the gentle affection of an absurdly handsome wizard.

Honestly, he couldn’t think of anything better.

The melody he’d been playing still lingered in the air, unfinished but calm as the night. Gale leaned into him again and, with a quiet sigh, Elenion picked up his lute and began to play once more. This time, Gale hummed gently along beside him.

Outside, the moon rose over the sea, and the stars shimmered brightly beside it.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Ariiiiii

How possessive is sugu? Like the degree of his possessiveness 👀👀

Would he ever consider sharing his lover or is it taboo for him? Does he control how you dress like nothing too revealing since it’s his to see and love? 👀

Does he show you off in public and to others by like touching you with his arms all around you that you’re his and is possessive in that sense? Does he cover you in love bites and hickies to show others and thrives when they notice <33

I NEED TO KNOW 🫶❤️

ohhhhh possessive sugu :33c he’s so tasty….

in my head . i see suguru being the possessive type for sure, but it’s fairly subtle + never to a toxic degree!! i really do think he’d be a great partner…. sometimes he just can’t help feeling jealous & overprotective. he’s a confident guy, so i don’t think jealousy is suuuper common for him to feel, but possessiveness probably comes to him easier….

therefore <3 i could personally never see him sharing his s/o with anyone . i think the thought of it makes him nauseous 😭 the only exception is, ofc, if the both of you are in a polyamorous relationship!!! anything else and he’s just…. not. here for it lol. and i definitely don’t see him ever trying to decide how you dress!!!!! again, he may be possessive, but it’s not to a toxic degree!!!!! he wants you to feel comfortable and safe no matter what you’re wearing…. (also he can fight <3) other people staring at you would probably bug him a lot but he’s big and intimidating so that usually isn’t too much of a problem….. keeps his arm around your waist like a safety net <333

overall!!! he loves you!!!!!! i think his possessiveness usually comes from him being overprotective more than anything else 😭😭 just has this urge to make it clear that you’re with him... i think it’s kinda cute.

[thewingedwolf]

patron j was already asked to leave bc he was passed out drunk in one of the chairs. as usual he was real polite about it but we were all like j....it's not even 11 yet bud!

[pumpk-n]

after years of joking that i have the body of a 90 yr old man maybe i was just trying to soften the blow i got at 10 am this morning

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[s0dium]

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐄𝐗

A/n: Almost kinktober guys ;) Synopsis: How many rounds can JJK men go for? Characters: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Geto Suguru, Choso, Sukuna Ryomen Warnings: Doggy, mating press, multiple orgasms, sub space, overstimulation, dub-con, photo taking, cock warming, nipple sucking, finger sucking, breeding, unprotected sex, virgin!Choso, mentions of masturbation, pussy drunk men

☆ Gojo Satoru: 3-4

The longest three rounds of your life

You think he can stop just cumming in you once? Hell no. The best part about sex is when he can see his cum oozing out of you with each push.

Also loves overstimulating himself until he is a groaning mess.

Unfortunately for you, Gojo Satoru is NOT a one-minute man.

"Awe come on don't go zoning out on me now~"

Gojo's voice is teasing, a low, melodic coo that slides into your ears as you struggle to focus. His grin is wide, almost predatory, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he leans in closer. You’re hazy, breathless, your mind clouded with pleasure, barely able to register the words.

"S'cant... feel too...” You mumbled and thrashed against Gojo's hold, forcing him to pin your wrists together above your head while he pistoned into you with brute force. Sure it's only the second round for him but for you, he's brought you over the edge more than your poor poor body can handle.

Your body feels completely spent, trembling with overstimulation as your legs, sore from the constant tightening and untightening, hang limp in Gojo's grip. He’s folded you in half, his hands pressing your legs against your chest, locking you in place with ease. The room feels heavy, a warm haze clouding your thoughts as you realize you’ve been drooling, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure to even care.

“Feel fucking amazing Jesus Christ.” Gojo manages to groan out between pants followed by a string of curses. Every time he leaves the clutch of your cunny, his cock is coated in a thick shiny sheen of creaminess, and when he snaps his hips back in, it settles right at the base of him, painting your puffy pussy lips as well. Gojo effortlessly lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, sinking even deeper into you with each forceful thrust. The new angle, paired with the relentless pace of his hips snapping against yours, sends you spiraling dangerously close to the edge. Your grip on the sheets falters, hands slipping as tears streak down your flushed cheeks. Your mouth hangs open, drool pooling beneath you, completely mind-fucked and overwhelmed by the pleasure that consumes every inch of your body.

Your limbs have no strength left to resist—no, you don’t want to. Every nerve in your body is thrumming, begging for more as you let him take control. His every movement draws out a fresh wave of sensation, each thrust sending you spiraling closer to that next high. You can’t stop it—there’s no chance to. Your body is his to use, to pull pleasure from again and again, and all you can do is surrender to the bliss as it builds, crashing over you uncontrollably.

"Come for me baby," Gojo coos. "I'll cum in you and if it spills we can start all over again."

~

☆ Toji Fushiguro: 6

First three you are riding him and doing all the work.

Then when your legs give out thats even he fucks you silly

He is so big :( Sometimes he has to let you cock warm him for a bit so you can catch your breath

This is it you where going to die.

You were going to be fucked to death.

"Shhh, stop crying would you? Yer' taking it like a champ I promise."

Two big hands come up to your face to wipe the hot tears streaming down your face. Your body is trembling uncontrollably, every muscle quivering as waves of pleasure leave you numb and overwhelmed. It’s like your senses have short-circuited, leaving you shaking, barely able to register anything beyond the intense, lingering sensation pulsing through you.

Even though Toji is unmoving inside you, your pussy cannot stop spasming from the pleasure of his fat tip pressed up against your g-spot. Even if he wanted to pull out right now, Toji doubts that your cunt would give up the vice grip on his cock. Coincidentally that meant that he was keeping you plugged with 3 loads of warm sticky cum in your tight walls.

"Fuck still so tight baby, you want me to fuck you more don't you?" Toji's voice is a low, teasing coo as his focus shifts to your breasts, his tongue flicking over each hardened nipple, tracing slow, lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. One hand squeezes your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other glides over your sides and stomach, his touch warm and deliberate, drawing out every sensation. With all the strength you can muster, you wrap your legs around his waist pulling him closer to you so that you can feel his cock push impossibly farther into you, and he moans into your breast, biting your nipple softly. 

Then, without releasing your nipple from his mouth, he begins the slow roll of his hips into your sloppy cunt. Toji's hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each roll pressing him deeper into you with a tantalizing, unhurried pace. His movements are controlled, almost teasing, as he grinds against you, making you feel every inch, every pulse of his dick as he draws out your pleasure with each smooth thrust.

"Just take it m'kay? You can handle it."

~

☆ Geto Suguru: 4

Geto is a real fiend

The breaks between sex consist of him drinking water and kissing the water into your mouth. After that it's right back to fucking.

Loves taking photos of his cum oozing out of you. Looks at it when he is bored.

“So pretty….”

Drool dripped from your chin onto the pillow below, mixing with the tears streaming from your eyes, which were rolled back in bliss. Your breath hitched the moment Geto's hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to catch his gaze out of the corner of your eye. As your eyes lock, a dark, knowing smirk curves on his lips, sending a shiver down your spine. You were finally getting used to the dizzying, mind-numbing pressure of his tip crashing into your cervix—but the bad news? Your legs were completely numb, trembling and useless beneath you.

 “Did you hear what I said doll?”

 Whatever was left of your mind tried to reign back its focus on the man pistoning into you from behind, but as it turned out, there wasn’t much. The friction of his cock dragging against you was unbearable, even with the syrupy cum soaking the walls of your quivering pussy. All you could do was dizzily nod, earning a chuckle from Geto while he eyes the way your hips instinctively raise so his cock can sink even deeper into you from behind. If you could only know the heaven your cunt you're putting his mind in, he is sure you'd be the one smirking. Geto even has to bite harshly on his lip to stop himself from whimpering every time your sticky pussy spasms from pleasure.

The euphoria came in waves of electric current that pulsed through your sloppy pussy and the only thing keeping you grounded his loads of warm sticky cum dripping down your thigh.  

 “Come on speak to me baby, I've only come two times, we've barely even started.”

 The wet sounds of Geto's dick slipping in and out of you filled the room and your senses. His cock filled you so much better than your hands ever could, hitting that gummy spot inside your walls over and over again perfectly, and you wondered how you were ever satisfied with the way you masturbated before you met him.

 “I’m a lucky man arent I? To have such an obedient baby with such a pretty pussy.” His hand comes to your face to caress your cheek, and you nestle into his touch while his thumb wipes away your tears. Your too busy immersing in the warmth of his palm to notice the flash of light and the sound of a shutter above you. Even when you turn your head back in curiosity, all you see is Geto staring at the screen of his phone with a lazy grin spread on his face.

~

☆ Choso: 2

Give this man a break! He's a half century old curse who has never fucked before!

You should be glad that he didn't cum by just slipping his tip in, because oh god lord he is seeing colors.

Choso swore he wasn't a whimpering man. Nothing that good could ever make him stumble over his words like a schoolboy. But Jesus Christ, he was not expecting you.

“F-fuck, you’re tight,” Choso groans hoarsely. You felt good? Try god-like, Choso's mind was in euphoria right now. His hand or a fleshlight could never compare to the way your gummy walls sucked him in and hugged his cock.

"M'feel good Cho~" You whine, head thrown back against the plush pillow. The stretch was delicious. It had you squirming and writhing and you couldn't help but tighten as your body tried to push out the large foreign intrusion. You gasped when you felt his tip smush against your cervix, little bolts of electricity being sent through your stomach as he pressed against you.

Choso was slow at first, wanting to still admire the way your cunt swallows him up, the fat of his head has a hard time popping out with how greedy your cunny is being. He whines at how hot you are on the inside, but he’s quick to change to a faster pace.

Choso’s voice comes out in a deep, breathless groan, his grip tightening as he leans closer, his words heavy with need. "W-wanna do this all the time. Every day, baby," he rasps, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure, completely lost in the sensation. Each thrust seems to pull the words from his lips as if he can’t hold back, his body trembling with how good it feels. The thought of having you like this, over and over, only spurs him on, his pace quickening as he grinds against you, desperate to make this moment last forever.

Unable to handle the sensation, your hands grab his shoulder and grip them for dear life. Choso doesn’t let up his pace, in fact he increases it, pounding your poor little cunt with no remorse. His mind is foggy, everything just feels and looks so so good, he’s not even thinking when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, digits pressing down on your tongue and swirling around in the spit.

“Your gonna let me use you when ever I want right? Gotta lot of time to make up for, you gonna be a good girl and always make me feel good right?”

~

☆ Sukuna Ryomen: Lord have mercy

It depends.

Its either the longest no-break sex marathon of your life or 6 even seven rounds with small breaks in between.

Unfortunately, Sukuna is a sadist, it's a headcanon that he might prioritize his pleasure over yours. Combine that with his godly stamina and you have an insane combo.

Kneeling helplessly, both your wrists pinned behind you by just one of Sukuna’s powerful arms, you can only brace yourself as he thrusts into you from behind, each powerful movement sending shockwaves through your body as he effortlessly controls your every breath, your every tremble.

"C-cant do this!" you cry, your voice breaking as Sukuna's grip tightens around your wrists, holding you firmly in place. Your legs are sore from this kneeling position and the angle that his cock hits you is so euphoric it's almost painful from the sheer collision. Sukuna chuckles darkly, his pace relentless as he leans in closer, his hot breath ghosting over your neck.

"Oh, but you will," he growls, each word dripping with wicked amusement, his hips driving into you harder. "You don’t have a choice."

You can only wail in response, the sound escaping your lips uncontrollably as the overwhelming pleasure consumes you. Every thrust sends a wave of heat surging through your body, your mind going blank as Sukuna fills you completely, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. The pressure builds with each deep, forceful stroke, your body trembling beneath him, and all you can do is surrender to the intense, all-encompassing bliss that threatens to pull you under.

"Such a good girl, you're a natural submissive, aren't you? Or maybe you just loved being fucked like the slut you are."

How much time has passed? You can’t even tell anymore—everything blurs together in a haze of pleasure and heat. The rhythm of Sukuna’s relentless pistoning becomes the only thing grounding you, your mind foggy and lost as your body responds to him instinctively. Each second feels stretched out, an eternity of raw sensation as you teeter on the brink, utterly consumed by the moment.

"Gonna fuck you like this till I’ve had my fill, got that?" Sukuna’s voice is a low, dangerous growl in your ear, the words sending a shiver down your spine as he presses deeper.

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part four]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

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

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10k

A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!

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In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.

The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air. 

“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. 

His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”

His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.

You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.

His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.

Stop. 

You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.

“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight. 

“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”

The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”

“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making. 

“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”

His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.

"I can't... I—”

"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."

His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."

He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.

"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"

"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."

"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him. 

You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.

You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap. 

"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."

He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.

"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."

He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.

"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."

The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.

"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"

He nodded shakily.

"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."

You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—? 

No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?

It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.

When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.

"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."

"I’m sorry," he croaked.

"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."

That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.

You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.

“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”

His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.

Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable. 

“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”

You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators. 

"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"

He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"

"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"

“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion. 

Was he… angry? 

Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken. 

“What?” You managed to stumble out.

Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”

You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.

Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”

“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out. 

It was fear. 

Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you. 

“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.

Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.” 

He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.

“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”

Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”

You knew this look. 

The thinly veiled judgment behind it. 

It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.

“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”

You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.

“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”

Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.

“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.

You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.

“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”

Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”

His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”

You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.

“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”

The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.

It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.

So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.

“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”

Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.

“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”

Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.

You didn’t need to.

His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.

The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal. 

The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.

You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.

Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.

His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.

“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.

“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”

“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.

“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”

You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.

“So are you like dating or—”

“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.

Maybe too fast.

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails. 

“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”

He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.

You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.

He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.

“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.

Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.

Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.

“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”

“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.

You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.

You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.

The word caught your throat on its way out.

“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.

Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.

“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.

“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.

Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”

“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.

“What?” 

“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”

“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”

“You lied to me.”

“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.

“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”

“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,

Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.

“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”

“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”

“Why are you so worried—”

“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”

You recoiled in shock.

Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.

Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.

You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.

Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute. 

“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly. 

“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed. 

The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you. 

“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.

“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly. 

“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."

Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.

At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.

“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”

“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.

You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.

—

You’re on your own now.

The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.

They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.

You’re on your own now.

You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.

It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.

You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.

Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.

The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.

You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible. 

Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.

You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?

You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.

“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.

You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack? 

“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.

“Jesus, give it a break.”

“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”

“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”

You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.

“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”

Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.

Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.

You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.

But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you. 

You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.

A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.

It wouldn’t budge.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.

The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.

The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.

You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.

You’re on your own now.

—

The shower hadn’t helped.

You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.

You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows. 

With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.

You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.

The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.

Just talk to me.

Please?

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.

Can we please talk?

You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older. 

Are you still awake?

Come over?

Can’t sleep.

Still can’t sleep.

I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?

You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you. 

You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.

You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.

But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.

Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.

A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.

You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward. 

“Bucky—”

His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.

And everything stopped.

You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.

You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

—

You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.

Except it wasn’t.

You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.

And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.

“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”

You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.

Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”

Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance. 

You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”

Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”

You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.

So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”

You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.

“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”

You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”

You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”

Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.

“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”

Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.

This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?

Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.

“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat. 

You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.

The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.

“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.

You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.

“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”

A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped.

You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.

You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.

“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Your blood roared. 

Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.

But it was too late.

You charged again.

No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.

He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.

Then he flipped you.

You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.

His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.

You struggled.

At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.

Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach. 

Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.

Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.

You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.

You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.

You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm. 

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.

You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.

“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.

You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.

His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.

“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”

He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.

You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.

Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.

But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.

Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.

And that—that meant something.

Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached. 

“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”

“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?” 

He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably. 

Still, it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.

“What did you just call her?” 

Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed. 

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. 

You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.

Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.

—

Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.

You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.

God, you hated looking the part.

But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.

You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.

Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.

You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.

You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.

You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.

“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.

You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”

“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.

“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”

You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation. 

Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.

Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.

You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.

Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.

The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.

Except—

He was there.

Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.

He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.

You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.

And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.

Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.

It broke your heart.

Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.

His eyes locked on yours.

You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”

Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”

“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”

He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.

“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”

“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”

PART FIVE

---

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[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for telling my boyfriend’s coworkers that he’s lying about his body count?

I (35f) have been dating my boyfriend (32m) for four years. It’s honestly been the best relationship until last Friday when it all went down. I feel like I’m in the right, but now I’m wondering if I overstepped.

For context, my boyfriend has been a professional Slasher for about eight months now. He’s always really admired Cryptids, Monsters, and Nightmares so when his application was finally accepted, he was over the moon even if he was starting in a lower position than he initially applied for.

At his company, being a Slasher requires a lot of travel which we knew when he accepted the position. The end goal is for him to get a promotion to at least regional Nightmare (he wants Cryptid, but that position doesn’t have a lot of turnover) but to get that he needs to be in role for at least 12 months OR meet his goals for three months in a row. Once he promotes, we plan to relocate to his new region and “start talking about our future.”

(Side note: no this isn’t about him not popping the question yet. We are both in agreement that marriage comes after financial stability. I run a small business doing scare consults and, while it’s been growing, I wouldn’t call it stable yet. So neither of us are ready.)

I told him it’s completely normal for it to take a whole year before he’s ready to promote and he really should focus on adjusting to the company before thinking about next steps. I used to work for a competitor (I’ve been retired for five years now) and I know it can be hard to go from only taking the occasional human life to having to take over half a dozen a week. It’s not a light workload, no matter how easy it looks in the movies. One of my best friends Slashes part-time and she still only averages about five lives a week despite having done it for years. Especially these days, it can be really hard to meet quota. Humans are getting smarter, no matter what the Council wants us to think.

Anyway, boyfriend didn’t do as well as he thought he would in his first couple months. Totally understandable, of course, which I told him. I suggested he ask his boss if he could be put on a couple team assignments or even a duo until he got the hang of it. That was our first real fight. He thought I was doubting his ability to kill. He brought up how I told him it would take over a year to promote and how I said that this job wasn’t for everyone (His first assignment ended with a 0% kill rate, but that’s a different story). He said it felt like I didn’t believe in him and he said that if that was the case then maybe we shouldn’t be thinking about marriage so soon.

It got pretty messy after that. I felt like he was forgetting that I’d worked in the same field and, arguably, had a lot more experience (not to brag, but I averaged a 98% kill rate). Also, four years is NOT too soon to talk about marriage. He said I didn’t understand how he needed to focus on his career right now. I told him I thought he was taking Slasher too lightly just because it wasn’t Cryptid. He accused me of not respecting him and then things spiraled from there.

We both said a lot of things we didn’t mean and I’m embarrassed that it turned into a bit of a fang measuring contest. I ended up sleeping under the bed for a few nights until he coaxed me out to apologize.

It was a rough patch, but we talked it out. We agreed that, going forward, I wouldn’t offer advice unless he asked and he would try not to take so much of his frustration home with him. He took a weekend off and we went on a recreational haunting trip in the Montana woods.

Things did get better after that. I tried not to give him consults every time he came back from a work trip. He started bringing me souvenirs like roses and cursed puzzle boxes his work said he could have. It became easier just to hang out with each other and it felt like we were back to normal.

But then, four months ago, he came home super pissed because his boss put him on a PIP. (A performance improvement plan.) Apparently, boyfriend had not been doing better at work, he had just stopped telling me when he had a bad assignment. I saw the paperwork he got (he left it in the dungeon under the house, I didn’t go through his stuff) and he’s been missing quota by a LOT. As a junior Slasher, he was supposed to be executing at least 6 people a week, but he’d been lucky to be maiming half that.

Obviously, I had to talk to him about that. We rent our house and, even though I could have afforded the rent on my own, I didn’t want to jeopardize the investments I was making in my business (I was in the process of hiring an assistant to handle my scheduling). Plus, we agreed from day one that we would be 50/50 on rent and I would take care of the rest of the bills because I earned more. I felt that if his financial situation was in jeopardy, he needed to talk to me about it.

I tried to approach him a bit differently than last time. I asked him if there was anything I could do to help. I told him about my slasher friend and how maybe she could give him advice if he didn’t want any from me. But he said he needed to figure stuff out on his own and that if he couldn’t get himself off the PIP then he would go back to work for his dad’s janitorial company.

I let it go. I was worried but I didn’t want to fight again just after patching the holes from the last blow out. It really bugged me that he thought I didn’t believe in him so I committed to giving him the benefit of the doubt. I said okay and asked him if he needed me to meal prep for both of us that week. He offered me grocery money, but I said it was fine since I’d had to deal with a lot of humans breaking in lately and I still had some leftover in the dungeon.

Fast forward a month. Boyfriend got off the PIP super fast. He worked his way off of it over Spring Break and started taking on a lot of extra assignments. In just four weeks he went to Miami Beach twice, New York City twice, and to three separate summer camps. I missed him and it was hard not having him around but I remembered how he said he needed to focus on his career and I tried not to nag.

It was hard not to nag though. With him gone, all the housework fell on me. We rent a 19th century manor, and its upkeep really does need two people. Doing all the chores plus running my business started to really drain me. Even when he was home, he forgot to banish the ghosts (my chore is to kill all invading humans, and his chore is to banish their ghosts) and he never took out the trash. I think he cleaned blood off the dungeon walls once, but then I had to basically redo it because he missed a lot of spots.

But still, I didn’t say anything because he was doing really well at work and I didn’t want to ruin that for him. Even when Humans started breaking in every week, I didn’t complain even though it interrupted my work day.

Last month though, I did ask him if we could move somewhere that needed less maintenance. There were just way too many Humans breaking in and I didn’t have the time to deal with them anymore. Even if I don’t do all the theatrics I used to as a Cryptid, killing humans through fear still takes a lot of time. He asked me if I didn’t appreciate the free meat, and I said I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t the only butchering it.

He said he didn’t want to move because he was really close to getting promoted to regional Nightmare and he didn’t want to take time off work to move. I was so surprised that I couldn’t hide how surprised I was. He saw and got offended. He asked if I still didn’t believe in him. I said that I did, but it was a huge jump to go from an 8% kill rate to getting promoted.

He got even more mad at me for bringing up his stats and he said that he had nearly 80% kill rate since being put on the PIP. I asked how many humans a week he was slashing and he told me I was being too nosy and that was proof that I didn’t believe in him.

I asked him if we could at least hire a ghoul then to keep the humans out of my office and he said he didn’t want to waste the money that we should be saving for our new house. I asked him what he wanted me to do then? I had to take phone calls for my consulting business and it was really hard to stalk humans all around the house while trying to sound like a professional to my clients.

He asked me to be patient for one more month. He said if he met quota for one more month, his boss said he’d get promoted. So I said fine and let it go.

Fast forward to now, almost a full month later.

Last Friday, I attended the Eldritch Conference. For those not in the scare field, the Eldritch Conference is the most prestigious event in our industry. It’s invitation only and is a chance to network with all the big players in the field. Mothman, the Jersey Devil, Bloody Mary and Bigfoot all spoke this year and both my former company, Grudge Industries, and my boyfriend’s current company, Forgotten Summer Solutions, were invited.

I was surprised to get an invite as a solo contributor to the field. However, my consulting firm has really been doing well and I did land a seasonal contract with the Yeti Co-op which I guess is how they heard about me. Plus, I’ve been a speaker before so I think the organizers knew I would behave myself.

I was planning on telling my boyfriend that I was going, but he was out of town on a co-ed sleepover assignment. He usually doesn’t have his phone on during his assignments, so I didn’t bother calling him. I just figured it’d be nice if we ran into each other at the conference if he made it back in time.

Which brings me to what actually happened (apologies for the long post).

So everything went great for my part of the day. I got to network with a lot of individual businesses and even got to reconnect with Blood Mary who I knew back in my Cryptid days. I told her I was dating a Slasher from Forgotten Summer Solutions and invited her to come with me to check out their booth. I thought it would be fun to grab dinner with her after since I assumed if my boyfriend was there, he’d be going out with coworkers which he often does. Plus, I admit, I was showing off a little. I don’t often get the chance to brag about my Cryptid days.

She agreed and we went over to see if my boyfriend was there.

I introduced myself to the people manning the booth. My boyfriend wasn’t there, but a few Slashers recognized my name and greeted me. They were definitely in awe of Bloody Mary (she came in full uniform) and invited us to look at their displays. They had portfolios for each Slasher on the desk as a sort of preview of what their services looked like.

While Bloody Mary looked through the portfolios, I chatted with my boyfriend’s coworkers. They said they were thrilled to work with him and that, even though he had a really rough start, it was impressive how quickly he started meeting his goals. Something about how they talked about his work kind of didn’t make sense. They were talking like he was killing a dozen humans a week, but he’d told me that he was at 80% on his assignments which typically only offer about ten humans each.

I asked them about it and they said that he’d been Slashing during After Hours which is a new goal supplement program his company launched a few months ago. Basically, anyone can sign up for After Hours and the company counts human kills done in uniform as part of their quota. I asked them if this was available to them while they were on assignment and they said no, it had to be done when they had down time. I asked them how my boyfriend was part of that when he was traveling all the time and they looked confused. One of them said that my boyfriend is still getting one assignment per week and is then supplementing his kill rate with After Hours.

At that point, I was even more confused. It sounded like my boyfriend had been lying to me then, because he told me that he was getting at least two assignments a week. If he was only getting one, then where was he going when he said he was traveling?

Bloody Mary interrupted before I could say anything and asked how their Slashers did their kills. They said that every Slasher at their company is required to use a standard issue weapon (like a machete or axe) for their kills to count. They said their company doesn’t count accidents as part of their quota (like falling or heart attacks).

Bloody Mary pulled me aside and showed me the portfolio she was holding. She said that she was going to give me a chance to explain without them overhearing and showed me the book. She said that a bunch of kills in it looked Cryptid kills. And she said, specifically, it looked like the kills I made when I was a Cryptid. I took the book from her and flipped through it and she was right, they really did look like Cryptid kills. Worse, I recognized a few of the Humans from the past few weeks. They were actually my kills!

Kill stealing is a major taboo in our industry.

I told her I didn’t know anything about this. She looked really relieved at that and said that even though I wasn’t a Cryptid anymore, it would look really bad for me if I was caught helping a Slasher cheat at their job. It could affect my business which she’d only heard good things about.

I’m embarrassed to say that I tried to defend him. He’s new to our industry so I thought it might be a mistake. He might not be trying to cheat, this could be a misunderstanding.

She said she didn’t think so because a mistake would be one or two of my kills mixed in with his, not the entire book.

I counted up how many photos were in the book and, all told, of the 146 kills, at least 100 were mine. I couldn’t really say it was a mistake at that point and I was just staring at his portfolio like an idiot. Bloody Mary asked me what I was going to do because, mistake or not, this looked really bad and could damage my reputation if it got out.

At that moment, another man walked up to booth and asked us if there was a problem. I knew that if I said anything, I would be jeopardizing my boyfriend’s job, but if I didn’t say something, I was jeopardizing my business.

I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count. I said I didn’t think that they knew he was doing it, but over half of the kills in his portfolio weren’t his and I suggested they remove it from their display before another Cryptid came by and realized it.

The other man thanked me for bringing this to his attention and asked how we knew. Bloody Mary said that she knew another Cryptid’s kills and I had to tell them that I was that Cryptid, though I was retired now. He asked me if I knew my boyfriend was doing this, and I told him no.

I told him I really didn’t want to get my boyfriend in trouble and suggested that maybe he didn’t know those kills didn’t belong to him because they happened in our house. I was grasping at straws and Blood Mary even looked sad for me. His coworkers looked skeptical but tentatively agreed. The man – who turned out to my boyfriend’s boss – said that they would investigate this thoroughly and apologized personally for his employee’s misconduct.

I was spiraling at that point so I thanked him and said I wasn’t mad, I was just looking out for both of our reputations. He promised to keep it between us and I agreed.

Then I apologized to Bloody Mary because I didn’t feel like eating dinner anymore. She said she understood and wished me well.

I went home and did a quick perimeter search of the property. Sure enough, there were human summoning stones ALL OVER the yard. Which means my boyfriend was intentionally luring humans to our house to get me to kill them so he could take credit. It wasn’t a mistake at all.

My boyfriend came home later that night in his work clothes. As soon he got inside he started yelling. He said he was suspended without pay and that all his hard work was for nothing.

I said I knew he’d been stealing my kills and he almost ruined my reputation. He said they still counted as his kills because he did all the work of luring the humans to our house.

I told him that wasn’t how it worked and he knew it. He said it was the same as setting a trap and I was taking this too seriously. I told him that, as a Slasher, he has to use a weapon to get his kills, not me. He said I was basically the same thing since I had such a high kill rate. I asked him if he was calling me an object.

(My parents exploited me by selling me as a haunted doll through a lot of my childhood and he knows I’m sensitive to being called an object.)

He backpedaled at that point and asked if I didn’t want to buy a house together. He said he was doing it for us and I should’ve understood and not said anything. I told him that when I was a Cryptid I had my pride and would’ve never done this.

He said I needed to tell his boss that he was the one who made all those kills. I said it wasn’t me who recognized them as Cryptid kills and now his boss knew too. He accused me of thinking I’m better than him because I have telekinetic powers and can move through shadows and can possess people, while he’s basically a human himself. I told him of course not and that I worked hard for those powers unlike him.

He got really mad at that and actually charged at me with his machete raised. I don’t think he was going to actually hit me, but I reacted like he was. It was all instinct. I disarmed him and I swear I heard a crack when I grabbed his wrist. I shoved him into the wall.

 He crumpled to the floor and started crying. He said sorry and sort of curled up around his wrist. He said he didn’t ever feel like he was enough for me and he didn’t even know why I was still with him. He called himself a bunch of names and said I would be better off without him.

I sort of awkwardly stood there for a minute. On one hand I wanted to assure him that he was enough and that I loved him, but, on the other, I wasn’t sure I could forgive him. He nearly ruined my reputation, and he embarrassed me in front of Bloody Mary. Plus, I still didn't know where he’d been going all those times he said he was on a business trip and apparently wasn’t.

So I ended up not saying anything. I went to our room and started packing a bag. He followed me. He was still crying as he begged me not to go. He said he would own up to his kill steals at work and he would make it right. He pleaded for me not to leave him and that he would give up slashing.

I told him I needed space to think. He tried to grab me, but I shadow walked out of the house. I heard him screaming from outside and I hurriedly drove away.

Now I’m at my friend’s house and I told her everything. She agreed I did the right thing walking away from him, but when I asked her what I should do she hesitated. She said that my boyfriend wasn’t right to kill steal but, as a fellow Slasher, she understood what he was going through. She said I wouldn’t understand the pressure to meet quota because I was always surpassing mine when I was in the field. She said that a Cryptid could never understand a Slasher.

She also said that nobody would have found out about his kills if I hadn’t brought them to his boss’ attention. She said the only time kills are on display like that is at the Eldritch Conference and by the next one, he’d have had kills of his own. She thinks that if I’d just confronted him at home, he wouldn’t be on suspension.

So now I’m worried that I overreacted when I told my boyfriend’s coworkers that he was lying about his body count.

AITA?

----

Thanks for reading! Several amazing supernatural citizens (aka my Patrons) gave great advice to our poor OP over on my Patreon! Please go check them out here (X)

(I will definitely be posting some of them here in the near future!)

My next supernatural AITA is already up to my patrons!

It's called "AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied about his human job?"

Patrons get to see many of my stories a week ahead! If that interests you please check me out here (X)!

[buckiverse]

Lessons

☆--- paring: zayne x reader

☆--- summary: Your childhood best friend, Zayne, had always been there for you, loyal, supportive, and understanding. So, when you realized you had a crush on Caleb, you turned to him for help. Taking it upon himself to be your guide, Zayne offered to teach you a few lessons in love. But as the lessons progress, you start to wonder... was Caleb really the one you wanted all along?

☆--- word count: 9.9k

☆--- warnings: mdni, oral sex, fingering, missionary, zayne is literally so jealous, caleb is kinda the boy best friend you tell your boyfriend not to worry about ngl, reader is inexperienced, soft!dom zayne, size kink if you squint, zayne knows you so fucking well it's sickening (he's just so sweet), no protection is used (wrap it before you tap it)

☆--- a/n: loosely based on nightly rendezvous (yes im doing a childhood best friend au for everyone... i fear im obsessed)

↳ xavier | sylus | caleb | rafayel

Some part of you felt like it was a bad idea—you knew better. Even after all these years, it felt surreal that Caleb was one of your closest friends. In your small town, there weren’t many people to bond with. The tight-knit community had shrunk over time, and most people you knew were just memories now. But you’d never forget the two boys who lived next door. One was more charming, the other more reserved, but both were just as kind and reliable.

Years later, that sense of community felt like a distant dream. It was why you jumped at the chance to move closer to Caleb and Zayne after they relocated to the city. The passing of your grandmother had made staying in the countryside unbearable. But as you stood ankle-deep in snow, staring at the truck piled high with your belongings, you wondered if you were in over your head.

The cold wind bit through your gloves as you trudged inside the apartment building. Your eyes darted nervously to the heavy furniture that needed to be moved. You shifted your weight, glancing at the door every few seconds. If any of the boys decided not to show up, you would be screwed. 

“Y/N!” Caleb’s voice rang out, and your head snapped up. Relief surged through you as you saw him approaching. Without thinking, you rushed into his arms, your cheeks burning as his warm embrace enveloped you.

“It’s good to see you too,” he teased, his playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. His hands rested lightly on your back as he pulled away, studying your face. “How long were you standing out there?”

“Not long,” you lied with an awkward laugh. “I just—got lost in thought.”

How he looked at you made it hard to breathe, as if he still saw the same girl from all those years ago. The creak of the lobby door saved you from spiraling further. 

Zayne strode in, his dark coat dusted with snowflakes. His sharp gaze flicked from you to Caleb’s hands, still resting on your waist. For a moment, his jaw tightened, but he quickly smoothed his expression.

“You’re late,” Caleb called out, smirking.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Zayne replied, his tone dry as his eyes settled on you. “I almost thought you forgot about me.”

“Never,” you said with a grin, stepping forward to hug him. His arms wrapped around you briefly, his touch warm but hesitant. You smiled before turning and walking over to the elevator. You missed your family, and now it felt a little closer to being pieced back together. 

You gave a debrief of the plan for the day, as there was plenty you could do on your own later. Though you were grateful to Xavier for helping you get a place, it needed…tlc. The boys agreed to help you move bulky items and clean up the remnants of a bug treatment. 

The boys retreated to the lobby—they had to move a couch and some other, far too heavy things. The three of you had been friends for years, bickering and fighting like siblings, but never with ill intent. Though Caleb and Zayne constantly teased each other more recently than anything, you weren’t sure what was a joke anymore. 

Your body jolted. A sound of a shout came from the hallway, distracting you from sweeping. 

“Damn—Zayne, pull up the couch—” Caleb strained and bit out. 

“You’re the one who’s not paying attention,” Zayne shot back calmly. 

You walked up to the unfolding scene, your hands resting on your hips when you approached them. The couch was now on the tile of the apartment hallway. You were glad they didn’t break your stuff while they messed around.

“And… Why is my couch on the ground?” you asked, your gaze shooting between them. 

“It seems Caleb’s grip slipped,” Zayne quipped. You could feel the air quotes around the last portion of his statement. His hands were resting on his hips as his breathing slowed and evened out.

“I just need a second—I’m sweating over here,” Caleb said, a deep breath coming from his lips. 

You watched as he lifted his shirt. His jeans rested low on his hips as he lifted the fabric, you could see faint trails of hair leading down his abdomen. He had a vein running above his hip to below his pants. 

Your eyes betrayed you as you shamelessly traced his body. Fuck, he looked good.

Zayne watched you in silence, observing, watching the surprise on your face when Caleb lifted his shirt. And he did not like it. First, why did Caleb always do shit like that, but besides, why did you seem to like it so much.

The three of you worked together to tackle the chaos of the moving day. With the bulky items moved, Caleb helped you clean the kitchen while Zayne focused on the living room. You stood on your tippy toes, wiping the cabinet the best you could, stretching to reach the top shelf. Caleb moved in behind you, his body brushing against yours. 

“Let me get that,” he said, his voice soft as he grabbed the cloth from your hand.

Your breath hitched as his warmth seeped through your back. His fingers brushed yours briefly, sending a jolt through you. You moved aside, trying to compose yourself. He stepped to the side after finishing, leaning onto the counter, “Why don’t I take over this part, since you’re so small?” a playful grin played on his lips, as he winked at you. 

“Always picking on my size,” you joked, your voice shaky. “Maybe you’re just too tall.”

His grin widened, but something in his gaze lingered a moment too long. “...Maybe,” he murmured, his voice low.

From the corner of the room, Zayne’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen. His hand paused mid-swipe on the wall, his eyes narrowing at seeing Caleb leaning close to you. His grip on the rag tightened, but he quickly looked away. This wasn’t the time.

You noticed all his progress when you made your way to Zayne. He almost successfully cleared the living room. “Can I help?” you said, approaching his side. 

Zayne’s lips quirked into a slight smirk. “I figured you’d be too busy with Caleb to remember me.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” you shot back, an uncomfortable laugh leaving your lips.

He attached the extended handle before handing you the mop, his fingers brushing yours slightly. “Guess I’ll have to remind you why I’m the favorite,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. 

☆

You fell into a routine in the following weeks, trying to adjust to your new life. Weekly meetups with Caleb became a ritual, and today, you waited for him at a quaint coffee shop Zayne had introduced you to. The warm smell of coffee and pastries filled the air as you spotted Caleb walking in, his black coat framing his tall figure.

“Y/N!” he called out, his smile lighting up. He hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground for a moment.

When he set you down, his eyes held yours for a beat too long. Your stomach flipped as you sat across from him, trying to steady your thoughts.

You began your catch-up over a coffee and some food. Your discussion filled the silence, and you shared a laugh while discussing the latest work drama. You clued Caleb into the details about your coworker, and how the Hunter’s Association locked his file.

It was pretty peculiar in your field; most hunters had a public record, released by the organization they resided under, but in his case, it wasn’t as easily accessible, making him a high-profile individual. Which just made you curious. As talented as you were you couldn’t help but notice the difference in skills between the two of you. It was so obvious he’d been at this longer than you. 

Caleb listened intently as you shared the latest work news, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup.

“And what are you going to do about it?” he asked, his voice teasing. “Detective work?”

You shook your head, biting your lip. “I don’t know. It feels like I’d be invading his privacy. I guess—I’ll wait for him to tell me when he’s ready.”

Caleb’s gaze softened. “That’s just like you,” he said quietly, his purple eyes glinting in the light.

Before you could process his words, your watch buzzed with an alarm. “I gotta get back to work,” you said, grabbing your things in a rush.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, gesturing to the table. “See you later.”

It was a lighter cold today, and no heavy snow blocked your path. As you walked back to work, you were honestly heavy in thought. You couldn’t stop thinking about Caleb. His smiles and touches felt deliberate, and you had no idea how to handle it. Dating had always been a mystery to you, and your nerves weren’t helping.  

This wasn’t the first time these nerves graced your presence. When you were much younger, you recall the party, the smell of alcohol, the loud music, and unfamiliar faces. You knew Zayne and Caleb of course, but them being a bit older than you made this crowd—one you hadn’t been exposed to before.

Making your way through the door was the worst. Caleb knew everyone, saying “hellos,” “hi’s,” and “what’s up, dude,” as he led the way. Making your way through the moving bodies was a challenge. You were thankful for Zayne’s hand holding onto yours as you made the way. You scanned the crowd, and everyone was dancing. The number of people grinding on others was mesmerizing, and you wanted in.

The music thudded through the walls, pounding against your ears. You remember making your way up the stairs, following closely behind Caleb, as Zayne sandwiched in behind you, finally letting go of your hand. Honestly, this didn’t seem like Zayne’s type of crowd, and he wasn’t the most outgoing. 

When you reached the room, it had fewer people than the rest of the house. You walked in, sitting on the couch while Zayne stood near the corner of the room. Some people sat in a circle with a bottle in the center, obviously playing a game. One of the girls asked if you and the boys wanted to join. 

You could feel the eyes of two important men in your life shift to you. Both were curious about your response. 

“...yeah.” 

Caleb also joined the game, sitting directly across from you. A girl with blonde hair spun the bottle, and before you knew it, it was your turn. 

Placing your hand on the bottleneck, you spun the bottle, watching its turning motion with curiosity. When it stopped on Caleb, the purple of his eyes glinted as he looked between you and the bottle. 

You could hear the circle of people urging you both on. It was just a kiss. You could do this. He’s your friend. You sat up on your heels, your hands burning as they rested on your knees. 

He got close to you and whispered, “Ready?” only for your ears to hear, and he kissed you, his lips connecting with yours softly, sweetly. Some people teased him for the gentleness at which his lips touched yours, but something shot through you when his lips touched yours. He softly bit your bottom lip before he pulled back from you. 

He kissed you. Zayne saw, everyone saw, and you liked it. 

You needed advice—something solid to guide your next move. You’d already admitted to yourself that you liked him, but how were you supposed to approach this? What did you even say? Zayne helped you through that kiss, reminding you it was just a game. But all these years later, you wanted to be more than a game to Caleb. Even in your shared youth, he had good advice for you, so why wouldn’t you trust him?

When you arrived at the office, your mind was still a tangled mess, buzzing with uncertainty. You decided it was no use overthinking it; it was better to rip the bandaid off.

You pulled out your phone, hesitating for a moment before texting Zayne:

You:

“Can I call you? I need some advice.”

When his reply came moments later—“I have a patient right now. I’ll call you after.”—you let out a relieved sigh. You trusted him, and you needed his help.

Relief washed over you as you read his reply, your heartbeat finally slowing to a steady rhythm. You let out a soft sigh, tucking your phone away. All you had to do now was organize your thoughts.

While you waited, you turned to your caseload, focusing on the profile you’d been compiling for a new wanderer-type you’d encountered during a hunt weeks earlier. Using old files as templates, you typed furiously, the steady rhythm of the keyboard pulling you into the zone. Minutes turned to hours as you worked, the world fading into the background.

The buzzing of your phone jolted you back to reality. You glanced at the screen and barely caught the call before it went to voicemail.

“You want me to teach you how to date?” Zayne’s voice drawled through the line, laced with amusement.

Heat rushed to your face as you groaned audibly. “That’s not—it’s not like that!” you blurted, but Zayne only chuckled softly.

You spent the next ten minutes stumbling through your explanation, your words tangling as you tried to paint a coherent picture of your situation. When you finally stopped, waiting anxiously for his response, all he said was:

“Okay.”

That one word was enough to knock the wind out of you. “Okay?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” he confirmed calmly.

Your heart soared. “Okay, then,” you echoed quickly, trying to mask your nervous excitement. You rushed to thank Zayne before ending the call, clutching the phone to your chest. Relief and joy bubbled inside you. You knew Zayne would come through for you. You trusted him completely.

On the other end of the call, Zayne set his phone on his desk, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. He began packing up for the day, shaking his head in amusement. The idea of you coming to him for dating advice was equal parts endearing and intriguing.

Of course, he would help you. That much was never in question. But who had caught your interest so suddenly? The thought gnawed at him, tempting him to ask outright, but he resisted. He’d figure it out eventually.

As he picked up his phone to draft a response, a quiet laugh escaped him. “Lessons,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue with amusement. He couldn’t help but smirk as he began typing out a plan. Lessons in dating and seduction? If anyone was going to help you succeed, it was him.

☆

Your phone buzzed with details for your first lesson. You had to admit you were quite excited. When you open the message, you read simple instructions:

Zayne:

“I’ll pick you up at 7 pm. Wear something nice, but comfortable.” 

A quiet scoff escaped your lips as you gripped your phone, its cool metal grounding you—way to give me nothing, Zayne. Still, you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips as you typed back.

You:

“Got it.” 

With a rare day off, you had more than enough time to overthink this date—or, well, lesson. You'd been on dates before, but this felt different—important. You wanted to impress Caleb later, but you also wanted to enjoy this with Zayne and learn from him.

Determined, you took your time getting ready—a long bath, smooth and refreshed skin, natural hairstyle, skipping the heat of flat irons. Your makeup was subtle, accentuating your best features—your eyes and lips. The outfit? Simple, with an effortless elegance: a black skirt, a beige sweater, and knee-high black boots. Something nice but comfortable, you echoed mockingly in your head.

The doorbell rang. Your pulse quickened. Taking a deep breath, you cracked the door open.

“I’m grabbing my bag—give me a sec,” you said quickly before shutting it again.

Zayne chuckled softly on the other side. You looked nervous, and he thought it was cute.

When you finally stepped out, his eyes swept over you, approval flashing in his gaze. “Ready?” His voice was warm, familiar.

You swallowed, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Yeah.”

Locking up, you stepped beside him, weaving through the apartment halls. The elevator was packed when it arrived, leaving just enough room for the two of you to squeeze in. When the doors slid shut, the crowd's pressure pushed you toward the back corner of the elevator.

Zayne stepped in after you, his body instinctively blocking the others from pressing too close. His warmth enveloped you, a wall of quiet protection. When his chest brushed against yours, your head shot up, startled by the contact—only to knock it against the cold metal wall behind you.

A low groan slipped from your lips, and Zayne chuckled. “Careful.” His hand came up, cupping the back of your head gently.

You stilled. Zayne’s touch was light but steady, fingers warm against your scalp. You let yourself settle into it for just a second, your cheeks heating.

Then, with a soft ding, the doors slid open. The moment was gone.

You followed him out quickly, slipping into his car. The silence was thick but not uncomfortable. Still, you were the first to break it.

“So… where are we going?” you asked, anticipation bubbling beneath your skin.

Zayne’s grip tightened subtly around the gear shift, veins visible against his skin. His lips curled into a faint smile. “You’ll see.”

—

You hadn’t expected this.

The setup was breathtaking—candles flickering softly, a picnic blanket spread on the grass by a lake, and wildflowers scattered around like nature’s own confetti. The crisp spring air carried the scent of earth and blooming petals, a reminder that winter’s grasp was finally loosening. The sun had just begun its descent, casting everything in golden light.

Zayne stood behind you, watching. He caught how your breath hitched and how awe softened your features. The faint flush that always seemed to bloom when he was near. He reveled in it.

“Lesson one,” he murmured. “A date.”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Zayne, this is…” Your voice wavered with something close to wonder. “This is perfect.”

A small, knowing smile touched his lips.

You hesitated. “I’ve never really—” You exhaled. “So… what do we do now?”

He motioned for you to sit. “First? We eat.”

You obeyed, watching as he unpacked the meal. Your gaze flickered over the assortment of sweets tucked beside the entrees, and you bit your lip. He remembered your sweet tooth.

Your heart squeezed.

He handed you a sandwich—one of your childhood favorites. You took a bite, savoring the familiar flavors and the quiet thoughtfulness behind it.

The evening unfolded like something out of a dream. The conversation was easy and flowing, as it always was between you two. You talked about everything and nothing, letting the city fade away, and the wine in your glass disappeared far too quickly.

At some point, you made the mistake of looking at him.

The sunset bathed him in amber light, the gentle hues accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw and the faint green specks in his eyes. He looked beautiful—effortlessly so. The sleeves of his powder blue dress shirt rolled up, revealing strong forearms, veins pronounced as his fingers idly toyed with the rim of his glass.

His gaze lifted, catching yours.

You panicked. Tipped your head back, draining the last of your wine, pretending to admire the sky.

And so the night went on.

Laughter. Warmth. The kind of company that made the world feel a little less lonely. It had been too long since you’d felt this way.

Maybe that was why—

—why you ended up tipsy.

The last thing you remembered clearly was Zayne’s hands on your waist, steadying you as you stumbled at your door. His voice, amused and gentle, coaxing you inside.

And then—

"You're drunk."

His voice was strained.

Your skin burned. “N ‘m not,” you murmured, reaching up, fingers clumsily ruffling his hair. “I w’nted to kiss you, Z-Zayne…”

His breath hitched.

You wobbled onto your tiptoes, pressing a sleepy, featherlight kiss to his cheek. “G’night, Zayne~”

Darkness.

And then—morning.

Your head throbbed. You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, and then—

The memory came rushing back.

Your stomach dropped.

Shit.

What did you do?

You kissed Zayne—just a kiss on the cheek, but no less a kiss. And you didn’t know how you felt about it. Maybe you liked it. And when you checked your phone, your heart skipped a beat. 

Zayne:

“Are you feeling better?”

It was a simple question, but your body felt warm, and a smile tugged at your lips as the cold metal burned your hand. 

You:

“Yes, I’m still a bit warm, but much better :)”

And from there the conversation flowed. 

Zayne: 

“So you’re ready for your next lesson?”

You:

“Duh.”

☆

This lesson was set up differently—as a more casual experience. Zayne held the door open, allowing you to enter as the scent of perfumes and faint traces of liquor—something you planned to avoid tonight—filled your senses.

Zayne trailed closely behind you, his eyes drawn to your fitted black dress. It hugged your curves just right, and while you were always beautiful, tonight, you looked divine. His gaze lingered, but he didn’t say a word, instead committing the image to memory.

You settled into the plush velvet seat, crossing your legs as you waited for him to join you. The slight pressure of the fabric against your skin and the low hum of jazz music set a tone of subtle sophistication.

“Lesson two,” he murmured as he sat beside you. “Body language.”

A sly smile crept onto your lips. This time, you were ready. Beyond your carefully chosen outfit, you had mentally prepared to hold your ground. Tonight, you would stay in control.

“So, what’s the plan today, Zayne?” you drawled, leaning forward as your fingers lightly brushed his bicep. You pretended it was a casual touch, but the way his muscles flexed beneath your fingertips sent a jolt through you.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, studying your face. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. “You’re already ahead, princess,” he whispered, his voice low. The words felt like a direct hit to your resolve.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, your lips parted as you scrambled to regain composure. “Head start?” you echoed, tilting your head and trying to sound nonchalant.

"I want to see what you've learned—think you can charm me?" he said simply.

The lounge was an upscale dream: dimly lit, lined with high-end paintings, and filled with the smooth rhythm of jazz. The swaying figures on the dance floor moved in tandem with the music, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in the scene.

Leaning in closer to Zayne, you brushed your lips near his ear. “Should we dance?” you whispered, your hand steadying yourself on his knee.

The scent of his cologne—clean with a faint hint of jasmine—enveloped you. You felt his gaze sharpen, and when you pulled back slightly to meet his eyes, the faint green specks in them seemed to glow under the low light.

“Shall we?” he asked, his voice smooth, as he stood and offered you his hand.

On the dance floor, your movements flowed easily, the music guiding you. You pulled him closer, and your body pressed flush against his. His hands rested on your lower back, firm and grounding, while your fingers trailed up his chest. The hard muscle beneath your touch sent a thrill through you.

“You look so handsome tonight, Zayne,” you said softly, your lips curving into a small smile.

“Only tonight?” he teased, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Your finger traced lazy patterns on his chest. His heartbeat was steady initially, but you noticed the slight quickening as your touch lingered. You looked up at him, your gaze filled with something unspoken but deeply felt.

“You always do,” you whispered.

The air between you was charged, the tension pulling you closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, grounding you while simultaneously making you feel like you might float away.

When the tempo picked up, you spun away from him, creating a bit of distance as you swayed more freely. He matched your rhythm more stiffly than anything. You couldn’t help but smile—this was fun.

“You’re way too stiff,” you said, getting close to him. Watching him try to whine his hips to the upbeat tempo was amazing. A laugh left your lips as your hands gripped his hips. “Why are your feet so close together?!” you choked out. 

“I was never a dancer,” he said flatly, unamused by the tears in your eyes. 

“Move to the beat,” you said again, trying to show him the way, but he didn’t get it. If you asked him, he’d rather watch you move your body. You moved beautifully, rolling your hips with precision.

When the lounge prepared to close, your cheeks ached from grinning, and your legs were deliciously sore. You shivered slightly as you walked side by side through the chilly night air.

“You look cold,” Zayne said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders before you could protest.

The warmth of the fabric—and his scent—wrapped around you. A soft, rich aroma of jasmine and something distinctly him made your heart flutter.

You nudged his arm, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “You know… I think this was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

“I haven’t danced like that in forever.” you said.

“How could I forget?” he replied, his eyes briefly flicking to the stars above. “It’s your favorite thing.”

His fingers brushed against yours, tentative at first. You took the leap, intertwining your fingers with his. The warmth of his hand sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you caught the faint blush dusting his cheeks.

This man was everything.

☆

Later That Week

You had agreed to meet Caleb for a more eventful hangout—to meet downtown and do whatever caught your eye. 

You spotted him easily. His tall figure towered over most people. You walked up to him, and he hugged you tightly. The warmth of his body covered yours, but it didn’t raise your heartbeat. 

When he loosened his grip on you, his hands rested on your shoulders, “Long time no see, pipsqueak,” he said, his voice full of joy. 

Your cheeks felt tight from smiling—you were happy to see him, but not for the same reasons as before.

“I know, it’s been a few weeks,” you said, pulling back from him and looking into the purple of his eyes. “Let’s get back on schedule,” you breathed, a light smile plastered on your lips. 

Work had been busy, but the truth was that your lessons with Zayne had occupied your thoughts—and your time.

While you started your walk downtown, plenty of things caught your eye. The first thing you did was enter a record shop. The store was in the basement off of a side street. It was a little creepy, but it looked like an underground studio once you got inside. Records were all over the shop, on the wall, and in little baskets stacked in rows. 

He browsed next to you, shuffling through the records occasionally showing you one he thought you’d like or an album you’d enjoyed. And in spending this time with him, you realized that you enjoyed this. 

The simplicity between you, the light air, and the lack of expectations for anything more was all you needed. Caleb’s fingers softly brushed yours as he placed a vinyl behind the one you held up for him.

“Find anything good?” you asked, your feet planted evenly on the ground as you turned to face Caleb. 

His eyes bore into yours, something flickering over them before he answered you.

 “Nah—let's get some food,” he said quickly, his demeanor suddenly returning.

Exiting the store, you joined in step beside him, exploring the city's night scene. Your options were endless as you scanned the shops that lined the streets. You spotted a food truck and the smells coming from it were amazing. 

Altering Caleb, you both sat at the outdoor seating, waiting for your orders. The chill of the evening air seeped through your clothes, making you shiver slightly.

“Do you want my jacket?” Caleb asked, his tone playful. “You look like you’re freezing.”

“Only if you have an extra,” you said, bouncing your leg under the table to keep warm.

With a smirk, he reached into his bag and handed you a spare coat. “You’re my best friend, You know I always do.”

You slipped it on, grateful for the warmth but… that was it. There was no spark, no flutter of excitement. You tried to convince yourself otherwise, adjusting the collar and wrapping it tighter around yourself, but it felt like just a jacket.

In the quiet moment that followed, your mind drifted back to Zayne. His jacket had enveloped you in warmth and scent, and your heart raced when he was near. You glanced at Caleb, who was busy watching the street outside.

Nothing. That kiss was—just a kiss. Years ago, you wouldn’t have believed anyone. Not even Zayne could have convinced you it was a fleeting crush. But it really was. You felt proper chemistry, companionship, and care and wanted to keep experiencing that with Zayne.

The weight of your realization was crushing. All the time you spent—wasted on this man. You cared for him, you truly did. But, what about you? Why were you so pent-up and focused on this person you didn't even really like? Was it really him you missed? Or just how he filled your time and made you feel small—safe, even?

That's the point. You’re not small. You're a grown woman who can stand independently, make her own decisions, and provide her own entertainment. Relief washed over you in waves because what were you even doing? Holding onto a version of the past that no longer fits?

But right behind it, sadness crept in. Not for Caleb, but for the time lost—chasing something never meant to be yours. But you didn’t truly waste time if it led you here—to someone real. To Zayne.

You forced a smile, staring down at your lap, and tried to push away the sinking feeling in your chest. You used to admire Caleb. It should feel special, especially his attention and time, but—it doesn’t. 

Caleb was the person you had wanted—the reason for the lessons.

The contrast was stark, undeniable. And for the first time, you realized the answer had been clear.

☆

You had admitted to Zayne that you wanted a cozy evening. Work had drained you, but more than anything, your recent realization had knocked the wind out of you. It wasn’t just an idle thought—the truth that settled deep in your bones, undeniable yet terrifying.

You knew what you needed to say and do, but the effort of voicing it—of being honest with Zayne—made your nerves coil tight.

Your lessons have helped. You felt more confident, more self-assured. You understood what a date was supposed to be now, what it meant to be courted and wanted. But more than anything, you wanted something real.

With him.

So, he invited you over after work.

Zayne:

"How about I cook you dinner, and we watch a movie?"

You:

"How do you always know exactly what I need?"

…

Zayne:

"Make yourself at home. I just finished setting up."

When you arrived at his house, the living room instantly warmed you. The room glowed softly from the candles he had lined along the tables, their flickering light casting gentle shadows against the walls. The scent of something rich and savory drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the faint traces of his cologne.

But the sight of something familiar made your heart catch in your chest—small plushies, the ones you had won years ago, still resting on the couch.

He had kept them.

Your fingers grazed one absentmindedly as you took it all in, a lump forming in your throat.

You didn’t miss the sound of the shower running from the other room, and heat bloomed across your face. The thought of him stepping out—steam rising, droplets tracing the planes of his skin—sent your mind spiraling. He had just gotten off work, yet he still made time to set everything up for you.

As if on cue, the water stopped. A moment later, the door cracked open, and Zayne walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, another in his hands as he ruffled it through his damp black hair.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he said casually, his voice smooth. “Have a seat.”

Then, as if completely unaware of his effect on you, he strode into his bedroom and shut the door with a soft click.

You swallowed hard. That lasted less than a second, but it was enough.

His physique was unreal—his lean yet defined frame, the way his skin still glistened slightly, the tantalizing trail of hair disappearing beneath the towel… and God, you wanted to know where it led.

This was new. You had never felt this way before.

And he was making you crazy.

You forced yourself to move, settling onto the couch, trying to calm your racing heart as you waited for him. You distracted yourself with the snacks he had spread across the table, but your mind kept replaying that brief glimpse of him.

When he finally reappeared, dressed in a fitted shirt and sweatpants, looking effortlessly breathtaking, your breath caught in your throat.

Something about this moment—the candlelight, the scent of dinner lingering in the air, the sheer intimacy of being here with him—felt so real. So domestic. So much like something you wanted forever.

Zayne disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you in the glow of candlelight. A few moments later, he emerged with two plates in hand, setting them down on the dining table before motioning for you to sit.

“Did you make all of this?” you asked, raising a brow as you took in the spread before you.

“Of course,” he replied smoothly, settling across from you. “I figured you’d appreciate a home-cooked meal after the week you’ve had.”

Your heart ached at how thoughtful he was.

The meal was warm and comforting—just like him. You took a bite, letting the rich flavors settle on your tongue and savoring the moment. Zayne watched you carefully, his gaze flicking to your lips before he took a bite of his own food.

“This is really good,” you admitted, breaking the silence. “You’re full of surprises.”

He smirked slightly, tilting his head. “You act like you don’t already know I’m good with my hands.”

Your fork stalled mid-air. Heat crawled up your neck as your eyes snapped to his.

Zayne smirked slightly, taking another bite as if he hadn’t set your whole body on fire with that one sentence.

Your stomach twisted, and it had nothing to do with the food.

“I—” You cleared your throat, trying to regain composure. “I suppose I do.”

His gaze flickered with amusement before he leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood. Something was intoxicating about the way he watched you. It was like he was reading every thought running through your head.

The tension built slowly, lingering between every glance, every soft smile exchanged over the rim of your glasses.

At some point, his foot brushed against yours beneath the table. It was barely a touch—so light it could’ve been an accident. But when you met his gaze, you knew it wasn’t.

Neither of you spoke on it. Neither of you moved away.

It was almost unbearable, the weight of the moment, the way the air grew heavier, tighter.

After dinner, you both moved to the couch. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more devastatingly handsome than usual.

You curled next to him as he flipped through the streaming options before settling on something. Not that it really mattered—you could barely focus because of how close he was.

The movie played, but you weren’t watching.

You were too aware of Zayne’s presence, the warmth of his arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing against your shoulder. Every tiny touch sent a current through you.

Then, in the middle of a scene, Zayne suddenly reached for the remote.

Click.

Ring…Ring…Ring…

Your phone started ringing, now of all times, and you dropped your gaze to the device at the same time as Zayne. 

Caleb calls all the time, but the timing of this was just—it couldn’t be a coincidence. And you weren’t sure if you should answer. 

“Don’t pick it up,” was all you heard, as you gripped the metal of your phone tighter. 

“Why,” you whispered, your voice small now. The confidence you had before flickered, unsteady—like a candle caught in the wind. You felt tender, exposed. Unsure if you had the strength to do what needed to be done.

“I know you wanted lessons, because of Caleb,” he started, his eyes meeting yours. The air felt cooler now, and goosebumps ran over your skin. 

"I can’t do this if you’re still holding onto him," he murmured, his voice steady—but stretched thin, like he was barely holding himself together.

“I can’t bear to see you with him—now that your presence has graced me, I see small pieces of you everywhere I go,” he admitted, his voice soft and tortured. 

Zayne exhaled through his nose,  running a hand through his dark hair before finally speaking.

“I don’t want you to want Caleb—I want you to want me” he breathed.

The screen froze mid-ring. A silence stretched between you—thick, suffocating. Heavy with everything left unsaid.

Your brows furrowed as you turned to him, only to find his gaze already on you—serious, searching.

Your breath hitched.

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, heavy and unshakable.

You swallowed. Say it.

“I thought I wanted to be with another man, Zayne…” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. He tensed slightly, his jaw tightening, but you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against his.

“But I don’t,” you continued softly, eyes searching his. “I want this. I want you.”

The words left you in a breath, raw and real.

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. But you saw how his eyes darkened, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Please, Zayne,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as you leaned in.

Your breath stilled, heart hammering. He was too close—his scent, the warmth radiating from his skin, the slight tremor in his breath. And then… finally, you leaned in, and he met you halfway.

You pulled back slightly, your breaths intertwining in the room's dimness. Your eyes opened tentatively, and you saw Zayne staring at you, his chest heaving from the kiss you had just shared. 

“Again,” you murmured, a silent plea because now that you were here you couldn’t let this pass. And Zayne obeyed, kissing you again. You could feel him shifting your position. His hands found your back, and he briefly disconnected your lips to lay you on the couch. 

His knees straddled your hips, as he just watched you, “Beautiful,” he whispered before tasting your lips again, the weight of him on top of you was not only delicious but welcome. You gasped at the pressure, and he slipped his tongue in your mouth. A groan escaped your mouth when his tongue entered your lips. 

“Wait,” you said, your hands resting on Zayne’s chest as he lay on you. 

“I’ve never done this before,” you said, noticing the clench of his jaw, flushed face, and swollen lips. 

He waited for a beat, watching you silently, “I’ll take care of you, princess,” he exhaled.

“I don’t have much experience,” he admitted, his gaze shifting from yours.

Your eyes widened with shock at his admission. You had assumed he was experienced, and that was part of the reason you asked him for help. 

You took a breath, smiling at him. " Let's learn together,” you whispered in his ear before leaning your head back and resting it against the pillow. 

You pulled him flush against you, his weight pressing you into the couch. He began his thorough search kissing your temple, to the crux of your ear, “Another lesson, …hm?” he whispered. And that caused you to writhe beneath him—the sound of his voice in your ear, and the soft vibrato of his confirmation. 

He began his steady exploration with his lips and hands. Stroking up and down your body, though most of it covered, the cool of his hands made your skin get chills when he touched you. 

“Can I take this off?” he asked, gesturing to your t-shirt. 

“Yes,” you said too quickly, embarrassed by your eagerness. 

You adjusted your body, allowing him to pull the fabric over your head. You lay there sitting up on your forearms, just watching his explorative touch. His pointer finger traced the outline of your bra, hovering just above your skin. 

“You—” you started, biting the fat of your lip, “Zayne, I want you to take this off too.” 

And those emerald eyes watched you. In his head, he couldn’t believe you would be his—already prepared to memorize your every reaction. His hand trembled before steadying against your skin. The contact of his hand caused you to arch away from the couch. Click.

The bra fell forward as you shrugged it off your arms. Your whole body felt warm as you guided Zayne’s hands to hold your breasts. Your hands rested on his before you moved them back to the couch. His thumbs felt the hardening peaks beneath his hands, and he gave them a tentative flick, watching your face. You squirmed beneath him. 

Sensitive here. He made a mental note, before rubbing the hardened nub against his thumb at a steady pace. 

He moved his mouth to your other breast kissing it, before watching your face as his tongue made contact with it. Your hips jerked forward gently when he flicked it with his tongue. You bit your lip watching him play with your nipples. 

“Can—you touch me there?” you whimpered. His lips parted from your nipple. 

“Where?” he asked, and both of you just looked at each other. 

Before you took his hand and brought it between your legs. You held it there rubbing yourself on his hand through your pants, but you didn't miss the way Zayne trained his eyes on you. Watching each little reaction you had when he touched you. Even the lightest of touch made his lips part slightly even with the furious flush of his skin. 

His cock was straining in his pants, but he waited, wanting to learn you first.

He laid you down, your hands threading into his hair. Pulling him close to you he buried his face in your neck. The smell of jasmine filled your senses, as he groaned beneath you, breathing in your scent. You leaned back into the couch, shaken by the idea of him on top of you.

Your breasts pressed against his chest, the cool fabric causing a shiver to roll through you. He ran his face up and down your neck leaving a trail of light kisses. It was as if he was savoring you, imprinting your smell, your presence in his mind—as if you’d be done with him after this.

“You’re beautiful,” he groaned against your throat.

Zayne steadied himself on his hands on either side of your head, his gaze trailing over your body to where he would find himself next. His eyes stopped between your thighs, he watched intently as you squirmed beneath him, your body shifting under his gaze.

Your heartbeat felt loud in your ears, and the cold stillness of the air sent a shiver through you. His lips found your jaw, kissing a slow line tracing to your throat. Each touch of his lips sent heat between your legs, and you tilted your head to give him more access, a whimper escaping your lips. 

Zayne was just a friend, someone who supported and loved you but someone you felt you couldn’t have. Your change of heart made you act on a whim to take advantage of your time with him. You wanted him, and no one else could have him but you. He was a high you couldn't—didn't want to get rid of. 

You grasped the blankets on the couch, trying to ground yourself somehow, while he worked slow kisses down your chest with light scrapes of his teeth.

His hands ran down your sides, caressing your breasts to your hips, his thumbs brushing the naked skin beneath your sweatpants. It was a maddening sensation, and you only wanted him to keep going.

You could see his erection pressed firmly against his pants, and you felt tempted to reach forward, to touch it. To pull him closer firmly against you, to feel him where you needed him most. 

One of his hands left you cupping you over your pants. The pressure against your clit stole your breath. A quiet groan of approval left his lips, while you felt a pulse between your legs.

You ground your hips upwards into his hand. A breath left your lips as you moved your hips. 

“Touch me, Zayne,” you breathed, you felt like you were in a dream. 

He paused, his breath hitching at your words. His gaze darkened, the green of his eyes barely visible, as he searched your face. His jaw clenched, his voice dropping, rough with restraint. “Say that again.”

You observed him, grabbing the drawstrings of his pants. “Touch me Zayne, …Please” Your voice came out small, pleading. 

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against your skin. He traced your pussy through your pants, his fingers burning through your pants—that you wished he’d taken off already. 

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his thumb brushing over you, his touch reverent, like he was memorizing you.

You had never been undressed like this. And you wanted it, you wanted to be touched by him, to feel him grabbing you.

He gripped the waistband of your pants, adjusting his position to push them down your thighs, dropping them to the floor. You sat there in only black underwear while he sat across from you, still in his t-shirt and sweats. 

His attention was all yours, and it was thrilling. 

Your hands still gripped the blanket beneath you. Your feet were tucked next to your bottom. 

“Let me see you.” His voice was low and deliberate. His fingertips grazed your knee before applying the faintest pressure. His eyes searched yours, waiting. “Spread your legs for me.”

You took in an unsteady breath, and you did it. 

His hands ran up your legs, his fingers pressing into your thighs, making your stomach tighten unexpectedly. The cool of his hands felt good against your soft skin. 

The cool air brushed against your panties making you aware of how wet your panties were. Zayne’s gaze met you there, shooting warmth through you.

Your breath hitched when his thumb pressed down on your clit through the fabric. His other hand was steady on your thigh, pressing your thighs open wider. The brush of his thumb up and down sparked a heat in your lower stomach.

You leaned your head back and started to rock under his touch. And then he kissed your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. He groaned, licking and sucking your breasts with a slight scrape of teeth. A high-pitched moan escaped your lips, one of your hands gripping his hair. 

His mouth was so hot, and he kept licking you, how you’d never felt before. You felt like you could die. So, when he removed his mouth from your breasts, you thought you were going to scream. 

He removed your underwear, leaving them in a pile with the rest of your clothes, spreading your legs once more as his gaze fell between your thighs. 

His fingers glide gently along your inner thigh, his touch warm and deliberate, but never rushed. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his breathing slow, controlled—like he’s memorizing every part of you.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, his voice hushed, almost reverent. His thumb stroked lazy circles against your skin, a silent reassurance, a quiet promise that he won’t rush you.

When you nodded, his lips part slightly, his eyes locked onto yours, searching—making sure.

"Let me take care of you," he breathed, his hands smoothing up your thighs as he leaned in closer, pressing a lingering kiss just above your knee. "I want to make this good for you."

He wrapped his arms around the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, and his head lowered between them. You shuddered at the first touch of his tongue, pleasure running through you. Each soft lap of your clit rolled through you. 

His arms held you so securely that you couldn’t move your hips while he licked you. As much as he said he wanted to take care of you, it felt like he was doing this for himself. 

“Zayne,” you moaned, digging your hands into his thick black hair. 

He swirled his tongue over your clit before sucking. His eyes were on you, watching you writhe beneath him. His finger filled you, sending a tremor through you, with his mouth on your clit, licking and sucking, while his fingers moved in and out of you. And he did it with such ease, deep noises of satisfaction falling from his lips. 

He was taking his time, slowly working you out and the pressure was building up in you. You bucked your hips, feeling the heat growing throughout you. 

“Zayne…I need more,” you cried out, your voice trembling with desperation. 

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he answered it with slow, calculated movements—his pace steady, yet devastating. He added another finger, stretching you further, his touch unrelenting as he pressed deeper, curling just right. The pleasure was unbearable in the best way, a wave crashing over you with no hope of escape.

Your breath hitched as his dark, heated gaze met yours, watching, reading every reaction like it was the only thing that mattered. His free hand smoothed over your thigh, grounding you, soothing you—only to bring you higher moments later.

A choked-out plea left your lips, your body arching, back curving as the heat coursed through your veins, pooling low in your stomach. You clenched around him, muscles tightening as that sharp, dizzying pleasure built to a breaking point.

“That's it,” he murmured, voice thick with something unreadable, something possessive yet achingly tender. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the soft skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and teasing, sending shivers up your spine.

And then—release.

Your body trembled, pleasure crashing into you in relentless waves. He didn't stop, not right away, working you through it, coaxing every last aftershock from your sensitive body until you were completely spent.

You collapsed against the couch, fully fucked out, limbs heavy, your mind hazy with bliss. 

A shaky breath left your mouth, as you sat up slowly running your fingers through his hair.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

The air between you was charged, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous. Something real.

His jasmine scent invaded your senses as his body wrapped around yours. You closed your eyes, surprised by the sudden upward jerk of him holding your naked body. You held him close as he carried you to the closed bedroom door. 

He laid you on the bed gently, holding your stare, he slipped off his shirt and sweatpants, your cheeks growing warmer even as he stood before you in his briefs. You glanced at his erection pressed through the fabric. He was so hard, and it was hot. And all for you. 

Goose bumps spread across your skin, as he opened the nightstand drawer, pulling out a condom. 

“Do you want me?” he whispered, his gaze meeting yours, as he dropped his briefs. 

“Yes,” you breathed.

He crawled over you, kissing your stomach and breasts as he did. His body covered yours, so heavy. It made your skin sing with satisfaction. He kissed your neck, bracing his hands beside your head. 

Your fingers trailed the line of hair, you'd been desperate to touch. You hesitated, unsure how to touch him. 

Zayne felt your hesitation, and meeting your gaze, he whispered, “Your touch… I need it.”

Your heart fluttered with uncertainty, but you slid your hands down gripping his erection. His forehead fell on the side of your neck, encouraging you further. 

You wrapped your hand around his length. And he groaned. You ran your hand down to the base and all the way back up. 

"Don’t make me wait…please" you whispered in his ear, placing a kiss there.

"Tell me how much you need me,” he rasped, nipping at your neck.

"I’ve always needed you, Zayne," you said softly, dragging your hands through his hair. "I need you in every way… not just tonight."

His eyes met yours before kissing you while you stroked him again. Your breasts brushed against his chest, sending pleasure through you. 

“...Please” you breathed. 

He rolled onto the bed next to you, slipping off his briefs, the sound of the wrapper crinkling in his hands drawing your attention. You watched as he poised to tear it open, his gaze flicking to yours for confirmation.

“Wait,” you whispered, your voice soft but resolute. He paused instantly, his eyes searching yours.

“I want to feel all of you,” you said, vulnerability lacing your tone, the weight of your trust hanging in the air.

His expression softened, his brow furrowing with both tenderness and concern.

“If it’s too much, just say the word,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, a promise woven into each syllable. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering as though to reassure you. Positioning himself at your entrance, his movements were deliberate, his focus entirely on you.

He took the head of his erection and rubbed it against your pussy. The tip caught your clit, causing your breath to hitch. He started to slip the head inside you, and it stung. A shudder rolled through you as you exhaled. Your fingers curled on his chest as he stayed still inside you, watching your face. 

He pushed deeper into you, his gaze dark and unwavering as he watched the way your lips parted, a soft whimper spilling free. The sound sent a shudder through his body, his breath coming out ragged as he struggled to hold himself together.

The stretch burned—a slow, intoxicating burn—one that sent heat rolling through your veins. You felt so full, every inch of him fitting into you as though he was meant to be there.

When he finally bottomed out, a cry tore from your throat, your back arching, pressing you flush against his chest. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, his weight solid, grounding, overwhelming in the best way.

He didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed buried deep, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him. Your arms wound around his neck, and he exhaled against your skin, his breath warm and uneven.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your mingled breathing, the slow rise and fall of your chests as you both tried to catch air. He was everywhere, his presence consuming, intoxicating.

And then, he moved.

A slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

You gasped at the sensation, at the way he dragged against your walls with aching precision, each thrust filling you completely. Your nails raked down his back, and he shuddered at the sensation, his control fraying at the edges.

“You take it so good,” he praised, his voice thick, rough with something raw, something reverent. 

Every time his pelvis ground against yours, his head spread throughout you. The friction sent sparks up your spine, every movement of his body against yours pulling a new sound from your lips.

He was watching you, utterly captivated by the way you unraveled beneath him. His thrusts remained slow, deliberate, as if savoring every reaction, every little gasp and moan that escaped you.

His fingers traced down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping you tighter as his pace deepened, intensified. His gaze burned into yours, filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

His eyes locked onto yours, his thrusts slow and deliberate. “So beautiful for me,” he rasped, his voice low, dripping with need.

The words ran over your skin, filling you with warm satisfaction, your head tilting back as another moan escaped you. Zayne’s lips hovered above yours. With each slow thrust, they brushed yours lightly. 

His pace faltered, his rhythm stuttering as he fought for control, his breath ragged against your skin. But he didn’t dare rush—he wanted to feel every second of this, every shudder, every tremor that wracked your body beneath him.

“You’re mine… all mine,” he groaned, voice thick with possession, his body tensing, muscles drawn taut as he drove his hips deep one last time.

A choked moan escaped you as you shattered beneath him, pleasure crashing over you in waves. His grip on you tightened as his own release followed, a deep, guttural sound leaving his lips as he buried himself fully, claiming every inch of you.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, your hearts hammering in sync as he collapsed against you, his weight a comforting warmth pressing you into the mattress.

Neither of you spoke right away.

Zayne traced slow, lazy circles on your bare skin, grounding himself in the feel of you, the reality of you. His forehead rested against yours, his breath still uneven but calming, syncing with yours.

Then, in the quiet, his lips tipped into a smirk against your temple.

“So… does this mean I can finally call you my girlfriend?” His voice was lower now, teasing but laced with something real—something hopeful.

He pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Or do I have to seduce you all over again?”

His grin was cocky, but there was something vulnerable in the way he looked at you—like he needed this answer.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, a slow, tired smile spreading on your lips as you exhaled softly.

"I think you already have," you whispered.

The tension broke as he let out a satisfied hum, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before pulling you closer, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Not now.

Not ever.

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere academic rival who really, really wishes he could just get you out of the way.

Dead dove Do Not Eat! MDNI ! NSFW !

Tw. Dubcon/Noncon, bullying, academic pressures, blackmail, oral sex, explicit photos, mentions of baby trapping, yandere, stalking, forced relationship, AFAB reader

Elias had a certain level of respect for you.

You both attended a prestigious university crammed full of students vying to make connections and nab a cushy position for themselves in the future, and while it was easy for him to be on top of the social and academic scenes, he knew you had to work a bit harder. He came from a very wealthy household, one where needing something was merely a concept and not something he ever actually encountered. You, on the other hand, definitely come from a lesser background than him and his circle. Your scholarship and just above the average academics seemed to have pushed you into a good spot to be hoisted into the same realm as him.

But he didn't really think of you much at first.

You were some nameless face that wasn't really worthy of being around him. Maybe he would catch glimpses of your hair, or someone woud mention you in passing and he'd pretend to be intruiged.

It was really when you started to be compared to him of all people that he started to really pay attention.

You were smart, cunning, and ruthless when it came to your assignments. Just like him. Normally he worked overtime, paid industry professionals to help review his papers, his study materials and poured blood sweat and tears into his academics. And yet you somehow managed to be on his level with less than half the resources. It drove him up a wall because if you were nearly as good as him now, then what could you be like if you had the chance?

Elias was like a man obsessed after your sudden, explosive rise in the minds of professors and lecturers alike. He spent hours studying, shirking his friends and other responsibilities just to make sure he was still better than you, to keep you in your place.

He started to focus in more on your personal life, too.

Where on earth did you come from? He's half convinced that you were genetically designed in a lab to piss him off. But the more he glares at the back of your head when you're not looking, the more he's transfixed. You're like a black hole, or some kind of other abyss like metaphor. Fuck, you had him writing poetry in his head. He hated poetry. He hated you. Or at least, he would really like to hate you, but he couldn't. You had the same amount of drive as him, maybe even a little more. No matter what he did, he was forced to acknowledge you, forced to be aware of every twitch of your hand or every flutter of your eyelids. To him, you were something that demanded attention, even if it was taken from him through gritted teeth.

The only reprieve from his spiraling was the fact that you felt the same way about him. He liked to imagine that you were just as obsessed with him, sitting there in the late hours of the night writing down equations with him as your sole motivator.

But then he finds out that he's not even occupying your mind, and he loses his shit.

"Oh Elias? Yeah I guess he's fine. Huh? Rivals? What the- no way I just want good grades. He has nothing to do with it haha."

You just said it in passing when someone teased you about it, and he knew that he shouldn't linger on your words for too long. If anything, it should make him feel better. You had nothing against him, so it meant everything was fine, right? Wrong. It was so wrong.

Elias was seething, nearly throwing a tantrum. How could you not even think about him. Him! You were some piddling, pathetic excuse for a human being, and you had the audacity to not even regard him when he spent nearly every waking moment thinking about you.

He was fine just watching you from the corner of his eye. He was fine knowing that on some level, the two of you had a respectable if not distant relationship. Just because in some aspect, he wanted a piece of you all to himself. And if you weren't going to let him just have a little bit of your life, your passion, your drive, he would just take all of you instead.

He follows you into the library late one night. You're sitting there, glowing in the warmth of the nearest lamp while your pen makes soft scratching noises against the paper. You look pretty. You've always looked pretty to him. You don't notice him as he approaches, and he feels any vestiges of doubt or restraint float away. Even now, as he loomed over you, you didn't even spare him a glance.

The library was empty. He made sure it was so before hand, and he's glad he did. The quite air was shattered by the sound of him shoving you over the priceless lacquered wood desk. Your eyes go wide as you take him in, and his hands fly up to your throat.

"Augh! What are you-?"

"Shut up." He hisses and narrows his gaze. Your pulse is racing underneath his fingers, and he has half a mind not to crush your windpipe into oblivion so that he can be the last one to feel it. "You have no idea," He mutters and leans in close. Your frightened breath ghosts over his skin, and he shudders. Now that he thinks about it, this is the first time he's ever been so close to you. It feels so right. He never wants to be away from you again. Not when you look so damn alluring with tears rolling down your cheeks and your clothes rumpled on the floor by his feet.

He wants you like this always, with your twitching cunt stuffed full of his fingers and your cries filling his ears. Soft, wet squelching noises met each of his ministrations, and a cruel, wonder filled grin spread across his face.

"You have no idea how much you've driven me wild," He laughs. It's a sharp sound that grates on your ears. "How much you infuriate me," Each word is punctured by a thrust, by a curling motion that has you gasping and seeing stars.

If this is what he has to do so that you notice him, so you will just fucking care about his existence more than you would any other speck of dust on the street, then so be it.

It only gets worse from there.

Elias takes photos of you. So many. Ones of your crying face, ones of your leaking pussy, some of him shoving his dick past your puffy lips. Once the camera shuttered and they were in his hands, it was all over.

He played the role of your boyfriend after that.

There wasn't a moment where he wasn't hovering over your shoulder, whispering threats into your ears. He gets you to start doing worse in your classes and on your assignments, and for once, he's happy. He finally has your eyes on him, and if you ever try to leave him or say anything, then he'll make sure you can never show your face around here again. Don't worry, though. He's kind enough to keep it so you won't fail outright. In fact, he'll just slip some money to some of the professors so you don't have to do anything other than sit on his lap and pay attention to him while he actually works for the top spot.

Elias takes you out on fancy dates as if it's any way to soothe the sting of having your life ruined. He pays for everything and practically preens under the feeling of finally getting what he wants. He's such a brat, and he doesn't even care about hiding it when he's with you. Part of the reason why he likes you is he can be his nasty, awful and conniving self and you have no choice but to accept it. He doesn't mind if you're reluctant or stubborn. In fact, he kind of likes it because in the end, you still gave in to have a chance to graduate from a prestigious school. And plus, now you're living the high life with him! It's kind of a win win if you think about it.

He loves having you sit on your knees (a cushion underneath them of course. He wouldn't want you to ever actually get hurt) and taking his cock in your mouth while he studies. You look so cute like that, with your eyes all narrowed in mildly hidden frustration, and he loves it even more when he thrusts into your throat. You always make these little spluttering noises that just drive him wild, and he clamps his thighs around your head to keep you there.

Elias who soon becomes the university's beloved model student. He's not going to let anyone get in his way ever again, especially not after he has you to provide for now. After all, he's got plans for you. Once he manages to put a baby in you, he'll know that your future family is secured, and he's got to support all of you. There's no way he can fail now!