#can you feel how close they are to [redacted]

[underdark-dreams]

[ch1] - [ch2]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.3

Rainstorms, hard conversations, and long-awaited kisses.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Pining | Word Count: 4,189 [Read on AO3]

In a lucky turn of events, Lorroakan was called away from the Tower earlier than usual. Perhaps more Nightsong business connected with Tav’s visit today. 

More likely a soiree in the Upper City with the newly ordained Archduke Gortash and the city’s elite, Rolan thought to himself. Those were the parts of archwizardry that seemed to agree with his master the best.

Whatever the reason, his evening’s lessons were abruptly canceled—as Lorroakan’s projection materialized for a few seconds to unceremoniously inform him. Rolan felt his aching head throb with relief. He’d just been given a night of escape. 

When the closing hour’s bells rang out from Stormshore Tabernacle, Rolan fastened up the shop in record speed.

Rather than head to his siblings’ rented flat, Rolan carved a path toward the Elfsong. It was still early yet—Cal and Lia wouldn't expect him for hours, if they expected him at all tonight. 

A bit early to be visiting the tavern, as well. But watching the gray and downcast weather through the doors of Sorcerous Sundries all day had left him thirsty. Rolan breathed in the cloud-thick and misty air as he walked.

Even for the early hour, the main taproom of the Elfsong was almost completely empty. All the better; fewer chances at unwelcome stares and comments.

Despite having his pick of the entire floor, he slumped into a small table in the farthest corner possible and spilled a few coppers on its surface in preparation. He’d been ready to drink this day away for hours.

"Chancing murder this fine afternoon?" 

As if summoned, a cup of Arabellan Dry appeared in front of him. Lakrissa plucked his coin from the table in the same motion.

Rolan’s work had left him little time to follow the city’s goings on. But he did recall something the Gazette's paper boys had been shouting in the courtyard this morning—the most recent in a string of grisly murders, apparently occurring just above his head. 

No wonder the place was deserted.

"Can hardly be worse than what's behind us," Rolan said glumly, raising the cup to his lips without missing a beat. 

Lakrissa plopped herself down at his table uninvited. "I expected to see your lover with you tonight." 

"My—" It was different hearing someone else say it aloud; he coughed slightly into his wine.

“Cal told me she made it to the city,” Lakrissa explained.

Apparently Cal had taken the liberty of telling her everything else while he was at it. 

"Of course he did." Rolan huffed a sigh. He supposed it was good that his siblings kept in contact with old friends from the road…but could they find nothing more interesting to talk about than his personal life?

"She's pretty," Lakrissa said, as if the compliment was somehow directed at him. "Brave, good fighter…good heart. How exactly you pull that off?"

Her candor would've insulted him, had he not asked himself the same question many times today alone. "No idea," Rolan said, unshouldering the heavy weight of his ego for just a moment. 

"Hm. But you're hiding alone in a tavern, instead of off with her."

"I am not hiding," Rolan glowered at her, though he really was—and for the second time today no less. "I just needed to think, that's all."

"Ah…I get it." Lakrissa swung her bar towel over one shoulder. "She’s seen you."

For all of the times Rolan had visited the Elfsong Tavern while Lakrissa was waiting tables, she'd never commented on the ever-shifting landscape of wounds on his face. She was the type to keep her nose out of other peoples’ business, whether from discretion or from genuine disinterest. 

Either way, Rolan appreciated it about her. He got enough prying and questions from his siblings anytime he went home; the last thing he needed was to be interrogated while he was trying to drown his sorrows.

Perhaps that was why Rolan felt he could ask her the next question. If nothing else, Lakrissa was a realist.

“Be honest. If you were her, seeing me like this—" he gestured a hand stiffly in the direction of his aching face. "What would you think?”

Lakrissa propped elbows on the wood table to support her chin, regarding him in her casually thoughtful way. "I'd think that your apprenticeship with that wizard isn't going too well. But that you must have a good reason for staying."

That seemed more optimistic than he could hope for. Would Tav respect his reasons the same way? Surely she must know by now that he'd take much worse for the opportunity he'd been handed, if that's what it took. He didn't put Cal and Lia through everything he had on the journey here just to give up now.

But for a moment, Rolan pictured what it might be like in reverse. Watching a mad narcissist like Lorroakan lay hands on her; watching her willingly return for more. His knuckles gripped pale around his cup.

Rolan surfaced quickly from that disturbing image. "Sure she wouldn't see a pompous idiot who’d bragged to anyone who would listen?"

Lakrissa tipped her head in a way that suggested she saw his point. "You've never struck me as an idiot, though. How about this, then—I’d see the man who stepped up to get his people through a nightmare and safely to Baldur’s Gate.”

Rolan swirled the wine in his cup, watching the waves gloomily. “She’s the one who made the way safe for us. You know that.”

“You’re so—” Lakrissa leaned back from the table with a laugh. “Gods. For a smart bloke, Rolan, you can be so stupid. I respected Zevlor,” she told him with sudden emphasis, as though Rolan might think she didn't. “All of us did. He’s the one who got us out of Elturel when half of them wanted to chuck us right back into Avernus. And I’ve no idea why he left us, or whether he’s even alive—” A rare wrinkle of emotion appeared between her brows. “But I do know that you were there. Alfie told me all about how you protected the kids and got everyone to Last Light after…everything.”

"Alfira's a bard," Rolan told her, as if she of all people needed reminding. Foolish dreamer was the actual term that came to mind, but he suspected Lakrissa was the type who would smack people for rudeness. "I've no doubt she exaggerated."

"Oh no, she said you were a complete ass about it," Lakrissa replied matter-of-fact. "And that you spent most of your time drinking the Harpers dry before Tav showed up."

Rolan's pride stung at the comment, but he couldn't exactly deny it. Lakrissa went on. "That doesn't change the fact that you kept them safe. You saved people’s lives, Rolan."

He let out a bitter laugh. "It was only me because all the good ones were already dead."

They stared at each other in silence for a beat.

"That's a pretty shit thing to say,” Lakrissa said quietly. “About them, and about yourself."

Rolan looked down at the dark liquid in his cup, but he couldn't think of anything nicer to say on the subject. He was finding it hard to be nice about anything these days. 

"You're a hero, Rolan," Lakrissa told him simply. "And so is she. I reckon the two of you can figure it out…you deserve to give her a chance, at least."

Rolan only let her advice wash over him in silence. When Lakrissa shifted, he saw her grimacing over his shoulder. 

“Damn. Alan’s giving me the eye—ugh, like there's anyone else to serve anyway—” 

But she rose, and Rolan was ready to return to his glass until he felt a hand rustle between his horns—the way he'd often seen Tiefling parents do to their children back home.

“When you do see her, send her by?” Lakrissa asked. “I still owe her a drink.”

—

Rolan left the Elfsong a few minutes later. He found the wine had done little to quiet his troubled head, and something in Lakrissa’s pointed speech had made him feel too guilty to stay any longer.

As he stepped out through the tavern’s wide oak doors, a chill rustled through his robes. The storm was rolling angrily up from the port now. 

Rolan kept his head down against the breeze that pushed much sharper and colder through the streets than before, sweeping river mist off the roiling Chionthar and plastering it against his face and hands. He thought wistfully of his good cloak—currently sitting useless in his room at the Tower. 

Even after weeks in Baldur's Gate, Rolan was still learning to anticipate the rapid changes in weather that could descend on them from proximity to the coastline. Elturel was set deeper inland; they never got sudden squalls like this. 

The few others he encountered in the streets were also rushing to their destinations with bowed heads, or else frantically boarding up their stalls against the oncoming storm. As he glanced up at the clouds again, a large, foreboding drop landed on his brow.

Rolan ducked down an alleyway south past the print shop. Not normally a shortcut he'd take at twilight, especially through Heapside. But any cutpurse stupid enough to be out in this weather would be easy to dispatch.

Within its walls, the narrow space muffled the sounds of the city. Rolan could practically smell the electricity crackling through the stormclouds above as he walked. All of a sudden there was a blinding flash, a clear peal of thunder, and rain erupted on top of him.

Sheets of it swept down like curtains with breathtaking ferocity, drumming loud against roofs and cobblestones and smothering the warm light from any street lamps he hurried past. His robes were soaked through almost instantly. Rolan swore and raised an arm to shield his vision against the rivulets already running from his hair.

Despite the shortcut, the path to Cal and Lia’s took longer than usual. Small rivers were forming through the streets from the rapid downpour, and the cobbles grew slick under his boots. Rolan had to catch his balance against stone walls and fences a few times. The clatter of rain and thunder was so deafening he could almost feel his brain rattling around inside his skull.

When Rolan stepped under the footbridge around the corner from home, the muffled reprieve made him let out a breath of relief. He paused for a moment to wipe the rain from his forehead and eyes, even wrung out the ends of his hair.

With his head tilted so, he caught sight of a cloaked figure standing on the doorstep to his siblings’ front door. 

Where he stood was cast in shadow—combined with the thick curtains of rain falling between them, Tav hadn't noticed him yet, though they were standing just a few meters apart. She was squinting up at the number above the doorpost. One hand reached from under her cloak to knock, but she paused halfway through the motion as if second-guessing herself.

Was she just looking for Cal and Lia? Or had she somehow known Rolan would be here? But that didn’t make sense—even he hadn’t expected to spend a night with his family until a few hours ago.

Rolan stared at Tav’s upturned face, watching her lashes flutter as she blinked away a few droplets of rain. His heart leapt against his ribs from a bewildering mixture of love and fear.

“Rolan?”

Despite the downpour around them, her voice reached Rolan’s ear with a clarity that made him start where he stood.

She was peering at his figure through the curtain of rain between them. Then she rushed forward without a word, and before Rolan could react, her body collided against his wet robes with a smack. 

He found himself immediately enfolded in her familiar scent as her cheek pressed against his. Rolan's arms circled to hold her of their own volition, every other tumultuous thought conveniently swept from his head.

Then she drew back, and she leaned up to kiss him. 

Her lips were warm and welcoming as hearthfire. Rolan shivered slightly as he realized just how much the wind and rain had chilled him. When her mouth grazed a spot of broken skin, he flinched back at the sting.

"Oh." She stepped away as though he’d burned her. "I—sorry."

"It's not that," he told her. Unbidden, his hand reached toward the edge of her cloak to find one of hers.

Their fingers hooked together finally, and she inhaled in surprise. "Rolan, you're freezing! How long were you out in this?"

Without waiting for his answer, she tugged him forward to the door on the corner. She neglected to knock and simply reached for the latch, and the two of them spilled across the threshold in tandem with another peal of thunder.

Lia leapt up from the table, her shortsword at the ready and polishing rag in hand. Cal’s face appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking equally alarmed. The four of them stared at each other as rain poured into the doorway.

“For hell’s sake—”

Lia darted forward, and for a wild moment Rolan half-expected to be caught up in a hug. But she only pushed past him and wrenched the door shut against a fresh gust of rain, drawing the bolt across. 

Muffled silence blanketed the room around them. After being out in the storm, it made Rolan’s ears ring. Beside him, Tav pushed her cloak’s hood back to her shoulders. 

“Sorry about that,” she told his siblings with a breathless smile.

It triggered a flurry of activity. Lia was drawing her into the room, whisking her cloak off to hang it near the hearth to dry. Cal plunked a large cast iron pot of something steaming onto the central table—a good bit of it spilled over the side—and began poking around in cabinets to find another bowl. They were both talking over each other to Tav the entire time.

Rolan found himself rather left out of it all, and a bit indignant at the fact. 

He spread his palms wide to either side, dripping a path across the floor in the process. “Hello?”

“Oh—” Cal blinked over at him as though just noticing he was there. “Hi, Rolan.”

Lia made no response, suddenly busying herself with putting away her whetstone and sheathing her sword. The cool reception wasn’t lost on him.

“Nice place,” Tav remarked, stretching her hands appreciatively toward the fireplace.

“It’s really not,” Cal said cheerfully. “But it’s better than we hoped, really. All paid for by that bast—”

“Hungry?” Lia interrupted, looking pointedly at Tav and not her older brother. Tav exchanged an uncertain glance with him.

“Not for me,” she answered. “But thanks, and thanks for the invitation. It’s good to see you both well.”

Rolan caught her eye. “Lia and I caught up the other day,” she explained.

“About what?” Rolan asked, unable to stop himself.

Finally, Lia leveled a stare at him. “Take a guess.”

She and Rolan looked at each other in silence for a tense moment. Internally, he was fitting together the pieces of Tav’s visit to the Sundries.

“Anyway,” Tav interrupted slowly, “Rolan and I were actually just hoping for a place to talk.”

“Ah—right. Should we step out?” 

Cal’s voice sounded a bit strained; maybe he assumed that ‘talking’ was some kind of euphemism. The thought made Rolan’s ears grow warm under his hair, but Tav responded before he could open his mouth.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you two can’t go out in all this.” Her face turned toward Rolan, questioning. “Do you have a room we could go to?”

He nodded wordlessly and started down the hall. The fact that Lia and Cal both refrained from comment was a surprise—one that he felt grateful for. Perhaps they’d finally picked up on the tension between the two of them.

Rolan held the door to his bedroom open for her and followed her inside. He felt around for the candle sconce near the doorway and lit it with a word. 

The space was small and plain, but quite clean; his duties didn’t allow him to spend many nights here. Even the narrow bed along the wall was still neatly made from last week.

As she reached to lock the door behind them, she turned to Rolan. “Do you keep clothes here?”

“What are you talking about?” He cringed at how bluntly his own words came out.

Without explaining, she slipped the small pack from her shoulders and tossed it to the floor. Then she swept past him toward the wardrobe and began rifling through its contents.

“Here—” She tossed a set of clean clothes onto the bed. “Change into these. Towel?” Not pausing for an answer, she dug for one at the back of the shelf and added it to the pile.

Rolan frowned at her back defensively. “I can take care of my—”

“Rolan, please just shut up,” she interrupted. She was still turned away, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. “We have a lot we need to talk about. And I can't concentrate with you looking like a wet cat.”

Rolan glanced down at his robes; droplets from the hem were steadily forming a small puddle between his boots. His combined appearance must be pitiful indeed at the moment. Too embarrassed to protest further, Rolan began working at the fastenings of his garments.

Though she'd seen him entirely naked before, something about this moment felt even more intimate somehow. He undressed silently as the muffled rainstorm continued against the shuttered window of his room.

As he removed each soaked layer, she kept her gaze averted to respect his privacy. Rolan did catch her glancing at him a few times when she thought he wouldn't notice, but there was more concern than desire in it. As if she was checking him over.

It did feel much more comfortable to slip a dry tunic and trousers over his chilled skin. Before he set his wet robes aside, Rolan turned away as if folding them in order to retrieve her handwritten note from the pocket. Rain had smudged the ink a bit, but the three most important words were still legible. He exchanged it for the dry pocket at his hip.

The leather tie from his hair—the same one she'd used that very first night—was slipped off and into his pocket as well.

Then he moved to sit on the edge of the bed and began roughly scrubbing at his wet hair with the towel, as if the force might inject some courage into his skull. His mind was currently swirling with uncertainty of what she would say next.

Rolan caught her eye from behind his loose strands of hair. To his very great relief, her expression softened.

“Let me—”

In a flash, she had curled up cross-legged behind him on the bed and was taking the cloth from his hand. She smoothed his hair back and squeezed rainwater from the ends.

Her touch was much gentler than his own—the gentlest thing he’d felt in weeks. Rolan closed his eyes at the feeling of her fingers combing against his scalp. He found himself very grateful she couldn't see his face. If this was the most she ever wanted to touch him again, he thought he could almost be satisfied. 

“I spoke with Lorroakan today.”

Rolan sat quiet for a moment. “I know.”

“You’ve got more magic in one hand than that charlatan has in his whole fucking body.”

Her bluntness caused his lips to twitch with an unwilling smile. “I know,” Rolan repeated, more confident this time.

The fingers in his hair paused; he could practically feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. “Rolan, is that why he's doing this to you? Hurting you?

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rolan told her. Making sense of Lorroakan was futile. He had stopped trying long ago, to save his own sanity. Even now, her questions stirred up an anxious frustration in his chest. “Does it matter?”

There was a soft rustle as she scooted sideways into his sight line—Rolan glanced over to see her brow wrinkled in a sad expression. 

“How can you say that?” She replied. “Of course it matters what happens to you, Rolan.”

There was not a trace of insincerity in her face. Rolan found he badly wanted to kiss her again. Instead, he bowed his head toward the floor.

“This is just how it is,” he told the floorboards. “It won't be forever. I'm strong enough to bear much worse than this, you know.” 

“I know you are—” Her fingers resumed their work in his hair, gently tugging and working at a small knot. “The point is you shouldn't have to.” 

She was right, of course. He had no logical defense against her words. The room lapsed into silence instead. Beyond the walls, blustering sheets of rain continued to buffet against the roof tiles and window panes.

Tav spoke up behind him again. “Some of those bruises are old. You aren't healing yourself at least?”

She gave his skill more credit than he deserved. “I’m still learning how,” Rolan admitted glumly, glad again to be facing away from her. 

In truth, healing scrolls were what he'd been searching for that night Lorroakan had accused him. If only he could see the techniques for himself—he was certain he could master them. The archmage had conspicuously neglected to allow any lessons on abjuration magic thus far.

The mattress behind him shifted as Tav rose. Rolan watched her move to snatch up her pack from the corner, then barely managed to catch it as the object sailed toward his lap.

“Take those,” she said as she clambered back up behind him to continue gently toweling his hair. “Keep them here, study from them whenever you want. They're yours.”

Rolan felt a thrill of pure excitement as he peered down into the leather bag—and found it filled with a score of tightly bound spell scrolls. This small cache was worth more gold than he’d ever seen together in one place.

He pulled one out to examine its formidable wax seal. “Where did you get all of these?”

“Um…don't worry about it.”

“Stolen,” he finished dryly.

Her tone grew playfully defensive behind him. “From a very bad man who is now dead. There, does that satisfy you?” 

Rolan had turned to kiss her before the last word left her lips. The pack slipped to the floor between his feet as his hands notched behind Tav’s jaw to pull her forward. He felt a damp weight land in his lap as her now-empty fingers slid around his torso.

Rolan broke away just enough to speak. “Stay here tonight,” he told her. It wasn't a question.

Tav nodded, leaning back in for his mouth.

Her fingers splayed in the dip between his jaw and his ear, tilting his face into hers. He kept his palm firmly pressed on the curve of her waist. Each time her lips slid softly over his, Rolan found his heart filled with another shimmering pearl of hope. They stayed there connected in a kiss until his back began to ache from the contorted position. 

To his immense disappointment, Tav pulled away first. But she only made a hesitant request to borrow some clothes for herself. Rolan finally realized with a jolt of guilt that her own were wet down the front, no doubt from that moment she'd held him outside in the rain.

Rolan trained his eyes away to give her the same privacy. But though Tav didn't meet his eye, she made no attempt to hide her body—in fact seemed to move with deliberate slowness as she stripped down and pulled the threadbare tunic over her head. It barely skimmed the tops of her thighs.

Then she moved to the candle near the door and extinguished it with a puff.

Through the near-darkness, Rolan worked the bedcovers down to slip beneath them. As his damp hair landed on the pillow, he felt the mattress dip beside him as Tav promptly curled herself in along his front under the blankets. Underneath, his tail moved with a mind of its own to wind around one of her legs. She let out a small, happy sigh that tickled across his chin.

Rolan briefly wondered if they were intentionally trying to distract each other. Tav had clearly come here to find him and talk, after all. And there was much more to say—he could feel all the words unspoken hanging between them like a tangible thing. From the way Tav’s fingers worried the laces of his shirt, he wondered if she was thinking the same. 

But neither of them spoke for the moment, just lying together as they listened to the storm continue outside on the streets of Baldur’s Gate. 

Eventually, Rolan laid his arm still across her and closed his eyes. She was so warm, her quiet presence so comforting—and he found now that he was very, very tired. 

Perhaps the rest of it could keep until the morning.

[doctorweebmd]

today was the first edit of the 'atsushi mourns akutagawa' fic that didn't leave me wanting to rip my hair and stick a fork into an electric socket. so. progress.

[whitespringbunker]

weird shit cw

ohhhhh okayyyy just found out half my mutual circle off s*lfsh*p community are weird now. more reason to just kinda let myself be jettisoned back into normie(ish) fandom methinks

[cosmosluckycharms]

Bug Like Angel

pt4

See you soon

hey guys warning this chapter literally has none of the batfam here its highlighting reader being insterted into itsv-atsv

It has been a year since you had gotten bitten.

You were now 14

Since then you've lost a couple of people.

Your Gwen Stacy, who was instead named [REDACTED], was killed while you were trying to stop the green goblin.

You lost an officer you were close to. He died while protecting a kid.

You lost someone you considered an uncle.

You were tired.

Since then you've been training yourself, secretly fighting crime to not be seen by your family, and getting stronger in general.

Every day was sortve the same. Wake up, get ready, go to school, come home, eat, fight crime, sleep, repeat.

It all changed one day.

You had just gotten back from patrol.

You stopped 3 muggings and saved a cat from a tree.

It was a slow day, thankfully.

You were doing your homework peacefully.

You were almost done with your algebra homework when suddenly a portal popped up right next to you.

You couldn't process anything as the portal sucked you up and took you in.

The next thing you knew, you were stuck in an alternate universe with other versions of you.

And you had to get home soon ASAP no rocky if you didn't wanna die.

And that be all fine and dandy.

Except you didn't wanna get attached to anyone.

You didn't want them to exclude you and you to follow them around like a lost puppy like you did with your family.

And guess what?

You did get attached.

Peni, a small kid who was in a tiny robot fighting, was like a little sister to you.

Peter B. Parker, ham, and Noir were all like uncles to you.

Gwen and Miles were your cool older siblings.

You loved them.

And you hated that.

Because you knew deep down, you wouldn't get to see each other again.

You all were destined to be apart, due to your separate universes.

You got attached.

You were attached to noir and how his coat smelled like cigarettes and milkshakes.

You were attached to Ham and how he always cracked jokes when things got tense and awkward.

You were attached to peter b and how he talked about his past experiences.

You got attached to Peni and how she would use stickers everywhere.

You got attached to Miles and how stupidly awkward he was with Gwen.

You got attached to Gwen and how she gave you the advice you always needed and never got.

Fuck.

You didn't wanna go back to the manor.

This is the happiest you've been in a while.

This is home.

This is what family is supposed to feel like.

You can go on patrol here without worrying that your family might see you.

You are constantly smiling and laughing with the people here.

You're always catching yourself wishing you could stay here forever.

Other than the annoyingly painful glitching, you're so happy and excited.

You never wanna leave.

You were so proud of Miles and how he got everyone home.

You cried as soon as you landed back in your room.

You sobbed into your pillow. You're gonna miss them.

No one even noticed you were gone for a week.

No one noticed how bruised up you were.

No one noticed how sad you looked.

It's been 5 months since then.

You got invited to join the Spider Society.

Miguel saw you on patrol trying to fight an anomaly and failing miserably due to you never fully getting actual training.

You were trying! It's just that you didn't want your family to see you so its sort of hard to control a whole glitching green goblin...

Miguel took you into the spider society.

You saw Peter B in Miguel's office and immediately tackled him into a hug and shed a tear or two.

You learned that due to being a mix of two multiverses (Marvel and DC) your canon events were a tiny bit messed up.

Miguel explained everything, but everything was going through one ear and out the other.

You wondered if the others were here too.

You wondered if they missed you like you missed them.

Miguel could see how spaced out you were.

"What's wrong, Mija?"

"Are the others here? Like Gwen, Miles, ham, noir, and Peni? I know Peter's here, I saw him just now, but what about the others?"

He went on to explain how they hadn't been invited yet.

Later on, you begged him to at least invite Peni.

He couldn't resist your puppy dog eyes, so he said yes.

Since being introduced into society, you've slowly started getting used to just doing everything here.

You would go into Miguel's office for hours and hours just to be around him.

He was like the father you always wanted!

He would listen to you complain about your family, and he would always lend a shoulder to cry on.

On multiple occasions, he had to carry you back to your bed in your universe because you'd fall asleep in his office on the floor.

You both have gotten close.

Miguel was your emergency contact, always there when you needed him. Despite his intimidating appearance to others, he was never scary to you.

At one point you saw Gwen again, finally!

You were so happy! one step closer to getting everyone together again!

Slowly, you saw everyone again.

..Everyone except Miles.

You didn't understand, why not Miles?

You asked Miguel and he went on a tangent that did not make sense and just made you more confused.

You did get to meet Pavitr and Hobie.

Pavitr was basically your twin! You guys had similar personalities and had twin telepathy.

You and Pavitr were always playing cupid for miles and gwen.

You both were around the same age and everything!

Hobie is SO COOL!

His peircings, his guitar, his clothes, his slang!

You were in awe!

He taught you how to play your guitar! You were finally getting a hang of it!

He was like the older brother you never had!

You wanted to be like him so bad!

Youd follow him around like a duck a lot, but unlike your brothers back home, he'd never yell at you to stop or ignore you, he'd enjoy having you around!

When he and Gwen jokingly said they wanted to start a band, you really wanted to!

A couple of months later, you saw Miles again!

It wasn't in the best circumstances.

You had just gotten back from school. You were in your room scrolling on your phone, when suddenly your spidey senses tingled.

You saw Gwen hop out of a portal in the middle of your room.

"Hey! I kinda sort of need your help."

"what's going on?" you asked, tilting your head in curiosity, putting your phone face down on the bed.

Gwen went on to explain everything you missed.

From Gwen seeing miles to Miles tagging along onto Mamhatten in Pavitr's universe, and then to Miguel's body slamming him into a train and calling everyone to chase him.

Jeez, you don't go to the society for one day and everything goes to shit.

You thought about it for a second, no one would notice you not being here for a couple of days, right?

"..Alright, I've saved the multiverse once, I can do it again."

You sat up on your bed and grabbed your suit.

You grabbed Gwen's arm as she took you to a whole other universe.

After a lot of fighting, you all managed to save Miles's dad.

Seeing their family be happy together made you tear up in happiness.

They deserved to be happy.

After a lot of apologies from all parties, everything was still pretty awkward.

You've probably apologized to Miles over a million times despite him insisting it wasn't your fault.

Sure, you didn't help the others chase him, but you still didn't tell him about society.

Hell, you should've been there to defend him.

You should've yelled at Miguel from the beginning over him not letting Miles in his stupidly exclusive clubhouse.

Instead, you were scared Miguel was gonna bring you back to the manor and disown you, even if you knew he would never do that to you.

You should've stood by miles from the start.

It's never too late to make up for everything

oml this was kinda boring but i needed filler lol

honestly i might write a oneshot of all the spiderkids together

taglist (please tell me if i forgot to tag you!):

@bath1lda @mariadvorak @coralaura @tsxukikami @hjgdhghoe @coffeeaddictxd @cxcilla

[cloudedangels]

Dr’s Orders 18+

⋆⁺₊❅。

You (f reader) are ovulating, but you can't bring yourself to request what you really need… Dr. Zayne has a treatment plan for that... luckily! ● ≈4,025 words ughggh ● probably needs proofreading ● adult!!! ● mdni!!!

Tags and cw: ovulation!: the plot device, zayne, dr zayne cures you of your horny disease kinda, piv, oral (f receiving), mostly sex no plot, in the hospital of all places!, creampie, multiple rounds, fingering, established relationship implied, self indulgent smut— you know the drill

a/n: this SUCKED to write omg omg im freee you can probably tell my sauce was running out... this mostly SUCKED to write bc I am on my period a week and a half early (???) & I have 1 endometriosis (,: this is also my first time writing zayne which i hope gets better bc he's my pretty lil baby, I need him [redacted].

Go bunnie.

▪︎ next up:

☆caleb's very late birthday fic

☆extended leave pt six

☆hubby!zayne drabble

vibrator series pt 3 and pt 4

⋆⁺₊❅。

⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。⋆⁺₊❅。

Zayne isn’t blind.

He sees the way your legs cross tighter than usual, the way your hand lingers too long on the hem of your sleeve, picking at threads like you're trying not to crawl out of your skin.

You’d stared at the closed door to his office ten times today. Every time you almost knocked, your throat had closed up. Your fingers fiddle with the edge of your sleeve again, tugging it just a little too hard until it bunches in your palm. The scent of antiseptic clings to the air, mixing with your own faint perfume, and it makes your stomach twist like a knot you can’t undo.

You'll just sit in his office and wait for him to get off as always.

And... when you see him, you're all off.

Zayne however… he knows exactly what day it is. Five days post-period. Right on schedule. He does the math in his head because, well, of course he does. He’s a surgeon. He keeps track of things.

He doesn’t mention it, not aloud. He just watches you try to wrestle yourself into stillness like you're trying to outwit your own body. He can feel it in the air—how needy you are, how tightly wound. You think you're subtle, but Zayne knows tension better than most. He lives in it and operates through it. And you're practically vibrating with it. The sterile, slightly cold office smells faintly of antiseptic and leather. Outside, the dull hum of hospital noises lingers beyond the closed door.

You won’t ask him. Not directly. Maybe you think you’re being polite. Maybe you're afraid he’ll be embarrassed. But he’s not the one squirming in a rolling chair in his office, trying to fight biology and failing.

Still, you don’t ask. You want to ask, but your voice feels small, unsure. You’ve always tried not to be a bother, this relationship is only recently sexual... but now, not asking feels like self-denial. But you can't.

So he shifts his strategy. If you won't ask him, shouldn't he ask you for a favor? That'd work wouldn't it?

He’s quiet for too long. Not in the usual way. In the way that makes your stomach twist. He’s calculating something, staring at your lips like they hold some equation he hasn’t quite solved. You feel it before he speaks—something shifting in him. Something about to snap loose? He flushes as he turns to you, words falling out like dominos.

“I need to finger you.”

His words hang in the air, clinical but sudden... like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His jaw's tightening briefly, a twitch of the muscle betraying the calm he’s trying to maintain. His eyes flicker down to your lips like he’s memorizing their shape… a calculation paused mid-equation.

You blink. “What?”

Your heart hammers a little faster. You want to protest, but your throat feels dry and thick, and your body answers before your brain can catch up. There's heat pooling low and insistent.

Zayne clears his throat lightly, deadpan as ever. “Desperately. I'm, ah—struggling. It’s been difficult to focus. All I can think about is the sound you make when you come. So.” He tilts his head slightly. “This is for medical reasons. Mine. Urgent.”

You're trying to make sense of this, he's usually so much more put together than this… you're so horny you don't want to deny him but… You’ve never heard him stumble like this—not even when talking you through surgical risks or listing medications. Zayne is precision incarnate. So when his voice falters, it knocks the air out of you.

“I mean… if you want, I could give you—”

“No.” He cuts you off, eyes narrowing slightly. The room seems to shrink around you. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead blurs into a steady drone as your pulse hammers in your ears. His steady gaze pins you in place, and your breath catches.

“I’m not joking. The only thing that's going to help me is your thighs on my shoulders and my fingers inside you. Repeatedly. I need to make you come, and I need to taste you while I do it. That’s the only thing that’s going to help.”

You stare at him, throat dry. “You... need... that.”

“Yes,” he says, perfectly serious. “Badly. Like, clinically.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“You’re—” you try to say something clever, but it falls flat against the heat surging in your gut.

“I’m what?” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Depraved? Professional? Pathetic?”

You whisper, “Perfect.”

Zayne exhales once through his nose, the closest he gets to smiling when he’s trying not to lose composure. There’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth, and his hand comes up—Hesitant and precise, it brushes your cheek.

“So it’s alright, then?” he says, voice softer now. “If I... lose control. Just a little… With you...”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence.

And just like that, your quiet, unbearable need—masked in silence and polite restraint—crashes into his own. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—pain, longing, something deeper. For a moment, neither of you move. Then, slow and deliberate, his fingers curl around your wrist, pulling you closer. The sharp tang of antiseptic mingles with the warm, powdery scent of his cologne, a strange but intoxicating combination that makes your breath hitch.

His lips press into yours soft and patient, and with the easy state you're in, you're already letting out a soft whimper when he kisses you with such gentleness... touches you with such wanting. You're caving into him as he pulls back, begging silently for more of his lips and the powdery scent of his cologne.

He sinks to his knees, not because you asked, but because he did. Thank God.

You’re still blinking down at him, standing with your breath shallowed, as if waiting for him to laugh and walk out. But he doesn’t. He just reaches—fingers confident, deliberate—and taps once against your knee.

“Up,” he says softly. “Come on. Be good for me. Legs over the exam table.”

You obey because you always do. But also because the way he looks at you—precise, studied, patient—makes disobedience feel impossible. Punishable, even. You scoot back on the padded surface, letting your legs fall apart, and you swear his pupils dilate just slightly.

The paper beneath your thighs crinkles loudly—embarrassingly—like it dislikes what you’re doing. The scent of antiseptic cuts through the heat in your blood. Even your shirt feels too tight, too rough. The overhead lights hum, too bright, too sterile. You feel exposed and examined. Everything feels like too much… except him.

He hums. It’s not amusement, not quite. It’s approval.

“Perfect positioning. Should’ve let me do this days ago. You’re—” He clicks his tongue once. “Edging into clinical negligence, keeping me from a treatment this vital.”

His hands are warm. Sterile. Methodical. He touches you like he’s mapping nerve endings. His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, spreading you further. He studies you like you’re a case study, a problem he already knows how to solve but enjoys solving again anyway.

You're shaking. “And this… is... for you?” You mutter, a whisper of disbelief mixed with pleasure.

“Yes. Yes, and I want you to know,” he murmurs as he leans in, “that I’m not improvising. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Thoroughly.”

Then he licks. Just once—slow, flat-tongued, exploratory. You jerk. He doesn’t flinch. Just shifts closer.

“Mhm,” he murmurs clinically, like he’s tasting for acidity in a dish. “As suspected.”

Another swipe. This time more pressure, more purpose. His hands keep you open, one sliding up to rest gently over your abdomen, steadying you. He moans low in his throat—not theatrical, not showy. A slip of sound, as if he forgot he could be heard.

“You’re already so sensitive,” he mutters, kissing you now, more deliberately. “This’ll take a while. Let me work. I will get everything I need from you soon enough.”

His tongue moves in slow, studied patterns. Up. Down. Spiral. Pause. A flick. A suck. He’s collecting data—what makes you twitch, what makes you sigh, what makes you gasp and grab at the table’s edges. Every time you make a sound, he shifts technique slightly. Filing it away. Adjusting. Repeating.

He doesn’t speak much. When he does, it’s all under his breath—clinical, praising, a little condescending, always devoted.

“There you go. That’s it.”

“More of that, Yes?”

“Don’t hold your breath so much. Let it happen.”

When you finally whimper out a guttural, cracked open sound, he looks up. His lips and chin glisten as he simply says, “Good. That’s one.”

As if you’re just getting started. (Because you are.) He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

He pushes in slow, deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s watching a monitor for vitals, measuring every reaction, every tremor in your body.

You gasp, nails curling against the padded table. He groans softly—a man adjusting to pressure, to heat, to you.

“God,” you whisper, already clenching. “I needed this. I—fuck, Zayne, I needed this so bad—”

“I can tell,” he murmurs, calm as ever, even as his hips settle flush against yours. “Should’ve said something sooner.”

You moan, full of frustration and want and something dangerously close to tears.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t wanna be—” You break off, panting. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He stills inside you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted. And then he exhales—long and quiet, like he’s biting back some deeper emotion. Maybe regret. Maybe guilt.

“You’re not a bother,” he says, low. “You never are.”

His hips roll just slightly, testing, coaxing, sending heat racing up your spine.

“If anything...” His hand slides up your side, over your ribs, soothing, grounding. “I should’ve made time for this earlier. This…” he thrusts a little deeper, “...this seems like an urgent need.”

You whimper under him. “Zayne, I—fuck, I want—”

“What do you want?”

Your face burns. Your voice shakes. But you can’t keep it in anymore.

“I want you… you to breed me... please.”

The silence after is thick.

He’s still.

Something unravels in his expression then. It’s not just arousal—it’s longing. A wish he hadn’t let himself form until you gave it voice, like he almost wants your regret. But he nods, like that need—raw, hormonal, messy—isn’t foreign to him. Like it’s the same one clawing up his own spine.

Then, slowly—gently—he fucks into you harder. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s what this is about...”

You’re babbling now, eyes glassy, breath hitching.

“I—I want it. I want to feel full, I want you to come inside, I want to know it’s yours—even if it’s stupid, even if it’s just my body wanting—I don’t care, I need it, please—”

Zayne brushes a hand over your cheek, thumb catching your tears before they can fall.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice is calm. Assured. Loving in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re ovulating. Your hormones are spiking. Your body’s wired for this. And you’re safe with me.”

He leans over you, mouth brushing your ear.

“Anything you ever need,” he murmurs, voice rough now, strained with emotion and restraint, “you can ask me for it. Anything.”

He pulls almost all the way out, then pushes in deep—slow, worshipping.

“Especially this.”

You cry out for him again, voice cracking, and he just keeps moving, steady and full, fucking you like it’s a promise. His body warm, his voice steady, his heart loud in your ear.

“You feel so good… you wanna be bred, my love?” he whispers. “I’ll give you everything. Fill you up so deep your body won’t know anything else but mine. I like being the only one… who can fix this… problem for you.”

That's spins you undone, and when you come again—hard, sobbing his name, clenching around him like your body’s trying to keep him inside—he follows: gasping once, then going silent as he spills into you, deep and long, trembling.

Helping.

Fixing the problem.

He stays inside you for a while. Long enough that the tremble in your thighs evens out, that the ache in your belly softens from frantic to full. His hand is on your hip, steady, his breath slowing against your neck. You feel him soften inside you, but he doesn’t move to pull out, he just wraps his hand around your thigh, thumb tracing light circles. It’s as if he is still measuring your pulse through your skin.

You’re dazed. Fucked open and flushed and barely remembering where you are. He presses a kiss just below your ear. Quiet and close.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh like he’s grounding both of you. “Let me know if you’re dizzy. I got you.”

You nod, finally feeling like you can think with more than that warm beat between your thighs.

“…Fixed it,” he murmurs after a moment.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “That was your treatment plan?”

“Highly effective,” he says, deadpan. “Minimal side effects. Patient satisfaction… presumed high.”

You hum and blink up at him, lips still parted. He’s looking at you, really looking, and not in the way doctors are trained to. There’s nothing detached about it now.

Then, with that surgeon’s steadiness, he pulls out slowly—so careful it makes you ache all over again—and reaches for the drawer on the wall behind you. Pulls out a warm towel like this is just another cleanup post-op.

You twitch when he touches you. Sensitive. Spent. He murmurs a soft apology, even as his hands stay precise, wiping you clean with unhurried tenderness.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” you whisper.

He glances at you. “You didn’t ask. So I had to improvise.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not mad I didn’t say anything?”

He tosses the towel aside. “I’m not mad.”

Then, more softly:

“However…I just wish you trusted me to help you. Even with this. Especially with this.”

His hand brushes your thigh again, this time more to comfort than assess. “You never have to handle it alone.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly thick.

“I didn’t know how,” you say.

“I’ll teach you,” Zayne murmurs. “Next time, say what you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Maybe not of everything but… what I can.”

You nod, quiet.

Then he leans in again, pressing a final kiss to your collarbone. A prescription written into the touch of your skin.

And beneath it all, his voice—calm, knowing, clinical as ever:

“This appointment is incomplete, but before I continue, let's plan? Follow-up appointment… same time next cycle?”

He’s hardening again, the heat of him pressing against you, but his lips stay impossibly soft where they meet your skin. His fingers glide over you with such careful tenderness it almost aches, like he’s afraid to break something fragile inside you. His breath stutters in his throat, and when he finally looks up at you, his eyes are full of something quiet, something desperate.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low and steady, his fingers curling around yours as if to anchor your body to him.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest, the moment making your voice shaky. “Please… don’t stop. Not yet. Let me have this—let me have you—while you’re here, before you go back to work... before the surgeries take you away again.”

He nods slowly, swallowing hard, as if hearing that pulls something out of him. You’re full of his cum, in his office, and yet still... you want more.

“I want to care for you,” he says softly, almost like a prayer. “Let me take care of you—let me make you feel okay…”

Your breath catches, your eyes stinging. There's something in his voice—something soft, like you're worshipped. It undoes you. You nod, too overcome to speak, and he leans in to kiss you again, slower this time. A worshipful kind of kiss, one that tells you that he means it. All of it.

His hand slides between your legs, gentle, deliberate. He murmurs something you don’t catch against your cheek, and then his fingers are inside you—slow, coaxing, curling just right—and the stretch pulls a gasp from your throat.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispers, half in awe. “Still so full of my seed… and you want more?”

You whimper, your head tipping back against the couch. The way he touches you now feels different—like it’s not just about pleasure anymore, but about memory. Preservation.

“I don’t wanna forget how you feel,” he says, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles. Your hips twitch under his hand, overwhelmed by the desire he builds in you. It's all too much—his voice, his touch, the heat of his body wrapped around yours—but you don’t want him to stop. God, you never want him to stop.

“I won’t let you,” you breathe. “I’ll remember for both of us.”

His mouth is on you again, but not your lips this time—his head drops lower, kissing a trail down your sternum, your stomach, until he’s kneeling between your legs.

“I want to taste you,” he says, voice rough with need. “Let me show you how good you are. How much I want you…You're doing me a favor really…”

He slips his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate, curling gently as he watches your breath hitch. You’re trembling under his touch, the way you’re spread out like a secret made just for him. His mouth moves close, breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the softest, sweetest flower,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with something between awe and need. “And I’m the luckiest man, right here, right now.”

His fingers flex inside you, teasing the spots that make you catch your breath and squeeze your thighs tight. Even after he’s already filled you once, the way he strokes and presses—there’s no doubt his desire is just as alive as yours, hungry and aching. He’s hard beneath you, the heat pressing close as he lets you feel it, a teasing promise of everything he wants.

“I told you it was for me,” he breathes, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “But really... this? It’s for both of us.” His hips shift, grinding slowly against you, the movement sending a new wave of fire through your body.

He leans down, mouth tracing a slow, burning path from your collarbone to your shoulder, lips parting just to whisper, “You make me need you. God, you make me need you so bad.”

His hands tighten around your hips as he pulls you just a little closer, filling the space between you with a quiet, fierce hunger. His fingers don’t stop, circling, curling, coaxing your body to respond again and again.

“Keep still for me,” he commands softly, voice rough like he’s holding back something fierce. “You’re mine right now. Every sigh, every shiver... it’s mine to take… I will be… your medicine…”

You’re gasping by the time he lowers his head again, mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss, and the taste of him—wanting, claiming—makes you lose the last grip you had on control.

His body is all fire and weight pressing down on you, filling the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty until now.

“More,” he whispers between kisses. “Always more.”

And you’re his, completely. The ache inside you answered at last.

His rhythm builds, fingers still buried deep while his other hand cradles your face—thumb brushing slow circles across your cheek, grounding you in the chaos he’s coaxing from your body. Every stroke inside you is purposeful, practiced, but full of reverence, like he’s trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“Look at me,” he says, not quite a whisper, not quite a command. Just enough to send heat licking down your spine. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

And you do—eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering as your breath stutters. The sight of you like this makes him groan, low and hoarse, hips jerking just slightly, betraying how close he is to the edge too, even though he hasn’t taken you fully again yet.

His fingers still, just enough to make you whimper. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your mouth, as if that could quiet the ache.

“I could live here,” he murmurs into your lips. “Right here, inside you, around you... forever.”

Then he shifts, slow and careful, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that makes your whole body tighten. He holds your gaze as he brings those same fingers to his mouth, tongue curling around them with a filthy sort of tenderness, eyes half-lidded, like tasting you is sacred.

“You, my dear, officially drive me undeniably insane,” he says, voice wrecked with want. “And I don’t wanna be sane again. Not so soon...”

When he finally sinks into you, it’s with a desperate groan that breaks right through you—thick and deep, every inch stretching you open like a promise. The burn is beautiful, the pressure perfect, and your body arches to meet him like it was made to.

He doesn’t rush. He moves—slow, rolling thrusts that keep you trembling, pinned under him and worshiped at once. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and trembling, and for a moment he just stays there—buried inside you, eyes fluttering shut as your pulse thrums between you.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathes, and then again, “Mine.” Like he needs you to hear it more than once.

And when he starts to move in earnest, it’s with the kind of slow devastation that leaves nothing untouched. Every stroke drags a sound from your throat, every grind of his hips makes your legs shake. He’s whispering again, praise and filth mixing on his tongue:

“So tight for me. So fucking good, after this you'll learn to ask, okay? I could stay like this all night. Just you. Just us. I'll spend every break just like this, or with a mind filled with it.”

And maybe that’s exactly what you want too—him, again and again, until the world fades and all that’s left is the rhythm of his body in yours and the fire he keeps stoking, endless and aching.

He moves again, deeper this time, more sure. Not fast—not yet. But he rocks into you with the patience of a man obsessed with detail, addicted to the small shifts of your body around him, attuned to every gasp and flutter.

Your eyes roll back as you clench down, and he groans—sharp and breathless, the only crack in his otherwise impenetrable restraint.

“Fuck—tight,” he mutters, head bowing slightly. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me feel it. That’s what I need.”

There’s nothing clinical in his voice now. It’s reverent. Hungry.

His hands are everywhere—on your hip, your thigh, pressed over your chest like he wants to memorize the stutter of your heart. You’ve never seen him like this—undone and focused, devoted. Not just having sex with you, but learning you, like you’re anatomy he wants to master, muscle and nerve and heat.

Your orgasm builds again—second? third? You’ve lost count—rising fast like a tidal wave you can’t hold back.

Zayne notices. Of course he does.

“You’re close.” It’s not a question. “Let it happen. You’re safe. You’re good. You’re mine to take care of.”

That breaks you.

You cry out, raw and sharp, body arching under him as you fall apart with a helpless sob. He takes all of it—every pulse and tremor—and doesn’t stop moving, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

He presses his forehead to yours as you shake, still holding you, still inside.

You barely have breath to whisper it: “You really needed this?”

He laughs softly—warm, breathless, wrecked. “No... yes but,” he kisses your knuckles as he admits. “But you did.”

He kisses you—slow, deep, filled with a sweetness that makes your chest ache.

Then he adds, quiet and unshakable: “But I wanted to be the one who gave it to you.”

You blink up at him, throat tight.

“Was that... alright with you?” he asks softly. “Dr’s orders... and all.”

You smile, dazed. “Might need a follow-up appointment.”

His smirk—barely there, tired, pleased—makes your heart flutter.

“I’ll clear my schedule.” ⋆⁺₊❅。

MASTERLIST WITH ALL MY FICS

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[alternate-real-ities]

Subject IND1

This document reports the events that transpired during a controlled study conducted on [REDACTED], who consented to participate in our trial, to document the physiological, cognitive, and behavioural changes in a human subject infected with a new strain of the Asian Flu, here denominated by the acronym IND.

To help recording the results, Dr. Kenji Nakamura, the lead researcher, recorded his observations throughout the experiment.

The subject was a young caucasian male, with a lean build and average height. He was selected for the trial due to his good health and lack of pre-existing conditions. The experiment was conducted in a secure laboratory environment, with all necessary precautions taken to ensure the safety of the subject and the research team. Below you will find the transcription of his observations.

Audio transcriptions:

[Recording begins]

[00:00:06 Nakamura] : "This is Dr. Kenji Nakamura, lead researcher on the Asian Flu IND strain project. Subject IND1 is now secured to the examination table. The strain has been already administered. Initial observations indicate a rapid increase in body temperature and heart rate. Subject appears agitated, but this is expected given the nature of the virus."

[00:00:25 Security] : "Dr. Nakamura, are you sure this is safe? Those restraints don't seem that sturdy."

[00:00:33 Nakamura] : "Yes, yes… I understand your concerns. But this is a controlled environment, and we have taken all necessary precautions. The subject is well behaved, in good health, and I will be closely monitoring his vitals."

[00:00:47 Security] : "Alright doc, if you need anything, just call us. We'll be awaiting further orders."

[00:00:54 Nakamura] : "Thank you."

[Door closes]

[00:01:02 Nakamura] : "I will now begin the examination. Subject IND1, can you hear me?"

[00:01:07 Subject IND1] : "Y-yes… I can hear you…"

[00:01:10 Nakamura] : "Good. I need you to remain calm. I will be monitoring your vitals closely. Please describe any sensations you are experiencing."

[00:01:18 Subject IND1] : "I… I feel hot… really hot… and my heart is racing…"

[00:01:23 Nakamura] : "That is expected. The virus is designed to increase metabolic activity. I will now take your temperature."

[00:01:30 Nakamura] : "Temperature is elevated to 39.5°C. Heart rate is 120 bpm. Subject's skin appears to be slightly flushed, and there is a noticeable increase in perspiration. I will continue the recording when the subject's condition changes."

[Recording stops]

[Recording resumes]

[00:49:52 Nakamura] : "The subject appears to be more calm now. Heart rate has stabilized at 110 bpm. There is a slight increase in body hair on the chest and belly. Moreover, it appears that the subject's hair is darkening slightly. The perspiration still continues, but the subject seems to be more comfortable than before. I will now take a blood sample for analysis."

[00:50:10 Subject IND1] : "Doc… my head… I think I have a fever..."

[00:50:19 Nakamura] : "That's a common symptom with the flu. Do you feel anything else?"

[00:50:25 Subject IND1] : "I don't know how to explain it but… my chest feels tingly… and it's like there are invisible hands rubbing it."

[00:50:33 Nakamura] : "Invisible hands? That is interesting. I will note that down. Please continue to describe any sensations you are experiencing."

[00:50:42 Subject IND1] : "I feel… sick…"

[00:50:45 Nakamura] : "Do not worry, the mortality rate of this virus is less than 1%. I will keep monitoring your vitals from a distance. Thank you for your cooperation."

[Recording stops]

[Recording resumes]

[01:34:17 Nakamura] : "This is Dr. Nakamura again. About 45 minutes have passed since the last recording. The subject's skin tone has deepened to a light tan. There is a noticeable increase in body hair on the arms, legs, and face, which has darkened slightly."

[Muffled sounds]

[01:34:41 Nakamura] : "Subject IND1, can you hear me? Please try to focus."

[Muffled sounds]

[01:35:00 Nakamura] : "Hmm... the subject's pupils are dilated. He appears to be mumbling incoherently in his native tongue. Subject IND1, are you there?"

[Muffled sounds]

[01:35:17 Nakamura] : "It seems that the subject doesn't seem to be able to respond at this time. I can observe involuntary muscle fibers twitching. It also seems that his musculature is becoming more defined, his facial features seem more masculine than what they were an hour ago... I will continue to monitor his condition."

[Recording stops]

[Recording resumes]

[02:15:43 Nakamura] : "Nakamura here. The subject's skin has darkened to a warm brown hue. There is a significant increase in muscle mass, particularly in the chest and arms. Facial features are changing further than before, with a more pronounced jawline and cheekbones. The subject appears to have developped stronger facial hair in the last 30 minutes."

[02:16:08 Subject IND1] : "Doc… I... why am I here again?"

[02:16:19 Nakamura] : "You are participating in a study, Subject IND1. Please try to focus. Can you describe any sensa-"

[Loud moan]

[02:16:32 Nakamura] : "Oh my... the subject appears to be experiencing a heightened state of arousal. This could be proof that the virus affects the hypothalamus. I can feel a strong odor emanating from him. It is quite intoxicating."

[02:16:50 Subject IND1] : "Doc… get me out of here…"

[02:16:56 Nakamura] : "I will do that as soon as I can. Please try to remain calm."

[02:17:05 Subject IND1] : "Fuck… my lul…cock… it feels heavier…"

[02:17:14 Nakamura] : "The subject appears to be developping an accent. Sentences are shorter. Abdominal muscles seem to be defined into an almost clear six-pack, covered by his growing body hair. Will report back later."

[Recording stops]

[Recording begins]

[03:12:37 Nakamura] : "This is Dr. Nakamura, and I'm afraid I've lost track of the time. The subject's transformation appears to be complete. His skin has deepened to a rich ebony hue, and his features are distinctly Indian. He now possesses a broader nose, fuller lips, high cheekbones. A totally different masculine version of what he used to look like 3 hours ago."

[03:13:02 Subject IND1] : "Doctor…"

[03:13:06 Nakamura] : "Yes? What is it?"

[03:13:10 Subject IND1] : "Doctor… I need… I need you."

[03:13:19 Nakamura] : "It appears that the subject is feeling infactuated. This is likely the virus attempting to spread itself through intimate contact. His smell is stronger than before. There is a chance that his body started producing pheromones to attract other males. I can feel something only from his odor. I must remain focused on my work."

[03:13:52 Nakamura] : "I will now take a blood sample for analysis. How are you feeling, Subject IND1?"

[03:14:00 Subject IND1] : "I feel… good… bhai…

[03:14:05 Nakamura] : "The subject's speech incorporates Hindi words, interesting... There's an increased mass in the pectoral region, evident from closer inspection, covered by a thick layer of shiny sweat. This is trully a marvelous specimen to behold...

How did you get out of the restrain-"

[Struggling sounds]

[03:14:29 Subject IND1] : "Yes bro, take my smell…"

[Muffled screams]

[03:14:45 Subject IND1] : "You like my pits, don't you? I smell so good…"

[Recording cuts out]

The audio recording stops at this point.

[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]

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A security camera in the lab was able to capture the events that followed. The footage shows Subject IND1 breaking free from the restraints and approaching Dr. Nakamura, who appears to be in shock.

Dr. Nakamura's pleas were cut off as the transformed subject grabbed him roughly, holding him in his pits. The subject's powerful, muscular body pressed against Nakamura's, his broad chest leaving the doctor drenched in his sweat. We believe that a strong, musky aroma emanated from Subject IND1, based on our current data.

"Shh, just relax bhai," Subject IND1 purred in a deep, accented rumble. His large, calloused hands made quick work of the doctor's pants, yanking them down to his ankles and exposing his pale skin. "We're just 2 bros having some fun together… nothing wrong with that heh?

Subject IND1 hooked his thumbs into Nakamura's underwear and pulled them down, revealing the doctor's most intimate places. Nakamura whimpered, face flushed with unwanted arousal as the subject's thick, hard cock grinded against his ass cheeks, leaving sticky trails of pre-cum on his skin.

"Arre yaar, look at this tight little lund," Subject IND1 growled appreciatively. He then spat crudely into his palm, slicking up his massive, veiny shaft before notching the swollen head against Nakamura's quivering, virgin hole. With one brutal, deep thrust of his powerful hips, he buried himself balls-deep in the doctor's ass.

"AAAHHHNNN!" Nakamura screamed at the sudden intrusion, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the metal table as Subject IND1 began to move. The room filled with the obscene slap of flesh on flesh and the heady, musky scent of their coupling. Beads of sweat rolled down Nakamura's brow as his body struggled to adapt to the relentless pounding.

Then, suddenly, Subject IND1 grabbed Nakamura's hips and flipped him over onto his back. "Ride me, bhai," he commanded with a wicked grin, pulling the doctor on top of him. "Take what you need."

Nakamura gasped as he found himself straddling the subject's thick thighs, that massive cock spearing up into his guts. His own dick bobbed lewdly between them, drooling pre-cum onto Subject IND1's abs. As if in a trance, Nakamura began to move, hips rolling and bouncing on the subject's lap.

"Yes, just like that," Subject IND1 groaned, hands gripping Nakamura's waist hard enough to bruise as he thrust up to meet each downward grind. "Fuck yourself on my big Indian cock, bhai. Take your pleasure!"

Subject IND1's cock seemed to grow even larger inside Nakamura's stretched hole, veins pulsing as it pumped the doctor full of its virile, Indian essence. Nakamura could feel it, hot, thick and alive, changing him from within. His own dick throbbed almost painfully between his legs, swelling a bit, the head flaring and darkening like Subject IND1's.

Nakamura could only moan brokenly in response, eyes rolling back as he felt something powerful rising up inside him. His skin began to flush a deeper, richer brown, muscles swelling and hardening beneath the surface. Dark, coarse body hair started to sprout along his arms and legs, thickening with each passing second.

"FUCK!" Subject IND1 roared in Hindi, slamming up into Nakamura one last time as he exploded inside the doctor's ass. Nakamura screamed as the wave of transformation crashed over him, back arching like a bow as his skin deepened to a richer, ebony hue. His muscles swelled into hard, defined slabs, abdominals popping out in a perfect six-pack that glistened with sweat.

The musky scent of their coupling intensified, filling Nakamura's nostrils and clouding his mind with lust. Body hair continued to sprout across his chest and back, curling slightly as it darkened to a deep, glossy black. His nipples hardened into small, sensitive nubs.

Then, Subject IND1 gripped Nakamura's hips tighter, fingers sinking into the firm flesh as he began to thrust again, fucking the doctor throughout his transformation. Each stroke sent jolts of pleasure through Nakamura's body.

Nakamura's dick pulsed and twitched between them, growing longer and thicker with each passing second. The shaft thickened, veins and ridges forming along the surface as it darkened to a deep, ruddy brown. His balls swelled and tightened, churning with backed-up cum.

The room filled with the sounds of their grunts and moans. Nakamura could feel his mind changing too, thoughts shifting to the need to rut, to breed, to dominate… The doctor threw his head back and moaned. His skin rippled and shifted, the last traces of his old self melting away as he embraced his new identity - an Indian stud, strong and virile.

As the transformation reached its peak, Nakamura's dick erupted like a geyser, painting their chests with thick ropes of hot, sticky cum. His body shuddered and clenched around Subject IND1's cock, milking it for every last drop of his Indian seed.

Finally, panting harshly, Subject IND1 pulled out with a wet squelch, his softening dick slipping free of Nakamura's gaping hole. A flood of pearly white cum poured out in its wake.

Nakamura lay there for a long moment, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark and almond-shaped. He sat up slowly, muscles rippling beneath smooth, ebony skin, and turned to face Subject IND1. "भाई, मुझे बहुत अच्छा लग रहा है" - says the newly improved doctor. He flexed an arm, watching the bicep swell into a perfect, round dome.

He turned to Subject IND1, eyes glinting with a newfound purpose. "I need to get out of here, bro…" he growled in a thick Indian accent. Then, with only his lab coat, Nakamura got out of the facility thanks to his keycard, while IND1 lay there spent on the floor.

It wasn't until hours later, when Dr. Nakamura still hadn't reported back, that security was alerted something was wrong. They found Subject IND1 alone in the lab, a satisfied smirk on his face as they led him away in cuffs.

But by then, it was too late. The IND strain had breached containment, in [REDACTED], were it could spread rapidly. We are still trying to find Dr. Nakamura, but we fear it may be too late for him as well. Subject IND1 is still in our custody, so that we can study this new strain of the virus. We will continue to monitor the situation and report any further findings.

[End Report]

[soluversworld]

LOVE BITES - REDACTED X G.N READER (SMUT)

Genre: SMUT - (SHORT ONE, IT WAS A DRAFT!)

Summary: — Just a small biting session, he's yours to mark after all <3

( Reader is a g.n!)

Content Warning : Nsfw jokes, biting, marking!

Did not proof read/Rushed.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, minding your own business. Kind of. Kicking your feet a little, waiting for the kettle to finish in the kitchen. The sheets are rumpled from earlier and still warm with him—REDACTED had just gotten up to change his shirt, but apparently your moment of peace is about to be brutally interrupted.

Because there’s that sound.

That slow drag of socked feet across the floor.

You don’t even get a chance to turn before his arms wrap around your waist, slipping under your shirt just enough to chill your skin.

“Hello, Angel,” he mutters, voice half-rasped and half-mocking, still sleepy-soft. “Missed me?”

He nuzzles into your back, hair falling over your shoulder as he breathes you in like you’re oxygen. You can feel the weight of him leaning into you, his chin slotting over your shoulder, his body folded around yours like he’s trying to fuse into your spine.

And that’s when you strike.

You tilt your head, just enough, and bite his arm. Not hard. But enough to sink your teeth in and make a sound escape his throat.

“Oi—! Angel—!” he wheezes, dramatic and delighted all at once. “Y’fuckin’ feral. Thought y’died n’ got replaced with a lil’ possum.”

You bite again, on his forearm this time.

He doesn’t even pull away. Just laughs, arms hugging you tighter like you’re his favorite chew toy.

“Nnnh—yeah, okay, that’s cute,” he drawls, head flopping forward to press against your neck. “Takin’ lil nips outta me like you’re starvin’. Go on, then. Eat me up. I’ll be real sweet.”

You blow a raspberry on his arm instead, which makes him grunt a laugh into your shoulder.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you say sweetly, chomping down again.

“Damn right,” he groans, happily, melting into your back. “Got a whole fuckin’ addiction. Call it biter’s syndrome. Symptom one: me lettin’ you chew me like jerky and likin’ it.”

You twist slightly and he follows like a shadow. Still wrapped around you. Still clinging.

You try to pull away.

“Nope,” he says instantly, arms caging you in. “Warm. Soft. Mine.”

“You're gonna have bite marks.”

“Good. Proof I’m yours. Now n’ gimme another one.”

You sink your teeth into his neck again.

He moans.

Your mouth finds the side of his neck, warm skin flushed from all the biting and nuzzling. You don't think — you just lean in and bite.

Not enough to break skin, but enough to make his breath stutter.

"Ahn—fuck," REDACTED huffs, half-laughing, half-aching. His hands squeeze around your waist like instinct. “Y’really like chewin’ me up, huh, Angel?”

You feel him twitch against your back — you don’t say anything. You just kiss the spot you bit, tender, like an apology and a tease.

He leans into it, head tilting to give you more.

And then—

He bites back.

Right into the curve of your neck. His teeth sink in with a groan so low it vibrates against your spine.

"Agh—!" you gasp, jolting slightly.

He doesn't stop.

You twist in his arms, facing him now, and he’s grinning, lazy and smug and flushed all at once.

“You started it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your cheek. “Bit me like I was yours. Guess that means you’re mine too now, huh?”

His voice dips lower, slurring soft and obsessed. “Gonna leave lil’ love marks all over y’if you don’t stop makin’ those sounds.”

You're both breathing heavier now. Close. Too close. His thigh slotted between yours, his fingers slipping under your shirt like he owns every inch of you already.

You drag your lips to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. Kiss after kiss after kiss, slow and reverent where you bit him.

And he—he melts.

REDACTED just melts, arms loose but trembling from how much he wants you.

"You’re real soft like this," you whisper.

"Only for you," he breathes. "Shit, Angel—kiss me again."

You do.

It’s messy now. Hands and mouths, all spit and heat and want. He kisses like he’s starving. Like you’re the last thing he’ll ever taste. Tongue greedy, fingers needy, voice ragged in your mouth.

Just groans against your lips, “Fuck… y’undo me so easy.”

Then, quieter, right in your ear—

“Don’t stop, Angel. I’ll be real good for you. Let you bite me wherever you want.”

You don’t stop.

Neither does he.

His shirt up over his head, lets you trail your fingers over his stomach, his ribs..

His hands settle at your hips, warm and possessive.

You’re both bare from the waist up now. Skin against skin. His heartbeat thumps wild under your palm. He looks wrecked just from kissing you.

“C’mere,” he drawls, voice thick with need, sleep, devotion. “Wanna feel all of you, Angel. Wanna make you mine for real.”

You straddle him again. This time it’s slower. You rock your hips, teasing, drawing soft gasps from his mouth. His nails press little crescents into your thighs. He’s flushed pink, black hair messy and damp from your earlier bath, lips swollen from your kisses and bites.

When he finally sinks into you, his moan is low and broken.

“Fuck—y’feel so good,” he mumbles into your shoulder, trembling just a little. “So warm f’me. So sweet. So good…”

You whisper his name. Kiss his jaw. Hold his face like he’s something fragile.

And then you ride him.

Slow, deep, teasing. Grinding down hard just to hear him whine. His hands grip you like he’s drowning. His head tips back, exposing the bite mark you left earlier.

He’s so fucked out already, but still babbling.

“Y-you like doin’ this to me, huh? Like makin’ me melt?” His voice breaks into a soft moan when you roll your hips just right. “T-take it, Angel. Take all of me. I’ll give you anything—everythin’—just don’t stop…”

You kiss him to shut him up, and he melts again. He always melts when you kiss him.

The way his voice goes hoarse when you praise him. The way he begs when you speed up. The way he clings, legs shaking, trying to keep it together when he’s already falling apart.

You both finish with messy gasps and soft curses. His arms don’t let go. He wraps them around you so tight it’s like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

He cleans you both with sleepy fingers, fumbling for a tissue or towel, mumbling about how you ruined his soul and maybe also the sheets.

You lie back, heart still fluttering, and REDACTED collapses onto your chest.

“Mmph…” he mumbles, face buried in your neck. “Y’really did all that jus’ to make me sleep better, huh?”

You run fingers through his hair, kissing his temple.

“Maybe.”

He hums. “Wanna sleep in you forever.”

You laugh softly. “That’s not anatomically possible.”

He grins, lazy and happy and wrecked. “Then I’ll just glue myself to you. Keep you in my arms. Forever. You’re warm. Smell good. Bite good, too…”

You swat him playfully.

He only holds you tighter.

Your hand strokes his back while he nuzzles under your chin, completely relaxed, completely yours. His eyes are half-lidded, lips curled into a sleepy smile.

"Y’real sweet t’me,” he mumbles. “Don’t deserve you. But I’m not givin’ you back.”

"You don’t have to," you whisper.

He makes a soft noise. A mix between a sigh and a purr.

Let's just say you had a long time (I'm edgying some ppl I will share this part of the fic later!)

Morning light slips through the curtains.

You shift under the covers with a low, exhausted sigh. Every muscle in your legs complains. Your hips ache. Your thighs are weak. And as for walking? Yeah, that’s not happening anytime soon.

And of course—of course—REDACTED knows it.

“Mornin’, Angel,” he purrs, already wide awake, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His arms are still wrapped around you, one leg tangled over yours like he’s worried you might escape.

As if you even could.

You groan. “...You broke me.”

He laughs—soft, smug, and delighted. “Damn right I did.”

He lifts his head and stretches lazily, showing off the faint red marks scattered across his neck and collarbone. A constellation of lovebites and claw scratches—all yours.

He admires them in the mirror, even turns his head left and right. “Y’really tried to eat me alive, huh?” he smirks. “Don’t blame you. Look at me. 'm delicious.”

You throw a pillow at him. He just catches it, still grinning.

Then he turns back to you, crawling over with that playful, filthy glint in his sleepy eyes.

“But y’know what I like more than these?” He taps a finger to one of the love bites. “The way you limp when I ruin you just right. Don’t even need a leash, you barely movin’ anyway.”

You try to swat him again but he grabs your wrist, gently, possessively, kissing your fingers before pulling your hand to his lips.

Then—without warning—he plays with you.

Just his fingers. Soft and slow. A cruel tease.

“You feel that, Angel?” he murmurs, kissing your temple while he touches you just right. “Still so sensitive from last night. You’re so good f’me. Always so sweet an’ warm an’ mine…”

You whimper, already melting, already clinging.

His breath hitches when you grind helplessly against his hand.

“Y’can’t even walk…” he whispers against your neck. “And you’re still lettin’ me play, huh? God, you’re perfect…”

He bites your earlobe—just gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll carry you everywhere today. Gotta take care of my precious angel...”

“Awahhh—! REDACTED—!”

Your voice breaks, breath catching as his fingers move faster, slick and greedy, curling just right with every stroke. You’re trembling, overstimulated and needy, your thighs twitching around his wrist as he groans low against your skin.

“Thaaaat’s it…” he drawls, mouth right by your ear. “God, listen to you, Angel. Cryin’ so pretty for me already.”

He kisses your cheek, sweet and slow, while his hand never stops.

“You love when I do this, huh?” he coos, half-laughing as your back arches. “Poor thing… Can’t even walk ‘cause of me, an’ I still can’t keep my hands off ya.”

You shake under him, a soft sob escaping when he presses harder.

“Hahhh— REDACTED—too much—!”

He stills, just for a moment. Just to make you beg.

“…Y’really want me to stop?” he whispers, brushing his thumb exactly where you’re twitching the most.

You grab at his shoulders, desperate.

“N-No—!”

He grins against your skin. That’s all he needed.

“Mmm… knew it. Knew you liked bein’ ruined.”

And then he speeds up. Rougher now. Deeper. Lazier but filthier, like he’s enjoying dragging it out—like he could keep going forever just to watch you break again and again under him.

You cry out, trembling in his lap as the wave builds and shatters through you.

“Y’sound so cute when you beg,” he moans, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “Gonna keep you like this forever—ruined and mine.”

You’re shaking.

Barely held together in his lap, your fingers tangled in the loose collar of his shirt, your mouth parted as if you’re still trying to catch the last breath he stole from you.

And REDACTED? He doesn’t stop. Not until you finish again—completely.

You collapse forward, your forehead resting against his neck, gasping, spent, body melting in his arms like you’ve got no bones left at all.

He hums, deep in his chest, kissing the top of your head like he didn’t just break you on his fingers alone.

“There ya go, Angel… s’good for me, always so good.”

You don’t answer. You can’t—not with the way your heart’s racing, your lungs still trying to remember how to work. But he doesn’t need words. Not from you.

He tilts your chin up and kisses you slow.

Sloppy. Sweet. Lingering.

Your lips move together like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like he’s starved for you. Like he wants to memorize the taste of your tongue, even now when you’re dazed and twitchy and soft.

“Mhm… gimme another,” he mumbles between kisses, nuzzling you like a lovesick stray. “One more. Gimme.”

You kiss him again.

He hums like he’s satisfied—but still greedy—his fingers finally trailing away, only to wrap around your waist, dragging you closer so he can rest his cheek on your shoulder.

“Y’cry so cute, Angel…” he whispers against your throat, where the sweat still clings. “Might make you do it again later. Y’don’t mind, do ya?”

He nuzzles. He kisses your jaw.

You're still gasping softly, thighs twitching as you try to pull yourself together—but he won’t let you go. REDACTED’s arms cage you in, lips dragging slow down your neck, tongue dipping low before—

Teeth.

He bites again, just under your jaw this time, enough to make you whimper out loud.

“‘S cute, y’know that?” he breathes, voice still lazy, wrecked. “Now we match…”

He kisses the bite, then pulls back to look at you. His smirk is devastating. “All over your neck… all over mine…”

You can see them—love bites blooming across his collarbone, dark marks like bruised petals. He didn’t stop you earlier when you were grinding down on him, panting against his throat, biting the shit out of him just to shut him up.

“You said I could,” you whimper defensively, reaching up to tug his hair, still flushed and trembling. “You said I could, REDACTED…”

He huffs a soft, breathy laugh—not mocking, but amused. Filthy. Adoring.

“I did, didn’t I?” he drawls, leaning in like he’s gonna kiss you again—then pauses, lips brushing your ear. “But you promised, Angel…”

His teeth graze your earlobe now. “Y’didn’t say you were gonna pull my hair like that…”

You gasp, trying to squirm, but he’s got you anchored to his lap.

“I—”

“Ah ah,” he cuts you off, voice thick with that lazy sin, hand slipping lower to grab a handful of your ass, giving it a possessive squeeze. “Too late. Y’got me all riled up again…”

He grins against your skin as you whimper louder.

"Y'feel that?" he presses closer, his words a growl now. "That's what y'did to me, sweetheart. Gonna take responsibility for it or just cry again like last time?"

You hide your face in his shoulder.

He laughs—soft, teasing, unrelenting.

“You’re gonna, huh?” he taunts, low and sweet. “Cry real pretty while I ruin you all over again... ‘Cause I’m not done yet.”

And he wasn’t. Not by a long shot....

You didn't know...You only remembered kissing him and being one with him.

It always felt right.

Your bodies.. just connected too...

It's just longing.

You loved him, He loved you.

He loved you so much..

You’re both a mess. Tangled sheets, bitten lips, flushed skin. The room is still thick with heat, the air tasting faintly of sweat, sighs, and each other.

REDACTED lies back with a pleased groan, one arm slung over his eyes, the other lazily pulling you to his chest. He’s still a little breathless—and very, very smug.

he murmurs, voice rough with afterglow. “Bitin’ me like I’m a fuckin’ snack…”

You whine into his collarbone, cheek resting against his skin. “You liked it…”

He grins wide, even as he shifts to lift his arm and peek at you—messy, glowing, tangled in his lap. His fingers find your hips again, tracing the spots he held tight, kissed deeper, marked softer.

And then he sees them.

The little constellation of love bites down your neck.

The matching ones along his own.

He sits up on one elbow just to look—tilts your chin so gently to the side.

he whispers, like he can’t believe it. “All mine.”

You watch as his eyes take it all in—possessive, but soft. So soft. He leans in and presses a kiss over one of the bruises he left, so slow you shiver.

Then, cheeky and low: “Matchin’ now, huh?”

You nod, a little dazed, and whisper back, “I like it…”

He smiles. Not his usual crooked, cocky smirk. This one is quieter. Real.

“Yeah? Y’like bein’ all marked up for me, Angel?”

You nod again.

He nuzzles your jaw, then your throat. You feel him murmur the words against your skin.

You do. You always do.

He gets up just to grab a warm cloth and wipe you down gently—almost reverently. The gentleness of it makes your chest ache. Every stroke, every little touch, is careful. Adoring.

Once you're clean and in a fresh tee (one of his, of course), he pulls you back into bed and tucks you under the covers. You cling, and he doesn’t resist. Just laughs softly, burying his nose in your hair.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Angel,” he says.

Then whispers, half-asleep, half-drunk on love, “M’gonna leave every mark on ya I can… but only if you do the same.”

You kiss his shoulder. He hums. The room still smells like him.

You're both quiet for a long time—until he opens one eye, glancing down at your neck with a tired, satisfied grin.

“Y’think anyone at the Library's gonna notice?”

You bury your face deeper into him.

“…Good,” he says, smug and half-asleep again. “Wanna see ‘em jealous.”

[nathanbatemanfucker]

The Falcon & the Machine

summary: joaquin confronts you about your attempt to “protect” him.

pairing: joaquin torres x f!assassin!reader

contents: mentions of canon typical violence, angst, pining/longing, kissing, happyish ending

wc: 1,652

an: i just love the idea of joaquin and his lover being on the opposite side of things or having different morals. idk it makes their love that much better to me 🫶🏾🤭

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The car stops somewhere deep in the Virginia woods—far enough from the base to mean it’s not casual, close enough to mean someone wanted this private but not remote. It has your alarm bells ringing.

You narrow your eyes at Sam through the rearview mirror. “I thought you said this was a tactical meeting.”

“It is,” he says, his voice too casual and smooth. “Tactical for your emotional wellbeing.”

He’s out the car and your door opens before you can snap something back. You step out, instincts sharp even when you’re exhausted. The world around you is quiet, deceptively peaceful. The trees, the sound of wind stirring through the leaves, the birds distant but constant and everything feels still.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t know how to feel still anymore. Not after everything.

You see Joaquin as you keep walking, and all of your practiced cold, all your walls fall away like a sheet of glass hit from the inside.

He’s standing in a clearing, arms crossed, Falcon wings holstered tight to his back. You can’t see his eyes yet, but you know he’s looking at you. You can feel that same raw tension in his gaze, the same pull between you that neither of you can ignore.

You haven’t answered his calls in three weeks, or let him near you since the mission in Turkey went sideways. Since the extraction turned into a bloodbath, bodies hitting the floor from your hands. That’s when the questions started to follow you—yes as always— but him too.

Questions that could ruin everything Joaquin’s shed blood, sweat and tears for.

The second hardest part of all this isn’t having to kill the people that come after you, the people they send to ask questions or torture you. Its the way you saw the fear in Joaquin’s eyes when he realized how far into the dark you were willing to go to protect him, and everyone else. He saw the worst of you. And still…he never wanted to walk away, he never turned away.

The hardest part? Letting him.

Because your file isn’t redacted, you can’t hide in the shadows while living this full life. People know who you are and what you do. You’re a fixer—not in the clean, shiny way that heroes are. You don’t wear the white hat, you don’t dawn the stars and stripes.

You’re someone who does the dirty work when governments, organizations, or even the Avengers themselves need it done. You erase people and trade lives like currency and manipulate systems from the inside out. You’re good at it, but it’s not who you are. At least, not the person you want to be—not when you’ve been given someone like Joaquin by the grace of the universe to stand beside you.

But the world isn’t kind to ghosts, to those who lurk in the shadows. And Joaquin… he’s everything you’re not.

He’s visible. He’s everything that is right and pure and true in the world. People believe in him and they believe in his future. Not in yours, not in the mess that’s followed you around all your life.

“Seriously?” you mutter, glaring at Sam, but he’s already slipping away from you, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Talk to him or don’t. But, if I hear either of you whining and brooding one more time, I’m putting you both in a room with Bucky. You know he’s tryna therapize everybody now that he has a shrink.”

You roll your eyes, but his words sit with you long after Sam disappears back into the trees. Talk to him or don’t…did you truly have a choice? He’s right, neither of you have stopped talking about the other. You turn toward Joaquin, who hasn’t moved an inch.

His face is collected, but it’s not just the expression—it’s the way he stands. There’s an edge to him now, something rough, jagged in his posture that makes your heart tighten.

You don’t give him the chance to speak. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you explain, your voice shaking under the weight of the tension.

Sam must’ve told him about the way you’d broken down earlier in the week, how much of a toll trying to do right by him took on you.

He lets out a dry laugh, one that starts to give away that he’s hurting too. You hear in the way his voice cracks. “You mean seeing you be real? Not that— that machine you become. Not worrying about who you are and who I am, just feeling it?”

You flinch, but he doesn’t look at you with judgment. It’s just the truth in his words—raw and impossible to deny. You’ve always tried to protect him from that. From you.

“I meant what I said, Joaquin,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “You have a future.

“We had a future.”

“Did we? You’re the Falcon– you’re Captain America’s right hand. People need you.”

His jaw tightens, and his eyes flash as they finally meet yours, the intensity there almost too much to bear. “And you don’t?”

“I’m one person. People believe in you. They trust in you.”

He already has a complicated relationship with the pressure of being a superhero. Could he keep something? Not his privacy or his image but you? Or would living his dream take everything from him?

“And they wouldn’t if they knew that I love you? That you love me too?” he asks, voice quieter but no less fierce.

You bite down on your lip, trying to steady yourself trembling under the depth of his words. Your own pour out of you almost frantically. “If they knew what I’ve done? If they knew what I still do? I torture and kill for a living, Joaquin. I’ve crossed lines you can’t even imagine. There’s so much that I can never tell you. If the wrong person finds out about me, about us, everything you’ve worked for could be gone in an instant. Your reputation, your team, your wings, maybe even Sam’s shield. I won’t do that to you.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. Your words hang in the air, unspoken truths that neither of you wants to face.

He doesn’t look angry and he doesn’t look scared either. But he looks tired—in the way people look when they’ve spent too long running from something that was always going to catch up with them.

“I don’t care,” he says finally. The words come out rough, a quiet certainty threading through his voice.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“I said I don’t care what they say,” Joaquín continues, stepping closer. His voice drops lower, each word carrying weight, but with something else behind it—something real. Something charged that makes butterflies swirl in your stomach. “I don’t care about politics, or optics, or keeping it clean for the cameras. I care about you, I love you. What matters more to me is you. Not the job or the title. Not the wings—you.”

Your chest feels tight, the weight of his words pushing you down, making your breath catch.You want to pull away, to let the distance between you both grow to protect him but you can’t. Not when he’s standing there—when he’s been so damn sure about you from the first time he laid eyes on you.

“I’m not good for you,” you whisper brokenly, the vulnerability you’ve been trying to shield yourself from finally breaking through.

“Maybe,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, his voice softer, like he’s holding onto every syllable. “But I want you.”

Before you can respond, he’s there. On you, surrounding you. His lips are on yours, pulling you into a kiss that’s fierce and desperate, raw with need. Your hands find his chest, and then his arms, gripping onto him as if you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. The world around you becomes nothing but noise and movement. The distant rustle of the leaves, the pounding of your heart. The overwhelming rush of warmth, heat, and everything that makes this moment feel like it’s been years in the making.

He presses you against the rough bark of the tree, his body flush against yours, his hands moving over your skin with a care and hunger that makes you ache. His lips leave yours only for a moment, just long enough for him to speak, his breath warm against your ear.

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs.

You don’t know how to respond but you don’t have to because he’s kissing you; no consuming you. The fear in your chest starts to melt into something else—that deep, raw desire that you’ve been trying to bury under the fear of ruining the one pure thing in your life. But the way he’s holding you, the way his fingers press into your chin and throat as he holds you, grounds you—he’s not letting go.

Not of you. Not of any of this. He’ll be damned.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, your voice breathless from the kiss, from how warm his mouth feels as it skates against the skin of your throat.

“I’ll show you how,” Joaquin says, his voice steady, confident between kisses. “One step at a time. Just trust me. You trust me right?”

“You know I do.”

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing. Trust that I know I meant to choose you. Can you do that for me?”

You nod and close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat settle against your own. You don’t think you’re ready for this, for everything that comes with it. But maybe, you can trust him to help you figure it out. Because with him, you’re not a ghost, not just a handler or a murderer or whatever the contract names you to be.

You’re just you. Just his.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @seraphibunni, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl, @blackwomanchronicles

[boyardee-znuts]

❤︎‬ [REDACTED] notices that you like to peek at his fishnets quite a bit... could you have a thing for them?  ‪‪❤︎‬ [REDACTED] x gn reader ‪ ❤︎ ‬wc: 2.3k‪‪  ❤︎‬ content warning(s): nsfw, yandere  ❤︎‬ [REDACTED] is from 14 days with you being developed by cutiesigh  ❤︎‬ mdni banner by cafekitsune

14 days with you is an 18+ game and is not suitable for minors. minors do not interact with the game and/or any fanfiction material posted here.

“you’re so fucking tight, angel…”

you have half a mind to cuss out [REDACTED], and if they weren’t buried eight inches inside of you, you might have. you can make out the dainty material of his fishnets stockings against your own legs as he practically folds you into a brutal mating press. heat grips at your core as he fucks into you, and to his delight, he’s rewarded with a loud squelching noise from your hole as he stuffs you full.

you should know by now that [REDACTED]’s voracious appetite for anything related to you far exceeds what you might expect. still, it’s hard to not be a bit curious about him, and it’s even harder for him to not feed into your curiosity. he cradles you close to his chest, making sure you can feel his bare skin on your naked body, heartbeats syncopating with each other.

“you’re adorable, did you know that?” the only thing on his body right now is a pair of tight, black fishnet stockings, the same ones he’s been wearing under his ripped jeans before he threw them off to fuck you. “did you really think i wouldn’t notice?”

“i-i don’t know what you’re talking about-,” you try to buy some time. your mind already feels so scrambled from having his cock inside of you. having your hips raised into a mating press isn’t helping you. it feels like every little movement of his cock has you seeing stars. god, you don’t think you’d be able to look at [REDACTED] in the eye if you ever came just from being penetrated by his stupidly hung dick.

“don’t play dumb now. i can feel you tightening up around me, clenching my cock like you don’t want to let go… don’t act like this isn’t turning you on. i know you too well for you to play this game with me,” his voice drops a pitch, the possessive tone seeping through. “i saw you sneaking glances at me all day. eating me up with your eyes. made me wonder what it did that got you so interested in me today… y’really know how to play with someone’s heart.”

he thrusts into you, and you throw your head back to let out a guttural moan. you don’t want to succumb to the pleasure just yet, don’t want to admit to him so quickly that he’s been able to read you like an open book. you know you’re fighting a losing battle, but you can’t give [REDACTED] the satisfaction of an easy kill, not when you still have some fight left in you.

he grins happily though. [REDACTED]’s already got what they’ve wanted. your attention all over him and now being folded in half and getting stretched out on his cock is the perfect conclusion to his day. 

“it’s the fishnets, isn’t it, angel? don’t be shy now… unless you want to be. if that’s the case, then i’ll have to fuck the answer out of you. bet you won’t be so cocky after i’ve made you cum so hard that you can only think about how good my cock feels.” he grabs at your hips and wiggles himself against your core, making sure you really feel his cock pressing up against your velvety walls. you whimper when you feel his fishnets also drag across the curve of your ass, and heat flashes through your entire body almost like a secondary pulse. 

he leans in close to your face, trapping you in between his lanky body. “it fucking turned me on too. all day, angel. think about how i would have felt. feeling your cute eyes sizing me up, staring at my legs all day… almost made me want to pull you aside and rail you in public. wrap these legs around you, the legs that you love s’fucking much.”

you feel a whine bubbling up in the back of your throat. fuck, he’s way too good at this. your hole keeps pulsing around him like a vice, and he’s making a mess out of your body by hitting all the spots you like best. every time his tip brushes deep inside of you, you can feel your self-control slipping from your mind. all you can feel is his body around yours, his voice ringing in your ears, his face flickering right in front of your hazy vision. 

but above all, you hate that he’s right. those stupid fishnets. him and his stupid alt e-boy fashion! it’s so stupidly attractive to see him draped all over with his black clothes, and it’s even more stupidly attractive to see bits of his fishnet tights peeking through the rips in his tight jeans. you did test your luck by letting your eyes wander one too many times. just the memory has saliva pooling in your mouth, and when you sneak a shaky peek at his legs now, your walls seize up around [REDACTED] like never before. 

it doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“haah- c’mon, angel, i see you ogling me even now-,” he laughs breathlessly on top of you. there’s something about the way the thick waistline sits on his hips, and the tiny criss-cross patterns of the strings covering every inch of his legs, his pale skin, does something to your brain. they make the sinews of his muscles that much more visible, the sensual silhouette of his legs accentuated by the tiny holes. they would rip so easily if you tugged at it, which was what he had done at his crotch area so he could fuck you in the first place. 

you’re so pent up that you’re going to cum if you stare at them any further. you reluctantly tear your eyes away, only for [REDACTED] to demand your attention again by brutally slamming his hips into you. moans shamelessly fall from your lips as he bullies his cock into you over and over again, your walls drinking up the addictive friction of having every inch of his length rubbing up against your insides. 

“you make it so easy for me to tease you, d’you know that? maybe i can work with this too. y’know i’d do anything to make you feel good,” [REDACTED] laughs. “what do you think? maybe i’ll fuck you nice and hard every time i wear these fishnets. that way whenever i wear them, you’ll get all cute and desperate and horny all f’me…”

your core throbs with arousal. it’s almost painful, how much he’s turning you on. something about [REDACTED] turning something so small and trivial into this whole mess and teasing you about it has your brain feeling like mush. his cock feels so good, and just the thought of him essentially pavloving into getting aroused by a pair of fishnets really has you losing your mind. your hole keeps sucking him in, unable to get enough of the high that having sex with him gives you.

“we can start right now. i’ll make you cum your brains out on my cock over and over. beg f’me a bit, won’t you?” he’s fucking you with a renewed vigor. “‘make me cum, [REDACTED]! getting fucked by you in your fishnets is the best! it makes your cock feel good!’ that’s not too hard to say now, is it?” 

you can feel your stomach flip at his words. you’re gasping and panting for air. you might cum if he makes you say something like that. you’re going to cum either way; your body can’t keep up with how hard and fast he’s plowing into you. for someone babbling about how much they love seeing you get flustered, you know he’s the type of boyfriend who’d cum in his pants, fishnets and all, if you kissed him long enough. 

once you have a better grip on yourself, you can recover your pride. once you have a better grip on yourself, you can do something about the stockings that started this whole thing. once you have a better grip on yourself, you can clear your head and be a better person. but now, as you are, you’re just a cockslut who’s about to orgasm over your boyfriend’s cock. all because he wore some fishnets. all because you might be developing a fetish for them. 

you swallow thickly. “m-make me cum, [REDACTED]...!”

“hm? what was that? couldn’t quite hear you.” he feigns ignorance. “i don’t think that was everything either. you’re so smart, angel… you know what you need to do to get me where you want.”

he’s lucky you like him so much. you find the strength to make proper eye contact with him, your face half-fucked out and eyelids drooping into hazy bedroom eyes. you take a good look at his whole body. his pretty face, all the tattoos decorating his body, the very fishnets that got you into trouble in the first place… all of it makes you so horny, so desperate for them, so insatiable to the point that their cock is the only thing that could make you feel better.

ignoring the building ache in your thighs, you spread your legs a bit further. you invite him in deeper, to mold your insides into the shape of his huge dick. “make me cum! g-getting fucked by you in your fishnets is the best…! it makes your cock feel good!”

the lovestruck grin that spreads across his face is indescribable. you’ve never seen a look of pure ecstasy before, but you think this might be the only apt descriptor. he leans his head down to press a gentle kiss to your mouth, a complete contrast to the pure filth he’s stirring up in between your legs. “anything else you want to add?”

there’s really only one thing you can think of. “i love you!”

maybe you should have thought that one a bit more through. 

the next thing you can realize is that you’re about to cum and that [REDACTED] has gone from fucking you with the intent of teasing you to straight up plowing into your insides until your mind breaks. it feels so good. you swear you feel him everywhere, in your guts, in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat. you can’t even moan properly as he presses himself fully against you, grunting as he fucks you out again and again. you’re going to cum. you can feel it. you can feel the heat in your tummy, your hole fluttering around him, the pressure, the pleasure, the tension threatening to break and leave you recoiling and undone all underneath him. 

“i love you too- haha- fuck-,” you can make out his faint voice above all the buzzing in your ears. “i love you. i love you, angel. i love you- i love you so, so much-”

something inside of you snaps. you can feel straight bliss rush through your body like a drug, and you cling to [REDACTED] as he fucks you through your orgasm. your body feels so hot, overheating, and yet the rush makes your vision spin until the vague black-pink blur of his hair is all you can make out. you can hear him give you a broken moan as your insides clamp down on him, and your juices coat his cock all over, desperate to break him down just as much he has done to you. 

it feels good. it feels good. his cock feels good. cumming feels so good! it’s all you can make out, all you can think. 

“oh- fuck- take it, angel- take me… hah- i love you!” a couple of hard thrusts from him, and then you feel him cum straight inside of you with a desperate whine of your name. a sudden sensation of fullness hits you like a brick wall as you wallow through the depths of your orgasm, the pleasure crashing and washing over you like the ebb and flow of a relentless ocean wave. you can feel his warmth seeping into you and spreading out to the corners of your body from the inside out, and it’s as if something akin to happiness is also dyeing the depths of your mind.

you let him fall on top of you and lay there, soaking up the skin-to-skin contact, as both of you try to make heads or tails of the pure physicality of it all. a wave of uncharacteristic shyness bites at your face when you can feel his fishnets rub against your own legs as he cradles you, softening cock still lodged in you so he can savor the combined warmth of his sticky cum and your loving insides. 

“i think you got a little too cocky there,” you chuckle weakly, breaking the ambient silence to reach for him and hold him in your arms. “don’t forget that i have that ace up my sleeve.”

“hm.” he sounds unimpressed when he moves his face so he can peer into your eyes. you both still have a distant dazed look in your eyes, still feeling the final afterwaves of your shared orgasms, still blissed out on the simple intimacy behind something that started over something so mundane. “but you’re the one who ended up with a new kink, so i wouldn’t talk too big…”

you laugh again, your hand wandering down the side of his body to grasp blindly at the waistline of his fishnets. you grab at it and curl your fingers around the elastic waistband, and you tug at it so it snaps just the slightest bit against his hip. [REDACTED] lets out a small yelp at your retaliation, but his momentary disdain is quickly replaced by the usual adoration in his eyes.

you can process everything later. new fetish or not, these fishnets did net you something fun today. 

takashi murakami: !n-cha!

[rassicas]

today on splatoon mythbusters: is Agent 4 a country bumpkin?

no lol this is probably the funniest widespread misconception to come out in recent years A big part of it is because people misunderstood this map.

I came across this trivia point on the wiki page for agent 4 while making this post LOL agent 4 has better access to public transportation than 95% of you With all that green on the map and nothing marked in between, It seems that people have been assuming the population density of inkopolis looks something like the image on the left. While it's unclear exactly how big the population is of inkadia and the surrounding area is, going roughly off of how irl east Tokyo and neighboring Chiba prefecture look, i think its safe to guess were dealing with an urban area that looks more like whats on the right.

(side note about population count: i take the account of the Low Water Party with a grain of salt since that isnt even a real number they used. something that is more reliable is that graffiti artist Sally has over 240k followers on social media. while followers can be from anywhere in the world ofc, it sounds like her fanbase is largely in inkopolis. i think its safe to say inkopolis is a very big city!)

If we're to look more at the irl equivalent of the area, it seems the Inkopolis Coastal Connector is based on the Keiyo Line. Following that line roughly to where 4's house is lands us in a ward in Chiba city. It doesn't look like much, but about 100k people live in that area. Not a super crazy urban area like tokyo, but still urban.

(incidentally, a major landmark on the Keiyo line is Makuhari Messe, where 3 of the irl splatoon idol concerts have been held. maybe a coincidence but maybe gives more credence to the idea that that's what the coastal connector is based on?) Apparently on the Japanese side, there's a theory that 4 is from Yotsukaido, which is a little further north of the area i circled. why there? Yotsukaido means "4 town street"...4...haha

Ok enough guessing based on "vibes" and real maps that may or may not be accurate to how things are in the splatoon world. The Actual lore: On Splatoon base it's confirmed they grew up about 40 minutes away from Inkopolis by train, close to the city. That's like a nothing amount of distance.

Another developer interview from 2017 goes into more detail.

Inoue: Agent 3 had a very "I've finally made it to the city" feeling, with a strong desire to become fresh. 4 on the other hand, not so much. Rather than being someone from the countryside, they're more like someone who came from a commuter town within the greater metropolitan area. It's like a place where the limited express trains wouldn't stop at, but the semi-express trains would (laughs).

so agent 4 is very clearly, a city kid. agent 3 is the country bumpkin, from an area so far away its not even on the map. According to splatoon base...

Far enough away that they moved to inkopolis alone. meanwhile 4 lives close enough that they could just go home to their parents after battling.

Also this is something that I never see brought up. Amidst the dubiously canon early concept comics in the back of the artbook, there's a comic about agent 3 leaving their hometown, mentioning they live in a seaside town called [REDACTED] with a population of 5000.

Again, these comics are dubious since theyre so old. but there are ideas in these comics that have carried over to the final games in some form, and this is consistent with agent 3's final characterization that they come from a far away small town and had a longing for the city.

anyway tldr i think its funny how agent 4's fandom characterization/backstory got swapped with 3's all because of a misread map

[despairots]

DILUTE ME!

this is meant for older audiences, but if you are under the age of 18, i can not stop you from reading this.

story contains: light suggestive themes, yandere themes, ren/[REDACTED] should be a warning itself, mentions of murdering, etc. reader is a bit timid and shy when with [REDACTED] in this but they’re usually sultry and sweet.

context: yandere! reader gets over their sick and twisted ways of showing their love but finds it hard to keep it in once getting with their partner. gn! reader

you didn’t know what lend to this. you swore you got over the tendencies, the habit, the absolute anger you’d feel once you see another person that’s not you making a move on what’s supposed to be yours. why did he let this happen? why was this girl flirting with him infront of you?

your lips pulled itself into a tight line, your face pulling a look of absolute disgust, keeping the thought of bashing her head into the brick wall at bay, but how long could you keep it in until you just gave in and did every horrible thing possible to her?

god, how much longer will she try? actually, why hasn’t ren said anything yet? your eyes shifted from her figure to his, catching every detail of their face snd engraving it into memory. it didn’t matter how many times you do it, they look better every time you do.

your mouth went to open before it shut when she let out an obnoxious laugh. your eyebrow twitched, clutching onto your boyfriends hand even tighter, biting your tongue back. please, please, please, you thought you were better than this. unfortunately, you’ve went back to your default settings.

“leave them alone, you tramp.” you muttered under your breath, letting her only hear it (not knowing he picked it up aswell) before you scoffed at her and pulled ren away. mind was racing with different ways to dispose of her, as ren could only stare at you with puppy eyes.

back to your shared room, you stripped yourself out of your clothes, digging through his clothes and putting them on. any sort of reminder of them as you kept going back to the girl who kept flirting with them. who the hell did she think she was?

ren saw the way you glared at her, saw the way you bit your tongue back to snap at her when she got a little close, they loved it. now, watching you mentally mutter insults to yourself about that unknown whilst in their clothing, all he could think about was you.

how your scent would linger in their clothing, how you were so willingly to strip in front of him and wear their clothing. you looked so small in it, compared to him. ren watched you turn your back away from them, a slight twinge pulled at his chest. were you mind at him?

“are you mad at me, angel?” one of their hands lifted his oversized shirt on, trailing their fingers up and down your back, feeling your smooth skins and the way you shivered from his touch. “i—i’m not mad at you.” the way you ended your sentence with venom made him smile a bit.

ren trailed their fingers over to your stomach until wrapping his arm around it and pulling you back to his chest, hearing you yelp at the sudden pull. from this position, ren could see the growing blush from your cheeks as you tried hiding it in your arm and pillow.

“did… did you think she was cute?” their real name slipped from your tongue, and he couldn’t help but pull a face of disgust when you asked. she couldn’t compete to you in any other way. ren kept a note in disposing her later once you fell asleep, they didn’t want you to think he was attracted to her.

ren placed small kisses onto the back of your neck, hearing you breathe softly each time he made in contact with your skin, “you’re all i want.” their voice was muffled against the crook of your neck, as you flipped around and placed a gentle hand on his cheeks, a soft smile on your face.

“go to sleep, okay? i promise to give you treat later. remember? poorly behaved dogs get not treat.” fuck, that was hot. once you say that, there was no turning back, the both of you would last hours. ren’s eyes widened until their lips pulled into a light smirk, his hand going to the back of your head and pulling you into a deep kiss.

your hand slid down to his chest, finding itself slipping underneath their clothing and resting it there. a light moan escaped your mouth when ren took control, his tongue slipped into your mouth, marking every inch of it until they pulled away, a string of saliva a reminder.

ren went back to placing kisses on your neck, sometimes nipping at it if he felt a like a tease, grinning whenever you would release a small whine. your hands played with his hair, waiting until he fell asleep to execute your plan. a devious smile pulled onto your lips, hearing the breathes of the one you love.

you pulled away lightly, making sure you didn’t wake them up as you placed a pillow to be a substitute for you until you came back. this will be the only time you’ll resort back to your old ways, dressing in all back, grabbing a pair of latex gloves and a box cutter. as much as you wanted to do worse, this will have to do.

finding her wasn’t hard to do, she was walking around clearly under the influence, and you couldn’t help but snort at how stupid of a bimbo she was. you dragged her back to a secluded spot, keeping a hand over her mouth as you tossed her to the ground and went to stab the box cutter deep into the side of her neck.

you stayed in that position, maybe pushing it into her neck deeper for safety measures (when really you just wanted to get in more stabs). you pushed her to the side, putting the box cutter into your pocket and pulling the black mouth mask down, a judging look on your face.

disposing her body was easy, killing her was easy too— everything was easy actually. you didn’t need to do anything extreme to get rid of her. you quietly sneak back inside your home, stretching your limbs and taking the gloves off. you opted to throw the box cutter away but decided to keep it as a reminder that you had killed somebody again.

a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back to something as a half scream half yelp was muffled when a hand came to your mouth. you thrusted around… until a familiar voice whispered into your ear, “now where were you, angel? did’ya really leave me to solve my own problem?” you knew what he meant by problem but that didn’t bother you when you remembered you were covered in blood.

“ren— let me go—“ their hold against you tightened, they took a piece of your ear into his mouth and nibbled on it, “so, how’d you kill her? stab her? strangled her? come on— you could’ve left her to me!” the way he said it sent a chilling shiver down your spine; what the hell did they mean?

he turned you around, wiping off some excess blood on your cheek with a lovesick smile. god, you looked so good like this. “what are you talking about?” you whispered, ren’s lips inches away from yours as their eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes.

“y’know what i’m talking about.”

your eyebrows were pulled into a frown, why isn’t he finding this weird? “you’re not disgusted by me?” ren let out a sigh, his next words being muffled by your lips, “i can never be disgusted by you.” you pulled away slightly, lips parted and pupils blown out, eyes flickering from their lips to their eyes nervously.

“but i killed someone…”

“and i enjoyed every minute of it.” the way ren said it made butterflies flutter in your chest, but yet you still felt disgusted by yourself. you promised you wouldn’t resort back to your old ways, yet you couldn’t help yourself. the way she decided to flirt with him in front of you, made you want to feel the same feeling you’d get whenever someone decided to get too cozy with something that was yours.

ren noticed the lack of words, bringing you into a comforting kiss, feeling you relax in their hold as you slowly kissed back. knowing the extremes you’d take for him, he couldn’t help but feel flattered that you’ll do that for him.

“come on, how ‘bout that treat i’m supposed to be getting?” ren shoved the black sweater off you, lips still interlocked as they placed their phone on the kitchen counter,

… as photos of you stalking and killing the women appeared on his phone.

[harmonyrae]

Ṗ̸̛̳̻̝͓̪͒̑͘r̵̥̳̯̠̟͎̈́͛͐̇͊a̶͍̩̰̩͔̪̩̅͂̀̿̓͠e̷̺̦̫͍͖̭̣͕̞̊̎̑̍d̵̡͓͓͖̹̒̆͗̈́͜͜á̸̢̡̻̳̫̦͔̉̾̄̄̌̋͝t̴͙͎͂̍̍̉͐̀̓͘ô̷̧̭r̵̖̱̞͇̺͓̠̝̱̒ͅ [REDACTED]

Synopsis: Your constant escape attempts have become more than a nuisance. Turning to another praedator wasn't standard procedure, but they're out of options.

AN: This was written before playing the memory. This fic is just based on the alternate universe concept where Sylus is feral & unhinged. So, this is just raunchy, dirty fun. Happy Valentine's Day!

Content Warnings: violence, gore, blood, psychotic/psychosis, explicit language & sexual content, breath play, biting, implied unprotected sex, creampie, rough ROUGH sex, dom!Sylus, mentions of Sylus myth, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 5.9k

Now Playing:

Choke - Mobiius

Limits - Bad Omens

Circus Psycho - Diggy Graves

“I’ve got her! Level 23, she’s heading for the south stairwell! Go go go!”

The angry voice on the intercom screamed orders, it was too late to change direction. You dive through the heavy metal door. Your sweat slick hands barely hold onto the railing as you hurl yourself down the stairs. If you made it to level 14 you’d be farther than you’ve ever been before. 

“Level four level four level four window break window jump window…”

Your incoherent rambling echoed through the stairwell. You could hear their boots on the stairs above you. You dared to look up the narrow opening between the stairs and felt a bullet graze your cheek. You fall backwards and tumble down the next flight of stairs. The dull ache was comforting, you’d learned to use pain to your advantage. Your bruises served as motivation, a roadmap for your failures, lessons learned.

A quick glance over your shoulder, a small blood trail trickled across the floor behind you. As you descend the stairs, you wipe your nose, blood pools in your hand. You had hit your head during the fall. Shit. You knew what would happen if they caught up to you. 

As you approached Level 13, your lungs were burning, but your heart was hammering with excitement. So… damn… close…

“Gotcha!”

You slam into something solid. Before you can come to your senses and redirect, thick arms are wrapped around you. You thrash against them. Your jaw aches from how wide you stretch your mouth open, your screams nearly deafen the men surrounding you. Some cover their ears, some shrink back - fuckin newbies.

You latch onto the flesh in front of you, your teeth sinking in deep. The arms holding you let you go and you stumble, trying to grab onto the railing and pull yourself down the stairs. You could taste their blood, soured by radiation. Level 11 is right… there…

BANG

You felt a sharp jolt of electricity vibrate through your legs and then… nothing. Your face slams into the floor, your wrists ache and you can’t feel your legs. You try to turn over, but you can’t move. You try to move your legs, but they're just… not there… Fuck, they shot your spine out again. You groan as you slam your hands onto the floor, your voice hoarse from screaming came out as a pitiful broken whine.

A single set of boots circles you and comes to a stop in front of your face. You strain your eyes to look up at the figure looming over your bloodied and broken body, but all you see is the barrel of a gun. Blood leaks out of the corners of your mouth as it curves into a smile. A laugh erupts from your throat as the man pulls the trigger.

BANG

A group of four men dressed in tactical armor stand around a table, your body laid out and chained to a bed beside them. One of the men turns to face you, he leans back against the table and crosses his arms.

“235. She doesn’t know when to quit does she?”

“70 attempts in the last 2 weeks alone, how the fuck are we supposed to do anything else? We’re just chasing her around all damn day.”

A door opens and a man in a suit walks in, he’s more distinguished than the other men and it’s not just because of the suit. He walks past the men at the table and approaches the bed. He pulls back the sheet to look down at your still lifeless body. His finger traces the bullet hole on your forehead, a smile spreading across his lips as he watches it slowly close. 

“I thought I told you not to shoot her unless it was absolutely necessary.”

The men at the table straighten and the one leaning takes a cautious step forward.

“She fell and hit her head, we don’t have the medical capabilities to treat a brain injury. It was easier to initiate a jump start.”

“What did you just say?”

All the men bristle and look down at the floor, letting their comrade struggle.

“We’ve just… we refer to it as a ‘jump start’ - I know it’s not official, we just don’t know what else to call it.”

The well-dressed man turns and stands toe to toe with the cowering soldier. 

“She is more valuable than you will ever be. I expect her to be treated as such.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry sir.”

The man nods, accepting the apology for the moment. He turns and puts on a clean pair of gloves. He picks up the tattoo gun and dips the needle into the already prepared ink cap. He returns to the bed and pulls the sheet completely away. Your body is still bruised and bloody, except for one of your legs. The distinct scent of alcohol fills the room as the man turns your leg to reveal a large patch of skin already covered in small tattoos.

The man leans over and presses the needle down onto your skin, next to the other markings. He draws a single dark line, as he dabs at your skin with a paper towel, his fingers graze over the other marks. Tally marks.

“I thought I made myself clear yesterday. Find a solution or I’ll replace your entire unit.”

The soldiers shrink back watching their leader stare at the floor. The man tosses the tattoo gun across the room and stalks over to take the man by the throat. 

“Your plan, now, or your replacement starts today. After your body is finished burning.”

The man grabs at the burley hands around his throat. He gasps and stretches his feet, trying to reach the floor. He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Tartarus! Tartarus, she’ll go to Tartarus!”

The grip around his throat loosens and he is released. He falls to his knees and coughs, his hand rubbing his neck. He looks up and sees his boss tapping your knee with a small utensil, he watches your foot twitch. He tests the other knee and when he sees the same result he smiles. 

“Why Tartarus?”

The soldier finally stands, he holds onto the table and keeps his eyes locked on your unconscious form. Your chest has started to rise and fall, your skin less pale than before.

“She’s not afraid of anything. She could be thrown out of a window and laugh when she hits the dirt. She expects immediate action, but Tartarus doesn’t act unless he knows he’ll get something out of it. If anything, he’ll distract her long enough for us to improve her holding cell.”

A suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair at the table and the man sits. He picks up the deck of cards from the center of the table, carefully shuffling them before sifting through them.

“And what do you think… Tartarus…”

He holds up a King of Hearts card.

“Will do when she…”

He holds up a Queen of Hearts card.

“...is tossed in his cage?”

A shaky hand grips the back of the chair across from him. The soldier sits, his elbows lean dig into the table as his hands rake through his damp hair.

“The others are an equal match for her, she’d have a chance at putting them down. Even Perses… she’d talk her way into his head.”

“What about Tamino? Hermit?”

“Tamino plays with his food. But I think she’d kick him once and he’d roll over. Hermit is touch starved. She could breathe on him and he’d wrap himself around her.”

“And Galen?”

“We’ve been giving him the medicine you gave us. He’d be the first to figure out her… gift. He’d probably peel her skin off to watch it grow back.”

“So Tartarus…”

“He’s patient, methodical… he’d love it if she tried to get in his head. And he wouldn’t hesitate to pin her down if it got physical.”

“What if he discovers her… what did you call it… her gift?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to test her limits?”

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted it. He held his breath as the color drained from his skin. A cold hand reached across the table and tapped the King card. 

“Then go on… give the king his queen.”

With that, the man stood, picked up his suit jacket and left the room. The men huddled in the corner approached the table, surrounding their superior who finally stood. He looked at you. He stalked over and slammed his hands down on the bed beside you. He growled, his anger boiling over as he collected himself and planned his next steps.

“Send her to Zia for a cleaning and new clothes. Then drop her in the cage. Notify me when it’s done. I’ll handle the… introduction.”

You see flashes of light, so bright your eyes burn. You hear the crashing of waves, loud and violent like a storm approaching. You smell bitter cold air, as if snow is just about to fall. You feel a jolt of electricity, your body damn near weightless, floating. And then a sharp pain to your heart, wind chilling your cheeks as you are pulled forward by an unseen force. 

CLANK

Your eyes flutter open. The sound of chains against metal was too familiar. Too aggravating. You groan as you slowly lift your arms. You expected to feel their weight around your wrists, but you felt nothing. The dark ceiling above you was not the one you’d grown accustomed to. The scent, musk and spice, is not your own. 

The crashing waves deafening you finally fade away and you hear the chains again, this time much closer than before. Your body moves on instinct, rolling over and squatting low. Your arms stretch out to the side and you feel the sting of cold metal bars behind you. These are not the bars you’re used to. They’re not smooth, jagged edges catch the leather of your gloves. You’re suddenly aware your clothes have been changed. You haven’t gotten a change of clothes in months. The cuts and bullet holes must have been too much of an eye sore for someone. 

You blink rapidly, adjusting to the low lighting. Your muscles flex, testing your new clothes. The smooth fabric of the bodice was stretchy, enough for you to roll and jump without a problem. The leather harnesses would prove to either be an asset or a major pain in the ass, you’d figure it out later. The cut outs along your hips are wide, you slowly run a hand down and sure enough, Zia didn’t give you underwear again. You’d yell at her the next time you saw her, just because she liked to go commando doesn’t mean you did. Leather gloves covered your arms up to your bicep, a thick buckle connected them to the harness across your breasts. The same style buckles connect the thigh high stockings to the harness hooked around your waist. Knee high boots were tightly laced and the thick soles squeaked against the floor, fuck… they took your sneakin’ boots.

Lifting your hand to your face you feel the familiar metallic mask, the low hum of the invisible filter covering your mouth was somewhat comforting. Everytime they removed it, your head would ache and memories you couldn’t place would flood your mind. Jasmine flowers, blue fish, stars, apples… feathers… 

“No no no no no not now…”

You whisper to yourself, shaking your head. Your loosely braided hair falls over your shoulder and brushes against something that makes you gasp. Your hand quickly circles your neck, a thick leather band is sewn into place. A metal hook sits at the back, you tug at the chain connected to it and growl. 

“No… no no no…”

A loud screech sends you back down to your knees, your hands fly up to your ears.

“Don’t pull on it too hard, he won’t like that.”

Your eyes widen and you look up, scanning the edges of the room beyond the cage you’re in. A flash of light draws your attention and you spot the observation room. The windows of the room are thick, only one set of metal shutters are lifted and you see him - Everett. He’s been your tormentor, your assigned guard since you arrived at this godforsaken facility. He didn’t have his usual smirk… something’s off… 

“Trust me, you don’t want to make him angry. Just look at the guy behind you.”

You glance over your shoulder through the bars. A faint outline of a man is hidden by shadows. A loud click rings out as a spot light illuminates where the figure lies. The sight before you sends you crawling away from the bars towards the center of the cage. It looks like the man… exploded… blood stains the floor and walls, bones lay scattered across the floor. Your chest tightens and your nails dig into the floor of the cage. You hear chains drag along the floor behind you and you freeze.

“Don’t worry, we finally figured out an Evol suppressor for him. He shouldn’t be able to do that again. Hopefully.”

You carefully turn over to sit on your knees. You steady yourself and stand slowly. The room is still too dark, the cage is much larger than you realized. You still can’t see who is responsible for the carnage. 

“Now that he has a new toy, I think you’ll be a little too busy to try for attempt 236.”

You look up at Everett and bare your teeth, you dig your nails into your palm and feel the sting through your gloves. You’re tempted to lunge forward, but the chain connected to your collar sways behind you. You’re not sure how long your new leash is and what it’s connected to exactly. You glare at Everett, his eyes meet yours and his smirk finally returns.

“Don’t worry, I’ll check in. Every few days or so. Have fun.”

You scream as the metal shutter closes and Everett disappears. The spotlight shuts off and panels of lights along the baseboards flicker on. The white slowly darkens to a warm red tone, making the air feel heavy. You dive to the side of the cage, brace your back against the bars and pull your knees up to your chest. Wrapping the chain around your wrist twice and holding it in your hand, you were used to a fight, but who were you up against this time?

A deep rumbling laugh echoes through the room sending shivers down your spine. It was familiar and terrifying. You hold onto the bars as you crawl around the outside edge of the cage, dragging your chain leash behind you.

“You look like a kitten crawling around like that…”

A raspy voice from deep within the shadows rings out. You wince, that voice… It's like a knife cutting through your flesh. But why? 

“And what are you? The fucking boogie man? Hiding in the shadows like a pussy?”

That laugh… He’s laughing at you. You grit your teeth and carefully stand up, staying close to the edge of the cage. The floor vibrates as chains drag, your grip tightens around the bar, ripping through the fabric of your glove.

“Oh I like you…”

A subtle tug on the chain in your hand makes your knees shake. You have nothing to be afraid of, you’re fucking immortal, this prick can get fucked. So why was your heart racing? Your cheeks burning? A fresh surge of rage washes over you, you fling the chain around your wrist a third time before giving it a harsh tug. A grunt and clatter from deep within the shadows confirms your suspicions… you’re chained to each other. 

“Kitten wants to play hmm…”

You widen your stance, bringing your fists up.

“Bring it on bitch!”

But instead of being forced forward or a beast lunging at you from the shadows, you hear steady footsteps approaching you. A figure appears between the line of shadow and light, he’s tall, much taller than you. And he’s wide, his well built shoulders taper down to a slim waist and hips. A boot crosses into the light, your eyes trail up the set of long legs and your breath catches in your throat as you take in his toned torso. 

“Fuck…”

“Like what you see, kitten?”

You thought you were whispering, but apparently not. You grimace, irritated by your body's reaction. That waist looked even more delicious with the hips of his pants digging into him. Chains drape along his hips and up the center of his torso. A thick strap crosses the center of his chest, holding the sleeve of his barely there jacket in place. The other sleeve was just straps of leather wound around his massive bicep and forearm. He had the same apparatus secured to his face, but on him, it looked more like a muzzle than a filtered mask. His shaggy silver hair hung down to his shoulders, short strands swept across his forehead. Then you saw them… his eyes. The chain didn’t need to pull you, just his gaze had you taking a step forward. 

“Oh you do…”

His condescending tone brought you back to reality, your jaw ached from your teeth grinding. 

“Fuck you.”

His eyes widen, and there’s that all too familiar glare - the one you’ve seen in the mirror. His arm flies backwards and the chain around your wrist is yanked forward. You stumble and hold onto the bar behind you, your shoulder pops loudly and you scream. Unable to hold on, you let go of the bar and shift to hold onto the chain, pulling back with all your strength. You see his arms jolt upwards and he grunts. You glance up at the ceiling of the cage and spot a hook with multiple chains secured to it. 

He takes another step toward you and you know you have seconds to act before he pounces. Leverage. You need leverage. You whip the chain against the floor and it glides through the air like a wave, hitting the man in the face. He stumbles backwards and you seize the opportunity. 

You sprint to the edge of the cage and wrap the chain around two bars. You take two steps back and drag the loop you’ve created through the bars. You loop the chain around your left wrist as many times as you can before turning and running directly towards the man. His gaze finds yours and his wicked smile falters. You hear the chain clanging against the hook and then the man is thrown forward. He loses his balance and falls, his knees hit the ground as his arms fly into the air above his head. You turn and lean back, when you glance over your shoulder, he is standing, his arms still held above his head.

“Oh I’m going to enjoy this, sweetie. Show me what you’ve got.”

You expect him to fight back, to tug at the chain and send you flying into the air, but he doesn’t. He occasionally struggles against them, but never enough to move you. He stares at you, he tilts his head and you see his nostrils flair. You watch his pupils dilate and he bites his lip.

“Your smell… hmm… If you don’t hurry sweetie…”

You squeeze your thighs together, not to strengthen your stance, but rather to try to stop your arousal from leaking down your legs. He can smell how turned on you are? Fuck Zia for not giving your underwear… fuck… You can’t wrap your head around why your body was reacting this way. But with every glance over your shoulder, you could tell this beast of a man was experiencing something similar. You take the risk and stand up straight, still holding the chain tightly to keep his hands raised. Approaching him slowly, you side step and let your eyes fall down his body.

You knew you had tattoos, used to keep track of not only your escape attempts - your entire back covered with tally marks, with no room left they had to move to your legs - but also to keep track of the tests they ran. Similar tattoos adorned his body, you could make a few guesses to their meaning. The roman numerals were most likely his admission date, just like the barcode was for guards to pull up his profile. You wondered what his code name was, did he get something stupid under the guise that it was “symbolic” or did his name suffice. What is his name? Should you ask?

As you circle behind him, he glances over his shoulder at you. His eyes shine and you’re tempted to take a step closer. 

“My name’s Sylus, by the way.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He chuckles and turns, his side profile bathed in a warm red glow. You meet his glare and pull on the chain. He lurches forward but maintains eye contact. His name… you know him… don’t you? But how? No no no… It’s the radiation again… has to be has to be has to be…

“Tick tock…”

His voice disrupts your thoughts. You wince and dare to step closer. 

“What…?”

“Tick… tock…”

His tone is teasing, but his eyes are hungry. His eyes… his eyes… red… red… red… As if reading your mind, he turns to face you fully. His eyes shine and he leans down to your level. His right eye twitches and he blinks. It doesn’t stop the twitching, his face twists as if he’s in pain. He yanks the chain down and you fall backward. You hit the floor and lose your grip on the chain. As you scramble to wrap the slack around your wrist, you look back and see Sylus holding his head in his hands. 

“Sorceress…”

You drop the chain. Sorceress... His voice is quiet… far away… strained… You sit back, your hands behind you on the floor. You try to inch your way backwards, but the pain behind your eyes becomes too strong. You can’t look away from Sylus, his muscles straining against the chains, sweat dripping down his chest, his hands taking fistfulls of hair. And then… he looks up at you. 

And all you see is red red red red red red red red…

Sylus’s eye was glowing, streams of red and black mist flowing out of corners and down his face, around his neck, down his arms, around the chain and towards the ceiling. Your chest rises and falls faster and faster. His presence becomes all-encompassing, he’s in your head, feeling his way around, digging through your memories. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve ripped the mask off your face. Your chest burns as the air around you thickens, it’s as if the radiation washes over you for the first time. 

“Sylus…”

It’s like your voice is not your own. Something ancient awakens. Your desire burns hotter. 

SNAP

The chain shatters, disappearing into the red and black mist. Sylus’s eye stops glowing and he lunges at you. Your mind is muddy, but your instincts are still sharp. You roll to the side just as Sylus reaches you. You dig your toes into the floor and push off, rushing forward - to where, you have no fucking clue… 

CRACK

The chain around your wrists force you back. You turn and grab the chain, but your hands are shaking. Another yank and you are falling again. You tuck and roll and try to regain your footing. You look up and Sylus stretches the chain between his hands. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, he slowly stalks toward you, like he’s hunting. 

“Sylus?”

Again, your voice surprises you. Images flood your mind, your head so full you’re convinced you’ll burst. A gold lamp with a tiny dragon… A glowing sword… Horns… 

A loud growl breaks the silence and you look up to see Sylus right in front of you. You turn around, but realize you’re backed into a corner, you’re trapped. Sylus’s arm wraps around your neck, his chest pressed against your back. And of course now you realize your bodice is backless, his hard abdomen against your bare back sends a new jolt to your clit and you moan.

You feel Sylus’ smile as he presses his mouth into the crook of your neck. His other hand traces your side and reaches around to hold your hip, he grips your firmly and holds you against him. You feel how hard he is and let out another breathy whimper. Ever since arriving at this facility you’ve been emotionless, yet being with him for less than 10 minutes has you falling apart? 

“You’re not allowed to fly away…”

He flexes his bicep against your neck and you lean your head back to get more air. He presses his lips to your temple, his voice gentle compared to his damn near suffocating grip.

“My little bird…”

He takes a deep breath and his chest vibrates against you as he groans. He dips his head down and licks the side of your face. Blame it on the increased radiation from not wearing your mask, you’re done playing it safe. You want nothing more than to be reckless and fucking messy. You roll your hips and reach a hand back to grip onto Sylus’s hair. His moan in your ear sends you into a frenzy. You sink your teeth into his forearm - his blood isn’t bitter… it’s sweet… it’s rich…

The sound he makes is anything but human and when you lick over the wound you created he growls again. He spins you around and grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head as he backs you against the bars of his cage. He leans in and uses his other hand to grip your face, his fingers dig into your cheeks and you smile. This kind of pain was making you delirious. 

“Last chance sweetie… fight back or surrender.” 

He loosens his grip on your face and wraps his hand around your neck, letting his thumb graze your pulse point. Your heart flutters when you see his quick glance down to your lips. 

“My dragon…”

You’re not sure why you said it, but you don’t stop yourself from repeating it over and over. His eyes hold an emotion you can’t quite place. It’s quickly replaced with a fire you’re familiar with. The desire to conquer, to devour.

“I surrender…”

Sylus covers your mouth with his, nipping at your bottom lip almost immediately demanding to be let in. You open your mouth and he sinks his tongue inside, your tongues fight against each other as his hand travels down to your body. You may have surrendered, but you wouldn’t back down from this particular battle. You wanted to hear him moan, to feel him writhe, to make him just as much yours as you’d be his. 

You feel the chains around your wrist snap and hear them clatter to the floor. Sylus’s hands grab onto your harness and he tears his lips away to lift you. He throws you up into the air and lets go of your harness to grab your waist. You yelp as he backs you against the bars again, your legs forced to wrap around his waist. Before he can even recapture your lips, you roll your hips and rub yourself against his abs. He glares at you and you grab his hair tugging his head back roughly. Your lips meet his neck and he groans. You suck the skin over his Adam's apple before biting gently. 

He steps back and drops you to your feet suddenly. He takes hold of your harness again and the straps dissolve into a red and black mist, just like the chains. He pulls your gloves off in one smooth motion, tossing them behind him. He sinks his fingers into the front of your bodice and…

RIP

He tears the bodice completely. You shiver as the cold air hits your tits and soaked cunt. The chill doesn’t last long, Sylus spins you around again and presses his warm body against yours. His hands wrap around you and he cups your breast, rolling your peaked nipple before pinching it. His other hand dips down and digs his fingers in to find your clit. He spreads you open and rolls his finger over the sensitive bud of nerves directly. Your body seizes and he releases your breast to wrap around your waist. You reach back to try and rub his cock through his pants and he nips at your ear. 

“Do you really think you’ve earned that?”

He lunges forward and your bare torso is pushed against the bars of his cage. He doesn’t hesitate to sink his fingers into your weeping cunt. Your pussy sucks in his digits greedily, your walls pulse around them in an instant. You whine and try to pull your hips back, but he shoves his hips forward to keep yours in place. His fingers work their way in and out, the lewd sounds of your cunt drive you closer to the edge. He tilts your head to the side so he can place sloppy kisses to your neck.

“Your cunt is so… greedy…”

His whispers, his fingers, his chest against your back, his scent, his everything… You gasp for air, the angle of your neck and the relentless scissoring of Sylus’s fingers has you coming embarrassingly fast. As your release drips over Sylus’s hand and down your thighs you hear him groan.

“Did I say you could do that? Bad girl…”

He gives your pussy a slap and your legs tremble. You lean your head back against his shoulder and his arm is around your neck once more. He drags you backward and pushes you down onto your knees. He kneels behind you and lifts his hand to your mouth, tapping your lips, a silent command to open. You obey and he sticks his fingers in for you to clean, he moans as he feels your tongue lap up every ounce of your own release. 

“Down.”

His command is accompanied with his hand splayed on your upper back, he pushes you down and you rest your chest on the floor. He grabs onto your hips and tugs them upwards. Your chest against the cold floor, your slick cunt spread for him, your mind is finally clear - no more flashes of memories or pain. The only thing that exists right now is Sylus. You hear the clicks of buckles and then Sylus’s jacket is tossed to the floor in front of you. You try to push yourself up to look over your shoulder, desperate to see his body. His hand returns to your upper back and pushes you back down.

“Hands.”

You put your hands behind your back and he holds your wrists to your lower back with one hand. You feel his cock rub against your dripping cunt and can’t hold back.

“Sylus please please please… fuck…”

Another slap to your pussy makes you growl, the frustration becoming almost more than you could handle. Just as you’re about to start pushing your hips back you feel his tip circle your tight cunt. He pushes himself into you slowly, savoring every pulse and clench. When he bottoms out, he pauses for a moment, letting you adjust and breathe. But as soon as you breathe in, the air is pushed back out. His hips retreat and snap forward, Sylus roars as he slams into you over and over. One hand holding your wrists, the other latched onto your hip to keep you in place. He hits your g-spot with every thrust and your second orgasm is close… so damn close. But you know you have to wait for Sylus to give you permission this time, or he might stop altogether. 

“I need to… I need ohhh…”

“Not yet. Don’t…”

His rushed words prove he is just as undone as you are. He releases your wrists and leans down to wrap his arm around your neck again. Your body hums as he takes control and holds you closer. His other hand slams down onto the ground beside yours. You feel his chest heave and his hips slow as he adjusts you both to the new position. He rolls his hips, grinding against you, hitting that perfectly little spot that makes you see stars. He begins thrusting harder, his movements more panicked than before. His voice trembles as he mumbles in your ear. 

“Not…”

Thrust

“...allowed…”

Thrust

“... to fly…”

Thrust

“...away…”

His hips stall as his climax washes over him. A deep rumble shakes his chest - somewhere between a growl and a moan. You’re so fucking full… full of his cock, his cum… He overwhelms your senses, your tender pussy flutters as it milks his cock of every last drop. You grab onto his forearm and dig your fingernails into his skin. 

“Sylus… I can’t hold on please please…”

He sits back on his heels, bringing you with him. He barely has to move, you’re so overstimulated just the pressure alone is enough to send you over. You start rolling your hips, lifting yourself to feel the drag of his swollen tip. You close your eyes and lean your head back, finding your rhythm. His hand travels up to your breasts and he squeezes and pinches until you’re a whimpering mess. His bicep flexes and your limited air supply is cut off for a moment. 

“My little bird is so sensitive… So… needy…”

Your remaining willpower crumbles and you moan as loud as you can, squeezing your thighs together to trap him inside you. He lets out a feral groan and loosens his grip around your neck, he grabs your face and twists your neck so he can lock his lips with yours. He doesn’t pull back, both of you writhe against each other fighting for space to breathe. He finally concedes and pauses to mumble into your mouth.

“Come for me come for me now…”

You moan his name over and over as you squirt all over his cock, his thighs, his abdomen… He rolls your clit between his fingers and smiles against your lips as he feels the warm rush. As you start to calm down, he wraps both arms around your stomach, keeping you perched on your knees, his cock buried inside you. You rest your head on his shoulder and he kisses the crown of your head.

“Sweetie…?”

His voice is soft, so different from how he spoke just moments ago. You turn your head and look at him, his pupils have returned to normal and his brow is furrowed. His hands gently lower to your hips and he presses his forehead against your shoulder.

“You… remember…?”

He sounds broken… afraid. You lift yourself off of him and turn to face him. Your hands cup his cheeks and you force him to look at you. The fear in his eyes fades as he looks at you. All the images, the field of flowers, the dark church, the piles of gold… They’re not images, they’re memories.

“I remember. I remember all of it.”

You kiss his forehead and he lets out a deep sigh. You wrap your arms around his neck.

“I can’t stand seeing you in this cage Sy…”

He pulls you closer and kisses your cheek.

“Then let’s get out of here, shall we? This’ll be number 236, right?”

Tag List:

@trishiepo0

@not-so-quite-human

@kitsunetori

@babyx91

@libriomancer

@lilyadora

@crowskitten22

@letharue

@silverbrain

@m00nchildwrites

@plsdonttakemyname

[attabxy]

NSFW Headcanons - E. Campbell

Pairing: Erik Campbell X Reader (romantic, gender-neutral).

Media: Final Destination Bloodlines.

Content Warning(s): Talks of sex (scram, minors), Erik's a switch, light bondage, piercings used in the context of sex, marking, brief mentions of blood, exhibitionism/public sex, no beta we die like [REDACTED].

(Author's Note: My contribution to this character is my first time writing smut. Please go easy of me, this is my first time writing in, like, two years. I'm writing this while I'm still riding the high of my Erik Campbell/John Murphy/Richard Harmon fixation, so this was written in the span of thirty minutes).

Erik is lowkey a freak, but we knew that.

When he violated that garbage truck, nobody was the same afterwards.

He's doing shit like this in public on the regular in front of you. This man has no shame.

If he's not outright grabbing your ass while shopping for groceries, he's sliding your hand down your back pocket to discreetly grab your ass.

Now, if you grab his ass, there's no guarantee that he won't drag you to a changing room or anywhere remotely hidden.

Favorite place to have sex? The tattoo parlor. Sweet God, does Erik love to close the blinds, flip the sign to 'Closed,' and take you on the table.

Is this during closing time? No, absolutely not. He gets off on potentially getting found out by pedestrians or God forbid his boss.

He's a certified switch. He told me himself.

While he loves to take control, he also loves when you put him in his place.

He loves seeing you with his markings (whether that be during sex, or a piercing/tattoo he gave you), but he's flaunting the swollen lip or love bite on his hip like he won a marathon.

Personally, I don't think Erik likes making you bleed. While he's into marking you, he wouldn't like seeing you in pain if you're not into it. With that being said, draw a little blood from him all you want.

He's into bondage, more in the sense of him taking off his belt and tying your wrists to the bedpost. Ride him while he's tied to the bedpost and thank me later.

If there was a piercing or tattoo he did on you, he's paying special attention to it (once it's healed, of course).

Kissing and tracing the outline of the tattoo with his fingers, gently biting on your piercing because he knows how sensitive it is.

Of course, he loves it when you pay special attention to his piercings. They're uber sensitive, though he doesn't want to admit it.

Loves a good blowjob please let him fuck your throat. It's a surefire way to get him to orgasm quickly, and loves it when you flick your tongue over the Prince Albert piercing.

He's also good at giving head, even if he's a fucking tease. And if you have genital piercings? Oh man.

He's got the prettiest moans and isn't afraid to be loud.

Oh, God, please ride his face. Have you seen his nose? His face?

You may be asking yourself how you draw out those moans. Play with his piercings, deepthroat him, or let him rail you from behind.

As much as I've been playing Erik out to be rough in bed, he can make sex be weirdly tender and romantic like it's nothing.

He's not lighting candles or laying rose petals around the place, but he knows how to touch you and speak to you in a way that lets you know how much he desires you.

Getting this out of the way to say that he has a sex playlist.

Erik's a thighs guy. While it's hard for him to choose because he genuinely loves all of you, he lives by the mantra of thick thighs save lives.

He's the kind of guy to immediately cuddle you after sex. No talking, no sarcastic comment, he just holds you for a moment and relishes the feeling of you in his arms because he feels like the luckiest guy on the planet.

(Author's Note: So, this was the first thing I've written and posted in about two years, and this is the first thing I've written that's about sex. I'm not sure if it counts as smut, but it's definitely close. This was my most self-indulgent thing that'll get two hits. And if it gets more than two hits? Then I'm immensely grateful for all of you. Blah blah blah thank you for everyone that keep enjoying my work years after I posted it. Anyways, Richard Harmon and his nose. That is all.

Signing off for now,

-Libby)

[ilium-ilia]

you're an angel // i'm a dog

kyle "gaz" garrick x fem!reader | omegaverse | alpha!gaz, omega!reader | masterlist

Chapter Two: heat

“Seriously, sir?” 

John Price stares up at his sergeant with a cocked eyebrow. His freshly printed—and redacted—report sits in his hand on an extended arm. It’s still warm. Kyle stares at it like it’s carrion. Meat rotted and decayed too much to feast on. 

“Scared of a papercut, Garrick?” John asks, half serious. 

Scoffing, Kyle grabs the report from him. It’s thick: a good fifty pages, if not more. He can see the look on your face already. Your pursed lips and heavy huff—the way your chest dances beneath those silk blouses you always wear as you groan. Sighing, he hits the stack of paper against the palm of his hand, coolly looking back at his captain with as bored of an expression as he can muster. 

“Don’t want you getting used to me being your errand boy is all,” he replies with heavy sarcasm. 

John hums as he leans back in his chair. The old leather stretches and cries beneath his weight before it settles against the curve of him. “Strange. The others are all too eager to visit the new pet they have in the office.” Pausing, a cheeky smirk curls along his lips. “Though, suppose that doesn’t mean much to you. Not if you’re still takin’ those suppressants.” 

“Course,” he confirms. 

“Well, then”—John waves him off—“unless you need me to hold your hand.”

Truth is, Kyle hates visiting you. Hates how much he enjoys it—how his body enjoys it. Craves it like a treat. The last time he saw you, you were so close to your heat he could feel the change in his bones. This insatiable desire to hold you, to wrap you in his embrace. You looked wounded—sounded wounded as you said his name in a strained greeting. Pitchy and soft. He’s never felt that desire before, never coveted something as much as he does you. It’s… unfortunate. Frustratingly confusing. 

You’re on the tail end of your heat. Kyle can smell it before he even turns the corner into your office. That needy aroma wafts like incense heavy and thick in the air. It’s so strong it nearly stops him in his tracks—as if it’s manifested into a tangible wall warning him he’d do well to stay away. Cotton fills the sudden vacancy in his skull, and his throat constricts around the pulse throbbing next to his Adam’s apple as he pushes past the barrier and into your office.

Just drop the papers off and run. 

Kyle hasn’t known you for long, but you’re the most exhausted he’s ever seen you before. Drooping eyes, a heavy slouch in your posture; he doubts you’re fully comprehending the spreadsheet pulled up on your monitor. As he approaches your desk, he tells himself he’ll do you—and himself—a favor by getting out of your hair as quick as possible, but he stumbles when you greet him with a smile. Soft; almost pitiful. His fingers instinctively flex to the point he nearly crumples John’s report. Holding his breath, his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’d lick your wounds if you let him. Lick you clean until your unbearable wave of hormones settled—

—for your own sake, of course. 

“Hey Kyle,” you greet. 

“Hey pet.” He sets the report flat on your desk. There’s no way he can stomach even indirect contact with you. “Everything alright?” 

“Oh, yeah just… just tired.” Your words are slow. Deep; as if holding back a yawn. 

Kyle gathered as much just based on your appearance alone, and he’s swarmed with… warmth. Something uncomfortable. Scathing. He’s… angry—unrightfully so—yet he looks at you in this state and can’t help but think to himself that you belong in bed. Swaddled up in a fluffy nest where you can rest and recover. He’d give you the shirt off of his back and tuck you in himself, if you’d let him. What a strange thought, he realizes. He’s never felt such an urge before, and he doesn’t think he likes it. 

“And, of course, here you are. Right on time to give me… what is this, fifty pages of work? Twenty minutes ‘till five?” you tease. 

“Sorry doll, captain’s orders,” Kyle attempts to humor. He hopes you don’t hear the tightness in his throat. 

Despite your fatigue, your giggle is canorous as you retrieve the report off your desk. “Well, wouldn’t wanna upset the captain, would-” 

Clever words die on your tongue as your free hand clasps over your mouth and nose. A wave of musk washes over your body and you feel something squirm inside of you with ferocious want. It worms its way into you, burrowing deep as it leaves nothing but empty holes in its wake. Without a second thought, you toss the report to the edge of your desk. Items scatter, and the papers nearly flutter to the ground. It’s strong—John’s scent. The unbearable weight of an alpha lurks so strong that it haunts the pages. 

“I… I’m sorry, I-I can’t, uhm. This- This is gonna have to wait until tomorrow,” you stutter. 

Trembling hands absentmindedly paw at the side of your neck, and Kyle’s eyes drink in the view of your skin. Something lurches and buzzes in the back of his brain when he notices how pristine it is. Unmarked. Untainted by an alpha. Glands deliciously intact. 

Poor thing. Just gone through a heat without anyone to take care of her. 

What the hell are you thinking? 

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll let him know. I’ll make sure he gives you proper time to process it.” Kyle’s already backing away from your desk as he speaks. The tepidness of his voice would have you believe he’s level headed, but there’s a tempest swirling in his mind; one so strong he knows he needs to leave fast before you catch wind of it. “Should go home and rest, pet. Don’t think anyone’ll mind if you leave early.” 

You’re hardly able to express your thanks before he’s out the door. Kyle has never run from a single thing in his entire life, and yet here he is now, running from this sweet—unclaimed—omega sitting pretty in the main office. 

His skin crawls with sensations and urges he’s never felt before; ones he desperately tries to shake off as he marches through base like a madman. Have you brought out this beast in him? His suppressants have always worked this far, and yet now it’s as if he’s been forcefully weaned off of them. The scent of you grows faint the more space he puts between himself and you, and he’s under the impression that it’ll help, but he couldn’t be more wrong. That indescribable ache only festers further. He’s gotten the vaguest taste of you and he’s already addicted. Suffering through withdrawals. 

Taste, feel, feel, claim, bite, bite, touch, feel, hold, claim, bite, bite, bite—

“You broken, Kyle?” 

He blinks and he’s back in John’s office. He’s standing face to face with his captain, who he’s been rudely blocking the exit for the last few seconds. Pawing at the sweat lining the nape of his neck, Kyle clears his throat and nods. 

“I’m good,” he assures. “Pet down in the office still coming out of her heat. Probably won’t get your report processed until your scent is off the page. Poor thing should probably just go home.” 

Ignoring him, John tilts his head and not so covertly leans forward. It’s a sign of strength, of power; of his status over Kyle. John sniffs, nostrils flaring, and then quietly mulls over the concoction of scents that fills his nose. Kyle’s skin begins to crawl—he’s being tested; judged—and he wants to bark. 

Instead, he bites his tongue. 

“Sure it wasn’t your scent that got the poor thing all worked up?” John challenges. 

“What do you mean?” Kyle grabs the collar of his BDU and pulls it up to his nose. He doesn’t realize it’s a terrible mistake until he gets a whiff of you. 

“Thought you said you were still taking those suppressants.” 

“I am,” he assures. 

Things grow stilly as Kyle steps back—both to let John leave his office and to get away from the looming alpha—and for a moment he is convinced he’s mistaken. Has he missed a dose and forgotten? Corrupted memory; has he been recklessly endangering others this whole time? 

Eventually, John frees Kyle from his unrelenting gaze as he huffs and stares down the hallway. “Check in with your doctor, alright? Get yourself a stronger dose. You’re sweating harder than you did in Urzikstan, and I don’t need any of my men brazenly claiming some poor pet in her office. You reek of desire, Kyle.” 

John’s tone is even, but Kyle can clearly read between the lines. He needs to be careful. More than careful. Getting too intoxicated off of your scent to the point it makes his suppressants ineffective would throw him in a world of hurt. It’s been so long since he’s let his biology take course, he doubts he would survive such an intense hormone dump if he doesn’t take the change with caution.

And if his teammates can’t count on him, well… then he’s worse than useless. 

“Yes sir,” Kyle confirms. 

Nodding, John gives him two quick pats on the chest before sauntering down the hallway. “Good man.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

[callofdoobie420]

In honor of the end of tax season…please enjoy my thoughts on the 141 and how they would deal with taxes…

JOHN

Being the most senior officer, he was used to this — but that didn’t mean he liked going in to the local tax office to get his done.

That was until he met you.

Sat at the front desk, all chipper and bright as you greet him. You smile and direct him back to one of the accountants offices, asking if he’d like anything to drink. He politely declines, but his mind is now solely focused on you.

When he leaves, you bid him a good day and let him know you can’t wait to see him next year. A small, shy smile on your lips. He pauses, stopping at the desk and leaning against it.

“I’m actually hopin’ to see you sooner than that darlin’,” he says his voice, smooth and low. “Dinner?”

“I actually have to work late,” you say, a disappointed sigh escaping your pillowy lips. “We pull late nights during season…”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m more of a night owl sweetheart,” he grins at you, all cool confidence. “So eight?”

You blush but nod, and quickly scribble something on the notepad in front of you. Drawing a small heart with your cute, pink pen.

“Here,” you say holding the sticky note out to him, “I’ll see you at eight.”

With one last smile, he turns to leave and looks down at the note. Your phone number on it, along with a short message.

For my favorite client 🩷

SIMON

You groan as you look down at the documents you were just handed.

“Mr. Riley, we’ve discussed this…” you sigh, and look up at the hulking man. Dressed in his usual dark attire and black mask, he probably tries to come off intimidating. It doesn’t phase you though.

You flip through the papers, shaking your head, before passing them back to him, “You can’t redact all of this information. It’s a tax return!” You huff, “we kind of need to know your income, if you’ve moved, what your stock accounts made…you’ve blacked it all out!”

Simon scowls down at you, but takes his documents back. He won’t admit it, but he kind of enjoys when you get frustrated with him. It’s why he always makes two copies of his documents. It’s why he always redacts the first copy, just so you reprimand him.

No one talks to him like that except his team. And now you. And it thrills him.

It’s also why he will bring back an unredacted copy in two days — just so he can see you again before next year.

“Sorry princess,” he grumbles, “I’ll remember next year,” he says, so casually. Turning and leaving before you can respond.

Though he can feel you fuming, because you know. He won’t remember next year.

JOHNNY

“I’m sorry lass!” Johnny whines, as he buries his face into your shoulder. “I’m trying to pay attention I promise.”

You rolled your eyes, and shook your head because he absolutely had not been paying attention.

“Johnny, you promised you’d behave if I helped you out with your taxes, but if you aren’t going to then I can go,” you say, and start to stand.

Johnny reacts quickly pulling you back down on the couch next to him. His hand going back to the track pad on the laptop.

“No no, I’m paying attention see,” he says, furiously scrolling on the page, “where were we? Charitable contributions?”

You chuckle softly, and lean your head against his shoulder, “Yes love, charitable contributions. We are so close to being done!”

At that revelation, Johnny smiles and starts to type quickly. He moves through the rest of his tax return much quicker. A new goal in his mind. He clicks the submit button, and shuts the laptop.

He turns to you with a shit-eating grin, batting his eyelashes, “So now I get a reward right? For being so good!”

KYLE

Kyle looks at his phone curiously as it buzzes on the table in the rec room.

“Hello?” He answers, his voice laced with caution and confusion.

“Hello! Is this Mr. Garrick?” A voice answers, so saccharine sweet he almost chokes in surprise.

“Oh um- yes,” he says, clearing his throat, “this is him. Who is this? And how did you get my number?” He asks, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

He hears a soft giggle, “Mr. Garrick, it’s the tax office, I’m just calling because we finished your return. We just need you to come in to sign, so we can send it for filing.”

He feels a slight blush heat his cheeks. Oh, duh. Of course it was you, he had dropped his documents off two weeks ago. You had said it would be two weeks, and here you were. Calling him. Right on time.

He liked that. Punctuality. It was important.

“Oh, yes of course, I’m sorry,” he scrambles a bit, trying to recover from his embarrassment. “Could I come in an hour?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Garrick,” you respond, almost a chirp with how chipper you should. “I will see you then!”

An hour later, on the dot, Kyle shows up to the office. Looking as handsome as you remembered from two weeks ago. Immediately, you are all smiles for him.

“Hello Mr. Garrick!” You say, holding a pen out for him. Already prepared. So on top of things. Kyle was smitten.

“Please, call me Kyle darlin’” he smiles back at you, going to look over the tax return and sign. When he hands it back to you, he also hands you piece of paper torn from a small note pad.

His number.

“I’d prefer not to wait until next year to hear your sweet voice, love,” he smiles, something more sultry about it this time. “I’d like to take you out…”

[soluversworld]

Steam, off - REDACTED X G.N Reader (SMUT)

Genre: smut

Summary: — After a small argument where Redacted refuses to get mad at you, frustration builds between you both. Despite your attempts to stay distant, their gentle persistence and need for closeness slowly wear you down.

THEN YOU SMASH!!

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: This was a request, from discord, They're a good friend!!

Content/Trigger warnings

Explicit Sexual Content (NSFW)

Dom/Sub Dynamics (Teasing, control, and edging)

Praise Kink

Strong Emotional Intimacy

Light Roughness (Biting, marking, possessive touch)

Overstimulation

Did not proof read/Rushed.

Your lips press into a thin line. Again.

Again, [REDACTED] just takes it. Doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight back—just ducks their head, lets their shoulders sag, and mutters, "M’ sorry."

And fuck, that makes your teeth grind.

“Stop that,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

They blink, startled. “Stop… what?”

You gesture—at them, at their whole goddamn everything. “This. The—The whole apologizing thing. I’m mad at you, [YOU]. You can be mad back. You can fight me instead of just taking it like—like—”

“Like I deserve it?”

Your breath snags.

Soft. Quiet. Like they already know what you’re gonna say. Like they agree.

And that—that makes you want to throw something.

“No! No!” You grab their wrist—not to hurt, just to hold. To make them listen. “You don’t deserve it, and that’s the fucking problem! I can’t even be mad at you properly because you never—You never fight back! You never defend yourself! You just let me be angry, let me lash out, let me blame you, and then you say ‘m’ sorry’ like—like it’s all your fault!"

Their brows furrow, lips parting—like they want to argue. But they don’t.

And that’s when it really hits you.

They’re not ignoring you.

They just… don’t think they should fight back.

Your grip on their wrist loosens, fingers sliding down until they hook around theirs. “You can get mad at me,” you murmur. “You can tell me I’m wrong, tell me I’m being unfair. I want to fight with you if it means we fix things. But I can’t—” You swallow hard. "I can't keep being the only one who raises my voice while you just—just take it and blame yourself."

A pause.

[REDACTED] stares at you—eyes wide, raw, something fragile flickering beneath the surface. Their mouth opens—then closes—then, finally, they speak.

“…I don’t wanna fight you,” they murmur. “I just—” They exhale sharply, shaking their head. “I don’t want to fight with you.."

And fuck—fuck—that’s what breaks you.

"You're already hurting me, dumbass," you whisper, voice cracking, fingers curling tighter around theirs. "Not because of a fight—because I feel like I’m hitting a fucking ghost whenever I argue with you." You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "I want the real you. All of you. Even the parts that get mad at me. Even the parts that fight back."

Something shifts in their expression. Something wounded.

"…The real me, huh?" Their voice is rough, like they’re chewing on the words. "And what if the real me ain't… what y’want?"

You don’t hesitate.

"I want you," you say, pressing their hand to your chest, right over your racing heart. "Only you. The real you." Your voice drops to a whisper, raw and desperate. "I love you, [REDACTED]."

Their breath hitches. Their fingers tremble against yours. And for the first time, you see it—the crack in their armor, the fear behind their eyes.

Well, You're still mad/j

You huff, sinking deeper into the couch, arms crossed tight as Attack on Giant blares from the screen. You’re not even watching—just pretending to, staring blankly at the fights while your thoughts rage louder than the explosions.

You hate this. You hate how you’re still mad, how he just lets you be, how he looks so fucking sad sitting across from you like a kicked puppy.

[REDACTED] isn’t saying anything. Just… sitting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands clasped together like he’s holding himself still. Not pushing, not begging—just waiting.

Like he always fucking does.

Like he always has.

It’s suffocating.

Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. You don’t even know anymore. The silence isn’t cold, not really—but it stretches long enough to wrap around your ribs, squeeze tight, ache.

And yet, he doesn’t complain.

Doesn’t demand.

Doesn’t even shift closer.

He just watches you, quiet and patient, like he’d wait forever if that’s what it took for you to stop being mad.

Like he’d wait another decade if it meant you’d finally reach for him again.

And fuck, that realization makes your throat burn.

Because it’s sad. It’s fucking sad at this point.

You grip the blanket tighter around yourself, teeth clenched. You don’t want to be mad anymore. You don’t want to give him the silent treatment. You don’t want him to just sit there, drowning in his own regret, waiting for a love he already fucking has.

You don’t want him to think you’re really pushing him away.

So you shift. Just barely. Uncurl your legs.

It’s subtle, but he notices instantly.

His shoulders tense—not in fear, but in hope.

Still, he doesn’t push.

He just waits.

You take a breath, exhaling slow, forcing yourself to relax.

And then—without looking at him—you grab his hand.

He freezes.

And when you finally glance at him—just a quick, fleeting look—you swear he’s shaking.

You’re stacking the dishes when two strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against a firm, familiar chest. His warmth seeps into your skin, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he sighs—a low, content sound that makes your stomach flip.

"You really…" he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl, "...are a softie."

Your hands still. The dish towel crinkles in your grip.

You huff. "Hmph."

You act annoyed. You act like you hate it. Like this whole affection thing is just too much, too clingy, too Redacted.

But your hands betray you.

Because instead of pushing him off, you reach up—fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

And god, he melts.

His breath hitches, grip tightening as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You feel him smile against your skin, feel the way he relaxes, like this—you—is all he’s ever needed.

"...'S not fair," he mutters, muffled against you.

You arch a brow. "What’s not fair?"

"You act all mean," he murmurs, voice slow and sleepy, "'n' then you do this..."

You roll your eyes, still scratching lightly at his scalp. "I dunno what you’re talking about."

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter, glaring at him. "You’re not getting near me."

He stops mid-step, blinking at you like a confused puppy.

A pause. Then, hesitantly—softly—"…Still mad at me, huh?"

You huff, looking away. It’s stupid, honestly. The argument wasn’t even that big, just one of those things that built up over time—him never defending himself, never even trying to fight back, just letting you steamroll him with nothing in return but sad eyes and quiet apologies. It makes you feel awful. Like you’re the bad guy every single time.

"At least ask for something," you mutter, not looking at him. "I made you sad. You always just take it. If you can’t get mad at me, at least say that it hurts instead of going silent."

You feel him move before you see him.

Warmth presses against the side of your neck—a slow, lingering kiss right below your jaw. His breath is warm, his lips impossibly soft, and your heart does a fucking backflip.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your whole body stiffens.

"You always do this," you grumble, cheeks heating up.

A small chuckle against your skin. "What?"

He laughs, low and fond, arms winding around your waist again. "S’ not cheatin’, Y/n. Just know what works on ya."

You scoff, feeling your resolve start to crumble. Your body still buzzes from the way his lips lingered against your skin, from the warmth pressing up against your back.

Then, in that same casual, lazy drawl, he asks—

"Wanna make up?"

…Oh.

Your heart stops.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck. "…Eh?"

He leans down, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear. "Y’heard me."

And fuck, your whole body burns. The way he says it—so blunt, so confident, so fucking casual—has your brain short-circuiting. Your fingers curl into fists, gripping at nothing, trying so hard to play it cool despite the way your pulse is pounding.

You swallow thickly. Cross your arms tighter. Try to keep your face neutral.

"…Sure," you say.

Expression blank.

Voice flat.

Trying desperately to ignore the way your ears are on fire.

He grins. He knows. He sees through you.

And before you can blink, you’re on the bed.

Pinned.

His lips crush against yours, his hands sliding up your sides, warm, slow, possessive. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing at yours, dragging you into something slow and dizzying and hot.

The kiss is rough, almost desperate—like he’s trying to prove something, trying to make you feel what they won’t say out loud. Their hands grip your waist as they push you back, guiding you until your legs hit the bed.

Then they shove you down.

Not forcefully, not like they’re trying to overpower you—just firm, controlled, the way they always are. Like they’re claiming you, like they’re saying you’re mine without needing to use the words.

Their weight follows, pressing you into the mattress, their breath warm against your lips as they hover just above you. They’re looking at you—God, they’re watching you—like they’re searching for something in your eyes, something they’re too much of a coward to ask for outright.

“You still mad at me, You?” they murmur, voice low, teasing—but there’s a flicker of something real underneath it.

You scoff, tilting your head away, acting like you don’t feel the way your body reacts to them. Damn them. “Maybe.”

They chuckle—soft, breathy—then press their lips to the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat until you gasp.

“Y’sure?” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their hands say otherwise. They’re firm where they grip your hips, grounding you, holding you close—like they’re afraid you’ll slip through their fingers.

You’re still trying to be stubborn, still fighting the way your heart pounds when their lips graze your collarbone. “If you think I’m just gonna forgive you—”

“I know.”

The words are quiet, barely more than a whisper. And when they finally look at you, their eyes are dark—heated—but there’s something else there too. Something softer, something unspoken.

Then they kiss you.

And it’s deep this time—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, that melts into you like a promise. Their hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin, holding you like you’re precious.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

You grab at them—pulling them closer, wrapping your arms around their neck, threading your fingers through their hair. You’re kissing them back just as desperately, pouring every ounce of your frustration, your longing, your love into it.

You don’t even know when they settle fully between your legs, don’t even register the way their hips press against yours until they groan against your lips, grinding into you.

“Fuck,” they rasp, burying their face against your neck. “Y’don’t—You have no idea what y’do to me, You…”

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The argument still lingers in the air between you, unspoken and unresolved, but this—this—is how you make up. Not with words.

Their breath is warm, teasing against your skin before they dip lower—trailing kisses down your neck, your collarbone, lower still until their lips hover just above your chest.

Then—fuck.

They bite.

A sharp little nip against your nipple before their tongue soothes over the sting, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight down your spine. You gasp, arching into them, but they don’t stop—not yet. They flick their tongue over the sensitive bud, watching your reactions, listening to every little sound you make, before latching on properly, sucking just hard enough to make your head spin.

“Sensitive, huh?” Their voice is thick with amusement, teasing but hungry. One of their hands drags down your stomach, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your clothes, slipping just beneath—so close, so fucking close, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

You squirm beneath them, frustration bubbling up, but they only smirk against your skin. Their other hand comes up to your neglected nipple, rolling it between their fingers, pinching just enough to make you whimper.

“Mm. Y’really gonna stay mad at me?” Their voice is low, husky, vibrating through you as they switch sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, sucking and teasing, leaving you breathless.

Your hands fly to their hair, gripping tight—like you can force them to stop teasing. “Shut up,” you manage, but it’s weak, a little desperate, and they love it.

They chuckle, the sound rumbling against your skin.

“Guess I’ll have t’fuck the anger outta you, then.”

And with that, their hand finally slips lower.

Their fingers trace slow, feather-light circles over your clothed heat, barely pressing down, just teasing. It’s infuriating—your body is aching, burning, needing more, but they won’t give it to you. Not yet.

“Still mad at me, huh?” Their voice is mocking, low and amused, but there’s something else beneath it—something dark, something possessive. Their fingers dip lower, almost slipping under the fabric, but then they pull back, just enough to leave you frustrated.

You whine—actually whine—and the sound makes them smirk.

“Aw, poor thing.” Their lips graze your ear, warm and teasing. “Want somethin’?”

You try to grind against their hand, desperate for anything, but they pin you down, using their weight to keep you still. Their fingers barely press against you, just enough to make you twitch, make you gasp, make you ache for more.

“Y’gotta tell me, baby.” Their voice is thick with amusement, but their breath is ragged against your skin. They’re enjoying this just as much as you are—dragging it out, making you want it, making you need it.

You grit your teeth, refusing to beg. Refusing.

But when they pull away entirely, hands leaving you completely, you snap.

“Fuck—just touch me already!”

Their smirk widens, and fuck, they love hearing you like this—frustrated, desperate, barely holding on.

“That’s more like it.”

And then—finally, finally—their fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding against your heat, pressing deep, stretching you open, giving you exactly what you need.

Their fingers curl just right, pressing deep, slow, deliberate—just enough to make you feel it, but never enough to satisfy. It’s torture, this agonizing pace, this teasing, feather-light touch that only fuels the fire burning inside you. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling, every muscle tensed as you claw at the sheets beneath you.

"Redacted—!" Your voice is caught between a moan and a plea, frustration boiling over as they refuse to give you what you really want.

They chuckle—low, deep, full of amusement as they press an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, their lips trailing slow, lazy heat down your skin. "Mmm... somethin' wrong, Angel?" Their fingers withdraw almost completely before sliding back in, shallow and teasing. "Y'sound a lil' worked up."

You whimper—a sound you wouldn’t have let anyone else hear, but with them? They pull it from you so easily. Your hands fly to their wrist, gripping tight, trying to force them to move faster, deeper, more, but they don’t budge.

"Please," you breathe, half-growling, half-desperate. "Stop—teasing."

They click their tongue, shaking their head as if you’re being so unreasonable. "Steam’s gotta be let off first, Angel," they murmur, their voice a smooth, teasing drawl. "Ain't that right?"

You let out a frustrated whine, hips jerking as you try to meet their touch, but they tut softly, keeping you pinned, keeping control.

"Y'know I’ll never deny you, Angel…" Their lips brush against your ear, voice dark and sweet, and then—finally, finally—they snap.

Their fingers plunge deep, their pace turning from lazy and teasing to devastating, working you open without a shred of mercy. The pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, and you cry out, head falling back as the heat coils tight in your core.

Their free hand grips your chin, tilting your face toward them, forcing you to meet their gaze—eyes dark, intense, locked onto yours like they own you.

"That’s it," they murmur, voice thick with hunger. "Let me hear you, Angel."

Their grip tightens—steady, unrelenting—keeping you right on the edge without letting you fall. Your body trembles beneath them, muscles twitching, every nerve alight with unbearable heat. It’s too much—too good—but they won’t let you go.

You choke out their name between ragged breaths, your hands clutching at their arms, their shoulders, anything to ground yourself, to plead for mercy. But all they do is smirk, dragging their fingers slowly out, only to press them back in at an achingly controlled pace.

"Aww, listen to you," they murmur, voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy, Angel…" They lean in, lips brushing your ear as their free hand smooths over your stomach, your chest—trailing slow, teasing circles over your heated skin. "You sound so pretty when you beg, y’know that?"

A frustrated whimper escapes you, a shiver wracking your body as you fight against their hold, desperate to move, to chase what they keep just out of reach.

"P-please," you gasp, back arching, toes curling. "Please, I—I need—"

They hush you, their fingers plunging deeper, curling just right, sending an electric shock of pleasure straight to your core.

"Shhh, Angel… I know." Their voice is soft, almost mocking in its sweetness. "But y’gotta hold on for me, yeah? Y’can do that, right?"

You shake your head, gasping, voice breaking. "No! I—I can’t—"

They chuckle, their grip tightening, keeping you still as your body shudders beneath them.

"Sure y’can," they murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips, voice thick with affection. "Y’just don’t know it yet."

Before you could get another word out, they pushed in.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at their back, nails digging into heated skin as your body arched against them. Your head tipped back, a broken, helpless sound spilling from your lips, pleasure crashing through you in waves.

"Fuck—"

They groaned against your neck, their breath hot and ragged, their own body trembling as they sank into you, inch by inch. Your arms wrapped around them on instinct, pulling them impossibly closer, your chest pressed flush against theirs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

"Shit… Angel—" Their voice was low, strained, barely holding on, but the way they said your name—like they were praying—sent a shiver down your spine. They needed this just as much as you did.

You barely had time to breathe before they bit down—hard—right against the curve of your neck.

A high-pitched cry escaped you, your body jerking in response, heat coiling in your gut, winding tighter—too much, too fast. The sting of their teeth melted into a dull, throbbing pleasure, and when their tongue soothed over the mark, you whimpered, shivering as they left behind a deep, dark hickey.

Their hands slid down your sides, slow, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin as they pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—half-lidded, desperate, barely restrained.

"Gonna keep you right here," they murmured, voice thick with need. Their hips rolled forward, their hold tightening. "Gonna make sure you feel me—"

Another thrust. Deeper. More intense.

Your vision blurred, your breath catching, body twitching as pleasure surged through you like fire.

"Fuck— please—" You couldn’t even finish the sentence, couldn’t even think—just clutching at them, holding on as they fucked you through the dizzying, overwhelming sensation, keeping you right on the brink of explosion.

And then—

They kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Possessive.

And you fucking broke.

Your whole body shattered beneath them.

A choked, shuddering gasp tore from your throat as the pleasure hit—blinding, overwhelming, knocking every last thought from your head. Your legs clenched around their waist, hands grasping at their shoulders, their hair—anything you could hold onto as wave after wave of white-hot bliss crashed through you.

They swallowed your cries, their lips moving against yours in a messy, desperate kiss, like they were trying to devour every sound you made, feel every tremor in your body as you unraveled beneath them. Their name spilled from your lips like a prayer, half-whimpered, half-moan, and fuck—

They loved it.

"That's it," they groaned, voice rough, breath hitching against your mouth. Their grip on your hips tightened, strong fingers digging into your skin as they thrust into you, chasing their own release, dragging you through the aftershocks. "God, Angel—feel so fucking good—"

Your mind was spinning, body still trembling in their arms, overstimulated and aching in the best way. But you still wanted more.

"More," you gasped, voice barely above a breath, hands tightening in their hair, pulling them closer. "Please—"

They swore under their breath, something low and guttural, before burying their face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping forward with a deep, needy groan.

"Fuck—fuck—"

And then—

They came, shuddering against you, their whole body tensing as they spilled inside, breath hitching, hips stuttering in the aftermath. A low, wrecked sound left their lips, barely held back, and you swore it was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing. Holding each other. Feeling the warmth between you, the way their body pressed against yours, how they fit against you so perfectly.

Then—

A slow, satisfied exhale, their lips ghosting over your temple before they nuzzled into your hair.

"S’good," they murmured, voice thick, lazy. "Too good, Angel… y’ damn near killed me."

You huffed out a breathless laugh, still reeling, but you felt the way their arms tightened around you—how they refused to let you go, even as exhaustion started to set in.

Their hips didn’t still for long.

Even as you were still trying to catch your breath, still reeling from the way they had just ruined you, they were already moving again—slow, teasing rolls of their hips against yours, letting you feel just how much they still wanted you.

"Tsk, look at you, Angel," they murmured against your ear, voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. Their lips brushed your jaw, your cheek, your neck—each kiss deliberate, possessive—before they nipped at the sensitive skin, making you gasp. "Still twitchin’ for me. So sensitive…"

Your breath hitched as they ground against you again—slow and lazy but purposeful, their length dragging through the mess between your thighs, rubbing against every oversensitive spot that had you whimpering into their shoulder.

"R-Redacted…" you gasped, fingers clutching at their back, nails digging in, desperate to ground yourself against the pleasure. "Too much… I—I just—"

They shushed you, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, their voice a low, affectionate drawl. "I know, Angel. S’alright… I got you."

But they didn’t stop.

Their hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips, holding you firm as they rocked into you, slow and deep—not enough to overwhelm, not yet, but enough to make you feel them, to keep you on edge.

"Gotta make up for makin’ you mad, don’t I?" they murmured, teeth grazing your ear, sending a full-body shudder down your spine. "Gotta show my Angel how much I love ‘em…"

Their fingers found your jaw, tilting your face toward them, their lips hovering just over yours—so close, so teasing.

"You still mad at me, Angel?"

You wanted to glare at them. Really, you did. But the way they were touching you, the way they were looking at you, their breath warm against your lips—fuck, you couldn’t think straight.

You swallowed hard, trying to muster even the smallest amount of defiance. "M-Maybe…"

A slow, knowing smirk curled at their lips.

"Maybe?" they echoed, tilting their head. "Guess I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til you forgive me, then…"

And then—

They thrust.

Deep. Slow. Purposeful.

And you—

You cried out.

They shushed you through the cry, murmuring low and soothing against your lips, but their movements didn’t falter. If anything, their grip on your hips tightened, keeping you right where they wanted you as they rolled into you again—deep, slow, letting you feel every inch of them as they stretched you open all over again.

"There we go," they murmured, dragging their lips down your throat, feeling the way your pulse raced beneath their mouth. "Takin’ me so good, Angel. Y’always do…"

Your breath hitched, legs twitching where they were wrapped around their waist, toes curling with every slow, devastating movement. "R-Redacted—"

"Shh, I know…" Their voice was all honey and heat, melting into you. "I know, Angel. I got you…"

But they didn’t stop teasing.

Their hips moved at a pace that was infuriatingly slow, drawing out every sensation, forcing you to feel it—like they wanted to savor you, like they wanted to pull every last sound from your lips before they finally let you have what you wanted.

And you were—

You were so frustrated. So worked up and sensitive that it was too much and not enough all at once. You needed more, you needed faster, you needed—

"Damn it, Redacted, please—!"

They chuckled, low and warm against your skin, their lips curling against your shoulder. "Please what, Angel? Gotta be specific…"

Your face burned. They knew exactly what you wanted, they just wanted to hear you say it—to make you beg for it.

"P-Please, just—" You clenched around them, nails digging into their back, eyes squeezing shut as another slow thrust sent fire up your spine. "Just stop teasing and—"

"And what, Angel?" Their voice was syrupy sweet, mocking in the softest, most affectionate way. "Say it for me…"

Your pride was screaming at you to fight back, to bite back something smart, to refuse to give them the satisfaction—

But then they rolled their hips, slow and deep, and any resistance you had left shattered.

"J-Just fuck me already—!"

They groaned, deep and pleased, like that was exactly what they were waiting for.

"That’s my Angel…"

And then—

Then they snapped their hips forward.

Hard. Fast. Deep.

Their breath hitched, and then they growled—low, deep, vibrating through their chest and into you.

"More, huh?" Their fingers tightened on your hips, their weight pressing you into the mattress as they pinned you down completely. "Y'got no idea what you're askin' for, Angel…"

But they gave it to you.

They slammed into you, hard enough to send shockwaves through your body, hard enough to knock every breath from your lungs. The rhythm was relentless now—fast, deep, dragging you to the edge so quickly your head spun. Your body jolted with every thrust, fingers curling into the sheets, clawing at their back, at their shoulders, at anything you could hold onto—

"F-Fuck—!" You barely had breath to speak, barely had thoughts left beyond the heat, the overwhelming pleasure, the way they were stretching you, filling you, ruining you—

They buried their face against your neck, breath hot and ragged, groaning with every desperate snap of their hips. "S'good, Angel. So perfect—"

Their lips ghosted against your pulse, hot and open-mouthed, before sinking their teeth into your skin—hard.

You shattered.

Pleasure ripped through you, blinding, consuming, your body arching into them as you came with a cry, trembling beneath them as your vision whited out.

And they didn’t stop.

"C’mon, Angel—give me another," they rasped, voice thick with praise, with possession, with love. "Bet you can, can't you? Bet you can take one more for me—"

You shuddered, body trembling beneath them as waves of pleasure crashed through you, but they weren’t done—not yet.

"Again, Angel," they murmured against your skin, voice thick, almost pleading now. "Let me feel you—let me hear you."

You bit your lip, trying to hold it in, trying to keep your sounds from spilling out—

But then they thrust one last time, deep, grinding against you as they spilled inside, hot and thick, sending you spiraling into another sharp, helpless climax.

And that was it. That was the moment you broke.

A choked sob escaped your lips, your whole body tightening around them as pleasure wrecked you, as their name tore from your throat in a breathless, trembling moan—

"Fuck— that’s it, that’s it," they groaned, arms locking around you, holding you close as they rode out the last pulses of pleasure, as they filled you to the brim.

It was overwhelming—too much, too deep, too intimate.

And still, they didn’t pull away.

Instead, they held you, breath hot against your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your damp skin. Their hands traced soothing circles over your hips, grounding you, keeping you close, like they couldn’t let go.

"You okay, Angel?" their voice was softer now, gentle, laced with something raw, something vulnerable.

You barely had the strength to nod, still shaking in their arms, still feeling them inside you, still coming down from that high.

They pressed a lingering kiss to your temple, their fingers tightening around yours as they whispered, "S’good. So good. Mine."

And fuck.

Your heart ached.

They let out a soft chuckle, still breathless, still soaked in heat and the remnants of pleasure. Their arms curled around you, pulling you against their chest, their heartbeat pounding against your ear.

"Man," they murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer, sweeter. "That’s one way to let off steam."

You scoffed weakly, burying your face against their skin, trying to fight the warmth spreading through your chest.

"Shut up," you mumbled.

They just smirked, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Never."

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the gentle hum of their fingers tracing up and down your back, soothing, steady—like they never wanted to let you go.

"Y’know," they muttered after a moment, "if I pissed you off on purpose, d’you think—"

You pinched their side before they could finish.

They yelped—then laughed, burying their face in your hair, still cradling you like you were something precious. Like they couldn’t believe they got to have you like this.

"Love you," they whispered against your temple, breath warm, tender.

And even though you were still pretending to be mad, still trying to act like you weren’t melting at their touch—

You whispered it back.