#colder toss the bones

[colouredbyd]

We Will Be Okay

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: After days of silence, you’re attacked and left broken. Only then do the Marauders realize what they’ve done. Their apologies remind you that, even in darkness, you're not alone.

w/c: 4.6k

warnings: Angst, emotional vulnerability, emotional hurt, major argument ,mentions of injury / physical harm, guilt , violence (graphic), hurt/comfort

a/n: lowkey more angsty than what i planned :D

part two masterlist

It started quietly. Like most heartbreaks do.

You’d been off all day, and somewhere deep down, you were hoping someone would notice. That maybe one of them—just one—would catch the way your hands trembled when you picked up your quill, or how you hadn’t touched your food since breakfast. But the hours passed like shadows stretching long, and no one looked your way with concern. Not Sirius with his careless charm. Not James with his golden heart. Not even Remus, who could read poetry between the lines of silence, but somehow missed the silence in you.

You weren’t angry then. Not really. You were something smaller, something colder. Disappointment had a way of settling in your chest like frost—beautiful and quiet and cruel. You walked beside them through the halls, their laughter echoing against stone walls, and tried to match their rhythm, but your steps felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else.

You asked them to meet you after Defense. You hadn’t said much—just that you needed them. Your voice had been thin, barely tethered to your throat, but James nodded distractedly, Sirius brushed his lips against your cheek like a promise, and Remus gave your hand a soft squeeze. You held onto that gesture like a lifeline.

They never came.

You sat outside the greenhouse as the sky turned a muted gray, your cloak pulled tight around your knees. The wind bit through the seams. You waited. Five minutes. Ten. Thirty. A full hour. No footsteps. No familiar voices. No Marauders. Only the hollow ache that curled in your stomach like something starved.

When the cold crept into your fingers and the numbness reached your spine, you stood, slowly, as if your bones had aged a hundred years in a single hour. You didn’t cry until you were halfway back to the common room, and even then, it was silent. Just wet cheeks and the burn of being forgotten.

By the time you pushed through the portrait hole, the weight in your chest had turned molten.

They were there, of course. Sprawled across the common room like they had never made a promise to you. Sirius lounged on the couch, his grin lazy and effortless. James was on the floor, tossing a snitch between his hands. Remus sat by the fire with a book open, though his eyes weren’t reading.

Your voice was quiet when it came. “Must’ve been a good practice.”

James glanced up, flashing a bright smile. “Yeah, brilliant actually. Padfoot nearly killed me though, bloody show-off.”

Sirius chuckled, stretching like a cat. “You’re just mad I scored.”

“You never showed up,” you said.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you, the air around them suddenly heavier.

“What?” James blinked.

“After Defense. I asked you to meet me.”

Remus straightened in his seat. “You said you were fine.”

“I lied.”

The silence that followed was not surprised. It was guilty. The kind of silence that knows what it missed.

“I waited,” you said, your voice thickening. “Outside. For an hour. I was freezing. I was crying. I felt like I was coming apart and I waited because I thought one of you might care enough to come.”

Sirius stood, brows furrowed. “Wait, we didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask.” The words came sharp, bitter on your tongue. “You didn’t even look.”

James stood too, hands half-raised. “Love, we had practice. You didn’t say—”

“You don’t need me to say anything when Remus limps after the full moon. You’re all around him before he even opens his mouth. When Sirius gets a letter, you can feel it without even reading it. And when James is quiet, you know the sadness before he does. You read each other like scripture. Like something sacred.”

Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“But me? I’m invisible unless I’m breaking in front of you.”

“No, that’s not true,” Remus murmured.

“Isn’t it?” You looked at him now, the ache in your chest shining through your eyes. “I go silent, and none of you flinch. I pull away, and you let me. I stop laughing, and you just talk louder. Do you know what it feels like to be surrounded by the people you love most and still feel completely alone?”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. “You could’ve said something, baby.”

“I did. I said I needed you today. I asked for one thing. One moment. One chance to not have to carry it alone.”

James stepped closer, slower this time, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “You’re being unfair.”

“No. I’m being honest.”

There was a long breath between you. The kind that hangs before something shatters.

“You’re not mind-readers,” you said, looking at Remus again, voice quieter now, more tired than angry.

He nodded slightly, guilt lining his expression. “We’re not.”

“No. You’re not. But you read each other. You always do. You feel it. You respond to it.”

You blinked, and a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“But not me.”

This time, no one spoke. Not to deny it. Not to argue. Not even to explain.

You stood in the middle of the common room, feeling like a ghost in your own life.

And they just watched.

Like they finally saw you—only after you broke.

You didn’t speak to them for four days. You didn’t sit beside James in the Great Hall, didn’t brush shoulders with Remus as he passed you your favorite quill in Transfiguration, didn’t catch Sirius’s eye when he hovered behind you on your way out of class, searching your face for something—anything.

You were polite. Distant. Deadly quiet. A nod here, a murmur there. But nothing real. Nothing kind. No softness left in your gaze, no warmth in the corners of your smile.

It was worse than screaming.Worse than fury.It was absence. And it was killing them.

James had started bringing an extra pumpkin juice to breakfast every morning, still setting it beside him out of instinct, only to watch it go untouched, growing warm while he sat beside it like a boy with no idea how to undo the damage he helped cause. Remus had stopped asking questions aloud. He already knew the answers—or worse, knew he didn’t deserve them. He buried himself in parchment, eyes red-rimmed from nights spent rewriting apologies he couldn’t find the courage to speak, because what words could reach a silence like yours?

And Sirius—he was unraveling. Coming apart at the seams. Pacing the corridors at night like a man possessed, all sharp movements and bitten lips, a storm held barely in check. He didn’t sleep, didn’t speak unless he had to. The glint in his eyes had dulled to something dangerous. He looked like a ghost who couldn’t stop haunting the last place he’d seen you smile.

They tried everything. Notes slipped under your dormitory door—ink smudged with trembling hands, hearts poured into parchment. Waiting for you after class, offering hesitant smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. Gentle words murmured like confessions into a silence that refused to give anything back.

But you remained untouched.

Because for once, just once, you needed them to feel it. To feel what it was like to be ignored. To be pushed aside. To ache alone. Even if it shattered you, too.

It happened on the fifth day.

The air had turned bitter, the kind of cold that felt personal—something that clawed beneath your robes and curled into your ribs. The soft amber light of the afternoon filtered weakly through the cracked greenhouse windows, shadows slanting long across the tables as you repotted Fluttering Ferns with numb, clumsy hands. Professor Sprout had given you space, sensing the storm in your silence.

But peace was a fragile illusion. It always was.

By the time you stepped outside, dusk had begun to fall, painting the world in hues of gray and gold. You moved like something hollow, each step heavy, each breath scraped raw against the walls of your chest. You were so tired. So endlessly tired.

Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt. Tired of missing people who didn’t seem to miss you back, at least not when it mattered most.

You didn’t hear the first hex. Not until it was too late.

One moment, you were standing beneath the bare branches, the cold threading through your fingers. The next, a bolt of red light slammed into your chest, knocking the breath from your lungs as if the world itself had struck you down.

Your legs crumpled beneath you. The ground rushed up fast, unforgiving, your palms scraping across dirt and gravel as you landed hard. The ache in your ribs bloomed sharp and immediate, spreading outward in shuddering waves. You gasped, but no air came. The world narrowed to a pinpoint, and you blinked rapidly, trying to stay conscious.

A second curse hit. This time your shoulder—a crackling burst of pain that felt like lightning poured straight into your bones. You cried out, or tried to, but it came out a hoarse gasp. The pain was immense, searing through the muscles and down your arm until your fingers went limp.

And then the third hit you like a whip.

It tore through your side, slicing clean through fabric and flesh. You screamed then, you know you did, because it felt like the scream came from somewhere deeper than your throat. Somewhere buried. The pain was bright and brutal, wild like a creature with no name.

Blood soaked through your robes, warm and sticky. It slid down your ribs in rivulets, staining your skin in rivers of red. You tried to reach for your wand, to move, to crawl, but your limbs betrayed you. Your fingers twitched and spasmed, nothing more.

You were trembling. Shaking so hard your teeth chattered. Your body was going into shock, you knew that. Part of your mind screamed to stay awake, but the rest of you just wanted to rest. To close your eyes and let it be over.

Then came the laughter.

It was low, mocking, and cruel.

Rosier’s voice, thick with amusement, cut through the haze of pain. “Isn’t it pathetic?” he sneered, his words slipping into your blood-slicked skin like poison. “The Gryffindor princess thinks she’s untouchable. Thinks the world will bend to her.”

Mulciber’s laugh joined, jagged and dark, ringing through the trees. “She’s nothing without her little pack of fools.”

You tried to turn your head, tried to look at them, but your vision was swimming—dizzy, unfocused. You could taste the earth on your tongue, gritty and sharp, and the world was starting to spin in the most awful way.

The words felt like daggers, slipping between your ribs, cutting deeper than any spell could. You couldn’t even find the strength to lift your wand, to scream. All you could do was lie there, broken, helpless, blood pooling beneath you like a dark promise.

The fourth curse hit your ribs. Something cracked. You felt it. Something inside you gave way completely, not just bone, but something more fragile. Your spirit. Your hope.

You thought of James’s gentle eyes, the way he’d always saved you a seat. Of Remus’s quiet steadiness, his soft laughter. Of Sirius, loud and brave and furious, looking back at you in the corridor, hoping for a smile that never came.

What if this is the last thing they remember of me?

You were just a bleeding body in the woods. Just another cautionary tale. Just another girl the world didn’t save.

“Doesn’t even matter if she dies,” Mulciber sneered. “Who’s going to come for her now?”

But the world had already started to fade. Everything was slowing down. The cold wasn't biting anymore. It was crawling in.

And in that final, terrible moment, you wished—not for a miracle, not even for revenge—but for a hand to hold. 

Just one. To remind you that you weren’t alone.

But no hand came. And the world went silent.

You don’t know how long you lay there. Time ceased to exist, and all that was left was pain, a tidal wave that swallowed every inch of you. The only thing that tethered you to the world was the cold, the bitter cold that gnawed at your limbs, the faint buzzing in your skull, and the odd, rhythmic thumping of your heart.

It wasn’t until the wind shifted, until the first rays of dusk began to curl their fingers through the trees, that the world came back into focus.

And then there was nothing—no air in your lungs, no strength in your body, only a strange detachment. The stars above you were a distant thing. So far away, so far beyond your reach.

It had been four days. Four days of desperate hope that you’d walk into the Great Hall, that you’d knock on their door, or slip back into your usual routine, but you never did. Every corner they turned, every moment of looking into the spaces where you used to be, only made it worse.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. He could barely remember the last time he’d felt anything other than the sharp ache of your absence.

Remus hadn’t said much at all. He’d been quieter than usual, retreating into his books and their shared study sessions, but they both knew—he was spiraling. Not as visibly as James, but you could see it in the way his hand trembled when he flipped through the pages of his Potions textbook or how he would glance at your usual seat at dinner and then look away, like a wound that couldn’t heal.

Sirius? He had become unrecognizable. His smiles were gone, replaced by a constant scowl, and when he wasn’t throwing punches at the walls or muttering under his breath in frustration, he would pace the corridors, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a plea. If anyone had asked, they’d have thought he was furious, but if you looked closely enough, you’d see the raw pain underneath it all, the brokenness no one dared acknowledge.

They were walking, not really speaking to each other, not really aware of where they were going. James’s eyes kept flicking to the doorways as though you might suddenly appear from behind one, and Remus’s fingers were twitching with the need to reach out and touch you. Sirius’s hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight, trying to keep himself together, but everyone could see the storm brewing in his eyes. It was like they were waiting for something to give, for something to break.

And then someone came rushing toward them—a student they didn’t know, pale, wide-eyed, their steps panicked.

“Why are you three here!?” the student asked, breathless, eyes darting back down the hall behind them. There was no greeting, no civility, just the sharp edge of disbelief.

The Marauders stopped in their tracks, confusion rippling through them. “What do you mean?” Sirius asked, his voice hoarse, his brow furrowing. “What’s going on?”

The student’s eyes flickered nervously. “You don’t know?” they said, voice trembling slightly. They looked between the boys, clearly startled by the way they seemed to have no idea what was happening. “She’s in the Infirmary. Everyone knows. Everyone knows.”

James’s heart slammed in his chest. His mind struggled to catch up with the words, but they pierced through him, leaving nothing but a hollowed-out, agonizing ache. “What… what do you mean? Who?” he managed to choke out, but he knew. Deep down, he knew.

“(Y/N)” the student said, their voice trembling now. “She’s hurt. She’s really hurt. Bad. Really bad. They found her out by the greenhouse, half-dead… blood everywhere.”

James’s breath hitched. Remus’s face went ashen. Sirius froze, his hands falling to his sides. The world seemed to go still for a moment, as if the reality hadn’t quite sunk in yet. And then, as if something inside each of them snapped, they turned on their heels, all rushing toward the Infirmary.

Every step felt like a thousand miles.

Sirius, usually the calm and collected one, was the first to lose control. He ran faster than the others, his mind already spiraling. No no no no—the mantra echoed in his brain, a chant that couldn’t stop. He could barely feel the cold stone of the floor underfoot, only the pounding of his heart in his chest as it thudded in his ears.

James’s voice cracked as he called out to you. “Please… please be okay…”

And Remus? He was already half a step behind, his steps hurried but strained. His heart was pounding in his throat as a mix of guilt and panic twisted his insides into knots. I should’ve done more. I should’ve done something.

They reached the Infirmary door, slamming it open, breathless, panic-stricken, and there she was.

The sight of you, broken and bloody, was something they weren’t prepared for. Something they’d never wanted to see.

You were there, lying on one of the beds, pale, drenched in sweat and blood, and the entire room seemed soaked in it. It pooled at your side, staining the white sheets a stark, crimson red. Your robes were ripped, jagged tears in them, and your skin was bruised and battered. Blood was still trickling from a gash on your temple, down your neck, staining your collarbone. Another wound on your side was still bleeding, the cut too deep for any normal healing charm. And the bruises, dark and swollen, bloomed over your arms, your legs, everywhere.

James felt like the floor had just disappeared beneath him.

He stumbled forward, his hands shaking as he reached out for you, but stopped himself, not knowing how to touch you, afraid of making it worse. He was too late. He had been too late. He couldn’t hold back the tremor in his voice as he called out to you, “Y/N, please… please wake up, please… We’re here, we’re here, love…”

Remus fell to his knees beside you, his breath ragged as he looked over every inch of you. The color drained from his face as the realization hit him—he hadn’t done enough. He hadn’t saved you when he should’ve. “I—I should have been there,” he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible. “I should have seen it. Why didn’t I see it?”

Sirius… he didn’t know what to do. His chest was tight, every word in his mind coming out as French curses under his breath. “Putain… non, non, non…” The words came out as angry sobs, harsh and jagged. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry… please, please be okay. I—I can’t lose you. I can’t—” His voice cracked, the rawness of his panic making his chest ache. He reached for your hand, but his fingers were trembling so violently he could hardly make contact. “I should have protected you, damn it…”

And then James collapsed beside you, his whole body trembling. He broke down, tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please, I never meant to hurt you. Please—don’t leave me. I can’t—I can’t live with myself if you—”

Remus tried to pull James back, his own hands shaking as he gripped his shoulders. “James… calm down, my love, breathe, breathe,” he urged desperately, his voice filled with pain, but his words were faltering, as if his own chest was collapsing in on him. “We’ll fix this. We can fix this—”

But James was beyond hearing. The panic was rising in him, clawing at his throat, choking him, until it felt as though he couldn’t breathe. His sobs were louder now, broken, desperate.

Sirius had fallen silent, staring at you, his eyes wide, frantic, as if he was seeing the reality of your injury but couldn’t believe it. He kept muttering in French under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “Mon Dieu… no, this can’t be real. Please, no—not like this…”

The scene was chaos, the air thick with their grief, their guilt, and the blood that kept staining the floor. Their world had shattered, and all they could do was stare at you, broken and bleeding, and wonder how they’d ever put the pieces back together.

It had been a week since the infirmary bled scarlet.

Seven days since your unconscious body was carried in, limbs limp, robes torn and stained the color of mourning. Since your blood had dried beneath their trembling hands, since Madam Pomfrey had pushed them out of the room with a glare sharp enough to cut bone. Seven days since the world tilted on its axis and none of the boys had been able to breathe quite right.

Now, the hospital wing was cloaked in silence. A strange, reverent quiet. The kind of stillness reserved for cathedrals and funerals.

You were no longer on the brink of death—but barely.

Wrapped in bandages, some still stained pink. Salves coated your bruised ribs. A potion-infused cloth was tied gently around your temple. You hadn’t said much since waking. Not to them, not to anyone.

And yet they came. Every morning. Every hour they could.

Sirius would sit by your bedside, speaking in low, broken French, brushing your hair away from your eyes even when they were closed. James paced endlessly, muttering half-formed thoughts to himself, fingers twitching like they itched to hold your hand but feared the weight of your rejection. Remus had taken to reading to you—old poetry, mostly—his voice soft, barely above a whisper.

None of them said the thing they were all thinking: We thought you’d die. And we weren’t there.

The days that followed bled into one another, soft and silent and slow, as if time itself were limping alongside your broken body.

The Infirmary lights were always dim now, flickering like candles at a funeral. The scent of antiseptic clung to every breath. You stirred in and out of consciousness—each awakening a slow crawl through pain. Your body felt like it had been stitched back together with trembling hands and tears. Every breath hurt. Every inch of skin screamed. But you were alive. Barely. Beautifully. Tragically.

And they were still there.

Your boys.

Silent. Fragile. Hollow.

They never left your side, not for a second.

Sirius sat nearest to your bed, always in the same chair, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers tangled in his hair. He didn’t speak, not really. He whispered sometimes, soft little French nothings like prayers he didn’t know he was saying. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, the gleam in them long extinguished. Once, you caught him reaching out, like he meant to brush a curl from your forehead. But his hand stopped midair and trembled there before falling back to his lap like it weighed a thousand pounds.

James looked the worst, like he hadn’t slept since they found you. His curls were unwashed, his face ghostly pale, dark shadows carved beneath his eyes. He paced most of the time, back and forth in quiet fury, hands flexing helplessly, like there was something he should be doing, could be doing, but didn’t know what. And when he wasn’t pacing, he was crying. Quietly. In corners. He tried to hide it, but you heard it. You always did.

Remus was the stillest, the softest. He barely moved at all. He read aloud sometimes, in a voice that cracked and shook. He fluffed your pillow, changed your bandages, held your hand gently, like it might crumble in his. But his silence said more than any of it. He was unraveling at the seams, guilt eating through him like moths through silk.

The healers came and went. But the boys—your boys—they stayed. And though none of you spoke much, though your voice was weak and their courage was weaker, something lived in the silence. An apology. A hope. A promise not yet spoken.

It was evening again. The sky bled lavender and gold through the infirmary windows.

Remus was the first to break the silence.

“You used to hum when you read,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Did you know that?”

You blinked slowly. It was the first time you’d responded at all.

“I didn’t realize I missed it until it was gone.”

Sirius looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were rimmed in red. “I miss everything. The way you laugh. The way you argue with me like you’re not scared of me. Even the way you kick me in your sleep.”

You shifted slightly in the bed, a wince ghosting across your face. James immediately straightened, panic in his eyes. “Do you need Pomfrey? Are you—are you okay? I’ll get her, I—”

You shook your head gently.

He collapsed back into the chair, dragging his hands down his face.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered. “I keep thinking about it—about that night. I keep seeing you bloodied, in the dark, broken, and I—I can’t fix it. I’m supposed to fix everything.”

“You’re not,” you rasped, voice weak and raspy.

The room fell still.

James looked up like he’d just seen a ghost. “What?”

You exhaled slowly. “You’re not supposed to fix everything.”

Sirius stood abruptly. “We didn’t see you. We didn’t hear you. And then we nearly lost you and we—” His voice cracked. “I—I didn’t get to say I was sorry.”

Your eyes found his. And for the first time in days, you saw him. Really saw him. The grief swimming in the gray of his irises. The guilt carved into the sharp edges of his cheekbones.

“I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” you whispered.

“We’ll wait,” Remus said immediately. “We’ll wait forever, dove.”

James dropped to his knees beside your bed, forehead pressed to the mattress beside your arm. “I love you,” he sobbed. “God, I love you so much, and I keep thinking if we’d just listened, if we’d seen you, you wouldn’t have been out there alone—”

“I thought about you,” you murmured. “When I was on the ground. I thought about how mad you’d be if I died.”

That shattered something in all of them.

Remus leaned forward, pressing a trembling kiss to your knuckles. “You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be left behind.”

“I didn’t want to be the girl who needed,” you said. “But I did. I needed you.”

Sirius stepped closer, his voice barely holding together. “I’m so fucking sorry, mon cœur. I didn’t mean to make you feel small.”

“You didn’t make me feel small,” you whispered. “You just stopped making me feel anything.”

James sobbed harder.

And then you reached for them. Shaky, slow, but open.

They came at once. A tangle of limbs and apologies and muffled cries into hospital sheets.

Remus’s forehead pressed to yours. James held your hand like it anchored him to the earth. Sirius whispered every endearment he knew, over and over again, until your breathing slowed.

“I’m not okay,” you said.

“We’re not either,” James replied.

“But we’ll be.” Remus promised.

And in that tiny, broken moment, surrounded by your boys and your wounds and your silence, you believed him. Just a little.

[moonstruckme]

Ok, your little jily about hypothermia gave me the urge to see :

The reaction to the marauders to you falling through the ice. Like you were skating on the Black Lake with Sirius and James because they convinced you (against you initial worry) while Remus stands off to the side and watches (the most unsure and worried of them)

And I can see James and Sirius trying to race each other as you try to get a hand of ice skating. Then a crack and you fall through.

It’s like you know that scene with Amy in Little woman

I would totally get if you don’t like it since you’ve just written a similar one.

Your work is amazing ! Hope everything is ok for you ❤️

Thank you lovely <3

cw: ice skating trauma?

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

It’s just like Sirius and James to goad you out onto the lake and then get bored of you when—as you tried to warn them—you can’t skate. James is fizzing with energy, promising to come back as soon as he makes one quick round of the cove, and of course when he challenges Sirius to a race your boyfriend is too competitive to decline. 

They take off at light speed, blades schwicking across the dark ice. Remus, sitting bundled up on land, eyes you worriedly over the top of his book. 

“Be careful,” he warns, not for the first time. 

You are nervous, with no handholds and no boyfriends to help you, but you’re eager to reassure him. “Don’t worry.” You smile. “I’m not going to go racing after them.” 

Remus returns your smile, and, mollified, returns to his book. 

The ice on the Black Lake is far from pristine. There are dips and ridges, and soon you find yourself being channeled down curving paths away from the shore, hardly moving your skates and arms out to your sides for balance. The ice beneath your feet begins to look darker, less of the frosty sheen or slashes from other skates. It feels smoother, too. 

You let yourself glide forward, raising your head to see if any of your boyfriends are looking to witness your success. The first crack is a light sound. Almost negligible, but it gets your attention. You scream as the ice falls out from beneath you. 

The cold shocks you down to your bones, freezing the blood in your veins and pressing in on your lungs. Instinct propels you upwards. 

“H—help!” 

Your voice is a tight cry. The air doesn’t feel much better, colder even, but you try to stay above the surface, the blades on your feet slicing uselessly through the water below. Each time you try to grasp at a piece of ice and pull yourself onto it, it breaks away. Your breaths are gasping, panicked puffs that send white clouds into the air in front of you. 

You can hear your boyfriends shouting. 

“Pads, wait—wait—” 

Sirius is crawling towards you on the ice, another shape moving quickly in your direction. 

“Accio branch!” 

James tosses the long stick to Sirius, who holds it out for you to grab onto. The bark bites into your palms, but you don’t let go as both boys use it to drag you out, ice jutting into your middle. As soon as you’re out to your hip you’re in Sirius’ embrace, his strong arms bringing you closer and helping you pull your legs from the water. 

“You’re okay,” he says, firmly. As though daring anyone to prove him wrong. “You’re okay, baby, we’ve got you. We have you.” 

James and Sirius keep you tucked between them, pushing you on dripping skates and wobbly legs to the edge of the lake. Remus looks like he tried to come out wearing his shoes. His face has drained of its wintery flush, brow set tense with worry. 

Sirius helps him back to the shore, but not before Remus casts a warming charm on you. You give an odd shiver at the change. 

“How’s that, angel?” James scrubs a hand up and down your arm. His voice is light, but its lightness is so forced and so different from his exuberant tone of a few minutes ago. 

Remus pulls you into a hug as you start to cry. Tiny sobs mixed with shivers, your frame shaking in every way possible. Remus holds you securely to him as he lowers you both to the ground. He casts another warming charm for good measure. 

“You’re lucky she didn’t get dragged under by the grindylows,” he says with your head tucked beneath his chin. He sounds angry, but it’s quickly succumbing to weariness. His arms wind around you tighter. 

“We didn’t know she’d try and go into the middle!” Sirius argues as he kneels beside you, James at his side. Your boyfriend’s face is lined with guilt as he reaches for you, unsticking a damp piece of hair from your cheek. 

“How was she supposed to know?”

“Sorry,” you offer wobbily. Each of them makes some sound of sympathy. 

“No, sweetheart, it’s not your fault,” Remus soothes, covering your cheek with his warm hand. James rubs up your calf from your ankle as though he intends to warm you inch by inch. “It was only your first time, you couldn’t have known.” 

“Yeah,” James agrees, “you’re fine, lovie. Nobody said for you to be sorry.” 

You try on a smile. There’s snot frozen above your top lip. “So I can only be sorry when you say?” 

“Yes,” says Sirius, very seriously. 

He grins when you laugh. Remus cracks, too, and James looks relieved at no longer being scolded. Sirius smooths another piece of hair from your face, looking at you carefully. 

“You okay, baby?” 

“I’m okay,” you confirm. “The warming charms are helping a lot. Thanks, Rem.” 

“That’s our Moony.” Sirius smiles at him, clearly eager to be back in your boyfriend’s good graces. “Always knows the perfect spell.” 

“You know that one, too,” Remus grumbles as James starts to unlace your skates for you. “You could’ve done it the moment you got her out.” 

“Ah, but we’re not all as quick on our feet as you, you swot.” 

“Do you think you can walk back inside?” James asks you, slipping your shoes on. “One of us could go get some tea from the great hall while you warm up in the common room.” 

“Fuck that,” says Sirius. “I know where Slughorn keeps his nice cocoa now. I’d say we’re entitled to some of that after our trials.” 

“One of us is,” Remus corrects him drily. 

“Right, then.” James takes your hands, standing you up slowly and fitting an arm around your waist for support. If the wet of your clothes chills him, he doesn’t complain. “We’ll pilfer enough of Slughorn’s cocoa for one person, and you’ll be good as new by dinner.” 

“I already feel okay,” you try to reassure him. 

“Shh, shh.” Remus takes you by the hand, squeezing gently. “Don’t correct them. Take your dues.”

[wandaslovey]

everyone stop what you’re doing and indulge me here.

wanda, mean mommy wanda.

you messed up. you pushed her too far one day. you knew a punishment would be in order, but little did you know what wanda had in store for you.

you trudge up the steps behind her, your hand gripped firmly in hers as she guides you up the stairs. a familiar pit settles deep within your tummy—the muscles fluttering with nervous excitement at the knowledge of a punishment just around the corner. wanda always managed to keep you guessing, never creating a pattern of what she would do to you when you acted out.

she wordlessly pulls you into the master bedroom, her steps full of purpose and intent, yet they weren’t rushed. there was an air of dominance around her as you stared at the back of her head. you didn’t even need to see the look on her face to recognize your place beneath her. she was about to remind you of that anyways.

“take off your clothes. stand at the end of the bed.” she instructs in a firm tone, abandoning your side as she walks into your shared walk-in closet.

you obey silently, stepping towards the edge of the bed and taking off your clothes until you stand naked. the cool air of the ac is unforgiving, goosebumps rising on your newly exposed skin. you want to wrap your arms around your torso for warmth, but you know wanda would disapprove of you covering any part of yourself.

you glance up in the direction of the closet when you hear some rummaging, straining your ears to see if you could hear any hints as to what toys she might be grabbing.

when wanda re-emerges, you see maroon rope dangling from her fingers along with a strap on. you furrow your brow at the item, noticing the dildo she picked was one you didn’t use very often. it was purple and only 6 inches in length. it had a vibrating function too, but through using it a couple times, you learned having something vibrating inside of you wasn’t your favorite sensation. was she going to make you try it again? you were also at a loss because normally, the last thing she would do as a punishment was fuck you. if you had the choice, she’d be inside of you 24/7, pumping her cock in and out of your greedy pussy. alas, normal life continues to ensue and you both had daily responsibilities to fulfill.

“is something the matter, dorogoy?” wanda asks, stepping in front of you till you were just inches apart. your height difference becomes more prominent, the few inches she had on you causing your need to tilt your head up to meet her eyes.

“no, mommy.” you reply, shaking your head slowly from side to side. you knew that it was unlikely she would revisit something she knew you didn’t like. she must have something else in store for you with this particular dildo—but what?

she hums her approval at your response, tossing the strap and dildo onto the bed. she gestures for you to turn around with a twirl of her index finger, her brow quirking when you hesitate for a moment. you turn, placing your wrists together behind your back. she does a simply knot, tying them snuggly, but not too tightly.

“turn back around for me.” her hands are soft and gentle as she guides you to face her again, a stark contrast to how you know her punishments always are—brutal and unforgiving.

she appraises you with a closed mouth smile, the back of her hand caressing your cheek before she cups your chin. “we’re going to try something different tonight,” she tells you. immediately, you’re more alert, your eyes a bit anxious as she takes in your expression. she chuckles darkly, satisfaction settling deep into her bones at your worried face.

“i expect you to safe word should you need it, though i doubt you’ll want to use it tonight. is that clear?” she holds your chin more firmly, her eyes colder than before.

“yes, mommy.” you whimper out, feeling more and more anticipation with every passing second. it was bittersweet not knowing what she had in store for you.

you watch carefully as she reaches to the side and grabs the strap on. you’re surprised when instead of putting it on herself, she secures the leather straps around your waist and thighs. your breath hitches as she tightens them until they sit snuggly against your skin. it was a foreign feeling to have something tied there, but even more foreign was the sight of the purple cock standing proudly between your legs.

“mommy?” you ask hesitantly, glancing between the dildo and wanda. she shushes you, tucking some hair behind your ear while the other hand wraps around the shaft. you gasp softly, though the appendage was not actually connected to your body, you could’ve sworn you felt a phantom sensation.

wanda grins at this, the hand that was at your face now sliding down until she wraps it loosely around your neck. she leans into kiss you as she slowly pumps the purple length. her kiss is slow and teasing, her head tipping back every few seconds until your lips eagerly chase hers so they reconnect again. “you’re such a greedy thing, aren’t you? mommy shouldn’t even be letting a brat like you get anything you want tonight.” she pulls farther away this time, her hand squeezing your neck in warning not to lean in after her. you look back down where her hand is pumping your cock and you find yourself quickly entranced with the movement. she picks up her pace to a medium speed, your eyes intent and eager on her ministrations. you bite your lip, your hips beginning to thrust into her hand as the longer you stare, the more you feel like you can actually feel her hand around your faux cock.

wanda eyes scan your face closely, watching pleasurable fascination cross your face. you seem enthralled in her teasing which only encourages her to take it up a notch.

just when you think the visual can’t get any better, wanda drops to her knees, your cock just about level with her face. she looks up at you with her pretty green eyes, and even though to an outsider it might look like you have the upper hand, you know with every ounce of your being that wanda is still fully in control.

“mommy’s gonna suck your pretty cock. if you move your hips, i’m going to stop and spank you 15 times for each little movement you make. is that understood?” she holds your strap up to her mouth, twisting her hand as she focuses on small strokes near the head of the toy.

you pant, your head feeling fuzzy like tv static as you feel yourself relinquish any self reservations you had of this particular fantasy. “mhm,” you nod your head, your brows pulling together in a desperate expression. you really wanted to see her lips wrap around the tip.

she wasn’t satisfied with your answer, so she grips harshly onto your hip, pulling you closer to her face. “words, malyshka.”

you gasp at her firm hold, feeling her dull fingernails bite into your skin. “i understand - i understand.” you say quickly, your voice breathy and desperate.

“good.” she hums before she lifts the shaft up so the tip is pointing the ceiling, her eyes piercing yours. she flattens out her tongue, sliding it from the base all the way up to the head. you inhale sharply at the sight, thinking this had to be one of the top 3 most sexy things you’d ever witnessed. she takes the tip into her mouth, bobbing her head slowly while she uses her hand to twist up and down the length her mouth didn’t cover. her eyes dared you to move, dared you to defy her. it took every ounce of strength and determination not to buck your hips into her face.

wanda takes more of you into her mouth and you can’t help but let out a shrill whine as the whole shaft disappears into her mouth, her lips at your pelvis. she holds herself there, slowly shaking her head back and forth before pulling herself off of it. she releases your cock with a pop, the length now coated with her saliva. she begins pumping you again with her hand and you can’t help it, too lost in the sensation. you thrust your hips into her hand without a second thought, whimpering as you do so.

wanda stills your hips at once, her hand still firmly wrapped around your faux cock but not moving.

“what did i say? hmm?” her tone is harsh, her accent bleeding into her words.

what you didn’t know is wanda chose this punishment and the rules within it on purpose. she knew a greedy slut like you wouldn’t be able to keep your hips still.

“i changed my mind.” she announces abruptly, moving to stand. your face falls, your lips pouting as you watch her move away from you. like a lost puppy, you step closer as she retreats, wanting to be close to her, wanting her to finish what she started.

“stay there.” you steps falter immediately, but your face perks up slightly as wanda begins to strip out of her clothes. you watch her with eager eyes, wetting your lips with your tongue as her cunt was now on display. you could tell she was wet, the light catching on her thighs, causing the wetness there to glisten.

“lie on the bed.” she nods to the mattress behind you and with a quick glance behind your shoulder you back up and let yourself fall on the bed, scooting awkwardly so you’re lying in the middle of it. it was hard to move with your hands still tied behind your back.

wanda crawls on the bed and over your body until she’s straddling your hips. your breathing becomes more shallow, your mind slowly catching on to where she was going with this. wanda sees the recognition pass over your face and she grins at the sight.

“that’s right, baby. i’m gonna fuck myself on your cock… and you’re not gonna be able to touch me. at all.” she grabs your shaft, lining it up with her entrance. you whine desperately, your hands balling into fists underneath your back. she teases herself, running the tip up and down her slit. you can hear how wet she is, but even still you swear you’re far more wet than she is. and that’s saying a lot given the squelching noises penetrating the room.

she finally sinks down, your cock disappearing inch by inch into her heat. your eyes nearly bulge at the sight, never having been inside of her like this. she starts at a slow pace again, lifting herself completely off the toy before sinking down onto it. your stomach clenches with need, your pussy dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

you whine again, your face one of pure desperation as tears begin to prick at your eyes.

“mmm, you like this detka? you like watching mommy fuck herself onto your girl cock?” she ignores your whining, her voice coming out as a groan. she was quickly losing herself to how full you made her feel.

all you can do is continue to pathetically whimper and whine as she rides your strap. tears begin to roll down your cheeks as the need to have her fuck you becomes wholly overwhelming.

“oh, that’s it, baby. cry for me. you know i love to see your pretty tear stained cheeks.” she picks up the pace until she’s near brutally impaling herself on your cock, lost in the power dynamic of having you tied and helpless beneath her while she gets off. it helps knowing how desperate you are, your pleas and tears only spurring her on.

she makes herself cum, moaning loudly as she does, your hips eagerly rutting up into her as she rides out the waves of her orgasm. she stills your hips, panting and you watched mesmerized as her tits rise and fall with her breaths. you can see a thin sheen of sweat gathering on her forehead, but you can hardly pay much more attention to her as your need for relief is at an all time high.

“mommy, please!” you try to plea sweetly, but it comes out more desperate and demanding than you intend. wanda tsks, lifting herself up off your strap and spreading your bent legs. she settles between them, holding your cock in her hand again.

“tell you what - i’ll let you cum if you can just like this. i’ll suck you off and you can move your hips this time, but i’m not going to touch you in any other way.”

you’re so desperate for anything that she’ll give you that you agree. and guess what? you do cum. the sight of her sucking your faux purple cock and your hips fucking into her face was just enough to push you over the edge.

[dwaekkicidal]

Sharing is Caring [3.5: ChanLix]

˚ʚBang Chan x Lee Felixɞ˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: Chris comes home to a seemingly empty dorm, ready to relax and relieve the stress from the day away. Though... he really didn't expect to relieve it like this.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 5.6k (don't look at me.)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: member x member content: dont like dont interact <3 (you can also block the #mxm tag), lots of yapping (if you cant already tell by the word count), mentions of poly relationships (specifically skz x female and felix x han), dom!channie and sub-slightly bratty lix hehe, brat taming, slightly meandom chris?, brief mention of chris having a solo-jerking off session, lots of jerking off, multiple rounds, overstimulation, unprotected sex, slight dubcon? (felix says wait a few times but he doesn’t really mean it), i thiiiink thats it?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: this took waaaaay too long for me to get out LMFAO but i finally got it done!!! small update on this series: i think im going to make an ot8 x reader (with a mxm sub chapter lol) and then close out this series >.< i wanna keep writing for it but i just have a jumbled mess of mxm ideas so i think i finish with ot8 and decide later on what to do

Sharing is Caring Masterlist

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

The events of that first Friday night had haunted Chris. But not in a bad way. It was more so that he hadn’t expected any of his members to… explore each other in that way. Even after they all had agreed to the polyamorous relationship, he didn’t expect anybody to make moves on each other. Let alone the fact that they had done it prior to the main relationships starting.

Though, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made that it was the sunshine twins out of everyone. They got along great, both in public and in the comfort of privacy, and he could recall certain times where rather suspicious looks between the two were exchanged before they disappeared not to be heard from for an hour.

And he sure as hell can’t deny how hard he gets at the imagery of what these encounters would look like between the two. Especially not when his jeans manage to get tighter and tighter as the seconds pass and more visions flood in about the smallest two of the group.

But all of this comes to a halt as he takes the final step to be in front of his door. He blinks a few times, not realizing that he had indeed gone up the elevator and walked through the hallway to get to his dorm amidst all his daydreaming. He sighs loudly and digs for his keys in his pocket

Aside from those dirty thoughts lingering, it was eerily quiet as he walks through the hallways of the dorm. He simply assumed that Hyunjin had taken their girlfriend and left the dorm, so he didn’t bother to check the younger’s room. Instead, he just beelined it for his bedroom and closed the door as fast as possible.

He all but tossed his bags on the floor and threw himself onto his bed, exhausted after the hours and hours he had spent in the studio fighting with countless tracks that he just couldn’t seem to get right. He laid there like a pile of bones until he eventually pushed off the bed and forced his way to his dresser. A small pile of clothes is picked out and his robe is grabbed before he mozeyd his way to his shower.

The water is much colder than usual. It’s just barely tolerable but he hopes that it will break down his nasty thoughts, so he sits under the water for much longer than he usually would have. The water trickles down his toned back and he takes a few deep breaths as the last few hours replay in his head.

Han and Changbin had sent him home early, they could tell something was on his mind and he was more distracted than usual. He’d never admit that it was thanks to the youngest in the room, so he kept quiet and just brushed it off. But after a few hours of working and the two other producers trying to get him to talk about it, and failing, they told him to just go home and relax.

They promised to take care of everything as long as he went home and de-stressed. “Maybe even ask Bunny for help.” He sighs as Changbin’s words replay in his mind. It wasn’t a bad idea… A very specific type of release sounded pretty good right about now but considering she wasn’t around, he was at a standstill.

Either he takes care of himself and prays that it’s enough to satisfy him, or he waits however long he has to for his girlfriend to return home and ask her to help him out. And he decided on the latter. Though, part of him hoped the thoughts would go away naturally during the cold shower.

But once the water becomes unbearable and he’s still plagued with the same images from earlier, he grows even more frustrated. He subconsciously rolls his eyes and groans as he shuts the water off, forcing himself out of the shower. He doesn’t bother tying the robe, he just slides his arms through the sleeves and wears it wide open as he walks over to his bed and plops down onto it.

Welp. Plan B.

Some minutes later, his cock aches as he jerks himself off with nothing but thoughts of a certain blonde boy on his knees below him. As if it’s actually happening, his legs spread wider and his hips buck up into his hand. His whole body shivers as his thumb runs through his slit, some of the precum spreading around his tip and making his eyes roll into the back of his skull.

Chan feels like he has no control of his body as he throws his head back and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. He finally allows himself to make a noise- a quiet whine escaping his throat as his stomach clenches, his orgasm right on its cusp.

Then, a sudden, loud knock on his bedroom door makes him jump out of his skin, and his head spins as his hand flies away from his cock, his orgasm already fading away. He wasn’t expecting any visitors and, as far as he was aware, the dorm was completely empty aside from him.

He wholeheartedly thought about ignoring it, hoping that the unknown person would just leave. But then, an all too familiar deep voice calls out to him from the other side of the door, making his arm hairs stick up. “Channie-hyung, are you there? You wanted to talk?”

His eye and his dick twitches and he stares at the door in awe, jaw dropped on the floor. Speak of the devil. He immediately covers himself with the robe, tying it half-assed and rushing to call out to the boy. “Y-Yeah! Come in.”

The door knob turns and Chris almost moans at the sight of Felix clad in a tank top and shorts. Even the slightest semblance of skin would send him spiraling but seeing so much of it, and seeing the outline of his entire torso through this tight shirt makes his dick twitch against his robe.

“Earth to Chris~ Hello?” 

“Ah! Sorry, mate..” He clears his throat and tears his eyes away from the younger’s chest. “What’s up?”

Felix’s face starts to burn red and he smiles knowingly, but he bites his laugh back and repeats his sentence with a more teasing tone. “A little birdy said that you wanted to talk to me about something~”

Chris blinks a few times, staying quiet as he rummages through his foggy brain for an explanation. “Ah! Right- Uh…” He scratches the back of his neck and saunters over to take a seat directly next to him, shivering when Felix leans in and their thighs touch.

“Uh…” Chan rakes his mind as he tries to find the right words, but they don’t come. So he opts to simply explain himself and then hopefully find the right wording. “So. First things first- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable so if this crosses a line, we won't speak about it ever again.” Felix’s eyebrow twitches up in curiosity and he nods slowly. 

“So… Han told me about the two of you.” Felix chuckles and mumbles out a quiet, teasing ‘Yeah?’ that makes Chris’ head spin. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold himself back from moaning as Felix’s voice meets his ears again. “Actually… Han and I spoke the night you three hooked up with our angel, so I know that he told you.”

Felix smiles at the wide eyes he gets in response, but he continues nonetheless. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable. In fact-” He leans forward even more, placing a hand on Chris’ thigh and smirking to himself when the older man whimpers, barely audible. “In fact, I think it’s pretty hot.”

He leans forward all the way and lays his cheek on Chris’ shoulder, hand sneaking up his thigh more and more. His breath is hot on the older’s neck and Chris has to physically bite back yet another moan. He can't, however, bite back the strong twitch from the prominent bulge in his robe.

Felix smiles to himself and tests the limits further, ghosting his hand along Chan’s bulge before walking his fingers up his torso. “We’ve spoken about it before, you know?” Chan’s breath gets caught in his throat but he hums in acknowledgement, signaling Felix to continue. “He told me how big and pretty your dick was. And how submissive you made him feel~. ‘Said you were a real good Daddy.”

This time a moan breaks through and falls past Chris’ lips in a low tone, his legs twitching and arms shaking as he leans back onto them and gives Felix more space to work with. “Shit- Really?” It comes out desperate and deep, to the point where it riles up Felix in all the right ways.

“Mhm. Made me want a go.” Chan’s eyes snap open and he turns his head to meet the younger’s gaze. Their faces are inches apart and he can feel his composure fading away with each second. “Y-You- Yeah?”

Felix doesn’t bother holding back the breathy laugh that comes out. He just nods with his cheek curling up in a smirk. His hand is on Chris’ collarbone at this point and he traces small circles into the sweaty skin there.

The air is heavy as silence fills the room, but Felix doesn’t seem bothered by it. He has a small smile on his face as he continues to tease Chan’s neck with his finger tips. This goes on for a few more seconds as the eldest takes many deep breaths, doing everything in his power to calm his racing heart down. After he finally calms himself down, he finds it in himself to hype himself up.

“So… you want me as bad as I want you?” Felix’s ears start turning red as he nods slowly, lips still pulled up in a smile. Chris only bites his lip, racking his brain for the smallest amount of confidence so he can take control of the situation. The continued silence from the younger man gives him an idea and he finally makes a move, settling his hand on Felix’s cheek to start. His thumb strokes the freckles there and he can feel his confidence grow when the younger melts into his touch.

“Mmmm… And if Han told you about what happened that night, then I would have hoped he told you that I don’t like brats.” Felix’s smirk finally falters and he nods at the older, eyes glossy as they look up at him. Chris sighs and his hand trails down to Felix’s neck where he squeezes it experimentally. “Then… You should know better than to not use your words. Right?” Felix exhales deeply and nods again before catching himself.

“Yes… Sorry.”

Chris’ chest swells with the confidence that he needed and he squeezes his hand again, watching as Felix’s eyes flutter closed. “What is all this for, then? You’re trying to slut yourself out to me?” Felix shivers and doesn’t answer right away, making Chris squeeze his hand tighter and wait until their eyes meet again to loosen the hold. “Huh?”

“Yes, I-” He takes a deep breath, “I want you to play with me- like you did with Hannie.” The second the confirmation left his mouth, Chris wastes no time and shoves his lips against Felix’s. The hand around his neck stays there almost possessively as their tongues breach each other’s mouths. They moan into the kiss as Felix’s hands move to Chan’s biceps. He’s gotten so big recently, and Felix couldn't lie about how hot and bothered it got him.

The information would have to pried from their cold, dead hands, but neither Han nor Felix could deny that they both got off on just how muscular their members have become recently. Even when they would “have fun” with just each other, they tended to bring up one of their members and their sexy bodies.

It’s not until their lungs burn that they pull away from each other. But even then, Chris is already so pent up from weeks of fantasizing, and that mixed with his orgasm getting denied just minutes prior leads to needy impatience. So he, again, wastes no time. He pushes Felix onto the bed by his shoulder and crawls on top of him, sinking his hands and his knees into his mattress as he hovers over him.

His knee pushes up against Felix’s cock through his shorts and his thick lips latch onto Felix’s neck, making the boy moan louder than he expected himself to. He goes to react and cover his mouth with the back of his hand, but Chris reacts faster. He reaches up to capture both of Felix’s small wrists in one of his hands and pins them above his head.

“What happened to wanting to play like Hannie? You know, he was really well behaved then.” Felix whines at first at the gruffness in Chan’s voice, but eventually laughs through it once he realizes what he said. “Mmm… I hate to be the one to tell you, but Hannie and I aren’t exactly well behaved in bed. Even to each other. You just got lucky.”

Chan’s hands falter and Felix laughs out loud when he hears the quiet “More brats? Are you fucking kidding me…” Chris sighs loudly and rubs circles into Felix’s hip as can already feel the future headaches coming on. But, obviously, now is not the time for that. Especially not when he has one of said brats at his disposal, with their consent to play.

“You’re really gonna make me fight for this? Don’t even wanna try being my good boy?” Felix’s eyes shimmer at the pet name and he quickly finds himself in a dilemma. “You’ve been on my mind all fucking week. If you seriously can’t find it in you to be good, I’m not going to hold back when I fuck you like a whore.” Felix shivers and his leg kicks up as Chan’s knee pushes against him harder. 

Their lips lock and Chris’ hands move to trail up and down his body, from ghosting over his chest to sliding up under his shirt just to rake his dull nails down Felix’s stomach. Then they drop lower and tug Felix’s shorts down just enough so that his V-line is on display. As he tugs the shorts down, he kisses down Felix’s throat, making a pit stop there to leave dark hickeys into his skin.

Felix’s hips buck up and Chris indulges him by running his hands on his hips, squeezing them in appreciation before swinging around to knead his ass, spreading him through his shorts just to push them back together.

“Pretty thing. You really gonna let me play with you?” Felix nods eagerly and whimpers when Chris yanks his shirt over his head and then kisses down his chest.

“H-Hyung..” Chris only smiles in response. He bites his lip and looks Felix up and down once more, ghosting his hands over the younger boy’s hip bone.

“Hmmm?”

���Please take them off! I need you so bad.” Chris isn’t one to tolerate being bossed around, but he did ask nicely with a cute little comment at the end, so he lets it slide this time. He tugs Felix’s shorts down to his ankles as he nibbles on his hip. When he pulls away, his eyes widen at the sight of Felix being completely bare now- his pretty cock twitching just inches from his face.

“Felix… Where is your underwear, baby.” Felix’s face flushes and he smiles sideways.

“We played a little before you got home. Hyunjin and I made her squirt like two hours ago.” Chan’s eyebrow cocks and he slowly nods with a smirk.

“Good job…” Chris mutters under his breath. He kisses Felix’s waist and squeezes his hips, humming against his skin as he appreciates the younger’s smaller form. “Can’t wait to fuck this pretty little ass.~”

Chris reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a small bottle of lube, spurting some onto his fingers before poking at Felix’s puckering hole. He slides a finger in all too easily, and for a moment the thought of somebody other than Han getting Felix’s ass before him. He frowns at the thought, jealousy filling his veins, and he shoves that finger in to the knuckle suddenly, almost as a punishment for Felix.

The younger moans high-pitched and keens, his back arching off the bed. Chris smiles and nibbles at Felix’s stomach, leaving hickies all along his v-line. Felix already feels so full by the time Chris adds his second finger, then even more when a third gets added- stretching Felix out more than his small fingers ever had. Or Han’s finger’s for that matter.

He revels in the stretch for some time, rolling his hips back and forth onto the knobby fingers that dig into his walls. As he’s doing this, Chris sneaks his other hand from palming his cock through his robe in favor of wrapping around Felix’s base, squeezing it softly before starting to stroke him slowly.

“Was it just Han?” He gives Felix time to answer, understanding that it can be overwhelming, but when the boy stays quiet he curls his fingers roughly, digging perfectly into Felix’s prostate and making him cry out, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“I asked you a question, Lix.” Chan’s fingers speed up as his other hand focuses on tight, long strokes, causing Felix’s eyes to flutter shut as he moans and clenches around the fingers inside of him.

“Y-Yes just him! I swear! I haven’t- ah! I haven’t talked to any of the others about it yet.” Chan’s eyebrows perk up and he smirks, “‘Yet’?” He laughs and pulls his fingers out, manhandling the younger boy to flip over and lay on his stomach instead.

He’s in the process of sliding his robe off when Felix starts to wiggle around too much for Chan’s liking, so he tsks and sends his palm onto the flesh of Felix’s ass. The younger yelps and halts his movements, allowing Chris to take hold of his wrists and pin them to his lower back.

Chris whistles and massages the reddening flesh of Felix’s ass, admiring just how red it got from one small spank. His tongue poked the side of lip as he grew distracted with thoughts of making them even more red, but was brought back down to earth by the whines coming from below him.

He shushes Felix and tightens the grip on his wrists. Then he moves his hand down to pump himself a few times, even putting a show onto circle his tip around Felix’s rim, much to the younger’s dismay.

“M-Man… Chris hurry the hell u-” He’s interrupted by a yelp caused by the much harsher slap to the same ass cheek as before. Chris huffs and his hand comes down on Felix’s other ass cheek, making the boy twitch with a whimper.

“Lose the ‘tude.” Chris finally pushes in, moving his hands to hold onto Felix’s hip in order to lift his ass up higher, making him rest on his knees instead of being flat on his stomach. Once he’s nearly bottomed out all the way, he gives Felix some time to get used to the feeling of being full and slithers that same hand down his stomach so he can wrap his hand around Felix’s dick.

“Oh my g-od… ‘So big-” His veiny hand pumps slowly, making the younger moan and clench harder around him, and making himself groan in response. “H-Hyung.. Please move. I-I can’t-” Chris hushes him, placing a kiss on his shoulder as he starts to move slowly. Felix shakes and arches his back, he’s still sensitive from the orgasm he had earlier and he can’t help but clench even harder at feeling so much fuller than he’s used to.

“F-Fuck.. You’re so tight Lix. You gotta relax, baby.”

Felix shivers and tightens his hands in the sheets as Chris squeezes his hips and thrusts his hips upwards experimentally. When Felix moans and arches his back, Chris moves to rest on his forearms near the younger boy’s head, nails digging into the sheets as his hips gradually grow rougher and rougher. He moves cautiously though, eyes locked onto Felix’s as the younger shakes beneath him.

Every time Chris bottoms out, Felix’s voice cracks in a moan. His small hands release the sheets in favor of digging his nails into Chris’ forearm. “Channie!” Chan responds by slamming his hips against Felix’s, bottoming out in one fell swoop. “Use your words, baby. Be a big boy and tell me what you want.”

“I need it faster Hyung- Please-” Chris fixes his posture and uses the grip on Felix’s hips to pull him backward. Then he slams his hips forward and pulls Felix back onto him at the same time, making the man below him silently scream. He repeats this action, harshly fucking into Felix and pulling him back onto him with each thrust.

Felix is drooling onto the sheets at this point, and Chris can feel his sanity slipping from him as he relishes in the feeling of Felix’s heat around his cock. Chris’ jaw drops and he breathes heavily as Felix’s ass milks him dry, his own cock twitching as it drips cum onto Chris’ sheets. 

They stay there for a moment, catching their breaths and calming down from their orgasms. Chris is the first to recover, pulling out of Felix slowly as if to tease him further. Felix shivers and swats his hand back at Chris with a whine. The older man laughs and holds him still until he’s finally out all the way, then his hands on Felix’s hips move to his ass cheeks, spreading him open and allowing him to watch his cum drip out of Felix’s gaping hole.

Felix’s head is still spinning, so he can’t bring himself to complain at Chris’ heavy gaze. He barely notices when he’s pulled to his feet, the only thing ground him being Chris’ thick lips pushing against his. It’s a short, sweet kiss. Just one that Chris used to make sure Felix was ok.

Once he’s sure, he leads Felix to his bathroom and digs in the cabinets for a washcloth to clean the younger man with. When he finds one and turns back around, his cock twitches back to life at the sight of Felix studying the hickeys and little red marks- soon to be bruises- on his hips. With a smile on his face.

Chris feels his cock twitch at the sight and he finds himself slowly stalking towards the bathroom mirror where he settles himself behind Felix, his arms wrapping around the younger's waist. Felix’s smile doesn’t falter as they make eye contact and Chris acts before he thinks, grinding his hips against Felix’s ass as his lips latch onto the boy’s shoulder.

Felix’s eyes widen and he laughs in disbelief, “You’re hard again??” Chris giggles against his skin and bites down, angling his hips to push his cock between Felix’s ass cheeks. “I wasn’t lying when I said you’ve been on my mind all week. ‘Been dreaming about fucking your brains out.”

One of Felix’s eyebrows cocks up and he bites his lips to hide his smirk, his inner brat coming back out now that he can think straight. “Who said you fucked my brains out? Last I checked I can still think properly.” Chris’ eyes roll in faux annoyance and he closes his eyes for a second, opening them back up with a fire in them as he pulls away from the new hickey he just left.

“Really?”

Felix smiles and reaches out to turn on the water for the washcloth, not expecting much more out of Chris right now considering he just came an insane amount inside of him- the cum still dripping down his thighs as they speak.

What he didn’t account for was how pent up Chris was. He didn’t know how bad his cock has ached the last few weeks for him, or how distracted and frustrated he’s been at work- unable to focus on anything but the thoughts of Felix below him at his mercy.

Chris doesn’t have much patience at this point, and even less self control, so it’s no surprise to himself when he angles Felix forward just slightly and slides a hand between them to slide his tip into the younger boy’s hole. It surprises Felix though, and his eyes roll into the back of his head as Chris sinks in all the way, his balls hitting his ass in the process

“W-Wait- Hyung-?” Felix’s fingers dig into the counter as Chris starts moving right off the bat. He’s had multiple orgasms in the last few hours and he can feel himself slipping into some sort of subspace as Chris’ hands sneak a tight grip into his hair.

“Hm. For somebody who’s ‘not fucking your brains out,’ you sure look like a brainless slut on my cock.” Felix moans loudly at Chris’ mean words, even more so at how unbothered he sounds, and his eyes snap open. His eyes quickly fall to the mirror in front of him and he shivers at the reminder of the hickeys littering his neck, feeling like he’s been claimed of sorts.

Chris’ eyes meet his in the mirror and he shakes aggressively when Chris thrusts harshly, his hand wrapping around Felix’s base at the same time. His hands move fast and Felix cries out as his orgasm builds insanely fast out of nowhere, the stinging feeling on his head only egging him on further. His body doesn’t give him anytime to warn Chris as he cums suddenly, his cock spurting onto the counter and some onto Chris’ hand.

He can see the smirk grow on Chris face, but his overstimulated body could care less about that, only focused on the squeeze around his cock. His own hand bolts down to Chris’ and he moans at the difference in the size of them. He wraps his hand around Chris’ wrist instead and tries to pull him away, only for Chris to squeeze him tighter and growl into his ear.

“Wait...” Felix shakes his head as tears prick his eyes. Chris would normally stop himself and allow the other person some time to breathe, but he feels this is a sufficient punishment for Felix trying to brat out- just for him to fail anyway.

The hand in his hair moves in favor of pinching his nipples and Felix’s eyes roll shut at the extra attention on his body. His legs shake almost nonstop and he can barely hold himself up. But despite all the overstimulation, his hips still push back against Chris’, making the older man huff out a laugh.

Soon enough Chris’s hand releases Felix’s cock, allowing him to breathe for a moment, and only a moment, because that hand digs into the muscles on Felix’s thigh and lifts it up. He angles his leg to rest his knee on the counter, allowing Chris to thrust even deeper now.

“Chris… I’m- shit!” His head drops and his arms shake, struggling to hold himself up. The new depth mixed with the sensitivity of his entire body makes Felix clench constantly around Chris.

“Gonna cum again, angel? ‘S Channie gonna make you cum again?” His voice wavers as he talks, his own orgasm dangerously close.

Felix’s chest heaves as he cums and Chris follows, a string of curses leaving his lips as he pushes them against Felix’s jawline. As he continues fucking into Felix to ride out his orgasm, Felix cums again, this time with a desperate cry that makes his voice crack and the tears in his eyes finally fall. Chris pulls out suddenly and holds Felix tightly against his chest as he jerks the younger off, making him convulse in his hold.

He whimpers and digs his nails into any part of Chris that he can reach, leaving red marks in his hand’s wake. He only calms down once Chris releases him fully, causing him to sob quietly at the overstimulation.

“You okay?” Felix nods slowly and leans back, putting all his weight on Chris as he feels his mind hovering elsewhere. Chris recognizes the general signs of subspace all too easily, having already experienced it multiple times with their girlfriend, and he chuckles lowly. “Shower time and then we’ll cuddle to sleep.”

He leaves no room for disagreements, and even if Felix could talk, he wouldn’t bother. So he simply holds onto Chris tightly as the older man washes his body off, being cautious when cleaning below his belly button. They only separate for a minute or so, so that Chris could wash himself off again, before they’re stepping out of the shower.

Chris manages to dress Felix then himself in a few minutes, laughing to himself when Felix wobbles over to the bed and throws himself onto it. Felix whines loudly when Chris doesn’t join him right away, and then again when he realizes Chris is trying to speed clean the mess they left.

“I’m coming, I’m coming~” He giggles and hurriedly tosses their clothes into a combined pile out of the way before sliding under the sheets. “Anything hurt?” Chris’s fingers soothe Felix’s scalp and the younger of the two’s head bobs as he feels sleep pulling him. “Uh-uh” He doesn’t bother shaking his head and just melts into the warm embrace.

“Sleepy…”

“Go to sleep, Lixie. I’m not going anywhere, pinky promise.”

The morning after is colder than he expected. Chris wakes up to an empty bed, and the revelation makes his heart feel emptier than ever. He lifts his head briefly to scan the room, and then closes his eyes in relief when he sees Felix’s clothes still in a pile with his own clothes from last night’s events. Then, the sound of familiar laughter coming from elsewhere in the apartment immediately comforts him.

“Morning sleepyhead. Care to explain why Felix came out of your room last night, in clothes that are deeeefinitely not his?” The shit eating smile on their girlfriend's face makes his face flush, even more so when he realized that Felix kept quiet in order to let him decide what to tell them. ‘Not well behaved’ my ass. Just gotta fuck the brat out of you.

He clears his throat to hide a laugh and shakes his head. “Straight to the point. Can’t even let me have my morning coffee before I get interrogated?” She rolls her eyes at him but smiles and doesn’t press further. “I expect details later!” She places a kiss on his cheek and then runs off to the living room to join Hyunjin in watching some artsy YouTube video, allowing Chris and Felix to have some space to talk.

“Good morning, Lix.” He leans over the younger man and husks out into his ear teasingly, caging him in with his arms planted on either side of the counter. “Slept well?”

“Like a fucking baby…” Felix’s neck flushes and they both giggle quietly. “Good morning, though. Sorry I left you alone in bed, I heard them out here and got ‘FOMO.’”

Chris smiles and shakes his head, “It’s ok, I was a bit sad but I guess it’s best to not lay in bed all morning.” Chris makes his coffee immediately after he separates from Felix, using the coffee they had made before he woke up to do so. He notices Felix doesn’t leave him after that. Had he not known the boy for the last decade almost, he would have been confused as to why. But the nervous picking at his fingernails gives him away to his leader all too easily.

“Sit with me? What’s on your mind, Lix?” 

He makes a face of surprise before smiling and shaking his head knowingly. “Might sound dumb, but I just wanna know- Like… So what now?” His voice drops almost to a whisper as he finds the confidence to ask such a heavy question, and he’s happy when he does when Chris smiles sweetly and tilts his head.

“Now… You’re mine and I’m yours.” Felix smiles and bites his lips, playing around with his fingers in excitement.

“Mhm… What does this mean for everybody else then?”

“Whatever you want it to mean. Baby girl and Han will still love you the same as before- if anything the three of you might unite against me into some sort of fucking brat-brigade.” He rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his coffee, smiling into the cup when Felix bursts out laughing. 

“Oh… And since we’re on the topic of ‘everybody else’…” Chris clears his throat and cracks his neck to shake the bits of shyness he feels. “Last night when you said you hadn’t talked to any of the others ‘yet’… Is that something you want?”

Felix’s face flushes and he laughs nervously. “Yeah… I think so. I’m not sure who would want me like that, but I’d be open to all of them to be honest. I think Hannie feels the same, but I think we both know he has a favorite he would want the most.” Both men laugh and Chris scoots his chair closer to Felix.

Once he’s close enough, he slugs his arm around Felix’s shoulders and pulls the younger into him. “Let me help you then, yeah? Make your life a little easier.” Felix’s eyebrows widen and he snaps his head up to see a soft smile on Chan’s face followed by those thick lips pushing against his temple. “Whatever my babies want, my babies get.”

“...Even if that means conquering all of our friends in bed.”

Taglist: (red=can't be tagged)

@valkyriexo @lunearta @jabmastersupriseee @rylea08

@yaorzu-blog @amararosesblog @jiminssluttyminx @clemissleepy

@miss-daisy04 @kittyxnoa @dwaekkiiracha @bubblerizz

@mariteez @fun-fanfics @honeyybbuubblleess @kittycatkrissa

@nicora04 @chuuyaobsessed @moonlightndaydreams

@maisyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @paborachaslvt

@aeri-skzver

[cyberrose2001]

Under Pressure

MTMTE Rodimus x Reader

GRAHH SURPRISE!!!!

Relic and I have been... discussing... very hard about an ask they got a couple days ago so I wrote this eheh (THANK YOU FOR DISCUSSING THIS WITH ME AND LETTING ME WRITE THIS ILY)

Also please yell at me if I forgot any warnings!

Loosely based of this ask over on @callsign-relic's blog

Warnings: Human reader, Giant/Tiny, Dub-Con(?), Nocturnal emission, Crack fic(?)

Word count: 1,887

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

Rodimus denies it every time, but he's a heavy sleeper. He snores like a congested rhino; he constantly sets twelve alarms that only barely stir him from his slumber. Despite being captain of the ship, his sleep schedule is far from tip-top shape.

And no, you're not a stalker. You're just Rodimus' observant little 'pet' human, always there, with a California king on his bedside dresser. Yeah, you're treated like royalty by an incredibly hard-to-deny hot alien robot.

So, as the ship ventured further into deep space and the nights got colder, you whined and begged to stay with him.

Rodimus was very hesitant to let you join him in the berth. As much as he cared about you and would kill an army for you, he didn't want to accidentally kill you, which was very much a possibility in any scenario on this ship. But he caved. You had mastered the sad, wet cat look, and Rodimus had the willpower of a rock.

Relishing in victory, you're curled up comfortably against Rodimus' lower plating for the third consecutive night in a row, warmed by the large servo of a sleeping giant. The entire palm of his hand covers your back in subconscious protection, and every so often, you feel a twitch of one digit. It's tranquility and a rare comfort, the touch of another you haven't felt since being on earth.

Until he rolls over.

Rodimus, choking on his snores, flips over onto his stomach and nearly tosses you off the berth if not for the grip he has on you. Despite almost winding you and making an audible 'Oof' sound, he doesn't wake up, his unconscious body assuming another comfortable position.

It takes you a few moments to register what the fuck just happened, but you realise that you're now underneath Rodimus. Almost his entire body weight is now pressed against you and pins you to the berth.

Oh god, you think to yourself.

This is less than ideal; this was not supposed to happen. How the hell are you, a tiny ass human, supposed to get out from under him? You probably shouldn't even be alive right now with how restricted your breathing is, not to mention how hard he flopped on top of you. But thankfully, with how Rodimus' legs have fallen into position, it leaves you with just enough room for your chest to rise and fall.

"God." You whine, muffled as your cheeks squish against his abdominal plating.

Your mind runs wild as you try to think of a way out. Maybe he'll just roll over again soon? God, you hope so; you can handle only so much weight, and Rodimus feels like he could hold down a cargo ship. Probably because he can.

But until then, however long that may be, you need to try something at least.

"Rodimus?" You try to wiggle but to no avail. He has you pinned pinned, and you use what little breath you have to yell out to him, "Hello? Are you awake or what?"

A loud, seemingly exaggerated snore replies to you. He's still deep in recharge, ruining any chance you have of waking him up yourself. You try to use your nails to scratch the surface of his frame, hoping it would tickle him or something, but that doesn't work either.

"Great." You roll your eyes, only you would ever end up in this type of situation. If only you had listened to Rodimus when he first said no, then you wouldn't be currently experiencing a near death experi-

"Y/n..." Rodimus' hoarse voice crackles above you, sending vibrations through your bones.

"Oh, thank god," You sigh in relief. You attempt to wiggle around some more, hoping to get his attention this time, "Listen, can you get off me now? This kinda hur-"

You squeak softly in pain as his sharp pelvis presses against you, and you hear your name again. This time, though, the tone of his voice came out as a whine, like a soft plea.

Because of where you were positioned before you became a pea under a princess' tower of mattresses, Rodimus' lower panels rested right against your stomach. This means you can feel his panels start to bulge slightly.

Oh no, you think to yourself bleakly once again. You're not sure how similar Cybertronian anatomy is to humans, apart from a crude explanation by an engex drunk Swerve. Still, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're feeling him getting hard. Putting two-and-two together using two out of the five senses, you've realised that Rodimus is nearly boner deep in a wet dream.

And not to assume, but you're thinking that the star of the show is you.

It's also the wrong time to cackle to yourself about getting crushed by your crush.

You might have some issues to work out after with Rung.

"Oh fuck," You reasonably panic, trying to push against his heavy frame weakly with your pinned arms, "Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-"

You start to thrash against Rodimus when your arms fail, your tiny body rubbing up against him. This doesn't help at all, you've come to realise but actually digs you in a deeper hole as he begins to rock his pelvis into you.

Rodimus moans your name again as he sleepily grinds against you. Whatever he's dreaming of, it must be an insanely hot pornographic fantasy of you. The bulge grows bigger, pining you down further into the berth. He shutters and lets out a soft groan before his plating shifts, and you feel a very thick, very hard, and very hot object slide up against you.

Oh god, it's his dick.

Swerve might not have told you all the details, but he seemed to conveniently leave out how fucking huge Cybertronian cocks are.

As if you thought this couldn't get any more debilitating, you now have the head of Rodimus' spike pressing against your face. It's as if the Alaskan bull worm had slithered up between yourself and Rodimus to give you a kiss. The behemoth of baggage has already started leaking what you would believe would be the Cybertronian equivalent to pre-cum, smearing all across your face.

At this significant turn of events, you've realised you have come to a crossroads.

Either struggle and continue to wiggle and wrangle your way out from under him, but risk pleasuring him, whether or not he could feel you squirming against him anyway with how small you are compared to it. Or, the more realistic and obtainable outcome, lie still and take it until he wakes up from an orgasm.

Who are you kidding? You don't have much of a choice at all. Both options risk you drowning in alien robot cum. It's wishful thinking as Rodimus starts to rut against your entire body again.

"Y/n..." He whimpers again, though very garbled and unintelligible. Every roll of his hips causes more pre-cum to dribble against your face and down your chest, and with each, it spreads all around in between yourself and his train-sized spike. Making an absolute mess of you.

If you weren't getting humped up against right now, you would indeed find a way to kill him for ruining your only set of pajamas.

"Rodimus-" You gag as a spurt of pre-cum falls into your mouth, "Guh- Rodimus stop-"

His work of venting increases, and so does his rutting. The comatose mech gasps and hitches his breath, oblivious to your cries and pleas for him to stop. He pushes up against you in heated desperation, fucking into your soft body like a grind pad.

"Rodimus! Wake the fuck up!" You start to heat up yourself; the increased pressure and friction of his plating will give you a fucked up version of carpet burn if he doesn't wake up. Sweat drips from your skin, adding even more lubricant to his incessant grinding.

"Wha- Oh, Primus!" Rodimus rears his drool-covered helm and cries out in equal confusion and unrestrained pleasure. He's woken up by his overload as he shoots his load up against you, flooding the minimal empty space left between you both with hot transfluid.

"Oh god-" You couldn't close your mouth in time when a spurt of transfluid hit you in the face, causing you to cough and spit it back out, only for more to splat you in the face.

Rodimus moans tiredly, shuttering violently as his spike pulses and leaks the remainder of his overload against the berth.

Or what he thought was the berth. Since when did he use a self-service mod on his spike? Especially when he shares a room with-

"Hey!" Cough, "Are you done?"

His optics slam open in horrific realisation.

"Oh no," Rodimus rolls over onto his back, his softened wet spike flopping against his abdominal plating, "Oh no, no, no..."

He looks down where he once lay, and his face plates flush a bright blue. Laying in a puddle of his transfluids was you, his little human, sopping wet with a highly unimpressed look on your tiny face.

"Oh Primus, Y/n," Rodimus scoops you up in his servos, gently tossing you from hand to hand as he wrings them off his transfluids, "I am so sorry, I- frag what was I thinking!" Rodimus babbles and holds you to his face, "Are you okay? God, I'm so stupid-"

"Ughh," You lay limply in his palm, exhausted and out of breath, "After that... I don't know anymore."

Rodimus hides his blush with a servo before pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm glad you're okay, but what were you doing down there?"

"Great question," You lift your head up to deadpan him, then eventually drag yourself to sit up. Sticky, pink transfluid drips down your body. Your face, and hair, are all drenched in him, "It's not like you rolled over in your sleep and had me pinned for nearly half an hour. What the hell?"

Rodimus blinks, and his face turns a deeper shade of blue as he rubs the back of his neck, "Oh, so that's why I had that dream about you..."

Is he serious right now?

"Oh, you think?" You wipe your lip when it starts to drip into your mouth, "I think I could tell when you started moaning my name in your sleep."

"Well, you're just so tiny and soft and-" The red and yellow mech bites the knuckles of the servo not holding you in embarrassment. "But what was I supposed to do, huh? Hold it in?"

God, he is.

"I'm literally gonna kill you, Rodimus." You shiver, his transfluids cooling against your skin. You can't believe he dares to look you in the eye, "I am never begging to nap with you ever again, or maybe at least warn me next time."

"No offense taken," Rodimus nods in agreement for once, watching you wring your hair out, "I'm sorry, Y/n, I really am. I can help clean you up? As a sincere apology from yours truly?"

"As long as I don't come into contact with more of this stuff," You flick a bead of transfluid off your finger into his direction, "And you better be sorry, or it'll be a long time before I might actually let you fuck me."

"Wait, you'll what-" Splat, "EWUGH!!"

[buttercupblu]

Satoru's Psyche|Escalating

"Should I really have to suffer for my actions?"

Previous SessionSession 2 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Patient Gojo displayed extremely flirtatious and unruly behavior during the first half of his visit. Mentions of escape and kid-napping were noted as well as enforced close proximity with his nurse. Threatening remarks were also made at the end of his lunch in response to mentions of disciplinary action. Patient is scheduled for a bath but is pending the possibility of negative punishment to instill corrective behaviors. 📋Length of Session (w.c): 8.3k out of "i said we will cross that bridge when we get to it 😊" 💊Intake Chart (tags): mild violence but no in-action descriptors, coercion, manipulation, drug use, angst, unwatched close contact and touch, nudity, mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️Doctor's angel’s note: i hope you know what you're doing, Nurse 🎼Waiting room music: Overheated|Billie Eilish

Choose wisely.

Hunger stirs in your tummy, and Gojo's words sit with you through lunch. Your spoon clinks around the bowl, stirring the soup growing colder by the second though the growls from your stomach are too obnoxious to be ignored. But your mind wanders.

You're stuck. Earlier, you were all for serving up justice on a silver platter, but now you're seriously second-guessing your "genius" idea to punish Gojo by making him someone else's problem.

As if anyone will be crazy enough to say yes.

Everyone already avoids his wing like the plague. It's kind of an unspoken fact that you are Gojo's one and only. The only staff he allows near him. Anyone else would be playing with fire.

And if someone is brave enough to willingly throw themselves into the lion's den, they definitely can't be new. New to nursing—new to the ward. High expertise is needed here. Someone seasoned—experience which you lack yourself—otherwise, they won't last a second with Gojo.

It'll be way too easy for him to make them snap, like tossing a bone to a dog.

"Persephone." Yuko brings you out of your coma.

You perk up, instinctively smiling. "Hey, what's up?"

"You tell me," she snorts. "You've been playing with your food like break isn't over in 10 minutes." She touches your arm. "Everything ok?"

It's written all over your face, huh? You could deflate right now.

This is why Yuko is your favorite co-worker. Always reading you like a book without you needing to say a word. Quick to call anything off out.

Leaning back in your chair, you huff, rubbing circles into your temples to relieve the headache you didn't know you had.

"Yeah, yeah," you begin, "It's just—" You stop, her eyes hold so much concern and you've barely opened your mouth. Not sure if you should now because you know what kind of person Yuko is.

And if she knew even half of what you don't tell her during your lunch breaks spent complaining about work, she'd hang Gojo out to dry if she could. She often makes it very clear she hates you have to deal with him at all.

"—I'm just a bit tired. Gojo's scheduled for a bath later, him and two others. Gojo's easy but...I don't know. I feel slower than usual today. Definitely won't get home until late, again, because of all these sponge baths." You cringe at the last part.

Aside from trying to keep Yuko cool, you also don't want to risk the news getting back to the Director who could take you off of Gojo completely. No one else can take your place. And who knows what would happen if you disappeared from his roster for good?

How would his threats manifest?

Yuko scoffs, waving her hand.

"Gojo and easy do not go together," and you both shake your heads and laugh. "But I get it. You did come in super early."

"Thought there'd be less of us," you sigh.

"Sonya's been on our asses lately, right? But hey, she finally got us all here."

"A little too late. The damage is done," you pout, resting your elbows on the table, realizing you've accidentally grown used to chaos and ever-changing schedule.

You routinely plan ahead to make sure you can stand up when people fall short. Constantly putting yourself on the back burner seems to be a thing that always set you back.

"Sooo, you just need rest, ya? Nothing else? Gojo—" there she goes "—been 'okay' with you lately?"

Your heart skips. "Ya. he isn't so bad today," you lie, "I'd just love to be home on time for once. Maybe even a bit early, I'm soo close. Overtime's been wringing my neck for weeks."

Yuko looks at you with puppy dog eyes. And not in a "I feel sorry for you" kind of way, but one that almost makes you feel bad for not telling her the whole truth.

"Here," she pushes your soup towards you, "How about I do Gojo's bath and you get an early start on my last two? That way you can at least binge that show you won't shut up about later." She smiles.

You immediately protest.

There's no way you can do that to her.

Yuko never even crossed your mind and was far from your first pick, not because she can't handle him but because she's your friend. Not just a colleague, but someone you actually care about more than anyone else in this run-down job even if she doesn't feel the same.

She's too good of a person, and you'd be the Devil Incarnate if you let her do something so risky. Especially when you can just suck it up and get it over with.

"Woah, woah, it's just a bath, calm down," she says, taking your hands in hers as you ramble on, trying to convince her that you'll be fine or that you'll find someone else. Burdening her is simply out of the question.

"Who else but me, Seph'?" and she tilts her head, "You don't you think I'm as good as you?" And the way she says it, giving you that look she does when you're being stubborn, dares you to challenge her.

Now you really have to think about what to say.

Goddamn it, you regret saying anything at all, but Yuko's so motherly, how could you resist? Hiding from her is impossible, she would've sniffed you out sooner or later.

Easing your pains when she can is her specialty—helping to calm and settle you down when you blow things out of proportion.

Could this be one of those moments? Or are Gojo's words more than just hot air?

The back and forth is killing you, but the combination of Yuko's reassuring touch and your gurgling stomach puts the final nail in the coffin as she reminds you of the time.

Eyes wide, you look at the clock, ticking away faster than you realized, then back at your lukewarm soup.

Denying that you need help would be silly because technically it's true. You probably should've asked the Director for a little Gojo break forever ago, even if just for a few hours a few times a week. It would be better than nothing because if you can't function, Gojo can't be cared for.

So, who better to help bridge that gap for you than Yuko?

The gutsy woman has been your rock ever since you started at the ward, having your back and sticking with you through tough times when staff constantly dips in and out of the facility like a rotating door, unable to handle the job.

Yuko's a real day one, and next to you, she's the most competent nurse in these walls, fully equipped with a "take-no-shit" attitude that routinely keeps her patients in check.

When you really think about it, it'd be silly, downright irresponsible to trust anyone else.

Her offer is simply too good to dismiss.

"Thank you, Yuko," you cave, grabbing your spoon and finally allowing yourself to enjoy your meal. "You're...amazing. I don't deserve you."

She looks on happily. "Just promise me you'll take some personal time after this," she insists, worry evident in her voice. "We both know how much you care, but even superheroes need rest." She's too kind and right in more ways than one. "Besides, I think Gojo will like me, ya? I'm cool. I'm fun. He'll like a friend of friend?"

You roll your eyes—ya, totally, cool people definitely say they're cool.

Not knowing whether to joke back or wave her off, you softly smile at her concern before nodding, vowing to make good on your promise and feel a bit lighter knowing your wish for early release will actually come true.

Maybe.

The latest threat to your miracle in the making is Mr. Hampton, who is personally making it his business to drag the already long day by its edges, almost bringing time to a standstill with the way he's handling his bath.

Enormous and lumbering, the man Yuko usually deals with took his sweet time gathering his things and even longer trekking down the seemingly endless halls leading to the bathing area. Occupying every inch of the space like those massive trucks that hog the interstate, yet inching along at a pace that makes a snail look like it's in a sprint.

All that was missing were the yellow hazard lights.

Oh no, please, take your time, you think, watching Mr. Hampton clean each limb painstakingly s l o w in a tub that's comically too small for him. You may have been able to rush through Yuko's first patient, but this one wanted all that time back.

His pace resembles a giant's, and his cheery, nonsensical hums echo around the hollow chambers and lull you to sleep, turning your eyes into bricks under the spell of his melody. Perfect timing for the energy drinks from early to crash you out, tag teaming with the chair beneath you that feels a bit too soft as you lean over the tub, willing the colossal man to hurry up.

Warm water flows over your skin as you scrub circles on his neck, deciding to bite the bullet and take over the bath so he can play with the bubbles and get out when you hear a blood-curdling scream.

Your entire body goes rigid, shock reverberating through your spine and forcing you to halt as your mind goes blank. But steamy water brings you back to life, drenching your shirt and upper thighs when Mr. Hampton jumps from the noise.

The rude awakening makes you lock in.

The scream. It sounds like...no, you know it came from the west wing...where Gojo is.

And Yuko.

Hurried steps rush past your door, sounds of multidirectional distress and frantic shouts echoing through the corridor—staff members and patients alike sweep into a whirlwind of panic.

You're number one, dropping the scrubber and scrambling to help Mr. Hampton out of the tub, hands shaking as he grips them.

A security guard bursts into the room, face ashen and jaw tight.

"Nurse! We need everyone in the west wing, immediately!" The command is sharp, laced with an urgency you've never seen before.

And immediately feel responsible for.

"There's been an incident."

Without another thought, you wrap Mr. Hampton in a towel, trying your best to assure him that everything is fine when your obviously trembling body says nothing is. His confused gaze follows you as you lead him back to his room, the commotion in the air moving him a lot faster than earlier before you rush back out and head straight for the west wing—where chaos reigns supreme.

The usually pristine floors, normally squeaky clean due to lack of traffic, are now barely visible. Staff members crowd the familiar hall for the first time since Gojo made it his own, filling the space with more bodies than you're used to and making it difficult to find the source of trouble.

Not like you need to. The truth is painfully clear, and it's disrespectful to even pretend you don't know exactly what went wrong.

You push through the masses, clumsily bumping shoulders, your heart beating into your ears and making the world seem quiet as you inch closer and closer to disaster. Dragging imaginary shackles on your feet until you all but collapse once you spot it.

Gojo—barely restrained by guards, straitjacket nowhere in sight—standing absolutely furious.

And for the first time today, time seems to slow down, your mouth suddenly becoming dry when you look past him.

Yuko.

Halfway out the door to his room. Sprawled out on the ground. Bruised, unconscious, and no signs of breathing.

Your hands fly to your lips, mouth agape. Murmurs from the crowd swirl around you before attendants rush to Yuko's side, knocking into your pathetic frame as you stand too frozen to move.

They gently pick her up, careful to handle her motionless body and place her on a stretcher. Her usually vibrant face is drained of color, twisting the dagger in your chest when you spot the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Fighting for breath.

Fighting.

It hits you like a train.

Someone as kind as her, always greeting you with warmth and empathy and capacity every time she sees you, should never have to lift a finger let alone fight for her life. The sight is too much to bear.

Waves of helplessness crash over you and you can't even look at her. Regretting with every ounce of your being that you sent her in your place. Knowing this could happen. Concerned only with your silly wants and needs.

But you're so confused.

The ward should have weakened Gojo—Yuko should have been fine. The only threat Gojo has up his sleeve is mental torture but Yuko might as well be Freud. Her mind is sound, strong.

And that's where you fucked up, forgetting that Gojo's pure strength, especially when he's lost his fucking mind and triggered, is stronger.

Even with his security system in place, the devil is still powerful enough on his own. And like this was some sick and twisted experiment to help you figure that out, Yuko was the one to pay the price.

"I warned, I WARNED YOU!" Gojo's words pierce the overlapping voices like a sword, breaking your shock and drawing everyone's attention to the strange interaction between the two of you. "I don't like to be touched by strangers, Nurse." Guards struggle to restrain him as he pulls away.

All eyes fall on you and the stares are intense. Confusion and judgment.

Why was Yuko here in the first place?Where was Seph’?How’d he get out?How did this happen? 

Whether the murmurs are real or in your head, the effect is all the same, and you wish you could just completely vanish. Standing like a deer in headlights—and they're so fucking bright.

But Gojo is brimming with malice and amusement, chaotic energy pulsing from the hellish man and threatening to send sparks flying. Daring someone to be brave and push the button.

But despite his outward display of dominance, the pure rage on his face that makes you feel sick to your stomach about every decision you've ever made, there's something...uncertain lurking behind those fiery eyes.

Something like...apprehension.

Like he knows he's done something wrong.

Yet, words escape you, as if anything needs to or even could be said. But soon, fear and guilt turn to anger, threatening to consume you. Ready to eat you alive and spit out the bones with disgust because you are not a victim.

You have no right to stand here, spineless, shocked, or feeling even a little sorry for yourself. Holding back tears because you know what you've done.

Your fists clench, unsure how to deal with it, but there's fire in your eyes because someone needs to pay.

But then you exhale, thoughts shifting to Yuko as you take a good look around at what happened the last time you decided to take things into your own hands. All of your actions, even now, are rooted in selfishness. Like you've learned nothing.

Pushing down the knot growing in your stomach, you turn away to follow the medics, deciding your friend needs you more than you need revenge. Gojo doesn't deserve any more of your attention, even if it means risking your job or life to turn your back on him.

And there's nothing Gojo hates more than being ignored.

Struggled and strained noises grow louder. Guards tighten their grip on the fuming man whose raw strength outnumbers thousands of them even without his cursed energy.

You look back, their determination to keep him contained making you nervous. You don't anyone else to get hurt and Gojo is fully exploiting that.

You're painfully aware that your decisions have put you in this position, watching the guards' valiant but increasingly pointless effort to prevent Gojo from causing further harm. But it's obviously a losing fight, and the unease on their faces is unmistakably clear.

You wonder why they don't just run like hell.

"Let's go," a guard barks, but Gojo remains fixed in place. Moving a boulder would be easier.

"No, I'm filthy," Gojo protests, smirking, "And if I don't have my bath soon, there will be hell to pay."

Seeing no one else in the room, his eyes are locked only on you, his expression a menacing promise that would send anyone else running for the hills. A look that says, "Try that shit again, and there will be casualties instead of mercy."

Reinforcements are called but it won't be enough. The goddamn military wouldn't be enough. Gojo is...the strongest, after all.

"Stop."

Your cry freezes the room. Everything goes silent.

You hesitate, fuck, what should you do?

What can you do? No one else can suffer—no one else should suffer. Because of you.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you silently apologize to Yuko, swallowing a lump instead of looking back.

"I'll do it," you say firmly, "Just stop this and...and I'll give you your bath. Please—" The sharpest pang you've ever felt cuts through you. "—just don't hurt anyone else."

Pathetic. But necessary.

He looks into your pleading eyes with surprise, amazement even, before smiling.

The submission in your voice sounds better than anything he could ever imagine. A sweet tones that feed his already inflated ego.

Unsure of how to proceed, the guards exchange uneasy glances.

Gojo's strength is undeniable, that much is evident, and restraining him forever is simply not possible.

You know offering to give him what he wants is risky as hell...but this is your doing. Your mess to clean up.

So you squeeze your sweaty palms and give a decisive nod, signaling at the guards to let him go. They hesitate a second, then reluctantly agree, stepping back and leaving Gojo standing smugly before you.

Closing your eyes, you breathe, hating to have to look at him, but needing to stay strong. For Yuko. For yourself. And everyone else in the ward.

But Gojo's satisfied grin says it all. He's won this round.

You're ready to get the next over with.

The squeaking of your shoes has never been this loud, each echo bouncing off the empty halls and reminding you of how alone you are.

Alone—with a psychopath.

A bit more docile, doped-up psychopath but, the man could probably still rip someone's head clean off if he wanted to.

Still, Gojo despises anything that alters his body—mentally, physically, all of the above. Alcohol, medication, coffee, energy drinks—anything that threatens his need for absolute control.

But he also needed to compromise, and you refused to be alone with him again unless he took something stronger. Otherwise, it would be you, all the guards in the ward, and a pay-per-view premiere of his bath time.

He knew he had to agree because his ass is not for free, but only if you took it as well.

You blinked, hard.

You knew he would be skeptical—hell, it could be poison, and he wouldn’t blame you. But to suggest something so ridiculous?

"Half, then," he said, as if that made his suggestion any less idiotic, but, as you waited for your supervisor to dismiss the insane idea, the back and forth with Gojo actually didn't save you. And you didn't need to ask why. The entire ward shoots daggers at you any time someone walks by now.

Your supervisor reassured you that you'd be fine, the mild tranquilizer would be out of your system by the end of the day, then she patted your back as if to say, "Lay in the bed you made."

It felt unreal, holding the familiar pill between your fingers, one you were used to dishing out but now had to take.

With a quick snap, you broke it in half, holding his half out to the leering man. Gaze unwavering as he leaned forward and parted his lips, waiting. Taking a deep breath, you placed them both on your tongues, in disbelief at your reality, but Gojo's focus was elsewhere, not wasting this prime opportunity to rattle you more and taste you, closing his lips around your fingertip with a quick lick before you snatched away.

But it wasn’t quick enough to avoid the tingles shooting up your arm as you swallowed, no longer needing the water you had set aside, and a confusing mix of emotions churned as the tingles spread throughout your body.

Making good on his promise, he swallowed his own, still watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. Like he knows what he does to you. And despite just witnessing this man's violence firsthand, you'd give anything to deny that he still has an effect on you. Hating yourself for being more concerned with the way he looked at you and the lingering sensation on your skin than the tranquilizer now coursing through your system.

The guards carefully lead you and Gojo to his private bathroom—they're more there for show than for protection, but you'll take what you can get, and they keep a firm grip on his replacement straitjacket.

You trail behind, mind buried with thoughts of what to say once you're really alone with him.

The door shuts behind you, followed by the familiar sound of a series of locks clicking shut. "We'll be right outside," one of the guards mutters, eyes shifting between you and Gojo, a stereotypical warning lacing his voice, but even he probably doesn't believe it.

"Perv," Gojo sneers and laughs, but you don't find a damn thing funny, the keys to his jacket digging into your palms as you spin around and face him, furious. What would be better? Slapping him, kicking him, or knocking his teeth out. Or should you be particularly evil and just let him sit in the shower, fully restrained and drenched in cold water and you let it rain down. None of the above will do you any good, but it'll show him exactly how done you are with his shit.

"That isn't funny. None of this is funny," it fumes out before you know you're speaking, "You've hurt someone—you hurt my friend." Your rage echos through the vast bathroom.

Gojo's laugh fades, his smug expression slipping from his face. Even you're surprised.

...oh shit.

You're actually confronting him.

The intense words burn through his usual arrogance, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between you.

Then, for a fleeting second, his face does something weird.

Something you haven't seen before as his eyebrows draw together. Is that...regret?

"I'm sorry."

The record scratches. You’re fully positive you must be dreaming.

But when he doesn’t make a joke or even crack a smile, you squint at him.

The words are muttered and reluctant, but there they are, hanging in the air between you.

"It...won't happen again."

And he's serious, the same seriousness you see when his heart races as you take his vitals...but why? Because an apology? From him?? Unheard of.

Gojo has said some nasty things to you in the past that you've immediately scolded him for, but he's never apologized. He'd make a note when certain jokes didn't land, but he never took them back, preferring to cut out his own tongue than to waste his breath being sorry.

You know better than to take anything Gojo says at face value, but...what the fuck??? You almost feel offended.

He has to be joking, fucking with you to dig even deeper under your skin.

Or is he?

Fuck, you don't know how to feel.

He's so good at that, stealing the air back and hanging his words in them. Tempting you to pause and even consider if he ever truly means them. If he could mean them. The mind games are endless.

But then, the familiar cockiness returns and overshadows your doubts, twisting your stomach into knots with that familiar smile of his.

"Now," he says, strutting towards the stalls, "let's get this bath started, shall we?" And his easy, but confident steps call you to follow, a stark reminder of who you're dealing with. But he never knows when to quit. "Or should I really have to suffer for my actions?" and the bastard pouts.

Though you know he's being sarcastic and not to feed into his taunts, you can't help but wonder—what would suffering even look like for someone like Gojo?

Violence? Physical pain? A slow and agonizingly painful death?

But the guy is damn near invincible. What on earth could hurt him?

Whatever it is, it would have to be his absolute worst nightmare, but nothing comes to mind at the moment other than frustration because you have to keep making choices.

Return his energy or keep it professional? Tolerance or revenge?

"Apologizing won't cut it," you snap and gesture at his jacket, wondering how the hell he slipped out of the first one without leaving a trace. "And no tricks, or those guards will be back in here faster than you can tell another lame joke."

Smooth.

Gojo sighs sooo dramatically, like he can see straight through your kitty claws. "Fine, fine. Loosen up," he drags, "I won't cause any trouble. Just don't go getting any ideas now, Nurse." and he winks.

He's insufferable—but despite your smoldering anger, tendrils of doubt still creep in.

Your fingers slightly tremble as you begin to unfasten his straps, but each click feels a bit like victory, a fragile illusion of your 'control'—at least for now—because at the end of the day, Gojo had chosen you to listen to. And after today, he's sure you won't forget there isn't room for anyone else.

The jacket falls with a heavy thud, your eyes immediately scanning his upper body in search of any signs of injury or stress. The cascading bruises on his arms surprise you.

They feel so feeble in your hands; the evidence of him not as invincible as he seems is jarring. Pale, weak, and resting between your fingers. Devoid of the power that makes him so feared.

"Never seen bruises before," he tilts his head, "at least not on me"

You hope Yuko was at least partly responsible for the marks on the villain, but they appear self-inflicted, and he's not as mobile.

Fuck, now you'll have to bathe him too. Still, it's strange, seeing him like this. Even weirder knowing that he could still do damage in this state and you can't shake the feeling of this temporary 'truce'. If it isn't obvious by now, you've learned that Gojo always has something up his sleeve.

Warm water soothes you a bit, flowing over your fingers as it fills the large white tub—pristine, imported from somewhere far away, and standing on decorative claw feet. Your eyes wouldn't stop rolling the first time you saw it, completely annoyed with Gojo's over-the-top alterations and sense of style, but you'd be a liar if you said you never thought about sinking your body into it.

The best you could do was cope with the little porcelain tub in your apartment, and you get lost thinking about how you'd love to take a long, hot, and steamy bath when you get home—if you'll even have the energy. There's no way you'll be leaving early now, not like you deserve it, and you feel sick for even thinking about it. You doubt you'll even have a job tomorrow.

You look so defeated Gojo thinks, sauntering forward and lifting the hem of his shirt. You turn away, focusing instead on the temperature of the water, but the rustling sound of his shirt being pulled overhead and pants falling to the ground warms your cheeks.

His physique certainly isn't lacking, even in his current state, but still, you wonder how such a slim but toned frame could be so...powerful.

Could you be more obvious? Your flickering eyes are so telling, shamefully darting between him and the water, but he catches your gaze from the corner of his eye as if he's read your mind. How cute, he thinks, trying to hide away your thoughts.

Clearing your throat, you toss in his loofah. "Well...go on. It's ready." But Gojo only grins, amused by your attempts to look away despite seeing his muscled frame a number of times. Relishing in the fact that he still manages to fluster you.

"Your shirt," he eyes your top, "Your pants. Looks like you've already started without me."

The water stains from earlier sit beautifully across your chest, not yet fully dry, and drawing his eyes to your semi-erect nips.

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, eyes shamelessly raking over your hefty chest. "Always such a tease, aren't you, Nurse?"

You grit your teeth, cursing the conflict swirling in your stuttering heart, fully aware of the thin line between professionalism and this game of intimacy he refuses to stop playing. Everything is always a game no matter the circumstances. And he loves to push your buttons.

"Just get in, Gojo," you order, and after what feels like an eternity, the silence is broken by the sound of splashing water as he steps into the bath.

He slowly sinks in, sighing at the warmth of the water. Ringlets of steam engulf him, almost making his silky white hair disappear with it.

His arms string over the rim of the tub, a look of relaxation resting on his face as if he's had a long, hard day. You resist the urge to slap it off.

Sudsy bubbles form from the solution you pour under the faucet, hoping to shield your eyes from his body. You've seen enough today and expect the mini-rebellious act to piss him off, but as the bubbles grow, so do his eyes. Picking up a handful, he actually starts playing with them.

"Nice touch," he adds, blowing them right into your face, and you watch with a tight lip as he decorates the bathroom with them, knowing you'll be the one to clean it all up.

He sits a crown on his head and gives himself a bubble beard, nipping your nose with some that you're quick to wipe away, and his pale eyes flutter and settle on you in a curious way.

His arms flex as he leans over the edge—steam-slicked sweat dripping down his face that he doesn't bother to wipe away. "I'm ready for my sponge bath," he says, and if it was hard to take him seriously before, it's damn near impossible now—especially with that ridiculous bubble mustache.

Sickening, him still being so playful, so unserious, at a time like this.

You know Gojo's unhinged, yeah, quote, "mentally unwell and a literal danger to society", but to nearly take someone's life and then make jokes afterward?

God, you feel so stupid, walking around him like you were the shit but with the wrong guard up the whole time, playing right into his hands and accidentally rewarding this grown-ass man who likes to play with suds.

The reality of your circumstances replays in your head, the story of how you ended up here, coddling this monster, and you're still confused as hell as to why it had to be you.

Then again, this is what you signed up for...right? To heal. To help those who can't help themselves. To offer redemption some sort of redemption no matter how sick and twisted the person in need is.

With your loofah in hand, you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the 400th time today and keep your morals in mind. "Keep talking like that and I'll stop, Gojo," you say, reluctantly drenching the tool in soap before proceeding to do your job.

Gently washing his back, he sinks into your touch, closing his eyes and letting his body completely rest on the cool cast iron, breathing. Feeling like he's won no matter what you say because your scrubs feel like magic.

Across his arms and over his broad shoulders, you work your way down, bubbles glistening in your trail as you're careful not to miss a single inch of skin but don't linger too long.

Every now and then, you catch glimpses of raised marks between the foam, and because you hate yourself, your brain absolutely refuses to give you a break. You have to give kudos to his dedication to his craft. The muscle definition, the scar tissue telling stories of battles won, the evidence of his past before corruption—everything it takes to be a hero.

It's unsettling, yet fascinating, the polarity between his beauty and his monstrous deeds.

You've never really noticed because this level of care is another first for you. Usually, Gojo just hops into the shower and takes care of himself while you wait outside—easy and thorough but always taking his sweet time, all while loudly singing some annoying song that inevitably ends up stuck in your head.

But after today, it'll be impossible to trust him or you again, and the hushed whispers as the guards walked you both to the restrooms made that abundantly clear.

The pitiful thoughts seep into the way you hesitantly clean him, moving down to his chest and abs while making sure to avoid more sensitive areas, but the malicious glint in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Whatsamatter, Nurse?" Gojo taunts, feeling you slow around his stomach, "Afraid of gettin' too close?" And you can't believe you're praying for a speedy recovery for this monster so he can handle this himself again.

You ignore his comment and try to get this over with as quickly as possible, feeling humiliated enough as it is and he can sense it, mocking you with a laugh.

"You're so uptight. Can't you just relax and enjoy the view?"

God, please make him shut up, begging for relief so you won't scrub his cocky brow right off his face. "Just doing my job," you mutter, twice squeezing the loofah that feels a little funny in your hand as the soapy water rinses his chest.

It feels heavenly on his skin, but the subtle change in your movements makes his brows furrow. Slowing, more deliberate, heavy as if you're wading through molasses. You keep adjusting your grip but the material feels so strange—the texture almost too soft like it could melt into your palm.

Your breath catches when you brush his skin, not realizing how close your fingers drifted to the edge of the sponge, and though it was only a second, it sends an unexpected jolt through his chest.

The muscle relaxers. How could you have already forgotten, you both think.

But Gojo, ever observant, doesn't miss a thing.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. "Feeling a little funny, Nurse?" His velvet voice teases.

"I'm fine," you lie, though you couldn't be less certain as the muscles in your hands start to relax more than you intended, the sponge gliding over his abs, and down his sides, the rhythm almost hypnotic and making his head fall back. You try to push through the haze, to finish quickly and be free of him, but you're losing the battle against numbness and heightened awareness.

And fuck, he has to bite his lip at your touch that suddenly feels so intense, a sensation too good to keep to himself, and one that you obviously need to stop being such a tight-ass.

You need to loosen up in a way that medicine can't help. And Gojo knows just the trick.

He licks his lips, tongue curling over his canine before splashing a wave of water on you in one swoop.

Saying you gasp is an understatement as the steamy wash drenches your face and front once again, setting a new record as you're hit not once, but twice in a day. The loofah slips from your hand as you instinctively reach up to shield yourself, but Gojo is quicker, wrapping his hands around your wrists and holding you in place.

A scream is ready to surge from your body when Gojo maneuvers both of your wrists into one hand, placing a finger to your lips.

"Ssssh ssh ssh ssh ssh," he hushes, his voice a little too calm, "I'm not going to hurt you." A lone droplet hangs from your eyelash and he swipes it. "I just want you to listen."

You freeze, your nerves on fire as you're forced into close proximity with him for the second time today, inches away from his face that gradually softens.

Though you can easily call for help, you know better than to argue—he knows you know better too but he never felt threatened in the first place. Besides, he can feel your breathing slowing, the effects of the pill combined with his firm hold sending a faint buzz from your wrists to your stomach, and his finger remains on your lips as he brings his closer.

His eyes flicker to your bottom lip. "You're so good at your job, Nurse," smoothly pulling it with his thumb. "That's why I like you. You're thorough but real. Just what I need to keep me sane."

Sane?

"Sane," he repeats like he's heard your thoughts. "Believe it or not, you keep me grounded...like a good boy. Be proud, not a single soul here or anywhere else can compare to me, let alone deal with me, and yet...here you are." He looks at you like you're a marvel. "You can handle that...can't you?"

Words fail you. This feels rhetorical. Why does he keep torturing you like this? What is it about you?

You haven't really thought about it since your first few weeks with him but now he's forcing you to think about the little 'power' he's given you that he can easily snatch back.

What happens if he decides to go further than flirting?

You can't handle it, any of this.

Hesitating, you're unsure of what to say but know it could never be the truth.

Gojo must sense it because he leans closer, his breath warm on your cheek.

"If you leave, I just might crack completely, beauty." A breath you didn't realize you were holding slips. "How do you think everyone else will do against me then, hmm?" Gojo knows he's a prodigy, but still manages to surprise himself sometimes, his eyes lingering over the spots on your uniform soaked through just enough to make the fabric cling—perfect aim.

Ice shoots up your spine from the heat of his unadulterated gaze, but you refuse to let him see you falter, and he can almost feel a prick from the daggers in your eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that," he purrs, thumbs grazing your wrists in a mockingly gentle touch. "We all have our boundaries, right? I thought communication was key in a relationship."

"Let go of me," you find your voice, "We're done here."

His head slightly tilts.

Look at you calling the shots, he thinks. So strong, so very serious.

"God, I can't help it," he breathes, "You're so fun to mess with."

He could laugh in your face, have his way with you, and show you that your resistance means nothing, but instead, he slowly releases your wrists and lies back against the tub. "I know you think about it—there's nothing wrong with a little fun...right?" and though the connection is severed, you don't know if it's the drugs or just him that makes his amplified touch linger as you sheepishly rub your wrists.

Gojo watches you blush red—thoughts you didn't know lived within you rushing to the forefront as if he's pushed a button.

Grimy, raw, unwanted thoughts of forbidden fruit, wandering hands, and stolen touches in the dark, wondering what his idea of "fun" is like under the sheets. With a psycho named Gojo.

You feel like you should throw up in disgust but the nausea never comes, burning hot between your legs instead.

Fuck, you have to get out of here.

You draw a breath, forcing away the torturous daydreams and quickly finish his bath.

"You should rest," you firmly say and pull the plug to let the tub drain. "And don't expect any more favors from me."

He sits up slow, his expression stone-cold as he slicks back his wet hair. Then he smiles. "I promise. Now dry me off?" he quips.

You ignore his request, swiftly handing him a towel before he can flash you. With a gruff, you lower to your knees, beginning to dry the floor of his messes and hoping to distract yourself from your questionable sanity.

The sounds of rustling fabric fill the chamber as he dries off, and once you figure it's safe, you look up to find a nude Gojo. Dripping with bubbles, hair plastered to his derpy face, and toned muscles, all the muscles, presenting themselves in all their glory.

The only things dry are his damn hands.

He throws the towel over his shoulder, sauntering towards you with a wicked grin.

"Well, aren't you gonna help me put this thing back on?" He nods at the jacket he knows is more bullshit than security. "Don't want you getting all worked up again."

The first time your brain registered that Gojo was flirting with you was on your third day as his nurse.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air?" Gojo was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. It was the second time he'd noticed how sluggish you looked while tending to him, suggesting with a grin that you must be quite the party animal.

Ha. If only.

You tsked, tossing his bedsheets into the hamper, and assured him that your sleepy eyes and dragging feet were the result of long hours and running on fumes. Having time for fun was just a dream.

"I don't get out much myself," he says, alluding to the situation he's in, wearing sarcasm like a necklace. "I love a good night in as much as anyone else but, I don't know. The stuffiness hasn't grown on me yet."

You tugged the collar of your scrubs—the air did feel a bit thick, like the room hadn't been aired out in ages and you couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been sitting in it—how he could. That alone would be enough to drive you up a wall.

Sunlight flickered in your eyes, and you raised your hand to block it, noticing the small window perched above his chair.

"Let's open this then," you said, walking over and wrestling with the ancient wood for a moment before finally pulling the creaky flap up to the ceiling.

A sliver of your midriff peeked out as you stood on your toes to reach it, but what captured Gojo's attention most was the way the sun rays washed over your face. You scrunched your nose, the breeze sending wisps of your hair to tickle it, and he imagined the feel of your strands between his fingers.

The view was beautiful, you thought, hands gripping the warm bars. Trees surrounded the vast area, stretching out as far as you could see, the pathway to civilization completely covered in dense forest from this angle.

You never realized how high up his ward was—or how long the drop was from here.

"Too bad I'm not small enough to slip through those bars." He rubbed his stomach. "But you know me, 'Mr. BigBack.'"

He joked around as he usually did, looking to trigger your defenses, but your reaction was...odd.

Not only was this the first time anyone cared to do something so simple for Gojo, but it was also the closest anyone had gotten to him without their knees buckling.

The first two days of your trial, the Director had guards posted right outside of Gojo's door, their presence a constant reminder to stay alert and maintain a safe distance from the convict. Gojo was positive the mental barrier would keep a wall between you forever.

But then, you laughed. A real laugh. Snickery and cute. Finding his joke funny instead of threatening.

It surprised him, that sound, so natural and pure without hesitation. And he wanted to hear it again and again and again. "Who knew you could bring so much light into this place?" he sighed.

Later at lunch, you sat with Yuko, having your usual midday catch-up. You never start with yours but she, like most people in the ward then, was absolutely dying to hear about how you were dealing with the villain of the century.

"He's actually not so bad...yet. Corny, but," you took a pondering breath, "He kind of thanked me today?"

She immediately scoffed and waved you off, and who could blame her?

You were an anomaly, Gojo already showed that he was capable of mercy and now he was thanking you??

Being polite was too far of a stretch to believe, you must have been mistaken. But when you gave her the deets on why he'd do such a thing, she nearly choked on her apple. "He said that??"

"Ya?" You patted her back with a concerned look.

"Watch out, Casanova," she teased, clearing her throat with a nervous laugh.

Her comment threw you off for the rest of lunch, but when you thought about it later that night while surfing for new shows, a light bulb went off.

He flirted with you.

Thinking it was just another one of those literal dry-humor jokes or simply gratitude for making his stay a little less crappy, it flew right over your head. You always feel warm inside when you help people so you didn't think too much about it.

To you, it was just a kudos. Nothing more.

But the way Gojo stands in front of you now is everything.

As bold and brash as it gets.

Fuck. Me.

And your body betrays you, sending all of the vulnerable sensations you've been fighting to suppress from your soaking chest, tingling wrists, aching thighs, and heavy breath, straight to your throbbing clit.

Air escapes you and you couldn't feel more conflicted, scrambling to grab your supplies and leave.

Enough is enough. The guards outside can restrain him and escort him back to his room for all you care. You just have to get out of there.

Away from him.

Away from temptation.

Hot, overwhelming, guilty, mentally and physically unstable temptation.

In the quiet of the hallway a level below Gojo's ward, you lean against a wall, taking deep breaths and completely disgusted with yourself.

How are you supposed to keep dealing with this, with him?

This force that keeps pushing and pushing and pushing you to the edge until there's nowhere else to go. You can only imagine the hell the nurses he didn't like went through.

Taking care of him isn't getting any easier, and now you were fucking up and making mistakes.

But you're the only one who can do this. Who must.

So suck it up. Play along, Stop thinking only of yourself. Pretend.

Pretend.

Pretend?

...

What terrifies you the most is the thought that you may not have to.

You keep your scrambled thoughts to yourself when you're called into your Director's office at the end of the day.

You tell him the same story you told Yuko and take full responsibility for what happened, blaming it on exhaustion and needing a break. Swearing to never let it happen again.

By some miracle, you get to keep your job, though your one wish to leave early ended up costing you an hour and a half of unpaid overtime, and almost a friendship.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed—images of the day, the ward, and Yuko flooding your thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside. You tell yourself that it's just the guilt talking, just anxiety gnawing at your edges.

But then there's Gojo.

The most prominent one of all.

Staring you in the face with lifeless eyes and a ghostly smile. Tugging on your moral strings like a puppet.

When you close your eyes, you can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for you, a lurker in the shadows watching and anticipating your every move. Have you become predictable? Now you're wondering if you could do something he wouldn't expect.

Leave it. Leave it. Le—

You're scrolling through your phone on a deep-diving, scouring the web for any info on your tormentor.

His past, his affiliations, anything to tell you who Gojo was, and who he is now.

But the man is an anomaly.

Not much is known about him outside of mainstream news and internet rumors.

He's just this guy that kind of popped out of nowhere in the worst way possible, conveniently on the tail of what could have been the most devastating incident in the history of Tokyo.

The media says he's a hero gone rogue but not much else. They've damned him to hell and that was that. Even the Director disclosed very little about him during your briefing and you weren't allowed access to his files or records because it's all 'confidential'.

Nothing.

The more you search, you less that comes up. Not even silly conspiracy theories that you definitely thought would be riddling Reddit. The longer you scroll, the more you find yourself beginning to question your own mind. Your interest. Sweet little buds of obsession.

Even though you hated taking it earlier, you actually need the pill now more than ever to relax as sleep eludes you and your mind wanders to imaginary scenarios as you stare at the ceiling. 

Tomorrow, you'll have to face Gojo again. And the day after that and the day after that and every day after.

In between your nearly non-existent off days, you'll have to see him and decide what face you want to put on.

Because you simply cannot walk away.

After all, he's right—no one else can handle him like you can.

extended angel's note:

when i originally decided to make this into short story, i had no plans on using a y/n perspective. it was just going to feature an OC name i’ve used in stories before, named Persephone, buuuut i decided to wanted to keep it immersive and include no physical descriptors/personality specifics bc i knew i wanted to upload it to tumblr. 

to keep it reader-friendly, yk? 

alas, Persephone has had her claws in me the entire time i’ve been editing and said with her whole chest that i couldn't just dismiss her like that chile. so i decided changed the perspective but keep her name in place of y/n. 

you won’t see it too often in the story bc it’s not super significant or said a lot in general, bUT it is relevant for a certain moment later in the story. you’ll know when you know 🤭. 

anyway, hope it doesn't bother you guys too much. and def feel free to mentally plug your name when you see it to keep yourself grounded into the story.

tag list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @kiwismoother @rune1920 @blkkizzat @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @ressyshi @startatdawn

@khenanadeche @heijihatsutori @inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk

@rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping @sims-4lifers @bratidol @rh-tg1

@hyunsuks-beanie @n1vi @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111 @supsiii

@natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko @strawberrymilkshakes-posts

@nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow @sxnkuna

@misoyuh @lupitalove @sebastianlover @gojosatorubrainrot @sleepiebunniee

@mmmidkman @theonecrackhead @thathorsegotpoobrain @iveivory @samistar

@yuuan-66 @gojoslefttoenail @soyalovestoyap @winkwonks-world @thebiggestsimpforyou 

[allurearia]

Love is a cigarette.

Where mattheo seemingly out of nowhere wants to break up.

Mattheo Riddle x reader

You stood there, in the dimly lit opening to the courtyard, watching the raindrops clash with the ground below as your head was hung low, your fingernails digging crescent shaped bumps on your fist. Mattheo stood to the side of you, his eyes dark and distant, a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Say something,” you whispered, though your voice was still trembling from his earlier declaration.

Mattheo brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply before blowing out a thin stream of smoke. 

“What's there to say?” His voice was cold, detached as if that same voice had not told you promises of the future just a mere days ago.

You stepped closer, rainwater soaking through your left shoe, chilling you to the bone. “We used to mean something to each other. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he cut you off,“Can’t just leave? Walk away? People do it all the time, love. Don’t be naive.”

Love. the word he used to call you endearingly while he used to run his hands through your hair, when he used to grab your plate with his so you wouldn't have to get up at the great hall, while he used to stay up with you when you had an assignment due. Was now used as some sort of mockery to whatever it was you two used to share.

You wanted to scream, to ask him why he had pulled away, why he had built walls around himself.  Again, and so much more. What you two had meant?, why does he always do this? But instead, you just stood there, swallowing down every tear threatening to spill over. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. No

“Is that all I was to you?” you asked softly, your voice almost lost in the storm. “Something temporary? Something you could just toss 

He looked at you for a long moment, the rain slightly making his curls act out of place, as if they weren't already a hassle to tame, he looked the same as the boy you had loved but he wasnt him anymore.

“Don’t romanticize it,” he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his expression regret? Pain? but it was gone before you could be sure. “We both knew what this was. It was never meant to last.”

His words hit you harder than any curse ever could. 

You had known, hadn’t you? You had always known that Mattheo wasn't the one for relationships, never settling down properly with one girl for a long time, and yet you were naive, you thought you could be the exception just like the countless others before you.

Tears threatened to blur your vision, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

You were not going to give him that satisfaction 

“I loved you,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall at any given moment. “I gave you everything, and you’re just going to throw it away?”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. He looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze. “I never asked for that.”

And there it was. The final blow. Realizing the boy you once loved didn’t seem to exist anymore, replaced by someone colder

With a trembling breath, you took a step back. The rain poured harder now, but it was nothing compared to the heartbreak you had experienced.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the downpour, “You can walk away, Mattheo,” you whispered, feeling the weight of your words sink into the silence between you. “But don’t pretend it doesn’t matter. Don’t act like it was nothing, because we both know that’s a lie.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to yours, and for a brief moment, you saw something—something real, something raw. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Without another word, you turned and walked away. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. If you stopped, you’d collapse under the weight of it all, and you couldn’t let him see you fall apart.

Behind you, the cigarette mattheo was smoking had been thrown onto the ground getting crushed under his feet as you heard footsteps slowly fading

Days passed, and you found yourself wandering the same places where you and Mattheo had once stolen moments together abandoned broom closets, the quidditch boys changing room, the Black Lake. Everywhere you went, it was somewhere you and him had shared a memory together.

But the more time passed, the more you realized something despite you and Mattheo both trying to avoid each other's presence. You both just couldn't. You saw him everywhere and he saw you everywhere, classes, in the common room, walking to your next class, just mere

glances you would throw at each other walking down hallways not lasting more than just a mere second.

You hated it. You hated how he had left you with nothing but memories, with ghosts of what had been. You wanted to be free of him, to forget, but every time you closed your eyes, he was there, just out of reach.

Was he ever in anybody's reach?

One night, you found yourself at the Black Lake, the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the water. It was quiet, almost peaceful, but you felt anything but. You sat down on the shore, hugging your knees to your chest, and for the first time since that night, you allowed yourself to cry.

“Why?” you whispered to the night, though you knew there would be no answer.

And maybe that was the hardest part of not knowing. The never understanding why Mattheo had pulled away, why he had decided that your love wasn’t worth fighting for.

But you couldn’t let it consume you. You couldn’t let his ghost haunt you forever.

With a deep breath, you wiped your tears away and stood. The wind carried the scent of rain, fresh and for the first time in weeks, you felt a sliver of hope.

You would heal. It would take time, but eventually, the memories of Mattheo would fade, just like the smoke from his cigarette. He might linger for a while, but eventually, he’d be gone.

And when that day came, you would be ready to breathe again.

My first angst fic :( Love is? Masterlist

[bamfkeeper]

Winter Coat.

RQ: 'Saw your requests were open and I've gone through like 99% of your works so I just HAD to toss in a request (which, absolutely take your time on btw, I completely understand the burnout that can happen at the drop of a dime). I'm so impatient when it comes to weather and seasons that I desperately need it to be chilly autumn already. I'm sure you seen it but that one post about Kurt getting fluffier during autumn/winter got my gears turning. What do you think his reaction would be to a GN reader warming their hands in his fur? (Bonus prompt if reader can somehow get past all that lovely fur and touch his skin with freezing fingers ∩ω∩)' - @casualeylee

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x GN!reader // Warnings: Slightly suggestive themes

A/N: I love the idea of him growing longer fur so I enjoyed this a lot. Quick little drabble for the upcoming cool months! I have a few requests for his fur, which was sweet to see, I adore him fuzzy. I hope you enjoy <3 WC: 1.3k

"Mein Gott, your hands are freezing, liebling," Kurt remarked with concern, his gaze settling on your hand as it awkwardly intertwined with his own. You sighed contentedly, leaning closer to him for warmth as the two of you strolled leisurely around the dying garden of the mansion. The once vibrant blooms were now succumbing to the colder weather, which was taking its toll on the plants. Yet, despite the garden's current state, you found yourself looking forward to the cold months ahead and the festive holidays they would bring.

"I know, I'm sorry," you admitted sheepishly, glancing up at him with a hint of regret. "I should've worn the mittens you told me to put on before we left..." You pouted slightly, chastising yourself for being so stubborn earlier. Kurt chuckled softly at your demeanor, his little smirk spreading warmth through you and making you shiver, though not from the cold. His amusement was infectious, and you couldn't help but smile back.

Kurt's tail gently ran under your shirt and wrapped around your waist, holding you even closer as you walked together through the chilly evening air. You couldn't help but notice how his tail felt slightly more fuzzy than usual, prompting your free hand to naturally reach out and stroke the soft fur. "Are you getting fuzzier?" you questioned with curiosity, suddenly eying his face and observing that his jaw seemed to have longer fur too, as if preparing for the colder months ahead.

"Ja, I get a thicker coat when it gets cold...you complain about my fuzz now, just wait until I have a full-on winter coat and I am shedding all over your favorite sweaters!" he laughed softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement at the thought of you dealing with a living room filled with his fur. The idea of him shedding more fur made you smile, envisioning the playful challenge it might bring. Even if it meant a bit of extra cleaning during the winter season.

"Your hand still feels cold, liebe," Kurt observed with concern, his eyes filled with the usual warmth as he looked down at you. Gently, he pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you protectively. "I think our walk is done...you are going to freeze out here if we stay any longer," he stated with a hint of urgency in his voice. Not wanting you to endure the cold any further, he effortlessly teleported you both inside the expansive mansion, determined to stop your shivering.

Now, you found yourself comfortably seated on the plush couch in your shared bedroom. The luxurious room was spacious, adorned with elegant furnishings, and boasted a charming small fireplace that crackled softly. Only the older X-Men were privileged enough to have a room this nice, making you feel incredibly lucky, especially when you were currently shaking off the cold. As you sat in front of the gently flickering fire, its warmth slowly seeping into your chilled bones, you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of happiness.

Kurt teleported back into the room with a soft purple haze enveloping him, his tail flicked away any remaining cloud as he walked over to you. He gently sat down beside you on the couch, causing the blanket that was draped around your shoulders to slip slightly as he made himself comfortable. He placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the small table beside the couch, its warmth and aroma inviting. “I made it just how you like.” Kurt noted and left it to cool off for a minute. You gave him a soft smile at the gesture, he always knew what to do to make you feel loved. He always went above what he needed to do, and that was one of the things you loved about him.

Kurt leaned back and went to wrap his arm around you, intending on pulling you closer to him to offer extra warmth to you before he paused. "Oh," he remarked thoughtfully, humming to himself and leaning back a bit to look at you, "Skin on fur might help..." With a slight shuffle, he began to remove his top, revealing his abdomen and chest. As he did so, you noticed that his skin had also grown more fuzzy.

You swallowed hard, feeling a mix of curiosity and admiration as you couldn't help yourself from eying his chest and abdomen. He stood before you, his attractive physique lean and toned, each muscle defined under the light from the fireplace. The fur that covered his body looked incredibly soft, inviting, you needed to have your hands on him. It was impossible to ignore the magnetic pull you felt towards his body at that moment. “Ah…you are growing a lot more already,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with an undertone of need. With a sense of awe and hesitancy, you reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they made contact with his warm skin. Slowly, you let your hand trail up, starting from his belly button and moving upwards to his chest.

You swallowed nervously, feeling the firm and defined muscles beneath his soft fur, and as you did, you began to have some difficulty controlling your thoughts, which started to wander in unexpected directions. Kurt laid his hand gently over yours as you felt the warmth of his chest, his intense yellow eyes fixed on you with a playful grin. “Naughty…I know what you’re thinking. You always get this look in your eye…sinner,” he said with a teasing tone, his voice low and playful. His words and the cheeky way he spoke made your face heat up even more, feeling more flustered since you were practically feeling him up.

"Shut up...your fur is really warm on my hands...that's all." You muttered embarrassingly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, your hands continuing to slowly rub his chest and feel the fur there. It was so incredibly soft, the longer bits curled around your skin, inviting your nosy fingertips to dig even farther into his fur, seeking more warmth and comfort in every stroke.

"Enjoying yourself?" He asked with a slight smirk, sitting still as you explored him with that stupid grin, allowing you to continue your gentle exploration. He opened his mouth for another teasing comment, but his breath hitched quickly as your freezing fingers unexpectedly found their way to his skin. "Ach...- Liebling..." he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and endearment.

"What? Did I find something?" you asked with a mischievous grin, your turn to be cheeky now. You intentionally let your fingers wander over his skin, which was so incredibly, so wonderfully warm. With a playful determination, you weaseled your hands against his skin, feeling the contrast of your cool touch against his heat. Snuggling even closer to him, you couldn't help but smile as Kurt laughed and squirmed a little from the unexpected cold sensation of your fingers dancing across his body.

"The things I let you do to me..." he huffed, though there was a fondness in his voice, as he held you even closer to him. His arms and tail wrapped securely around your body, pulling you into a protective and affectionate embrace. While he often teases you relentlessly, it's always in good fun, because at the end of the day, he truly loves you. He is more than willing to suffer through the icy touch of your fingertips against his warm, sensitive, ticklish skin, as long as it brings a smile to your face and you enjoy every moment of it.

"Ach! Liebe!" he exclaimed, jerking up slightly in surprise as you playfully moved your fingertips to the sensitive sides of his ribcage. His reaction was both amusing and endearing, and you couldn't help but giggle at how it caught him off guard.

He looked down with a soft, affectionate smile, acknowledging your mischievousness with a twinkle in his eyes. "Cheeky thing..."

Thanks for reading.

*BAMF*

Dividers by @/adornedwithlight

Cover image: Nick Robles art credit, other images Pinterest.

[cryiingoutloud]

☽〝 God has entered my body — matty healy!reader.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You weren’t supposed to end up alone with Matty Healy in a church-turned-recording-studio, especially not late at night. Especially not wrapped in his hoodie with his breath on your neck.

But there’s a confessional booth in the corner. And he wants to know what you’d say inside it.

What you’ve thought about.

What you’d let him do.

And once you start confessing—he won’t stop until he’s on his knees, dragging every filthy, aching, perfect sound out of you.

This isn’t forgiveness.

It’s worship.

warnings: NSFW / 18+ only. submissive reader. dominant matty. oral (f. receiving). finger fucking. confessional booth smut (yes, really). voice kink. degradation&praise. religious imagery kink. power play. consent-focused but dark-edged. filthy as hell (literally).

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

It was colder than you expected.

Even inside, the air still clung to the bones of the old church. The kind of chill that slipped into your sleeves and made your skin prickle. You rubbed your arms as you walked through the main hall, boots echoing against the cracked stone floor.

This was where he made music now.

A hundred years ago, this was where people knelt and whispered prayers. Now the pews were shoved aside to make room for cables, guitars, ashtrays, and a tangled nest of sound equipment. Candles burned low in stained glass sconces. A half-empty bottle of red sat next to an ancient Bible, warped and dust-covered.

The only thing that hadn’t changed? The confessional booth in the far corner. Still intact. Still ominous.

It was beautiful, in a strange way. Sacred and desecrated all at once.

You dropped your bag beside a couch and sat, sinking into it like you hadn’t slept in days.

Matty was somewhere in the back. You heard music faintly playing—a loop of something half-finished. Low drums, ambient noise, a few clipped guitar chords. It sounded like him: moody, hungry, and a little fucked up.

You weren’t strangers. Not exactly.

You’d met through mutual friends last year at a party in London. There’d been alcohol. Banter. A cigarette passed between your lips and his. He’d said something smart and cruel and made you laugh so hard you spilled wine on your shirt. He never apologized for staring.

Since then, it had been the occasional dms, a drunken call at 1am you ignored, a photo he reacted to with just the eye emoji. A few missed connections. A few near-kisses.

And now, this.

Jamie had said you could stay at the studio for a few nights while you figured out your next move. You hadn’t realized Matty would be the only one here. That the “studio” was this fucking place. That he’d look like that when he opened the door—shirtless, dazed, voice thick from whiskey and sleeplessness.

You hadn’t said much.

Neither had he.

But the way his eyes had flicked down your body like a slow lick told you everything you needed to know.

Now, hours later, the music stopped.

You looked toward the hallway.

Footsteps.

Then he appeared.

Leaning in the archway, cigarette hanging from his lips, curls messy, hoodie zipped halfway down over his bare chest.

“You comfortable?” he asked.

You nodded. “Kinda freezing.”

He grinned, stepped forward, and tossed a blanket at you. “It’s a church. Cold as God’s cunt.”

You snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“I know.” He sat beside you, not touching, but close. “You staying up?”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then: “Want a drink?”

You hesitated. “One.”

The wine was cheap and lukewarm, poured into mismatched mugs. He didn’t offer a glass, and you didn’t ask for one.

You sat cross-legged on the old couch, swaddled in a blanket that smelled faintly like him—tobacco, cedar, something darker. Matty lounged beside you, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest, fingers tapping absently against the upholstery like he was counting seconds.

The church hummed with silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged.

“So,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “Why’d you really come?”

You looked at him over your mug. “Jamie said I could crash here.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve picked his place. Or any of the others. You picked mine.”

You shrugged. “It’s not like that.”

He gave you a long look. “Isn’t it?”

You took a sip, let the wine coat your tongue before swallowing. “Are you always this suspicious?”

“Only when I want to fuck someone.”

You almost choked.

He didn’t laugh. He just smirked, slow and dangerous, eyes still on you like he was waiting for something. A flinch. A retreat. But you held your ground.

“Then you’re either paranoid,” you said, “or projecting.”

“Oh, I’m definitely projecting.” He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “Don’t worry. I won’t touch you. Not unless you ask me to.”

There it was. The line.

Not crossed. Just drawn. Daring you to step over.

You shifted under the blanket. Your skin felt tight, flushed. He hadn’t even moved, and you were already thinking about his hands. His mouth. What he’d do if you asked him.

You didn’t say anything.

He let the silence stretch, like he liked the tension.

“You cold?” he asked eventually, softer.

You nodded.

“Come here, then.”

You looked at him.

He patted the space between his legs. “Just for warmth. Promise.”

You stared.

Then moved.

You settled with your back against his chest, blanket still around you both, the heat of his body immediate and dizzying. His thighs bracketed yours. His arms didn’t wrap around you—but they almost did. You could feel the ghost of a touch, just there, just waiting.

“Better?” he murmured near your ear.

You nodded.

“Good girl.”

The words sent a shock through you. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He didn’t say anything else either, just exhaled slowly, letting the moment sit.

The candles flickered. Somewhere, a pipe groaned in the walls. You heard the faint click of his lighter as he lit another cigarette and breathed in deep.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” His voice was low, casual, like he was asking what time it was.

“Yeah.”

“You ever think about fucking in a church?”

Your breath caught.

You felt him smile against the back of your neck.

“No judgment,” he said. “Just curious.”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you looked at that confessional booth like it owed you something.” He paused. “And because you’re letting me hold you like this, and your pulse is going nuts.”

You didn’t answer.

He let the silence hang, then added, “I think about it sometimes.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Yeah. Not in the ‘naughty Catholic schoolgirl’ way. More like… I dunno. The idea of someone being that turned on in a place like this. Whispering filth where people used to pray. Makes you wonder what gets people off, doesn’t it?”

You shifted in his lap. He noticed.

“You’re wet, aren’t you?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

Your cheeks burned. “Matty—”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s just us. No one’s listening. Not even Him.”

You should’ve pulled away.

Instead, you let your head fall back against his shoulder.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing your jaw. Just that—soft, featherlight—but it made you shiver.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”

You bit your lip.

“I…” Your voice was barely audible. “I touch myself to things I’d never admit.”

He stilled behind you.

“Go on.”

You shut your eyes. “Sometimes… I think about being told what to do. Made to do things I shouldn’t want.”

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “What kind of things?”

You shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he said, firmer now. “Say it.”

You hesitated.

“I think about being watched. Told to strip. Told to beg.” You exhaled. “Sometimes I think about being in a place like this. On my knees. Told to confess everything.”

You felt his cock twitch behind you. Hard. Real.

He let out a shaky laugh. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You turned your head slightly, looked at him over your shoulder.

His eyes were dark. Blown.

“I want to show you something,” he said.

He didn’t wait for your reply.

He stood, took your hand, and led you across the cold stone floor—barefoot, in his hoodie and joggers, candlelight dancing across his face—toward the confessional booth.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

Then looked back at you.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Your heart hammered.

You stepped in.

The door creaked shut behind you.

The wood creaked beneath you as you sat, the small bench barely wide enough to hold your thighs. It was tight in the booth. Close. Lit only by the flickering glow of candles outside, leaking through the cracks.

Matty shut his side of the booth gently.

You couldn’t see him—just a silhouette through the tiny screen between you. But you could hear him. Breathing slow. Steady.

“You okay?” he asked, softly.

You nodded. Then remembered he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

“You sure? You can leave anytime. Just say the word.”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Good.” His voice deepened, a slow shift. “Then we’re not playing anymore.”

You froze.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say we’re not playing.”

“We’re not playing.”

“Atta girl.”

Silence again. Except for your pulse, thudding in your ears.

“Do you know what this booth is for?” he asked, slow and smooth.

You nodded again. “Confession.”

“Exactly. You come in here to admit what you’ve done. And what you want to do.” A pause. “So let’s start there.”

You licked your lips. “Start where?”

“What do you want, sweetheart?”

You hesitated.

“Tell the truth,” he said, softer now. “That’s what this is for.”

You exhaled shakily. “I want you.”

A quiet chuckle behind the screen. “Yeah? You’ve got me.”

“No,” you said. “I want you to tell me what to do. I want to not have to think. I want to be told where to put my hands. When to open my legs. When to come.”

A sharp inhale from his side. “Jesus Christ.”

“I want you to use me,” you whispered. “Just for a little while.”

The silence stretched.

Then, softly: “Take off your panties.”

Your breath caught.

“Right now. In the booth. And don’t make me say it again.”

You moved slowly, hands trembling as you reached beneath the hem of your dress, fingers curling around the waistband. You slid them down, legs shifting, panties dragging over your thighs, your calves, until they dropped to the floor in a soft heap.

Matty exhaled hard.

“Are you bare now?”

“Yes.”

“Open your legs.”

You hesitated.

He didn’t.

“Wider.”

You obeyed.

“Fuck.” His voice was barely more than a breath now. “You wet already?”

“…Yes.”

“Show me.”

You paused. “I—what?”

“Put two fingers in,” he said. “Let me hear it.”

Your hand trembled as you slid it between your thighs. The moment your fingers touched your cunt, you gasped—soaked. Your fingers slipped in easily, wet and hot.

You let out a soft whimper.

“Atta girl. Just like that.”

You could hear him shifting on his side, the sound of his breath getting faster. The edge in his voice sharpened.

“Now rub that messy little clit for me. Slowly. I want to hear how desperate you are.”

You obeyed, hips twitching as your fingers circled your clit in tight, slow spirals. The pressure was unbearable, the tension from earlier tightening into something sharp, something electric.

“You ever fucked yourself in a confessional before?”

“No,” you breathed.

“You ever shown anyone how you come?”

You moaned softly. “No.”

“Good,” he said, voice turning darker. “I want to ruin it for everyone else. I want to be the only one who knows what you look like when you’re about to fall apart.”

You were panting now. Heat building. Muscles twitching.

“Faster,” he said. “Sloppier. Don’t be polite about it. I want you to fuck yourself like you’re ashamed of how bad you need it.”

You did.

You rubbed faster, breathless, hips rolling against your own hand like you were chasing something violent. Something sinful. You felt dirty. Wrong. Perfect.

“Are you close, baby?”

“Yes—please—”

“Not yet,” he snapped. “Take your hand off.”

You let out a broken cry. “No—please, Matty—please—”

“I said off. Now.”

You pulled your fingers away, thighs shaking, cunt pulsing around nothing.

“You listen so fucking well,” he murmured. “God, I love how obedient you get when you’re this wet.”

You whimpered.

“Open the door.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Open. My. Door.”

Your hand moved without thinking, reaching for the latch on his side. It creaked open—and he was already on his knees in front of you.

Dark curls messy. Mouth parted. Eyes wild.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Now let me give you what you deserve.”

He leaned in.

You gasped as his mouth met your thigh, soft and wet, tongue dragging up slowly.

Then higher.

Then home.

Matty didn’t start with your cunt.

That would’ve been too easy.

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it was holy, like he was memorizing it. Lips dragging along your skin, breath hot and uneven. His hands gripped your knees and pushed them further apart, spreading you wide like a fucking offering.

And he looked.

Really looked.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. It’s dripping, sweetheart.”

You squirmed under his stare, but his grip tightened.

“No. You stay open for me. Let me see what a filthy little thing you really are.”

He moved in slowly, lips so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of his breath, but he still didn’t touch you where you needed him.

“You teased yourself so pretty in there,” he murmured, licking his lips. “All pink and swollen. Just aching for it.”

“Please, Matty…”

He smirked.

“‘Please,’” he mocked, dragging a knuckle up your slit—barely grazing—just enough to make you twitch. “You think begging’s gonna make me merciful?”

You whimpered. “No—”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No slow build-up. No testing the waters. Just devouring.

His tongue flattened against your clit, hot and slick, then circled it in tight, maddening spirals. He moaned into you like he was fucking starving, like the taste of your pussy was better than any high he’d ever had—and he’d had plenty.

You cried out, hips jerking, but he grabbed them, slammed them back down against the bench, and growled, “Don’t fucking move. You take it.”

You obeyed, panting, legs trembling around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he muttered between licks. “Be a good little mess for me.”

His fingers slid up your slit, teasing your entrance, and you clenched down empty, desperate for him.

“God, you’re tight,” he hissed. “Bet you’d choke on my fucking fingers.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He pushed one in.

Then two.

They slid in easy—your cunt so wet, so desperate, that it welcomed him with a filthy squelch. He groaned.

“Listen to that,” he said, fucking you with slow, deep strokes. “You hear how wet you are? How your pussy’s singing for me?”

You were already close.

The pressure was unbearable—his mouth sucking your clit, tongue flicking just right, fingers curling inside you like he was tuning you to the perfect frequency.

“Matty—fuck—please, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

He pulled back.

You sobbed, cunt clenching around nothing, thighs shaking.

“Why—why—”

“Because I said so.”

He looked up at you, mouth and chin slick with your mess. He licked his lips slow, eyes locked on yours.

“You don’t come until I say. You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Then earn it.”

He dove back in.

This time was worse. Better. Brutal.

He fucked you with his fingers hard and fast now, angling just right, mouth latching onto your clit and sucking—sloppy, obscene, relentless. You were gasping, twitching, clawing at the sides of the booth, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“You gonna fall apart for me?” he growled, voice vibrating through your cunt.

“Yes—yes, please, Matty, please—”

“Then fucking do it.”

And you did.

You came with a scream, body locking up, muscles convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. It was violent. Messy. Your cunt gushed around his fingers, your thighs trembled against his head, your voice broke into something raw and high and real.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, groaning like he couldn’t get enough. His fingers fucked you through every aftershock, wet and filthy and perfect.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wrecked—mouth red and glistening, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes blown wide.

He looked at you like you were fucking sacred.

“You just came like it was your first time,” he said, voice hoarse.

You couldn’t speak.

“Let me tell you something,” he added, crawling up between your legs, face inches from yours. “I’ve played a lot of dirty games in my life.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“But that?”

He kissed your jaw.

“That was fucking divine.”

Your legs were still open.

Panties forgotten on the floor. Dress rucked up to your waist. Breathing ragged.

Matty didn’t move at first. Just rested his head on your thigh, arms draped over your hips, face still pressed close to the mess he made. Like he was claiming it. Or catching his breath. Or maybe both.

You ran your fingers slowly through his curls, still dazed. “Jesus Christ.”

He laughed. Low and hoarse. “He wasn’t invited.”

You huffed a shaky laugh, your head falling back against the wooden panel behind you. The booth creaked under both your weights, like it might give out at any second. Fitting, really.

Matty finally looked up.

His mouth was wet. His cheeks flushed. But his eyes—those fucking eyes—were soft. Something unreadable curling in them.

“Come here,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. “What?”

“Let me hold you for a second. Don’t make it weird.”

You didn’t argue.

You slid off the bench, your legs jelly, your body still twitching with aftershocks. He caught you easily, helped you down, guided you into his lap with an ease that made your throat tighten. Like he’d done this before. Like he knew what to do with you.

You curled into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, one hand rubbing your spine in lazy circles. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Your breath synced up slowly. His heartbeat thudded under your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Did I push too far?”

You looked up at him. “No. You… you asked.”

“I did.” He smiled a little, but there was something behind it—something unsure. “Just making sure.”

You paused. “Why’d you stop me the first time?”

He raised a brow.

“In the booth. When I was close. You said no.”

Matty exhaled, looking at the stained-glass window across the room. “Because I wanted to take it from you myself. Not let you give it to your fingers. That make sense?”

You nodded, a slow flush spreading in your chest.

He looked back at you. “I wanted to ruin it my way.”

You smiled. “Mission accomplished.”

He laughed, bright and boyish. Then leaned in and kissed you. Slow. Deep. Tasting of you and smoke and wine. It wasn’t filthy. It wasn’t rushed. It was just… real.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “You’re dangerous, you know.”

“You’re the one who dragged me into a confessional.”

“And you followed.”

You grinned. “Like a lamb to slaughter.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t look very slaughtered. You look smug.”

“I look satisfied.”

He laughed again. “Same thing.”

The candlelight flickered. Somewhere in the building, the ancient pipes groaned again. You sat there, tangled up with him on the cold stone floor of an abandoned church-turned-studio, bare and spent and weightless.

Eventually, he said, “Stay the night.”

You looked at him.

He shrugged. “Don’t read into it. Just stay. Warm bed, clean sheets. Minimal sin.”

You smirked. “Minimal?”

“Well.” He leaned in again, nipped at your bottom lip. “Depends if you’re still wet in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re awful.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you fucking love it.”

[aerynwrites]

Familiarity

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: Reader has reached their breaking point and Simon just happens to be in the right place at the right time. Word Count: 2.8k Warnings: **PLEASE READ ALL TAGS!!!** Descriptions of Suicidal thoughts, ideation, and attempted Suicide!!! Thwarted suicide attempt, hurt/comfort, this really is just a coping piece, no romance, tiny bit of fluff at the end kinda. A/N: if you are struggling with thoughts like these please reach out to somone (988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline). The anniversary of a friends passing occurred recently and I was having a harder time with it than usual. this popped into my head and wouldn't leave. I wish someone had been there for them in that moment. If you are struggling with thoughts like these please reach out to someone. there is ALWAYS someone who cares and will miss you. You are loved. You matter. And someones life won't be the same without you.

It’s cold. Colder than you were expecting it to be tonight, but maybe that would make it easier. you heard somewhere once that the cold water would shock the body and make you breathe in and then…

You shiver despite the winter jacket you wear, the only thing grounding you in this moment the paint flecking off beneath your fingers of the decrepit metal bridge, the cold seeping into your bones. The rubber soles of your boots squeak softly on the railing beneath them, the water rushing quietly a few hundred feet below. It had just rained for almost a week straight, the river is higher than normal, the current tumultuous. It would be quick.

You hope.

It’s also more lonely than you expected - as odd as that may sound. In reality you did pick this spot for a reason, not only because you drove by it often, but because it seemed desolated. Less likely for someone to roll up on you in this precarious moment. But you thought there might be birds singing or crickets chirping or…something except your own screaming thoughts and the breath catching in your throat.

Your eyes drift upwards, away from the watery tomb that lies in your future, out to your shitty car parked in the tiny gravel lot by the start of the bridge. You can see the faint white outline of the envelope you left behind sitting on the dash. You didn’t want anyone wasting resources on searching for you, so you left a note behind - and to maybe give closure to anyone who might care.

The cold air sears your lungs as you take a deep breath, knees quaking beauty you as you let it out again, lifting one foot from the railing to lean ever so slightly forward…

——

He couldn’t sleep. Again.

He’s used to that, used to the nightmares and the evil thoughts that taunt him in the early waking hours. But ever since Johnny…they’ve been worse - they never stop and they’re louder. This time he woke up in a cold sweat, Johnny’s voice echoing in his head, a scream he never really let out before he…

Simon clenches the steering wheel tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking with the strength of it.

He’s never taken this route before, but he needs to get away, needs the distraction of discovering and then trying to find his way back. Left, right, straight, left again, go through the stop sign and then…

A bridge.

One he’s never seen before, and on any other night, one he would’ve driven right past if it weren’t for the silhouette his headlights illuminate on the bridge as he turns on the road to pass it. He notices the car next, and tiny little alarm bells go off in his head. And, shamefully, a louder voice just tells him to move on this isn’t his business and he just needs to leave-

He parks his truck beside the car. Gravel crunching under his boots as he exits. His training kicks in without his approval, the part of him that has been taught to observe and gather information. It’s what makes him glance at the interior of the older model sedan, and at first there’s nothing unusual. Trash in the floorboard, mostly fast-food wrappers and…empty pharmacy bags. Articles of clothing tossed in the back seat, multiple old air fresheners hang from the rearview mirror. What strikes him as odd, however, is the handbag abandoned in the passenger seat, cellphone lying next to it, and the white envelope sitting on the dashboard addressed to ‘whom it may concern’ written in shaky script.

His feet carry him towards the bridge before he can think better of it, and the moment he sees the person standing on the railing of the bridge, he feels an almost impercebtible tug in his chest.

Familiarity.

It calls to him, an old friend. The grief, the pain, the anguish, the shame - all of it so consuming and all of it so familiar he can’t stop himself from approaching you. And as he watches your chest heave with a deep breath and your foot lift off the railing as you lean forward, that stupid tug is what makes him call out to you.

“A little cold out for a swim ain’t it?”

———

The voice shocks you, startles you so severely you can’t stop the yelp that slips from your throat as your foot slams back down on the railing, hand scrabbling for purchase against the rusty support beam. You jerk your head to the right to look at the intruder, eyes widening when they fall upon an absolute hulk of a man standing just mere feet from you. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of his hoodie, stance easy - as if he didn’t just interrupt the most tragic moment of your life-

“What the fuck are you doing?” You practically hiss, indignation bubbling up inside you.

You can’t even manage to kill yourself without something going wrong.

The man shrugs, “Could ask you the same thing.”

He takes a step forward and you bristle, leaning away from him and further towards the water below.

“D-don’t come any closer!” You call, voice shaking despite your best efforts. “I’ll jump. You can’t…you can’t stop me.”

The man just shrugs again, pulling a small carton from the pocket of his hoodie, followed shortly by a lighter. He pulls a cigarette from the box placing it between his lips before lighting it, taking a deep drag before looking up at you again.

“Never said I was tryin’ to stop you,” he says simply, stepping closer to the railing when you don’t protest.

Confusion swims in your belly, heart thundering from the surprise but starting to calm down as the stranger finally comes close enough to lean against the railing you stand on, casting his gaze out over the inky black river.

You finally work up the courage to speak again.

“Then…why are you here?”

The man huffs out a laugh, a bitter dark sounding thing before he takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Couldn’t sleep, needed to clear ‘m head.”

You give a snort of your own, disbelief clogging your mind.

“And you just so happened to come across the person trying to dig her own grave,” you laugh this time, a real one. “What are the fucking odds.”

“Well,” he replies slowly. “You wouldn’t really be diggin’…swimming maybe-”

You scoff again, looking over at him in complete surprise. “You…was that supposed to be a joke?”

You swear you see his lips twitch up in a smile.

“Somethin’ like that.”

Your irritation comes back slightly as your lips tilt downwards. You want to snap at him, tell him to fuck off, to go away and just let you do this in peace - but something stops you. Fear maybe. Curiosity. you’re not sure what it is exactly but it implores you to ask -

“Nightmares?”

More paint chips away beneath your nails, falling down into the waters below, your eyes following its descent. You see the man nod in your peripheral.

“Get ‘em every night…but tonight was worse.”

It falls silent again as his words hang in the air, and neither of you say anything for a long while. You stand there still contemplating your demise and the stranger finishes his cigarette before flicking the butt of it away over the railing.

“I get it you know,” he says finally, voice softer than it has been so far, gentler.

You look at him, brows pinched in confusion, and he gestures to you then the water.

“I get it,” he reiterates, lips pinched in a thin line.

His words earn another scoff from you, and that bitter pit in your chest grows blacker. Darker.

Here we go, you think. Another good samaritan trying to tell you that you have so much to live for. Don’t do it. It will get better. Just look on the bright side.

You shake your head, looking back out over the water.

“I highly doubt it,” you say bitterly, eyes starting to burn with unshed tears that threaten to betray you.

The man shrugs and leans heavier on the railing. “Can’t doubt what you don’t know,” he trails off for a moment. “You wanna talk ‘bout it?”

You shake your head, eyes clenching shut when you feel the tears fall.

Goddammit, not now…

But before you can stop it, words come spilling from your lips, like a waterfall that never ends. All of your woes, your anger, your grief, your sadness, the demons that haunt you both awake and asleep. The perceived failures that never end, the never-ending hopelessness and seems to stretch out before you like a yawning cavern.

All of it.

And he listens.

You don’t even know how long you go on for, voice shaking, tears dripping from your chin, knees quaking beneath you as you dump all of this on some stranger who just happened upon you, until you finally stop, taking a deep shuddering breath and facing the water again.

“I just want it all to be over,” you finally whisper. “I’m so tired.”

The man nods, standing a little straighter now.

“My best friend was shot right in front of me,” he says softly, his own eyes now distant when you look at him.

“We’re military - comes with the territory. But he…” he takes a shaky breath of his own, “Johnny was different.”

A beat of silence.

“I went through all the same shit. Ended up in the same place you are,” he gestures to you, “but instead of a bridge I wanted a bullet. Got plastered, was just about to go through with it when I some how managed to get on the phone with my Captain…” he lets out a sigh that sounds so world weary you feel it in your very bones.

“He talked me down. Helped me get things back on track - as on track as they could be without Johnny.”

He looks to you then, and for the first time since he approached you tonight’s you’re able to see the color of his eyes. They’re brown - a deep dark brown that’s more expressive than you were anticipating.

You study him for a moment longer.

“Is that what you’re here to do? Talk me down?”

The man shakes his head, the movement allowing the light to illuminate the scar that runs from his eyebrow down to his upper lip. Yet another thing you missed.

“No. Don’t need to,” he says casually. “You were never going to jump.”

Indignation flares its ugly head again, but it’s quickly tempered by the confusion bubbling in your belly.

“What…how could you possibly know that? I was going to do it.”

The man shakes his head again, this time turning to face you fully.

“If you were going to do it, you would’ve done it the minute I walked up to you. Now-”

He reaches out a scarred hand, and you see the barest hint of black ink peaking out from beneath his sleeve.

“Let’s get you down from there.”

You hesitate, eyes trailing back to the water rushing beneath you before trailing back to this strange man on the bridge. You could jump, you could do it right now and he wouldn’t get to you in time.

So you turn.

And his hand is surprisingly warm, soft even. Despite the scars and calloused palms. His hand cradles yours so delicately as he helps you down from the railing, his other hand reaching out to grip your waist to ease your descent.

“That’s it.”

Shame washes over you the moment your feet touch solid ground, and the man must senses it, because a firm hand settles on your shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’m sorry-”

“None of that,” he chastises lightly, shaking his head. “Y’got nothing to be sorry for.”

You can only nod, eyes trailing slowly up from the ground to finally look at him face to face. To some people he might seem scary or intimidating - what with his tall stature and the scars on his face or even his demeanor. But to you, right now, all you can sense is solidarity - a warmth. An understanding you haven’t felt in a long time.

So, before you can really think about what you’re doing you’re leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

He seems surprised by the act, his entire body going stiff beneath your own. But just when you move to pull away, a pair of arms wraps around you in kind. The hug is longer than usual, but it would appear that both of you needed it. And when you do pull away, neither of you step much further apart.

“What’s your name?” You ask, breaking the silence that had fallen over both of you.

He thinks for a moment, as if hesitant to reveal more of himself to you than he already has.

So you extend an olive branch in the form of your own name and watch as his shoulder sag ever so slightly before he answers your question.

“Simon.”

You can only nod, and soon a silence falls over you both once again. This one a bit more tense than the others.

What do you do now? There’s no rulebook for this - not step by step; what to do when someone stops you from jumping off a bridge. There’s so much you want to say, but your thoughts are a jumbled confused mess and now you feel foolish and-

“There’s a spot up the road a ways that opens early,” Simon says, interrupting your thoughts. “I could use a bite. You in?”

The invitation startles you. It’s so casual, so…normal, in the face of what just transpired that you can’t stop the smile that tugs at your lips at the absurdity of it all. But then you fumble for your phone before remembering you left it in the car.

“Early? What time is it?”

Simon turns a muscled forearm over, tugging at his hoodie sleeve to peak at his watch.

“A little past four a.m.”

You suck in a breath, shock coloring your features. You got to the bridge at midnight. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed…

A gentle pat on your shoulder pulls you back to the moment as Simon turns to start walking back to the small gravel lot.

“Come on,” he says, leaving no room for refusal, “They have good pancakes. Johnny-” you watch as his steps falter slightly before he continues.

“Johnny always raved about them,” he turns back to look at you then. “My treat.”

You manage to send him another small smile, nodding.

“Can’t exactly turn down a free meal, now can I?”

Simon lets out a chuckle, so soft you might have missed it if it wasn’t so quiet out.

“You’d be the first.”

Neither of you say much on the short journey back to your parked cars. Only when you get there, Simon gives you the name of the restaurant to plug into your GPS before turning to walk to his truck.

Your car door squeaks loudly when you open it, and you slide into the drivers seat. Moving to close the door, you pause - the small white envelope catching your eye.

Reaching for it, you take it in hand and eye the shaky writing on the front. Instinctively you want to shove it in your purse, that tiny voice in the back of your head telling you that you’d need it again one day. But another voice, a new one - rough and gravelly with a Manchester accent is just a little bit louder and before you can think twice your out of the car and walking back toward the bridge.

You hear slightly hurried footsteps behind you, and you can picture Simon slightly panicked thinking your rushing back to finish the job. But you stop at the railing, white envelope crushed between your fingers as you look back out over the dark water.

The footsteps behind you stop, assessing, waiting for your next move.

So, with one last glance at the paper in your hands, you take a deep breath and rip in half. Then rip it in half again and again and again - until nothing but tiny scraps remain. The flat between your fingers like sand, falling down, down to the waters below in a manmade snowfall, the wind picking up and carrying pieces away until you can no longer see any evidence of the object at all.

You turn, and Simon is smiling - a real smile.

“Come on,” you say, walking towards him and your parked cars once again. “I want some pancakes.”

And as you both walk together, his shoulder brushing your own…You can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter.

A little less alone.

[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 26

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Wordcount: 2.1k

Masterlist

Chapter 25

—

The tension snapped—not with a moan, or a gasp, or a plea—but with the low, unmistakable thrum of rotor blades cutting through the sky.

A chopper.

Jungkook’s head whipped toward the sound. “Fuck.”

Y/N froze, heartbeat slamming into her throat. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes,” he breathed, already moving. “Yes—yes.”

They flinched away from each other like they’d been caught in something shameful, then hurried to get out of the water. The air between them was colder now, frantic with motion and scrambled limbs. Jungkook turned away fast, giving her his back as he shoved his wet pants up over slick thighs.

She fought with her own clothes, breath hitching. “Shit—fuck.” Her damp skin resisted the fabric, everything sticking and clinging and turning her into a tangled mess. The bra wouldn’t close. The shirt stuck to her arms.

Without a word, Jungkook turned and ripped his shirt from where he’d left it, tossing it to her. “Here. Hurry.”

She caught it mid-air, blinking at the worn black fabric—oversized, clinging faintly to the scent of sweat and jungle. Him.

He turned away while she dressed. Not because he had to, bur because looking now would feel like theft.

She didn’t think. Just pulled it over her head, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the collar sagging slightly over her shoulder.

Jungkook stayed shirtless, water still beading along his chest, his shoulder blades flexing as he slung his pack over one arm. He wouldn’t look at her. Not right away.

“Let’s go,” he said, jaw locked tight.

They moved fast—sprinting through underbrush, ducking past vines and ferns until the treetops began to part ahead. A clearing.

There.

The helicopter was descending. Dust and leaves exploded in spirals around them, wind slapping at their clothes, the sound deafening. A ladder uncoiled from the belly of the chopper like a lifeline dropped from heaven.

Jungkook reached for her arm before she could say anything, gripping tight.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

The rotor wash kicked up dirt and leaves, wind slamming into their faces as the ladder swung. Jungkook gestured for Y/N to go first. She hesitated—bare legs, his shirt barely covering her thighs—but the sound of the blades above left no room for modesty.

She climbed.

Halfway up, she glanced down to find Jungkook already following, his jaw tight, eyes forward—not once flicking up the ladder.

When she reached the top, Taehyung was already leaning out the side door, one hand braced on the frame, the other extended to catch her wrist.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

But the grin faltered as soon as his eyes took her in—Jungkook’s black shirt hanging off her shoulders, bare legs streaked with dirt, the flush still high on her cheekbones.

That grin shifted into something else. Not quite surprise. Not quite teasing.

More like amusement layered over appraisal. Knowing. Slow.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes dragging down and back up. “Looks like someone’s had a spiritual retreat.”

Y/N met his gaze, deadpan. No blush. No flinch. Just frost.

“You certainly took your sweet time,” she bit out, voice hoarse from days of wilderness.

Taehyung arched a brow, lips curling. “Well, we didn’t want to disrupt the honeymoon.”

Before she could respond, a heavy thud landed behind her—Jungkook, hoisting himself in with a grunt. Shirtless, soaked, scratched to hell.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at Taehyung. Just moved past them like he was still mid-hunt.

Taehyung’s smirk deepened.

«It’s good to see you both, » Yoongi’s voice crackled from the cockpit, dry as bone. “For a second we weren’t sure if we’d be picking up bodies or bones.”

He didn’t turn around. Just glanced at them through the rearview mirror. His eyes snagged on Jungkook’s state. On Y/N’s shirt. Her legs.

One brow lifted. Barely. The corner of his mouth twitched.

The chopper pitched as they lifted. Jungkook sat opposite Y/N, his chest still bare, hair soaked, dirt still clinging to his neck. He looked… feral. Like something that had crawled out of the wild.

Y/N clutched the collar of the shirt tighter, glaring out the window. No one said anything. The air inside the chopper was thick, not with heat this time—but with all the things left unsaid.

—

After a few hours that felt like centuries, the helicopter touched down with a violent lurch, blades still clawing at the air like they didn’t want to land.

Y/N squinted through the wind. The mansion grounds spread out beneath them, manicured to the point of parody, though even from above she could see the damage: scorched grass, tire marks gouged into the gravel. The federal agents had come and gone like a plague of bureaucratic locusts—systematic, useless, and annoying.

Still, she could already tell no one had been arrested.

No one ever was.

Her boots hit the ground. The rot and heat of the forest still clung to her skin. In this pristine estate, she reeked of something feral.

Jungkook landed beside her with a grunt, shirtless and scratched. He looked worse than she did—like he’d crawled out of the wreckage of a warzone and hadn’t noticed. She was too aware of the way people would see them now. Too aware of the shape of it—her in his clothes, him bare-chested behind her.

Taehyung stepped out of the chopper last, and for once, didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The smirk was enough.

Her arms folded across her chest—more to cover herself than anything. The collar of Jungkook’s shirt still hung low, the hem swaying just above her knees.

She didn’t realize she was shivering until Jungkook held a jacket out to her.

She blinked.

Didn’t move.

His eyes didn’t waver. Just held hers. Calm. Measured. But not unaffected.

“Take it,” he said quietly. “It’s colder here.”

The words weren’t soft. But the gesture was.

And that was the moment, she realized—the exact moment—when things had stopped being simple.

Y/N didn’t take it. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and walked toward the mansion like it didn’t matter. Like her thighs weren’t bare and her hair wasn’t still wet and her whole body didn’t scream compromised.

The front doors swung open before she reached them.

It was Hobi.

Sweet, sweet Hobi.

“Welcome back,” he said with a smile, but his voice was unusually serious. “You’ve missed quite a bit.”

Y/N didn’t answer. She walked past him and into the house—and stopped short.

The place was a mess.

Not disordered—violated.

Drawers left gaping, furniture dragged out of place, bookshelves picked clean like bones. Every photo frame removed. Every rug shifted. She recognized the signs. The Feds had torn the house apart looking for cracks.

And found none.

Because there weren’t any.

Not here. Not in this house. Namjoon had made sure of that.

Still, seeing it this way made her chest tighten. There was something intimate about the damage—like watching someone undress your body with cold hands and clipboards, and then walk away unimpressed. Not that she had a reason to care. After all, this wasn’t her home, was it?

«We only got the feds out of here this morning, » Hoseok muttered, «sore losers they are. »

She looked around slowly. Jungkook came in through the doors behind her, silent for once. She could feel the heat radiating off him even now.

No one spoke.

It was the quiet that unsettled her most.

This house was never quiet. Not really.

But now the silence echoed through the halls, like something had shifted in their absence. Like the world had turned while they were gone, and left them behind.

Jungkook stepped deeper into the foyer, his voice cutting through the charged stillness. Hobi greeted him with a hug, a sour expression on his face as he took in the horrid scent of his friend.

“Is Namjoon in?” Jungkook asked, eager.

The question hung in the air.

Yoongi and Hoseok exchanged a look.

Not a quick glance—no, something longer. Heavier. The kind of silence that rippled beneath the surface like an underwater current.

Jungkook clocked it instantly. His spine straightened.

Yoongi cleared his throat. « No, » he paused, « he’s not here. »

A beat.

“Right,” Jungkook said slowly, brow narrowing. “So when is he coming?”

“There’s a car waiting out front,” Hoseok replied. “It’ll take you to him.”

The air shifted again. Quieter, tighter. The kind of moment that usually came before bad news.

Jungkook’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“Okay, well, no offense, but I’d really rather not smell like a corpse when I see him. So, shower, clothes, food—then I’ll go.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “You’re gonna want to come now, actually.”

Jungkook turned to face him fully. “The hell does that mean?”

Taehyung stayed quiet, arms crossed, jaw tight. It was Hoseok who answered—carefully.

“I’ll fill you in on the way.”

There it was again. That thing in the room. Not quite dread. But something standing just beside it, wearing its coat.

Y/N watched the shift in Jungkook’s posture. The stiffness in his shoulders. The crackle of old instincts flaring to life—reading danger before it had a name.

Hoseok tapped him on the shoulder, « Let’s go. »

And then—like it was choreographed, or maybe just inevitable—Jungkook’d gaze flicked to her.

There was something raw in it. Unspoken. Like the pause between two lines of music.

She didn’t move.

His hand twitched once at his side—like it might reach out. Like he wasn’t sure if he should. Like he didn’t know how to leave her.

They hadn’t been apart in days. Not since the crash. Not since the jungle had wrapped them up and made them interdependent, breath by breath, touch by reluctant touch.

Maybe this moment called for something. A word. A joke. A firm handshake.

But all she gave him was a nod.

And after a second, he nodded back.

No goodbye. No promise.

Just a subtle acknowledgment that they were at last parting ways, even just for a little while.

« Okay, » he said, though it wasn’t clear whom he was speaking to.

They all walked back out together, past the scuffed marble. When they reached the open doors, the car was already waiting at the edge of the driveway—black, still idling, one back door slightly ajar like an open mouth.

Jungkook got in without another word. Hobi followed.

Y/N stood on the steps and watched him go.

—

Upstairs, the attic felt like an echo of something long gone. Her sanctuary. Her prison cell.

Taehyung didn’t say much as he walked her up. Just trailed behind her, quiet in a way that made her uneasy. He—surprisingly—didn’t make a comment about the shirt. Didn’t joke. Just nodded when she closed the bathroom door behind her.

She locked it.

Turned the water on.

Stood in front of the mirror and caught her reflection.

Hair wild. Eyes hollow. Lips cracked. Jungkook’s shirt clinging to her in places that suddenly felt private. Her collarbone. The soft underside of her thigh.

She peeled it off like a second skin.

The water was hot. The soap, welcome. For the first time in days, she didn’t smell like rot or smoke or blood. Her skin turned red beneath the stream. She scrubbed harder than she needed to. Her back. Her neck. The space just below her ribs where his fingers had ghosted, steady and maddening.

His touch had been… careful.

She hated that.

She hated that it had meant something the water couldn’t rinse off.

Afterward, she toweled off, dressed slowly, collapsed on the bed without bothering to pull the sheets back. Her legs ached. Her lungs felt too big.

She closed her eyes.

And tried not to think about the way his voice had sounded just before they parted. That strange softness. That flicker of hesitation.

She tried not to think about the jungle, or the pool, or the way it had felt to be touched by someone and not flinch away.

But memory is a stubborn thing.

And that night, despite the comfort of her bed and fresh linen, sleep didn’t come easy.

—

Chapter 27

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

@sydneygal3107

@icravebooks

@kokoandkookie

@ukndtwme

@jungshaking

@bjoriis

[meowrimo]

FORGIVE ME FATHER — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. sir crocodile !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : devious visions have haunted your dreams every night and chase off your sleep. it’s finally time you crack and beg your priest to save you.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : MDNI. f!reader, innocent reader, corruption, coercion, virginity loss (reader), power play dynamic, minor alcohol consumption, sacrilegious themes, religious themes, fingering, praise, unprotected sex, creampie, crocodile is manipulative and perverted throughout it all — WC : 2.6k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : mind the tags ! i don’t know where this came from . if i forgot any tags please send me an ask and let me know ! enjoy ! dividers by @/cafekitsune ᰔ

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

out of your house and into the darkness of night, you run towards the only place that’s ever brought you sanctuary. the wind whips against your face, a storm raging on – everything that should be a sign to stay indoors gets tossed aside as your mind floods with visions. the ones that haunt your dreams every night and leave you lying in a cold sweat, yearning for something you’ve never had.

not even the harsh sting of the cold water kicking up against your bare legs can break you away from your forbidden longing. narrowly dodging each puddle only to stumble like a fawn learning how to walk on a smooth sheet of ice.

the rain clings to your white nightgown, the coat you hastily threw on already soaked through as you see the glimmer of light in the distance – the lantern above the church door still burning despite it all. you just prayed he was still awake.

you burst through the doors in a frenzy of distressed momentum, eyes scanning the space as you see father crocodile standing by one of the altars, lighting his candles. the soft glow that kisses the air around him is the beacon of hope you had been searching for. his attention quickly turns towards you as a bolt of lightning strikes nearby, illuminating you in its sharp light.

you, the poor, shivering little thing that looked just as lost as the day you first came to him.

“father.” you rasp out, your hand pushing the door closed behind you before the wind takes it — slamming it shut, the noise dissolving into a boom of thunder. “father, please help me.”

“what is it, my child?” his voice was deep, somewhat slurred as he made his way over, towering over your presence — his height as otherworldly as ever.

“the visions, they came back.” you all but whimper, shame dousing you and making you colder than the rain that was seeping through your bones. “but i’m scared they’re getting worse.”

“i see.” always curt with his words, a glint of something all knowing twinkles in his deep purple eyes. the warm, welcoming palm of his hand rests on your frigid shoulder, thumb smoothing a circle over the sliver of exposed skin as your coat slides down. “let’s get you comfortable before we discuss what you’ve been seeing.”

with a small nod, he leads you toward the center of the church, an all too familiar place that already has your nerves calming down. but the fire that was still coursing through you was hotter than ever.

crocodile smoothly takes off your drenched coat, opting to remove the black coat he normally wears as well, prepping it to cover you. but his eyes trail over your figure before he does, the way your nightgown was almost transparent against your skin, pert nipples pushing against the fabric.

the moment his jacket wraps around your shoulders, your senses are invaded by his scent. something smokey, a deep musk wraps around you in a sinful delight that only fuels the fire deep in your gut.

slowly, crocodile eases you down on the pew in the front row, the harsh wood was as sturdy as ever — a welcomed feeling as you sit down. as you do, you hear something clink against the sea coming from the pocket of his coat. curiously, you reach down and feel something metallic, pulling it out as crocodile sits next to you – sturdy thighs brushing against yours.

“what’s this?” it barely fits in the palm of your hand, fingers not able to wrap around it. it jostles, liquid clearly residing in it.

“it’s alcohol.” he answers, hand wrapping around yours and the flask. “it’s often used as medicine to clean wounds. sometimes we must drink it in order to cleanse our bodies. would you like some?”

“is that what you’d advise?” you look up at him, eyes wide with a shaky hand, trembling under his intensity, foreign feelings swirling throughout you and drowning you under his gaze.

“it is.” he gently takes the flask out of your hand, twirling the top off. “open your mouth.”

you do as he says — you always do. a devotee that would never go against his counsel. hanging onto every word he says, everything he asks, without question. crocodile could barely hide the smug smirk that tried to crack through his stoic priest mask.

the liquid burns as it runs down your throat, trying to gulp it down quickly as more rushes down. you splutter in protest, the sensation filling your nostrils. swiftly, crocodile pulls back, tucking the flask away as his thumb reaches up to wipe the liquor that spilled down the side of your mouth.

“now,” your priest licks his thumb, savoring the taste for a moment. “tell me what happened.”

“oh,” you curl into yourself a bit, embarrassment prickling at your cheeks. “it was a dream, the kind you warned me about before.”

“you must give me every detail otherwise i will not be able to help you.” his voice is stern, eyes crinkling at the edges with a distant softness he’s started to show around you.

“you were the object of my dream, father. the things you were doing to me—“ you stop, looking away in utter shame. crocodile had been so good to you, teaching you how to expel sin from your body by being baptized in his office, teaching you ways to resist temptation by giving into it only a little — and only to him. admitting to this dream would mean you failed, his guidance going to waste.

“go on.” he pushes, heavy palm falling to your thigh and rubbing comforting circles against your still frigid skin.

“i was laying down and your —” your eyes flit to his lower section before you swallow down the rest of your shame along with the burn that lingered in your throat. “your cock was inside of me. but this time, it wasn’t in my mouth.”

“and where was it?” if at all possible, he grew closer, the faint scent of alcohol on his breath fanning over your face. “show me.”

“it was here.” your voice trembles, hand covering the one he had on your thigh and slowly moving it up towards your core, under your thin nightgown — to the place that was burning for him, the dream igniting it into flames that you didn’t know how to put out. “right here.”

“i see.” he nods, eyes glued to the spot between your legs. his knuckle runs along your underwear, your essence soaking through the fabric as he glides along, causing your body to shudder. “and how did you feel?”

“well i-“ your sentence is cut off by a startled moan, his finger moving under the fabric and pressing against your slick folds. everything felt so wet down there, a direct juxtaposition to the flames that licked at your core, edging you to some place you had only dreamed about.

“you?” his expression is almost bored, keeping a straight face as he presses his finger into you. you quickly grab his wrist, trying to hold it steady as he keeps going, fueling the wildfire that lied within your soul.

“feels good.” you manage to squeak out. “it felt good in my dream too.”

“did it?” he presses. so many questions, so little answers. the only thing on your mind was the pleasure building in your abdomen, the foreign feeling lulling you higher.

crocodiles ministrations were precise, laced with experience and forbidden knowledge that had you itching to learn more. it’s like he could read your mind, receiving a divine message from god himself as he gives you what you’ve been praying for.

“mhm.” you gasp as another finger slips into you, “you were teaching me things, things that i haven’t — ah — learned yet. things i’m not supposed to.”

“curious little thing, aren’t you?” crocodile practically purrs, the squelch of your cunt growing louder, combating the rain that still fell along the rooftop.

for just a moment, you let yourself get lost in it all. the way the storm persisted overhead, crocodiles deep and raspy voice curling around your ear. two fingers rubbing along your walls, stretching you in a fashion that you’ve never known, feeling a strange level of fullness, new sensations rippling along your body with each thrust of his fingers.

his pace never falters, languidly pushing his digits in and out as he watches you intently, the way your eyes periodically squeeze shut in pleasure, lips parted as you breathe out a sigh of his name.

“can you help me?” your other hand grips the edge of the pew, hips jutting toward his finger and chasing the steady rhythm he was feeding you. “please?”

“normally, i’d advise against following these visions. but since you’re with with me, one of god's most trusted disciples, we can find a suitable alternative.” he feeds you lies that are tainted with an ounce of truth, just enough to have you nod along as you writhe around in your spot, pleasure hazing your mind.

“whatever you think i should do i’ll — mmm — i’ll do it.” your words spill into moans and crocodile finds himself getting drunk off of them.

“these urges are normal, but only when you are wed.” he pushes as your hope diminishes.

“but i’m not married.” tears brim along your lash line, frustration boiling from hanging on an edge that led to the unknown and the fact that you had no husband to fall back on.

“i know, but i will fill in for your husbands place, god will allow me to help you.” he decides out loud, even though his mind had been made up the moment you walked through those doors. crocodiles digits quicken their thrusts, causing you to yelp out. “all you need to do is surrender.”

with that, a blinding light that must’ve been the heavens themself paint your vision. the blood rushing through your ears are merely the angels singing to you, a soft lullaby that helps you float back down to earth.

your body had never felt so relaxed, so pliant. crocodiles fingers slip from between your legs and into his mouth, cleaning up the essence that coated them with a satisfied groan. he lets you curl into him for a moment as he picks you up, bringing you over to the altar that stood proudly in the center of his sanctuary.

thunder booms overhead, hiding the normally distinct click of a man undoing his belt. crocodile’s movements are practiced, but hasty. you’re still coming down from your high when he tugs your underwear down your legs, pressing the tip of his cock against your folds.

“before we begin,” your priest drags you closer towards the edge, legs dangling off the stone. “i must warn you that it may hurt, but this is the harsh way you must repent for your sins. do you understand?”

“yes, father.” you nod, his cock twitching against your clit, a burst of euphoria jolting through your body. “please save me.”

just like in your dream, crocodile looms over you. rough hands prodding along your body as they trail down your side, tearing at your dress as they move. he grips your hips as he starts to slide in, splitting heaven and hell apart as he pushes forward.

the pain is more than you expected — especially compared to your dream, but you bare it. letting yourself repent for the sin.

it’s agonizing though, how slowly he goes, breaking you apart so he can pull you back together in god's will. fraying at the seams, you’re sure to lose your mind as everything feels red hot to the touch — the flames of hell licking along your back as you dance along the lines of purgatory, praying with all your might that crocodile will bring you back to the heights of heaven.

“father—“ you gasp as everything clicks into place, his cock nestling deep within you, the pain subsiding as he coos down at you, murmurs of praise flowing from his lips.

“relax,” he tucks his fingers under your chin, half lidded eyes set on you and you’ve never been more desperate for a kiss in your life. “i’m here to save you now.”

crocodile’s hips pull back before snapping back into place, nudging a spot deep inside of you as he fills you back up. the pressure inside of you already threatening to snap, undergoing a rebirth that molds you to him, for him – forever bound in a way that marriage could never touch. ruined for any other man that would try to lay with you, when your cunt would only fit the shape of his cock.

his normally slicked back hair was tumbling forward out of place as his pace quickened, slivers slipping in front of his face as his focus remained on where the two of you were joined.

you mewl out, back arching as the pain subsides and euphoria starts to settle in your body. but crocodiles quick to push your back flat against the altar, keeping you locked into place as he starts to pound into you.

it was overwhelming, your mind being cleared of every thought. every virtue flown out of your head as well as every sin. just a state of contented bliss that only your priest and god could bring you.

the answer to all your prayers.

“how does it feel?” crocodiles voice was raspier than ever, a dull growl that had you clenching around him. he grunted in return, grip tightening around you as your body jiggled in place.

“so, so good!” you cry out, droplets of devotion falling down your face, you’ve never felt so whole in your life, so completely full of happiness.

crocodile doesn’t say anything in return, just shutting his eyes, cock thrusting into you sporadically, letting himself get lost in the heavenly feel of your silken walls.

the thought of your purity now tainted by his hand sends him further into his frenzy, dreaming of all the ways he could have you now, all the ways you can bend to his will and fully turn you into his own little devotee.

his balls tighten as your body gives into itself, tightening around his cock and squeezing it as you cry out his name. not gods, his.

crocodile's hips stutter before he buries himself deep within you, filling you up with all of his cum.

for a moment it's silent. the storm outside had subsided, barely pattering along the roof now as the walls are filled with your heavy breathing, a dazed look in your eyes.

“now.” he pulls out slowly, watching his cum spill out of you and along the altar. you whimper at the loss which only lets more of it fall out. “thank me.”

“thank you father.” you prop yourself up on your elbows, an earnest look on your face. crocodile watches you carefully as he tucks his cock back into his pants. “thank you for helping me absolve my sins.”

“of course.” he nods as you shakily get up, finding your footing on the wooden flooring, his cum trailing down your thigh.

you looked a mess, crocodile thinks. your nightgown in tatters, tears streaking down your face, legs trembling. absolutely devoid of purity. the innocence ripped from you and resided limply in his victorious hand.

just as he wanted.

“what happens now?” you ask, a shy look resting on your face as you avert your gaze. he chuckles, picking up the coat he had given you earlier, the one that fell off your shoulders when he took you to the altar. he wraps it back around you, the candlelight creating a halo around his head.

“you’ve been plagued by these visions for quite some time. this will only help for a while.” he frowns and dread fills you, worried that you really won’t be saved. “but worry not, every night you will come to me and we will ensure they do not come back.”

“thank you, father.” you beam up at him, unadulterated trust and hope shining at him. a sick part wonders if he can break that too, but not yet. maybe not ever, he’s not sure.

the only thing he’s sure of is that you were his now and this was only the beginning.

thank you so much for reading ᰔ

[palevcr]

SILENT DEVOTION

he knelt when she told him to. not because he had to. not even because he wanted to. but because she made it feel like salvation. like maybe, if he was good enough—soft enough—she’d let him drown in her instead of his sins. her voice wasn’t cruel. it was worse—gentle. commanding. calm like a loaded gun on silk sheets. he didn’t just obey. he worshipped. licked like a man who’d never had water. who didn’t deserve it. and when she finally said “good boy,” it broke him harder than any mission ever could.

pairing: Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes) x fem!Reader

genre: dark smut, psychological degradation, dom!reader / sub!Bucky

tw: MDNI 18+, explicit sexual content, heavy D/s dynamics, weaponized praise, unprotected oral, mindfuckery, degradation kink, possessiveness, sensory overload, obedience training, worship, post-mission bruises, submissive soldier behavior, barely-suppressed violence, control fixation, feral Bucky, trauma-laced submission

bot version: THE WINTER SOLDIER - his handler

“We are nothing without Handlers.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was scripture. A core tenet, embedded like shrapnel in the soft tissue of his brain. It had been whispered into his ears while he screamed in restraints. Reinforced with fists and shocks and needles so fine they slipped through the bone. Every breath, every command, every moment of silence was a reminder: he was not a man. He was a mechanism. A weapon. And weapons don’t aim themselves.

Each asset was assigned a Handler—part overseer, part puppeteer. Someone to keep the leash taut. Someone to whisper sweet orders into the rot of his mind and call it obedience. Someone to remind him that he wasn’t human. He was steel, code, sinew. A project. A pet.

The Winter Soldier had destroyed them all.

One by one, they crumbled. Some from fear—hands too unsteady to push the right buttons. Others from arrogance, believing they could outmaneuver the thing snarling in the dark. A few tried to reason with him, speak to the slivers of Bucky Barnes that might still rattle inside the cage of his chest.

Most of them died. Quickly, violently, and without ceremony.

Necks splintered like matchsticks. Skulls caved in under the weight of his metal fist. Arterial sprays painting the walls mid-sentence. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t anger. It was instinct. Like a dog snapping its teeth at a hand that fed it poison.

They tried everything to subdue him. Sedation. Restraints. Neurological resets that stripped his mind raw and left him foaming at the edge of consciousness. They electrocuted the memories out of him and rewrote his silence into something they called “obedience.”

But obedience never stuck.

And then she arrived.

They didn’t introduce her. Didn’t bother with the usual posturing. They just sent her in like she belonged there—like she wasn’t fresh meat tossed into a pit with something ravenous.

She was—confusing.

Small, at first glance. But still. Contained. There was an eerie composure about her, like she moved through the world untouched by its weight. Her voice—quiet, measured—carried like a blade sliding between ribs. It didn’t bark. It didn’t plead. It simply was. Unignorable.

A woman. That was the first thing he noticed. Not in the way a man notices a woman. That part of him—the part that ached, desired, yearned—had been cauterized years ago. Carved out and tossed in the dirt alongside the rest of his identity. What remained wasn’t attraction. It was something colder. Fixation.

She irritated something in him. A nerve left exposed. He didn’t understand her. And that meant she was dangerous.

So he waited for the fault line. For the misstep. For her to command too loudly or stand too close. To fail the test. To provoke the response.

But she didn’t. Not once.

She learned him.

She studied the flicker behind his eyes when he was about to strike. She memorized the cadence of his silence. She never touched him unless necessary, and when she did—it was surgical. Brief. Like placing a hand on a live wire and knowing exactly how long before the shock took hold.

And he—listened. Not because of programming. Not because of punishment or fear of reprisal. He listened because when she spoke, it was the only thing that made sense. The rest of the world—HYDRA’s orders, the grating screams of drills against bone, the endless, blood-soaked directives—they became white noise. But her voice? Her voice cut through the static like a knife.

It became… crucial.

They noticed.

Her presence unnerved the entire compound. Scientists went pale when she entered a room. Other Handlers whispered about her, muttering words like compromise and liability like prayers to a god who’d stopped listening.

They tried to remove her. Reassign her. Replace her with someone “more capable.”

He shattered a man’s clavicle for suggesting it.

Three days later, someone tried to lock him down. They found what was left of him with a shattered jaw and his eyes gouged out. The message was clear.

She stayed.

And that changed everything.

She wasn’t his Handler anymore. She was his axis. The tether that kept him from unraveling completely. If someone had stripped open his brain and rewired his devotion, he wouldn’t have noticed. It felt organic. Natural. Like gravity. Or drowning.

Now he sat on the cot—spine rod-straight, the way he’d been trained. Motionless. Breathing slow. The deep laceration across his back still weeping blood in thin rivulets down his ribs. A mission gone awry. Too close. Too loud. Too much fire. His body, bruised and ragged, protested every breath—but he didn’t flinch.

She was tending the wound now. Her fingers moved with calm precision, working a needle through his flesh like it was cloth. No hesitation. No apology. She didn’t coddle. She didn’t ask if it hurt. Pain was assumed. Expected. Irrelevant.

Still, his body reacted. Every touch a spark against dead nerves. His muscles twitched beneath her palm, not from agony, but from something else. Something dark. Something ugly.

He wanted her to keep touching him.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He wanted her to own him. Use him. Cut him open and crawl inside. He wanted her to speak his name like a command. Like a curse. Like it was the only thing that made sense in a world that had long since gone to rot.

She could’ve told him to carve her name into his chest. To flay the skin from his enemies and bring it back like silk. She could’ve asked for his blood, his teeth, his soul—and he’d offer them without hesitation.

But all she said was, “Sit still. Let me help.”

So he did.

Because he didn’t need a leash anymore.

He didn’t need sedation or programming or the threat of death.

He needed her.

He wasn’t a man.

He wasn’t even a soldier anymore.

He was something darker. Something unnameable.

He was hers.

And maybe—just maybe—he liked it that way.

He didn’t speak—not because he couldn’t, but because words felt profane in her presence. Language belonged to people. To the ones with names, lives, choices. He was not a person. He was a relic. A shadow built of iron and ruin. And in silence, he thrived.

Her hands worked methodically, soaked in the sticky warmth of his blood. She didn’t blink at the sight of torn flesh or shredded muscle. She’d seen worse. He’d given her worse. He remembered the last mission—the screams, the snapping jaws of bone breaking beneath his boots. She hadn’t flinched then either. She never did.

She was the only one who could look the monster in the face and not avert her eyes.

A part of him wondered if she even knew what she was doing. If she understood what she’d awakened. He wasn't infatuated. That would imply a softness. No—what he felt was consumption. A black hole of want that clawed at the edges of his mind. He didn’t desire her like a man desires a woman. It was deeper than lust, uglier than love. He wanted to be inside her orbit. To orbit her. To erase the space between his existence and her will.

She tied the final stitch with elegant brutality, pulling the needle through his skin with a small tug that made his back arch—barely. It was the most he’d moved in twenty minutes.

“There,” she murmured, wiping the blood from his skin like a priestess purifying an altar. “Done.”

Her voice.He hated that he craved it.That his entire nervous system seemed to calibrate itself to her tone.

He breathed—slow, deliberate, controlled. Every exhale was a prayer to her indifference. He wanted her to speak again. Wanted her to use him, even if it meant being broken.

Especially if it meant being broken.

She stepped around him, moving into his line of sight, and the way his head turned to follow her was automatic. Reflexive. Like a predator scenting prey—or a dog awaiting its next command.

“You disobeyed protocol,” she said, voice like frost cutting through fog. “You were told not to engage the secondary target.”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned closer. Not enough to touch—but enough for him to feel her. That tension in the air between them, thick and volatile, like storm-static. Her eyes raked over him—his ruined shoulder, the fresh bruises along his ribs, the smear of blood still clinging to his jaw.

"You went off leash," she murmured.

The words landed like a lash.

He wanted to kneel. Bite down on the shame. Beg her to correct him.

Because she could. She should.

She should punish him—not because he feared her, but because it would mean she cared. That she saw him as more than a tool—something disobedient, something flawed. Something worth fixing.

She didn’t strike him. Didn’t raise her voice. Instead, she reached out—fingers ghosting over his throat with clinical detachment. The touch was light, exploratory. Like she was checking a pulse. Measuring him. Not for signs of life, but for loyalty.

And he… leaned into it.

Not because it felt good. Not because he wanted comfort.

But because he wanted to submit.

There was no arousal in it. Not in the traditional sense. There was no blood rushing to his cock, no heat curling in his gut. HYDRA had long since ruined those mechanisms. What remained was worse. A filthier breed of yearning. A sick need to be possessed entirely. To be molded by her hands until nothing remained of the man or the machine.

Just her will—breathed through his body like a parasite.

Her fingers lingered against his skin for one heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she pulled away.

“You bled for me,” she said softly.

Not a question. A statement.

He didn’t know if it was an accusation or a benediction. Didn’t care. He’d do it again.

She turned away, moving toward the door with that same eerie grace. No hesitation. No backward glance.

But just before she stepped into the hall, she paused.

“Next time, follow orders,” she said. Then, quieter—gentler, almost cruelly so—“Good soldier.”

The door closed behind her.

And the Winter Soldier trembled.

Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.

But from the unbearable pleasure of being seen.

Of being hers.

The silence that followed her departure was not merely still—it was cataclysmic. A vacuum. A rupture in the air that seemed to drag the walls inward, crushing the space around him with a pressure that could not be seen but was felt everywhere: in the marrow of his bones, in the hollow behind his sternum, in the tightening of his throat that refused to let grief rise, and refused to let it fall.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly, as if expansion and contraction of the lungs required permission he no longer had. He simply remained there—seated, still, a monument to ruin. His spine held straight by sheer tension, his chin low, his jaw slack, as though the act of holding himself together was so laborious he could only accomplish fragments of posture at a time. There was blood in the gauze wrapped around his shoulder, the sharp tug of stitches blooming red with each pulse of his heart, but he did not flinch. Pain was familiar—background static. The kind of companion he no longer noticed. The real agony came from the lack of her.

Her absence wasn’t an event. It was a condition. A slow, internal unraveling that began not in the mind but in the cells, like she had become necessary to the composition of his very blood, and now his body—aware she was missing—had begun to revolt. It was not physical. Not yet. But it was elemental. A spiritual hypoxia. His fingers trembled involuntarily, twitching as though trying to find her in the air, to close around something—someone—who was no longer there. His jaw clenched against the pressure building behind his eyes, against the terrifying itch beneath his skin that told him everything was unraveling, even though he hadn’t moved.

Then, the code activated.

Old protocols spun to life in the static-choked void she’d left behind—clinical, cold, mechanical: assess structural damage, minimize weakness, stand by for orders. But it didn’t sit right. It felt archaic. Broken. The system he once obeyed like gospel had been rewritten, repurposed, and her voice was no longer just a command. She was the command line. The motherboard. The keystroke. Without her, he wasn’t malfunctioning—he wasn’t functioning at all.

So, he rose.

Every nerve screamed as he forced himself upright. Every muscle protested, as if even his own body believed he had no right to move in her absence. But he welcomed the burn. The sharpness of pain grounded him in this new reality where he no longer knew who he was, only what he wanted—to return to her orbit. To kneel at her heel and be told who to be again.

He dragged his black tactical trousers over long, bruised legs, leaving his torso bare—blood, antiseptic, and the raw scabs of healing wounds mapping his skin like a war diary. He didn’t bother with a shirt. He didn’t deserve armor. Armor was for soldiers. And he was not a soldier anymore. He was property.

But before he could move toward her, she returned to him.

The door opened with a whisper of hydraulics, and she entered like gravity itself—controlled, cold, devastating. Her presence redefined the shape of the room. She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t need to knock. The threshold never applied to her. This was her space. He was her space.

And he froze.

Caught mid-step, half-dressed and entirely unmade, he looked like a stray dog who’d broken into its master’s kitchen—filthy, disobedient, trembling from the memory of her mouth and the punishment he knew he deserved. Blood painted his ribs in long, dark smears, and the tremble in his hands betrayed how close he was to collapsing.

But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. She observed.

Her gaze swept over his frame with a slow, assessing coolness that made him feel stripped further still, until his skin was just another layer to peel back. And then—finally—her eyes locked on his face.

“You didn’t wait for dismissal.”

No venom. No emotion. Just airless calm. Deadpan judgment delivered like a bullet to the chest.

He dropped instantly.

His knees collided with the cold concrete, a sharp jolt shooting up his spine, but he welcomed it. Welcomed the shiver that slid down his neck. The cold grounded him. The cold reminded him he was still here, still waiting, still hers. He tilted his face up to her, lashes low, mouth parted. He didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. But his posture—his submission—was a language in itself. A silent, desperate plea.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t get to move until I say.”

He nodded—barely. Like a breath.

Her hand descended, slow and deliberate, not with warmth but with ownership. Her fingers traced along the sharp angle of his cheek, down the rough stubble of his jaw—not tender, but precise. Assessing. Like he was a damaged prototype, and she was evaluating whether he could be salvaged or discarded.

Then her thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth.

His lips parted immediately, reflexively, a mechanical obedience ingrained in him now deeper than instinct. When she pressed the pad of her thumb inside—past his lips, against his tongue—he didn’t resist. He received her like sacrament. His eyes fluttered shut. And for a fleeting second, something in him cracked open. It wasn’t arousal—no, this was darker, deeper, more warped. It was hunger. A parched, pathetic starvation for meaning, for placement, for her.

She fed him herself.

And he swallowed her offering like scripture. Reverently. Desperately. It was the closest he’d come to absolution in days.

When she pulled her thumb back, slick with saliva, he leaned into the absence without realizing it.

And she struck him.

A sharp slap to the cheek—not violent, not emotional. Corrective.

He blinked once. Twice. Dazed. And underneath it all, a slow, simmering thrill crawled down his spine. The sting on his face was proof of her attention. Her control. His purpose.

“You don’t move,” she said again, cool and crystalline, “until I say.”

“Yes,” he rasped, his voice like sandpaper, like penance. “Yes. I—I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“You don’t get to forget. You’re not permitted that luxury.”

And she was right. God, she was always right. Forgetting was rebellion. Remembering was devotion. Shame pooled warm and welcome in his chest, a shame that didn’t hurt, but healed. Her disdain was a balm. Her disapproval a rope around his throat that held his body upright, anchored his chaos to something holy.

She remained standing over him, tall and immovable, and slid one polished boot forward—positioning it between his spread knees. Then, without looking down, she pressed the sole of her boot against the bulge straining at his trousers.

There was no gentleness in the pressure. It wasn’t sensual. It was instructional.

He gasped—not from pleasure, but from the dizzying high of obedience. The friction of her power grinding into his weakness. His hands hovered uselessly in the air for a moment before falling limp at his sides. He wouldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t even reach.

Not unless she told him to.

Not unless she gave him permission to be a man again.

Until then, he would kneel. Burn. Ache.

And wait.

For her next command.

“Do you want to be useful, soldier?”

Her voice sliced through the tension like piano wire—low, poised, and lethally indifferent.

He nodded, frantic and shamefully eager, the movement tight and clipped like a puppet pulled by strings. His hips betrayed him, grinding once, subtly, into the weight of her boot still pressed against his crotch. It was pitiful. Automatic. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until she stepped back—and in that instant, the loss was cataclysmic.

It was all he could do not to whimper when her foot withdrew.

He remained where he was, panting softly, until she wordlessly lowered herself into the chair across from him—legs spreading, slow, deliberate, and devastating. She unfastened the top button of her jeans with a single flick of her wrist and then looked down at him like he was the tool she’d left on the floor, one she was debating whether or not to use.

“Go on,” she said.

Not an invitation. A gauntlet.

He moved.

He moved like prayer, like penance, crawling forward on his knees with a devotion so naked it was almost ugly. His hands trembled as they rose—hesitant, reverent—as though he feared his touch might contaminate her. His fingers found the waistband of her jeans, and he began to peel them away, inch by careful inch, as though he were disarming a bomb. The fabric rasped against her skin, slow and reluctant, revealing pale thighs and the soft gleam of her hips, and still he kept his eyes averted, unwilling to look until every inch had been bared.

When the denim cleared her ankles, he folded it neatly—perfectly—and placed it beside the chair. A quiet offering. A thank you.

She didn’t acknowledge it.

Of course she didn’t.

She hadn’t commanded gratitude.

He returned to his knees between her spread legs and bowed his head. Hands resting, obedient and still, on his thighs.

And yet—his gaze lifted. Just enough. Just barely.

She wasn’t wearing anything beneath the jeans.

The breath caught in his lungs like a blade. He swallowed around it—hard—and failed. His pulse pounded in his ears. Her scent wrapped around him, thick and dizzying, primal. It wasn’t perfume. It wasn’t fabricated. It was her. Raw and real and unbearably intoxicating. A scent that struck like instinct—like sex and salt and war and home.

She leaned back in the chair like a queen on her throne, her fingers descending lazily between her thighs. She parted herself, just slightly, using two fingers to reveal the glistening softness within—casual, commanding, utterly in control.

“Be useful.”

Not a suggestion. Not a gift.

An order.

He didn’t pause.

He couldn’t.

His mouth descended, slow, reverent, trembling like it was approaching the altar. His breath ghosted over her heat before his lips ever touched. Then, contact. A kiss that wasn’t a kiss, a worshipful press of lips against wetness, and then his tongue flicked out—uncertain, tentative, tasting her as if she might vanish from his mouth the moment he disrespected the gravity of her presence.

She didn’t react.

So he tried again.

Bolder now, surer. His tongue flattened and licked up the length of her slit, slow and savoring, as if he could catalogue her in sensation alone. He moaned softly into her, the sound involuntary, guttural. His hands never left his thighs. He hadn’t been told to touch. So he didn’t. The restraint was sacred.

He licked again. And again.

Purposeful, not sloppy. Worshipful. Precise.

He wasn’t there to eat her out—he was there to prove himself. That he wasn’t just a weapon. That he could serve in softer ways. In cleaner ways. With finesse. With devotion.

Her taste consumed him. Became his doctrine. Sweet and sharp, velvet and vice. He could drown in it. Wanted to drown. With each flick of his tongue, she grew wetter, her thighs twitching ever so slightly around his head, and still—still—she said nothing.

Her silence was deafening.

His face was slick with her. His lips, chin, even the tip of his nose shining with spit and slick and failure. He moaned again, louder, desperate for any sign—approval, acknowledgement, anything. But she remained composed, regal, merely observing as if the act was beneath her interest.

And that was worse than cruelty.

Still, he did not falter.

He shifted minutely, adjusted his angle, and zeroed in on the swollen bundle of nerves he knew she would eventually allow him to break her with. He circled it gently, then harder, tongue flattening and flicking with a growing fervor that bordered on manic. His nose pressed into her, greedily inhaling her scent, and his mouth moved with increasingly desperate rhythm, tongue stuttering, curling, pressing.

And then—then—her head fell back. The barest tilt. A tiny inhale. He caught it. Locked onto it like a predator. And repeated the exact same motion, again and again, tongue rolling with mindless devotion, until her thighs snapped around his head like a vice.

He gasped against her, face buried, suffocating in wet heat and violent purpose.

“Good boy,” she breathed.

Two words.

Two fucking words—and he almost came.

He moaned into her, loud, obscene, like it had been wrenched from his gut. His hips bucked involuntarily, the pressure in his trousers now unbearable. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He redoubled his efforts, licking and sucking and trembling in the grip of her approval.

He could live on that praise. Die on it. Let it brand itself into his fucking bones.

And still he licked.

Faster. Deeper.

He would not stop until she came on his face, or until she bled, or until she broke him open and remade him in the shape of her desire.

He wanted it.

He needed it.

And when her hand finally moved—sliding down to fist in his hair, yanking his face tighter against her dripping cunt—he whimpered.

Because that was it.

That was purpose.

That was God.

[weemssapphic]

Split in half

Larissa Weems x f!reader

This is a part two to We're not who we used to be set a few months after that fic, from Larissa's POV. It's just as angsty as part one, maybe even worse. It's inspired by the song Stick Season by Noah Kahan. Enjoy 😅

Words: ~1.5k | ao3 link in title

And I love Vermont, but it's the season of the sticks And I saw your mom, she forgot that I existed And it's half my fault, but I just like to play the victim I'll drink alcohol 'til my friends come home for Christmas And I'll dream each night of some version of you That I might not have, but I did not lose Now you're tire tracks and one pair of shoes And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

-

“Ow - fuck!”

It takes Larissa’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness blanketing her quarters. She steadies herself against the little table by the door and squints at the floor as she searches for whatever she’s just tripped over that caused her to ram her hip into the corner of said table. 

Now she remembers - she’d changed her mind about her heels that morning and left the initial pair next to the door. She sighs and kicks off the heels she’s wearing now, leaving them lying haphazardly next to the others.

She walks towards the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the light now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Pain blooms in her hip, growing sharper with each step - she can already feel the deep purple bruise forming across her hip bone. She opens the fridge and stoops down, the bright, fluorescent glow shooting straight through her eyeballs into her already throbbing skull, making her eyes water. The fridge is nearly empty and Larissa groans in frustration as she closes its door and blindly reaches for the cabinets above the stove instead, running her fingertips across the smooth, familiar wood as her eyes adjust again.

Her fingers bump into the little brass handle and she opens the cabinet, pulling out the first bottle she finds. Whiskey. She opens another cabinet and takes out a crystal tumbler, then pads across her quarters to her little balcony, clutching both bottle and tumbler to her chest. 

A chill seeps through her stockings and straight into her bones as she steps outside, and she grits her teeth as she lowers herself onto the oversized pillow she’d taken out here when she first started spending her evenings after work out on the balcony. 

It’s a lot colder tonight than it was those weeks - or has it been months? - ago. Fall is as good as over, the trees barren of their gorgeous red and orange foliage, but winter hasn’t fully started yet either, the first snowfall having yet to make an appearance.

Larissa pours some of the amber liquid into the tumbler, raising it to her lips and tossing it back in one go. It burns her throat and the swift motion smudges her lipstick, not that that matters. It warms her a little from the inside, so she pours herself another.

She supposes she could do something productive, or at least try to distract herself, but there’s not really a point - she can’t read books or watch films or even knit without spending the entire time trying to reign in her wandering thoughts. Even her work is suffering as a result.

She should’ve seen it coming, really, you leaving her. After all, she thinks bitterly, as her thoughts once again hone in on you, she had been rather absent in your marriage. Even when you told her you were moving out, that you were done trying, she could hardly wrap her head around it. Hardly believe it was actually over.

On the day you’d left, she’d woken up to a horribly loud rummaging in the closet. It was a Sunday, and she remembered the pang of irritation that mixed with her confusion, the frustration that you’d woken her early on the only day she ever slept in. She’d remembered readying herself to berate you, tasting the words on her sharp tongue as she’d pushed herself up onto her elbow - the words dying just as quickly as they’d come when her sleep-filled eyes were met with the sight of your half-full suitcase (the big one, the one you used for longer vacations) on the floor in front of the walk-in. 

Between stuffing everything from your underwear to a few framed photos into the suitcase, you’d explained your reasoning rather coolly for someone who usually wore her heart on her sleeve and cried at even comedy films - it had unsettled Larissa to see you so casual about leaving. Perhaps it was due to this that she didn’t say much. She didn’t say any of the things she should have said, any of the things you might’ve hoped she’d say or the things she wishes today that she had said. She’d watched you pack, nodding along to whatever you were saying about divorce lawyers - divorce? - and robotically seeing you to the door. 

Your tires had screeched a bit on your way down the driveway - the sound rings in Larissa’s ear as she tosses back another tumbler of whiskey.

Everything had passed so quickly after that, weeks and months blurring together. She’d signed the divorce papers in what she can, in hindsight, only describe as a fugue-like state, not realizing until much later the full consequences of her actions. And ‘much later’, apparently, translated into ‘too late’.

So I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad No, I am no longer funny, 'cause I miss the way you laugh You once called me forever, now you still can't call me back

One tumbler turns into two turns into three, and then she’s abandoned the glass in favor of drinking straight from the bottle. She pulls her phone out of the pocket of her blazer, scrolling to your contact as if on autopilot and staring at it as if it would suddenly come to life.

You’d forgotten an old pair of sneakers at the back of the closet. She’d told you when you’d stopped by with the divorce papers, and you’d told her to just throw them out.

Just throw them out.

It should be so easy. They’re dirty and they stink and the sole is peeling off on the right one. Every time Larissa sees them, she picks them up and wills herself to walk straight to the trash bin. She picks them up - then puts them right back, next to her own rarely-used running shoes.

Larissa clicks ‘call’. She lifts the phone to her ear as she waits, taking another gulp of whiskey. It doesn’t burn anymore.

Her throat gets tighter with every ring, a thin film of tears beginning to blur her eyes. After a few long minutes, the call goes to your voicemail - which is full - and Larissa’s tears spill over, clinging to her lashes before racing each other down her cheeks.

“Pick up, goddamnit!” she growls, her voice hoarse and wet. She tosses her phone angrily onto the floor beside her, not caring if it gets scratched.

There was a time when you’d have picked up the phone in the middle of a packed movie theater if it was her calling - now she hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since the divorce was finalized. It’s at least half her fault, she supposes, but she’s still angry at you for ignoring her. For leaving her. Even if she seemed intent on driving you away.

It’s getting late. Larissa knows this not because she’s checked the time, or because the moon is already high in the night sky, but because time always manages to slip away from her when she’s sitting out here, and because her ass is numb and her knees hurt from sitting in one position for so long. 

She pushes herself up, a bit shaky on her feet, nearly stumbling then steadying herself against the railing of the balcony. She bends, stumbling again, grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck, fumbles with the tumbler, then makes her way into her quarters, leaving her phone on the floor and the balcony door open behind her. It’s been so drafty in her quarters lately.

The bottle of whiskey is placed on the counter and, as Larissa goes to place the tumbler into the sink to be washed, it slips and shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere. She feels the warmth of her own blood on her finger before she feels the sting of the cut.

“Fuck!” 

A little bit of moonlight is streaming into the kitchen, and Larissa raises her finger into the light and stares at it, watching blood form a large bead on her fingertip, then slowly trickle down towards her hand. She sucks her finger between her lips, trying to stem the flow of blood. The metallic taste mixes with the whiskey on her tongue and, as she stands there in the darkness of her kitchen, she suddenly feels tired, so unbelievably tired.

She wants to call you again. She wants to tell your full voicemail box to go fuck itself, all she wants is to hear your voice. It’s all she wants yet it’s all she can’t do. 

-

And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do

x

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[novaursa]

hello nova, would you accept this request. sandor x free folk! reader. the reader could be tormund's sibling. I think it's fun to see sandor's realization that he takes interest of the reader and also realize all this time the reader is flirting with him. I also wonder what would tormund's reaction will be if he found out about it. if you have something in your mind, or even change it a little bit, it's totally fine. anyway, hope you're having happy days.

Howl for Me, Hound

Requests are closed

- Summary: A story where the Hound finds something more wilder than him.

- Pairing: free folk!reader/Sandor Clegane

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (because of the language and adult themes)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: Due to lack of information provided, this story only has around 870 words.

The snow fell heavy that day, thick flakes drifting through the grey sky like lazy embers turned to frost. You walked among the tents with a sack slung over one shoulder, a rabbit’s pelt tied to your belt and blood still drying under your nails. The camp stank of smoke, sweat, and men too long unwashed, but you preferred it to the stifling stone keeps of the kneelers. Here, the wind bit hard and honest, and there was no mistaking one man’s strength from another’s. You didn’t much care for the Southern warriors you’d marched with—too polished, too sure of their own cleverness. But there was one among them who watched you like a wolf, his face hidden behind a hound’s snarl.

Sandor Clegane.

You’d seen him first in the thick of battle, his sword carving through men like meat, that burned face of his twisted not with fury, but something colder. He didn’t scream. He didn’t boast. He just killed. And something in you, something wild and half-starved for blood, had wanted to know what lay beneath that grim silence.

You found him near the edge of the encampment, seated on a half-felled log, sharpening his sword with long, measured strokes. His armor was scattered at his feet, battered and blackened from years of war. He didn’t look up when you approached.

“You always scowl like that, dog, or is it just my presence that offends you?” you said, your voice lilting with a grin.

His eyes flicked up at you then—dark, tired, and unimpressed. “Don’t call me dog.”

“But you are one, aren’t you?” you teased, stepping closer. “Big, growly, scarred. Loyal, if the right hand feeds you.”

“I’ve bitten every hand that tried,” Sandor muttered, going back to his blade. “Now fuck off.”

You didn’t. You tilted your head, letting the wind toss your thick braid over your shoulder, the beads and bits of bone clinking softly. “You always this pleasant to women who come to say hello? Or is it just me you want to snarl at?”

His jaw twitched. “You don’t look like most women.”

“Oh?” you smirked. “Because I’ve got muscles and a bow instead of perfume and painted lips?”

“Because you’ve got Tormund’s ugly fucking face.”

You blinked, and then a laugh burst out of you, rough and loud. “So you do know him! He’s my brother.”

Sandor groaned, rubbing a hand over his scarred brow. “Fucking knew there was something familiar about you. The hair, the stupid grin, the way you talk like you’d fuck a man and kill him in the same breath.”

“Depends on the man,” you said slyly, planting yourself on the log beside him. “You worried I’ll kill you if I fuck you?”

He gave you a sideways look, half-wary, half-amused. “I’ve had worse deaths.”

You liked the way his voice growled low in his throat. It didn’t scare you like it did the others. If anything, it made your blood warm in your belly.

“So?” you leaned in a little, eyes narrowing. “Do you want me to go, dog, or are you going to admit you’ve been staring at me since the Last Hearth?”

“I’ve not—” he stopped, teeth clicking together in frustration. “You wear less than the rest. Hard not to notice when you’re strutting around with your tits out and blood on your hands.”

“Ah,” you chuckled. “So it’s the tits, then? I thought you liked the way I split that Bolton’s skull.”

“I liked not being the one who had to,” he said gruffly. “You swing an axe like a madman.”

You leaned forward, grinning. “I am a madwoman.”

Sandor shook his head but didn’t pull away. You were close now, close enough to smell the steel on his breath and the lingering scent of horses and fire. His eyes dropped, just for a second, to your mouth.

You saw it.

“Say what you’re thinking, Clegane,” you whispered, letting your fingers brush the hilt of his sword. “Or I’ll say it for you.”

He exhaled through his nose, low and slow. “You’re trouble.”

“You want trouble,” you said, softer now. “You’ve been looking for it since you first saw me. Maybe you don’t know it, but your body does.”

He growled something under his breath—maybe a curse, maybe your name—but didn’t stop you when you leaned in just a little more. Your lips brushed the corner of his jaw, where the burned skin met the unscarred flesh.

“You smell like death,” you murmured. “I like it.”

“You’re fucked in the head,” he said.

“And you’re hard,” you answered.

He laughed then. A dark, broken sound that shook his chest and made your heart drum harder. “Tormund’s going to kill me.”

“Not if I kill him first,” you said sweetly, lips brushing his ear. “Now—are you going to kiss me, or just sit there whetting your blade like a coward?”

His hand shot out, rough fingers tangling in your furs, dragging you in. His mouth was fierce, unkind, and hungry—and you kissed him back with teeth.

Behind you, someone shouted something about supper.

But you didn’t give a fuck.

You had fire on your tongue and ice in your veins, and the Hound between your legs.

[kkanabel]

apricity ❃ oneshot

fire spirit!bakugou katsuki x archaeologist!afab!reader / siberian au lmao

words: ~6.6k

directory/m.list

T/W: nsfw, minors dni, yucky at the very end, fingering, porn with plot, overstimulation, size difference, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, alcohol use (not during the yucky but waay before the yucky), bakugou being bakugou, not beta read

Frost clung to the window panes of your cabin as you pulled on the last of your layers—a thick, fur-lined coat with a hood drawn tight around your face and a scarf was wrapped around your nose and mouth. The mornings here were unforgiving, the bite of the wind sharp as knives as soon as you stepped outside. You grabbed the ax by the door, its handle starting to grow familiar in your gloved hands, and pushed the door open into the early morning light. A heavy breath left your mouth in a plume of white as you approached the woodpile, ready to chop enough firewood to keep your small cabin warm for the day.

Frost bites at your cheeks as you swing your ax down on a thick block of firewood as the crisp snap echoed in the cold air. Each heavy breath from you escapes in a foggy plume in the biting winds of Yakutia. The village sits nestled in a wide, snow-covered expanse, tucked into the curve of towering mountains, the sky above streaked in pale blue and white. It’s early morning, but the cold is already unforgiving, gnawing at your layers of fur and wool, testing the warmth of your windproof, insulated pants. 

A brief break in the wind brings a fleeting warmth from the sunlight— the sun’s faint brush over the top half of your face offering relief in the middle of a frozen landscape. You close your eyes for just a moment, savoring it, before returning to your task. The sound of the ax cutting into the wood mixes with the rustle of pine trees in the distance, their branches weighed down by heavy snow.

You swung the ax, splitting a log in two. The dry wood splintered easily, and the sound echoed in the quiet wilderness. The only other noise came from the wind as it howled through the trees, carrying with it the promise of an even colder day. The cold worked its way into your bones despite your many layers. You stayed in cold places before, but the tundra was different. It was a place where even warmth felt fleeting, only offered by a fire or the thick fur you wrapped yourself in.

Satisfied with the pile of wood you’d gathered, you stacked it by the cabin door before retreating inside, the warmth of the hearth greeting you. The fire crackled steadily, casting a golden glow against the dim interior. The gas stove hissed as you lit it, filling the kettle with water for tea. Your stomach growls, reminding you that breakfast is long overdue. 

The crackle of kindling and the warm orange glow spread throughout the small wooden cabin, where you've been staying during your research.

After tossing a few more logs into the fire, you set about making breakfast. It came together simply—creamy and warm fish broth, pancakes, and smoked fish—a meal that filled the small space with a comforting scent. The small palm-sized pancakes were crisp on the edges, their golden brown surface sizzling in the pan. You smile to yourself, remembering a tradition you picked up from other villages. 

As you finish cooking, you toss a pancake into the fire as an offering to whatever spirit might be watching over you. You heard it was a custom in your research. The villagers here don’t seem to do it, but it never hurts to be polite to the unknown.

By the time breakfast was finished, you had your notes spread out across the small wooden table, pencil scratching against the rough paper as you wrote. The village had called on your expertise after reports of strange events: food disappearing from homes, unexplained housefires, and villagers speaking in hushed tones about a spirit causing trouble.

You were already puzzled as to why the villagers would have called on an archaeologist and not an investigator. Your research into the village’s history has led you to strange old scrolls and whispers of a forgotten spirit, but the more time you spend here, the more you realize the villagers are reluctant to speak. The flickering firelight dances along the edge of your notes as you sip on a steaming cup of tea, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest. 

Ghosts and spirits don’t exist, you reminded yourself. Still, there was something to be said about folklore. It was tied deeply to history, and that was your true interest—the stories behind the stories.

The villagers were tight-lipped, though— your inquiries had been met with vague answers and nervous glances. Today, you planned to spend more time in the village center, talking to whoever would listen. The old man who ran the inn had mentioned something about ancient scrolls kept by a family who had been in the village for generations. Perhaps you could find more information there.

Later, you head out to meet the villagers. Bundling up again, you stepped outside into the snow. The cold was immediate, but you pushed through it, your breath forming thick clouds in front of you as you made your way toward the heart of the village. 

Houses stood small and stoic against the barren landscape, with thick snow blanketing their roofs. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood hanging in the air. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you walk through the narrow, icy paths, nodding to the occasional passerby. The wind is sharp today, tugging at your fur-lined hood. 

You hunch your shoulders against the cold as you make your way to the center of the village, where a small crowd has gathered. The scent of charred wood hit you before you saw the blackened remains of the structure, now little more than rubble. Your heart skipped. Another fire? The villagers spoke in low murmurs, and as you drew closer, you overheard snippets of conversation about the thief who lived there—a man who had stolen from his neighbors. 

You frowned, remembering a neighbor of yours had told you to stay away from the man who was known to frequent bars and have sticky fingers. The same man used to live in this home that was no more than a pile of charcoal.

You’ve heard the rumors about the “spirit”—they say it punishes those who harm the village, but you’re not convinced. Fires like these happen in dry regions all the time, and it’s not uncommon for Yakutia, even in winter. You jot down a few notes, watching the fire consume the house, the warmth a stark contrast to the frigid air biting at your skin.

Was it possible the spirit the villagers whispered about had been punishing him? Or was it just an unfortunate accident, a result of negligence and the harsh conditions?

You shook your head, noting down the details. The more you learned, the stranger the situation became. It was only when you returned to your cabin that evening, exhausted from talking to the hesitant villagers, that you realized just how strange things had become.

Later that day, you return to your cabin, taking in the familiar creaks of the wooden floor under your boots and the soft flicker of your gas lamp lighting the room. The air inside is only a little warmer than the biting cold outside, but the crackling of the fire in the stove offers some comfort.

You sit at your table, flipping through pages of your notebook. The pencil scratches lightly against the paper as you record observations, every sound amplified in the quiet room. The rhythmic back-and-forth fills the space, a welcome lull amid the chaos of your investigation.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

Standing in the doorway is one of the villagers—a man about your age, wrapped in thick furs with snow dusting his shoulders. You’d visited his family home a little while ago to ask about the happenings around the village, but their answers remained vague as all the others.

He’s cradling something in his hands. His breath fogs in the cold air as he shifts his weight, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of curiosity and something warmer. “I found these,” he says, extending his hands toward you. “Thought you might want to take a look.”

In his arms are ancient stone blocks, their surfaces engraved with symbols, faint but intricate. Your eyes widen at the sight. These carvings look similar to what you’ve seen before but older, almost primitive in comparison to the more refined relics you'd encountered earlier.

“Where did you find these?” you ask, stepping closer.

“In my house,” he replies, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “They were buried under some old planks. Figured they were important.”

You offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you. These could be a huge help.”

He smiles back, a little too long. “I hope so. It’s, uh, the least I could do. The villagers… we don’t really know what’s going on with all this, but I figured you’d be the one to figure it out.”

As a thank-you, you hand him a small bag of food—some dried meats and bread you had stored away. His face lights up, and he nods gratefully before leaving you alone again to examine the stone blocks.

The sun sets quickly in the tundra, and soon, the only light in your cabin comes from the gas lamps and the fire’s low embers. You’re absorbed in studying the runes when a familiar knock sounds at the door again. When you open it, the man stands there once more, his eyes glinting in the soft lamplight. You let him in, not wanting him to stay in the cold for too long.

“I wanted to tell you more,” he says, a little breathless from the cold or perhaps something else. He shifts on his feet, seemingly nervous. “There are stories—whispers, really. The villagers don’t talk about it much, but some say there was once a spirit who protected us. He might’ve even been part of our village, long ago.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why wouldn’t anyone mention that?”

“They’re ashamed, I think,” he replies, his voice low. “It’s been forgotten over time. No one’s sure what happened, but... there are theories that we abandoned him, and he’s been angry ever since. That’s why the strange things have been happening.”

You nod, processing the information. It feels like a piece of a much larger puzzle, but there’s still so much missing.

As he talks, you notice the way he looks at you—his eyes linger a little too long, his words carrying a soft edge of admiration. He’s clearly interested, but you decide to brush it off for now. You smile politely, pretending not to notice the way his gaze follows you as you walk back to your table. You’ll be leaving the village as soon as you finish the case, so you didn’t want to lead him on.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “This is really helpful. I’ll look into it.”

The man nods, his shoulders slumping slightly as though he expected more. “Of course,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”

As he leaves, the door shuts with a soft click, and you turn back to the runes, your thoughts swimming with new possibilities. If what he said was true, there’s more to this mystery than the villagers are willing to admit. And now, it seems like the forgotten spirit might hold the key to it all.

A couple days later, as you ice fish by the frozen river, you set your net and lean back, watching the starting to sun dip on the horizon. The quiet stretches around you, broken only by the occasional crack of ice shifting in the distance. You peer down at your catch, noting the modest haul in your net. Then you blink—there, next to your net, are two large whitefish lying in the snow, far too large to have escaped without you noticing.

Confused, you glance around. No one is near. The fish are pristine, untouched by the ice or snow, as if they had been placed there deliberately. You shake your head, chalking it up to luck. Maybe they jumped out when you weren’t paying attention? The reflection in the water catches your eye, and for a fleeting moment, you see the sharp jawline of a handsome man’s face turned towards you as if he were ice fishing with you. You blink again, startled, and the image is gone when a fish swims by and ripples the water—just your own face reflected in the water.

You shake your head. It’s nothing. Maybe I’ve just been single for too long… 

You thought about contacting that man from the other day for just a moment. 

Later that night, after cleaning the fish and preparing a simple dinner of stroganina—raw, thin slices of frozen whitefish—you sit by the fire, letting the warmth soothe your tired muscles. The fish melts on your tongue, rich and buttery, as you sip water to wash it down. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. You chalked it up to exhaustion. After all, nothing had happened that you couldn’t explain away with logic and reason. You even joked to yourself as you drank water, “If only I had some vodka to go with this.”

You took another sip, and suddenly the liquid burned down your throat.

You froze.

This time, there was no logical explanation. You looked down at the cup in your hands, heart pounding in your chest. How had the water changed? You hadn’t touched anything else, but the unmistakable burn of alcohol lingered.

Startled, you stare down at your cup, heart pounding. This—this can’t be explained away. Your mind entertained the thought of a Siberian Jesus Christ. 

The fire crackled behind you, its warmth now somehow menacing. The quiet of the tundra felt heavier, the weight of the mystery pressing down on your chest. This place, this village—it wasn’t just the cold that seeped into your bones. There was something else here. Something old. Something powerful.

The next morning, footsteps in the snow led you away from the village, out into the wilderness. 

The morning air was crisp, each breath leaving a wisp of white in the early sunlight. You bundled yourself tightly against the cold, pulling your fur-lined hood closer around your face. As you stepped outside, you noticed something strange—footprints, fresh in the untouched snow, leading away from your cabin. They hadn’t been there the night before, and curiosity tugged at you.

You followed them, your boots crunching softly against the snow. The air was still, save for the occasional rustling of distant trees swaying under the weight of frost. The path led deeper into the woods, the towering trees gradually closing in around you, until the footprints stopped at the mouth of a small, hidden cave.

The entrance was barely visible, half-buried in snow, but something about it drew you in. You knelt down, brushing the snow from the edges, revealing intricate stone blocks covered in carvings similar to the ones the village boy had brought you. Painted masks, adorned with swirling patterns of reds and whites, lined the inner walls, and Yakutian knives were arranged in ceremonial positions.

The air inside the cave was still, almost too still. You fumbled for your matchsticks, striking one and holding it up to cast a soft glow around you. The light flickered over the stone walls, revealing carvings of fire and snow—an odd combination, yet it made sense somehow, here in this frozen land. It felt like a shrine, a forgotten place of worship, long abandoned.

In the corner of your eye, you noticed a small stone just outside the cave. It was partially dusted in snow, but the engravings on it were clear. You leaned down, brushing it off with your gloved hand.

The instant your fingers touched the stone, a deep, gravelly voice echoed from behind you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You squealed, whipping around, only to find no one there. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you stumbled backward, falling straight into the snow. There were no footprints, no sign of anyone else. Just the eerie silence of the winter woods.

The spirit’s presence began to grow after you got home. Not just in the subtle warmth of the room or the way the hearth crackled to life at your arrival, but in the unmistakable feeling that he was always near. The warmth you once chalked up to the peculiarities of the stove now seemed deliberate, purposeful. The fire would roar to life just as your fingers began to freeze from the cold, as if it were watching, anticipating your needs.

It was no longer a question of if the spirit was real, but how deeply it was intertwined with the world around you. Every time you struck a match or lit a lantern, the flames danced longer than they should, their movements almost playful, as though teasing you. You tried to brush it off as wind or the natural flicker of fire, but something about the way the flames moved—how they seemed to respond to your presence—was undeniable.

It was trying to communicate.

It started with the crackling of the fire. At first, it was faint, like a low murmur beneath the sound of the wood burning. You would sit in front of the hearth after a long day of research, the warmth enveloping you, the sound becoming a constant companion. There were times you swore you heard words in the fire’s crackle, an indistinct whisper. "It’s just the wind," you told yourself. "Just the wood popping." But the more time passed, the clearer it became. The crackling wasn’t random—it carried meaning.

Then, one evening as you sat alone in the cabin after tossing a pancake into the fire, a cold gust of wind howling outside, you finally heard it: “You’re back.”

The voice was faint, almost lost in the sound of the firewood splitting, but it was there—low, gravelly, and unmistakable. You froze, heart pounding, eyes wide in surprise as you stared at the flames. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it. But the voice came again, just as you leaned closer. “You’re not afraid.”

You weren’t sure how to respond. Your throat felt tight, your hands clammy despite the warmth. You tried to rationalize it—maybe you were exhausted, hallucinating from the cold. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t your imagination. Slowly, carefully, you muttered, “Am I... supposed to be afraid?”

The flames flickered in response, and you could swear you heard a huff, like a quiet laugh. Then the voice returned, clearer this time. “You’re stubborn.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling inside you. “If you’re a spirit,” you said softly, “then show me a sign. Let me know I’m not losing my mind.”

There was a pause, and for a moment you thought maybe the voice wouldn’t return. But then, the fire roared, flaring up for just a second, casting the entire cabin in a brilliant light. The heat was so intense that you instinctively stepped back, heart hammering in your chest.

So it was real.

The days after that were filled with small, subtle gestures. The fire seemed to burn longer without the need for more wood. When you struggled to chop firewood or gather supplies, you would return to your cabin to find fresh logs stacked neatly by the door or a basket of fish left outside. You didn’t question it anymore, though each act left you both grateful and uneasy. Eventually, he told you his name— Bakugou Katsuki.

"Thank you," you whispered to the fire one evening, unsure if Bakugou could hear you but needing to acknowledge the help he had provided.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and you could almost sense his presence, as though he were sitting just beyond the hearth, watching over you.

It wasn’t just the warmth he brought. It was the feeling of protection, a sense that he was always there, keeping the biting cold at bay. The wind howled outside, but inside, the fire crackled with a steady, comforting heat, as though Bakugou himself were standing guard over your cabin.

As the connection between you and Bakugou deepened, so did the manifestations of his presence. There were times when you could feel warmth pass by you in the room, like an invisible hand brushing against your skin. And then, there were the footprints. In the mornings, you would find faint impressions in the snow outside your door—footprints too large to be your own, too distinct to be explained by passing animals. They led away from the cabin, disappearing into the woods where the trees whispered in the wind.

One night, after a long day of gathering research and barely avoiding frostbite, you collapsed onto the bed, too tired to even remove your boots. You stared into the hearth, watching the flames sway and shift. As you drifted off, you swore you saw something in the fire—a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, standing amidst the flames.

"Bakugou," you whispered, sleep pulling you under. The fire flared again, and in the brief moment before darkness claimed you, you felt the warmth of his presence like a blanket around your body, lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

With each passing day, Bakugou’s presence grew stronger. There were moments when you caught glimpses of him in reflections—on the frozen surface of a nearby pond or in the gleam of a window. He would appear for just a moment, the outline of a figure, the flicker of a flame in his eyes, and then he’d be gone, as though the world itself was trying to remember him.

"Why were you forgotten?" you asked the fire one evening, your voice barely a whisper. There was no immediate answer, but the flames shifted, as though Bakugou were trying to find the words.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," came the gravelly voice at last, softer than before. "I was supposed to protect this village. But something... something changed."

You waited, hoping for more, but the fire quieted, the conversation left unfinished. You knew he was withholding something, something important, but he wasn’t ready to reveal it just yet.

As the winter deepened, so did your connection. The emotional tension between you and Bakugou simmered just beneath the surface. He was no longer just a spirit haunting your cabin—he was a presence, a force that kept you safe, a companion in the long, cold nights. And as his voice grew more familiar, so did your thoughts about him. You started to look forward to the conversations by the hearth, the way the flames would flicker in response to your words, how his presence made the cabin feel less lonely, less cold.

But with that warmth came an ache, a yearning that neither of you dared to speak of yet. You wondered how far this connection could go, how real Bakugou could become.

One thing was certain: you were no longer alone in the tundra. And Bakugou, once forgotten, was starting to be remembered—by you.

The air was sharp and cold as you made your way back to the shrine, a small group of villagers following behind you. In your hands, you held an offering—a bundle of dried herbs, fish, and pancakes, all delicately wrapped in cloth. The villagers murmured amongst themselves, nervous but willing. They, too, had grown weary of the strange occurrences and were ready to do whatever was necessary to end them.

The old man leading the group had spoken of the fire spirit with reverence, explaining that the villagers once honored Bakugou with offerings to ensure their prosperity. Over time, however, the traditions had been forgotten, and with it, so had Bakugou’s power. Now, you were determined to set things right.

The path through the woods felt familiar. You’d followed it before, and yet today, it carried a different weight. You could feel him, his presence in the air, watching you from the shadows of the trees. It was as if the entire forest was holding its breath.

When you arrived at the shrine—a cave hidden deep within the woods—the villagers began to build a bonfire at its entrance. They stacked wood and kindling, and soon, flames licked the sky, casting the ancient stone carvings in a warm, flickering light. The shrine walls, covered in depictions of fire and snow, seemed to glow under the fire's embrace.

You approached the altar, laying the offerings down gently. The villagers bowed their heads, murmuring prayers to the forgotten spirit, asking for forgiveness. As you knelt beside the offerings, you couldn’t help but glance over your shoulder, feeling an intense heat—not from the bonfire, but from somewhere deeper within the cave.

For a moment, the flames crackled louder, and the ground beneath you seemed to hum with energy. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went quiet. The strange occurrences in the village—the fires, the whispers in the wind, the unsettling feeling of being watched—ceased. You could feel it, a weight lifting off the air. The offering had been accepted.

The villagers left soon after, grateful for your leadership and certain that Bakugou’s anger had been soothed. But you lingered, something pulling you back toward the cave.

Once the others were out of sight, you found yourself drawn deeper into the shrine. The carvings on the walls seemed even more intricate in the dim light, and you ran your fingers over the smooth stone, marveling at the ancient craftsmanship. Your thoughts wandered to him, to Bakugou. Was he truly satisfied with the offerings? Would you ever see him again?

A soft crackling sound broke the silence. You froze, every hair on your body standing on end. Slowly, you turned around, your breath catching in your throat.

There he stood.

Bakugou, no longer a fleeting presence or a whisper in the flames, but solid and real, towering over you. He was just as you’d imagined—no, more. His bare chest, muscled and powerful, was only partially covered by a thick fur that draped over one shoulder. His skin seemed to shimmer with warmth, his eyes blazing red like embers. He exuded strength, yet his gaze—intense and unwavering—held something deeper. Hunger.

"You came back," his voice rumbled, low and gravelly, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your mouth went dry. "I… I wanted to make sure the offering was enough."

He didn’t answer immediately, his fiery gaze trailing over you, making your skin tingle under the intensity of his stare. Then, with one swift movement, he closed the distance between you, pinning you gently against the cool stone of the cave wall. The heat of his body was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the cold of the cave, and you felt your pulse race.

"You shouldn’t be here alone," Bakugou growled, his breath hot against your skin.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were lost as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding. His kiss was consuming, like the fire he embodied—wild, uncontrollable, and impossible to resist. You melted against him, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers.

His body pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer. The world outside the cave disappeared—there was only Bakugou, his touch, his heat, and the insistent press of his lips against yours. You gasped as his hand moved up your back, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

The intensity of the kiss left you breathless, and when he finally pulled away, just enough to let you catch your breath, his lips brushed against your ear. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured, his voice a husky whisper.

You barely had time to respond before the world shifted. One moment, you were in the cave, pressed against the stone; the next, you were back in your cabin, the familiar warmth of the hearth surrounding you. But Bakugou was still there, standing tall before you, his hands still on your body, his lips only inches from yours.

Your eyes widened in shock. “How…?”

He smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Fire is everywhere,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “And where there’s fire, I can be.”

Before you could fully comprehend what he’d just said, his lips were on yours again, softer this time but no less urgent. He kissed you like a man who had waited centuries for this moment, his hands exploring your body with a reverence that made your knees weak.

The fire in the hearth flared behind you, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow as Bakugou’s body pressed against yours, his heat making your skin burn with desire. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was stoking the flames inside you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

You moaned softly against his lips, your hands tangling in his hair as the intensity between you grew, the connection undeniable. He growled in response, deepening the kiss, his grip tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Whatever boundaries had existed between the mortal world and the spirit realm no longer mattered. In that moment, there was only you and Bakugou—fire and flesh, spirit and soul, bound together in a heat that refused to be extinguished.

Without a word, he approached you, his movements as fluid as molten lava. He bent down and claimed your lips, You gasped at the contact, your body responding with a fiery need that matched his own. 

He quickly peeled off your many layers of clothes. His hands found their way under your pants, taking them off as his touch burned your skin and he spread your legs. The world outside the cabin faded away, leaving only the two of you and the dance of shadows on the walls.

Bakugou knelt before you, his intense crimson eyes never leaving yours as he parted your folds with his fingers. You shrunk under his close gaze as he took the sight of you in. “So perfect,” he groaned, grabbing at your soft thighs with two large hands and spreading you out for him.

 The first lick of his tongue sent you spiraling, the sensation intense on your clit. You moaned, your hands grabbing at his blonde spikes, your body arching towards the heat of his mouth. He took his time, tasting you, savoring you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of release.

But just as you felt yourself about to fall over the edge, you pushed him back, the need to explore his body consuming you. 

You pushed him onto the ground, pulling down at his pants. “It’s my turn,” you proclaimed. 

He looked up at you, a question in his eyes, but you didn't waver. You dropped to your knees pulling down his pants and gasping when his hard shaft bounced out of the fabric. It was the size of your face, and its girth was something else. 

He noticed your awe at him, and his ego was inflated even more than it already is. “Like what you see?”

You roll your eyes, taking his thick length in your hand and bringing it to your lips before giving the tip a peck. He groaned, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the cabin. Your hand grasped at his strong thighs. Teasing him, you spent time kissing all over his outer and inner thighs before moving to his shaft. 

You took your time, exploring every inch of him with your mouth, worshipping him as he deserved. You licked him up and down his hot length, watching as his eyes screwed together in pleasure before you took his whole length into your mouth— up and down his length in a bobbing motion.

His hands tangled in your hair, guiding you, urging you faster as he grew harder. The heat of his body was intoxicating, his scent a heady mix of sweet smoke and masculinity that made your head spin.

The fire in the hearth of the cabin roared to life, casting shadows across the room as you brought him closer and closer to the edge. His groans filled your ears, the only sound in the quiet night, until he could take no more. With a final, desperate thrust, he emptied himself into your mouth, the heat of his cum like liquid fire. 

Bakugou chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted you to your feet. He picked you up with ease, carrying you to the soft fur that lay before the fireplace. Gently, he laid you down, your skin feeling like it was on fire from the heat of his touch.

"Your body," he murmured, tracing the curves of your hips with his thumb, "it's a masterpiece.” He leaned down, capturing a nipple with his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You arched your back, gasping as the heat from his breath melded with the warmth from the fire, making it feel like you were melting from the inside out.

"Bakugou," you moaned, his name a prayer on your lips as he moved to your other breast, giving it the same loving attention. His hands roamed over your stomach, his fingers finding their way between your legs again. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Katsuki,” he corrected, as he began to fuck you with them, slow and deep, watching as your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth fell open in ecstasy.

As he worked his fingers into you, a low hum escaped him. “So damn tight,” watching as your face wrinkled up in pleasure. 

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a demand that you couldn't refuse. You met his gaze, the intensity of his stare making your heart race even faster. His thumb brushed against your clit as his lips pulled themselves into a grin as he sent a shockwave through your body. "I want to see you come apart for me."

As soon as he said these words, his fingers curled directly into your sweet spot. Your vision went white with pleasure. In the background, his grin only became more animalistic as he leaned down to catch a nipple into his mouth. His fingers worked you to the edge, driving you crazy.

The orgasm crashed over you like a massive wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your thighs were wet and sticky with your own release.

He watched you, his own arousal evident in the way he held himself, his eyes never leaving yours. "That was just the beginning," he promised, his voice a rumble that sent another shiver down your spine.

He watched you— all spread out and pretty for him on the fur, watching the warm light of the fire bounce off your delectable skin as you tried to catch your breath and your legs shook. He couldn’t help but mark you up all over as he sent you over the edge once more with his lips and fingers this time. A light chuckle left him as you cried out his name and writhed underneath him— overstimulation already starting to take over.

Your breathless voice called out to him in the small space of the cabin. “Katsuki,” you beckoned, “please… I need it.” You knew that he kept going at this rate, you’d go insane.

“You sure, princess? You think you can take it now?” His head kept burying itself between your legs, kitten licking at your clit before sucking at it and thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “You’re still not loose enough,” he says as he curls his fingers up again, releasing a squeal from you. 

You just kept cumming— each time you came, your walls only got more and more sensitive, pulling you to orgasm again.

Bakugou watched in sadistic joy every time your walls tightened further around his fingers. He came back up to you to catch your moaning lips into a kiss before trailing down and leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest. When he started playing with your clit again, you came again, tears welling up in your eyes from sheer pleasure. 

Your mind couldn’t fathom anything but Bakugou. Your mouth cried out broken strings of his name until he finally withdrew his fingers from your core, licking them up lasciviously. He lined himself up with you, tapping his tip against your puffy clit, making you jolt. Your entrance was still convulsing from your long string of climaxes as he finally pushed himself against it, groaning when he felt himself slip past the ring of muscle. 

He took in a sharp breath of air. “Could you quit clenching?” His head rolled back in pleasure, not even fully inside of you yet. “I’m already,” he pushes himself in further, “strugglin’ as it is…”

He was so thick. It filled you up, making you cum when he was only buried into your walls up until the tip and then some. “I’m sorry,” you managed to whine out, breathless, “I can’t help it!”

With these words, he froze and stared at you climaxing before pushing the rest of himself in, causing you to scream. He gave you a moment to relax with his entire shaft inside of you. You felt so full— he stretched you out so good. “So noisy,” he smirked, only spurring your voice to get louder with each thrust.

He started to pick up a steady pace, pistoning in and out of you. Each thrust made you shudder—his length stretched you out perfectly and hit you in all of the right places. Your hands gripped at the fur beneath you for any sort of purchase. He wiped one of your tears away, burying his head into the crook of your neck and groaning with each thrust. 

You believed that spirits didn’t exist, but here you were, getting dicked down by one. And you were sure as hell enjoying it.

As he pounded away at you, your eyes rolled back into your head, your moans turning into cries. He was so rough, so primal in his movements, it was like he was trying to claim you. And with every thrust, it felt like he was getting closer to doing so. 

He kissed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin with his teeth. His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips tightly as he thrusted in deeper and harder. The noises of your pussy squelching in the cabin were obscene, but they only served to spur Bakugou on.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured against your skin.

His thrusts were getting faster and more erratic, so you knew he was close. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, needing him to fill you up with his heat. And then, with one final, powerful thrust, he did. You felt the warmth of his cum fill you up, spilling into your womb like molten lava.

He collapsed onto you, panting heavily. His weight was a comforting presence as he remained inside of you, his cock still pulsing with every beat of his heart. You could feel his warmth seep into your very core, leaving you feeling complete in a way you never had before.

As the moments passed, he slowly pulled out of you, his cum dripping out and down your thighs. You watched as he looked down, his eyes widening in awe at the sight. He leaned down to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.

a/n: we're back!

lol not beta read again please let me know if you see any typos or anything that's just like. wrong/inconsistent

my taglist is open! lmk if you wanna be tagged in future bakugou fics or j all my fics in general

thank you for reading & stay hydrated, y'all <3

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