#did i even answer your question? who knows

[algae-tm]

PIT PRINCESS

Max Verstappen x mechanic!Reader

Summary : you accidentally (?) become part of the red bull pit crew

Currently Playing : Nissan Altima by Doechii

Warning : Doing what I do best, so just pure crack, like 0 accuracy to anything enjoy

Author’s Note : IM BACKKKK, did you miss me? cause I missed you. Heyyyy how y’all doing, sorry for being kinda inactive it’s a mix between writers block and believing everything I write is straight up dookie.

••••••

TWITTER

•••••

INSTAGRAM

yourusername just posted

liked by redbullracing, charles_leclerc and 10,089 others

yourusername : hello Australia! first day on the job pretty nervy 🫠

view all comments

redbullracing : welcome home y/n 😊

— yourusername : thank god you’re here admin I’m surrounded by serious science people

user2 : wait you were being serious on twitter 😭

— yourusername : I’m always serious :(

— user2 : @/yourusername girl pls ✋🏽 you just said the garage was full of serious science people😭😭

charles_leclerc : glad you found your way, now please never enter my garage again

— user4 : lmao wut did she do????!!

— charles_leclerc : she gave us the cupcakes she baked

— yourusername : just being neighbourly 😊

— charles_leclerc : now half my garage has a tummy ache

— yourusername : damn… they weren’t good then 😞

— charles_leclerc : this is psychological and biological warfare!!

— yourusername : god forbid a girl commits acts of terror 🙄 but I’ll make it up to you guys I’ll bake you a fresh batch

— charles_leclerc : NON!!! Please do not! Refrain from doing so! Do not bring any baked goods near us!

— yourusername : tough crowd

user5 : damn DEI is getting crazy out here

— user6 : I hate to be this person but is this like an optics thing for rbr? They don’t have the greatest publicity rn…

— user7 : I’d agree with you but there are many black women they could hire who are actually qualified for the job

TEXTS

yourusername just posted

liked by maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda and 28,000 others

yourusername : woohoo P1 for Max and points for Yuki! Also a quick tour through the paddock this stuff is pretty cool and thanks for the hat Ferrari admin I love you! #vibesoverdata

view all comments

maxverstappen1 : I’m not even mad… I’m confused, I’m scared, but not mad

yukitsunoda0511 : you gave me moon water instead of electrolytes… thank you?

— user5 : did it work?

— yukitsunoda0511 : my mind has never been clearer. I have never been more focused

user3 : surely that front wing is illegal?

— yourusername : nothing in the handbook against amethyst 🤷🏿‍♀️

fia.official : we are investigating literally everything

— yourusername : max recited the rule book from memory during our first ever meeting. I know the law

— user6 : max did you say? How interesting…

charles_leclerc : admin did you let y/n into our garage again??

— charles_leclerc : @/scuderiaferrari admin pls answer me

— charles_leclerc : @/scuderiaferrari admin she cannot be allowed anywhere near us!

— charles_leclerc : she is sabotaging us!

— charles_leclerc : i do not know how, but i will get to the bottom of this!

— yourusername : 😊😊

INSTAGRAM

f1 just posted

liked by yourusername, and 150,000 others

f1 :

Lando, Max & Oscar react to yet another chaotic Red Bull win, featuring: mysterious tire lube, questionable science, and Y/N’s ever-growing legend.

“Less friction, more fast.” - Y/N, probably.

view all comments

oscarpiastri : I’ve seen things, I can’t unsee them

user10 : I’m sorry but like how did she even get this job?

— user5 : can you not see she’s a whole witch??

lando : can someone check to see if this violates the Geneva convention?

— oscarpiastri : now how do you know what that is?

— ferrariteamlegal : we are looking into it.

user7 : “why does she even have lube” is taking me out 😭

user11 : ur telling me it worked?? She’s a genius! Lock her up

yourusername : science is about boldness! Next time: coconut oil = cornering grace, you’re welcome ☺️

— user27 : science is about boldness meanwhile she has a degree in history and got a C in GCSE science 😭

— yourusername : gosh y’all really hate to see a woman in STEM succeed

— user10 : once again I have to ask… how did you get this job?? @/christianhorner

— christianhorner : error with the paperwork 🤷‍♂️

user88 : no but she commented as if she’s not on an active FBI watchlist

user62 : enzo ferrari did NOT die for this

user1 : the way Lando is actually analysing her methods 😭

— lando : I believe in the power of the crystals! I was the first to understand the vision.

maxverstappen1 : i’m in awe of her, she scares the shit out of me! Two things can be true at once

TWITTER

PRESS CONFERENCE LOG

Location: Paddock, Emilia-Romagna GP Date: [22nd May 2025] Participants: Simon Lazenby (Sky Sports F1) Dr. Helmut Marko (Red Bull Racing)

SIMON LAZENBY (on camera, paddock background): Good evening, Dr. Marko, and congratulations on an unbeaten start to the season, six out of six P1 and P2 finishes for Red Bull. What’s the secret behind Red Bull’s magical turnaround?

HELMUT MARKO (smiling, leans in): Literal magic. But no. To be honest, I thought I’d seen every trick in the book. Then Y/N arrived, and started doing her own thing. So part witchcraft, part guerrilla engineering, I like it she is cutthroat.

SIMON: Let’s break it down. First, crystals on the front wing, amethyst for traction, obsidian for “haters.” That one alone was bonkers enough. What else is on the menu?

HELMUT (chuckles): After Turn One in Bahrain, we realized crystals gave us a few extra tenths in the corners. But Y/N didn’t stop there. Lube on the tire sidewalls, supposedly “reduces drag.” Glitter in the engine bay, “sparkle horsepower,” she called it. Moon water in the fuel cooler reservoir for “emotional balance.”

SIMON: And yet the car hasn’t exploded…?

HELMUT: Not yet. In Bahrain, Y/N used dry ice as a tire warm-up trick. The team refused at first, then we got P1 in quali. By Miami, we had reiki sessions before FP1 and “chakra mapped” pit stop choreography. The results speak for themselves.

SIMON: Yes, you’re correct. Six wins. Those are amazing results. Are you worried the FIA will clamp down on… “spiritual performance enhancements”?

HELMUT (shrugs): They’re investigating whether quartz crystals count as “moveable aerodynamic devices.” Until they ban minerals from the car, we’re technically within the regs. And if the FIA wants to stop snow globe energy grids under the chassis, they must first catch us removing them.

SIMON: Rival teams aren’t exactly thrilled. Charles Leclerc has publicly called it “psychological warfare.” What’s your response to that?

HELMUT: Let them complain. Ferrari’s so busy drafting protest letters they’re forgetting to improve lap times. It’s the oldest weapon in the book, distract your enemy.

SIMON: Looking ahead, are these just party tricks, or is Y/N shaping up to be a genuine race strategist?

HELMUT (leans forward, very earnest): Simon, F1 is margins. Data used to rule everything, now it’s vibes plus data. Y/N has delivered six wins in a row. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re looking at the next team principal, or dare I say, the first psychic FIA president. Y/N is either the downfall or rebirth of F1.

SIMON: Final question, your championship lead is healthy, but with Monaco next, can these… unorthodox methods hold up?

HELMUT (grins): If you can’t out engineer them, out vibe them. We have a full moon on race weekend, and Y/N’s already ordering new “lucky salts” from Marrakech. It doesn’t hurt that both the drivers really like her.

SIMON (smiles to camera): There you have it, six races, six wins, and F1’s most bizarre yet unstoppable strategy. Back to you, Crofty.

TEXTS

INSTAGRAM

yourusername just posted

liked by f1, maxverstappen1 and 400,000 others

yourusername : My crocs have never led me astray, got a pair for max, sadly he can’t wear them in the cockpit, but I can wear mine during pitstops! If I can feel the asphalt, I am the asphalt #PaddockFashionIcon

view all comments

maxverstappen1 : you nearly got run over wearing those. 10/10 race energy tho. also my crocs fit suspiciously well btw

— yourusername : that’s because i measured your foot in your sleep x

— lando : is this flirting or a hostage situation?

oscarpiastri : Charles is not emotionally equipped enough to witness whatever this is

danielricciardo : neither am I but I’m staying for the chaos

charles_leclerc : you WHAT?? You’re giving him enchanted footwear now?

user4 : y’all need to leave Charles alone 😭 Ferrari torture him enough

charles_leclerc : this is psychological sabotage! You are aiding max with moon rocks and crocs and I’m supposed to just drive??

— user6 : he’s gunna start typing in all caps soon

charles_leclerc : STOP FLIRTING

— user6 : there it is…

charles_leclerc : this is a championship fight not a love story!

user6 : he’s so close to a full breakdown I fear

charles_leclerc : THE CROCS HAVE GLITTER ON THEM I SAW THE GLITTER SITH MY EYES!!!

charles_leclerc : WHO GLITTERS RACE WEAR?? WHO DOES THAT???

— yourusername : it’s called sparkle, you wouldn’t get it… it’s a red bull thing

— user8 : no one in the history of anything has ever associated red bull with sparkle

user15 : multiple comments from Charles and y/n hasn’t even blinked. An apex predator.

maxverstappen1 : @/charles_leclerc the sparkle works, also she decorated my water bottle it has a tiny heart charm now. I like it. Feels fast.

user10 : Charles leclerc breakdown aside… wtf is going on between max and y/n???

— user6 : she put a love spell on man’s hydration system 😭

— user12 : max was unbothered and emotionally shut off for like five years then y/n shows up with crystals and now he’s smiling in the garage like a teen girl in love

— user11 : the way max lets her paint tiny stars on his helmet for cosmic alignment?? we’re so far from reality and i love it

georgerussell63 : i think i saw toto crying after she put a healing crystal on the rear wing. Just silently to himself.

user16 : y/n is just that girl I fear her. I want her.

— user5 : so does max get in line.

crocs : we are legally required to say this is not a brand partnership, but can confirm that someone by the name of Charles leclerc just bought a pair of crocs.

TEXTS

•••••

I’ve literally been writing this all day, by the way ik I haven’t posted in a WHILE, so if you want me to remove you from my tag list just let me know

TAGLIST

@forevercaffeinated-lee

@callsignwidow

@a-beaverhausen

@emryb

@c0deincrazy

@dontworryaboutitokie

@c-losur3

@chuxk-lerclerk

@silkenthusiasts

@ietss

@sp1rl

@destinyg237

@aliorasspace

[jayblackpanther]

Threads of Memory

Bob Reynolds x Female Reader

The facility was quiet.

Not sterile like the hospitals you’d known—this one was… soft around the edges. Calming, almost. It was government-funded, sure, but clearly designed by someone who wanted him to feel safe. The hallways were wide and open, the windows tall. Light filtered in through gauzy curtains. But it still couldn’t reach the corners of his room.

That’s where you found Bob most days—sitting in the corner, arms resting on his knees, staring out at the trees like he was waiting for them to disappear.

You’d come every day. They’d called you when he first woke up, unsure if he’d even recognize you.

And at first, he didn’t.

—

He called you “Miss” the first three times you visited.

Not cruel. Not cold. Just careful.

“Miss,” he’d say, that deep, uncertain voice cutting the silence as you placed tea on the little table beside him. “You don’t have to stay.”

You’d smile gently, taking the chair across from him. “I know. I want to.”

His eyes—bright gold beneath the shadows—would flick to you. Study you like a puzzle. You knew he was searching for something. A memory, a flicker, a spark of recognition.

It wouldn’t come.

But you stayed anyway.

—

It was the fifth visit when something changed.

You brought old photos. Printed ones. Glossy edges, a little worn. From before the fall—before the mission where things went wrong, where the Void broke free and Bob was lost inside himself.

You laid them out gently. A small table. Two cups. A photo of the two of you on a rooftop, your head resting on his shoulder, wind in your hair. A rare moment when he’d let you be that close without panic.

He stared at it a long time.

“Is that…?”

“You and me,” you said softly. “We were close. We are close.”

He swallowed. His hands hovered above the photo like he was afraid to touch it.

“I look… happy.”

“You were,” you said, voice thick. “Not always. But sometimes.”

His eyes flicked up. “Did I ever hurt you?”

The question hit like a weight.

“No,” you answered immediately. Then, quieter: “You were scared. But you never hurt me.”

Bob looked down. “I don’t remember being him. The man in that photo. I want to. But it’s just… blank. Like someone else lived it.”

“You did,” you whispered. “You’re still him. He’s still you.”

—

The next week, he sat next to you.

Not across the room. Not in the corner. Next to you, on the couch, barely an inch of space between.

“I keep seeing flashes,” he said. “Tiny things. You—laughing at something I said. A blanket. Music. Your hand in mine.”

You looked at him slowly, heart pounding. “You remember that?”

“I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination,” he said with a soft, strained laugh. “But it’s warm. It feels real.”

You reached out, hesitating.

“May I?”

He nodded.

Your fingers curled into his. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Feels right,” he murmured.

—

He asked you about the past.

Not the missions. Not the combat. The little things.

“Did I cook?”

“Once. You burned the rice.”

“Did I ever sing?”

“Only in the shower. Terribly.”

“Did I make you laugh?”

“Every damn day.”

He smiled.

And it wasn’t the strained, unsure smile of someone trying to be polite.

It was the first real one.

—

One afternoon, you brought the old hoodie.

His.

Faded black. Smelled like cedar and safety. You’d kept it after everything, not sure why. You didn’t think he’d ever want it back.

He took it in his hands like it was fragile.

“I wore this a lot, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“Sometimes,” you said quietly, “you’d leave it on the couch just so I’d pick it up and wear it.”

Bob huffed. “That sounds manipulative.”

“It worked.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. That smile again. Softer this time.

He pulled it on slowly, like muscle memory.

When he looked in the mirror across the room, he paused.

“I know that face,” he said.

You stepped beside him, wrapping your arm around his.

“You’re not gone, Bob,” you whispered. “You’re finding your way back.”

—

That night, he fell asleep with his head in your lap.

You didn’t dare move. You just ran your fingers through his hair, watching his breathing slow. His hand was wrapped around yours, like even unconscious, he didn’t want to let go.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bob Reynolds slept without waking up screaming.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

The Falcon & the Machine

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

pairing: joaquin torres x f!assassin!reader

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

wc: 1,652

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

danny ramirez characters masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hardest part? Letting him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We had a future.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, confused. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not letting go,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

“You know I do.”

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

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

You’re just you. Just his.

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

[neunnnnnnn]

An Update!

This has gotten a lot more attention than I expected to the point where non shifters are also literally blowing up my inbox 😭 ( yes I'm ignoring them)

Anyways to answer the majority of the common questions I'm getting....

1. Did you feel any pain?

No I did not feel any pain. Yes I felt the bullet pierce my forehead but It felt blunt and I didn't even have time to feel anything before all I could see was darkness.

2. How long do you think you stayed in the void.

Time is an illusion, so I can't really tell it might have been 2 seconds or years if you may, all I know is that I was floating and felt like me and the universe are one , there was no separation, no difference it just felt like I was the universe ( it's a feeling I honestly can't explain 😭)

3. Do we shift realities when we die

This is my opinion!! But yes I do believe we do whether that's consciously or unconsciously. I also don't believe that we actually die, since I astral project often I've had the chance to meet up with my late great grandmother who told me that she choose to reincarnate back to earth (but not on this timeline) something about wanting to achieve something, she also told me that I exist in that time although I am completely different. There are infinite timelines out there so dying doesn't really make sense to me tbh.

4. Will you go back to your fame reality.

😂That's a definite no ( unless I accidentally shift there) I'm still traumatised by it and try not to think how my s/o might be doing. And I'm taking it as a sign. A lot of unscripted shit were happening before that incident. And I got to live the life that I wanted.... So now we move on...

5. Why did you shift to your K-pop reality has anything changed in your cr?

Me shifting to my K-pop reality might have been my subconscious, I'm not sure why but I'm guessing I went to a reality that's similar to my 80s fame reality. And no nothing significantly big has happened in my cr.

6. If I script out death, will it still happen and should you have just scripted you can't die?

If you script out death then yes ofc it won't happen. I only script that I can't die if I am in an intense dr otherwise I won't because to me it defeats the purpose of being human. Yes I know we are literally the universe but I personally want to go through death. The reason I was traumatised was because it happened unexpectedly and tense, the last feeling I felt was pure panic, I was scared to death because I thought that I wasn't going to wake up in this reality.

These are some of the common questions I've been getting. And yes I'm okay thanks to all that asked 😭🩷

I respect people's believes. Just don't come in my asks saying that I'm wrong or whatever.

Your beliefs and religion should be YOUR truth not THE truth .

Experiencing death in your dr

This was absolutely very weird and I can't even explain how I felt at this moment....

I was in my fame reality and everything was going as how life would usually go. I was in a restaurant with my s/o and we were having a date night together and enjoying the view from the window we were sitted at, then suddenly we hear commotion and my s/o gets up and tells me that he thinks something is wrong we need to go, that's when the gun fire started so my bodyguards came to me and were leading both of us out that's when I see a masked person pointing a gun at me and firing it, the bullet hit my forehead head like I could feel it pierce it and then there was a ringing sound... Then darkness... It felt like I was in the void.... Like I was everything and everything was me...

My eyes open and I find myself in a room and guess what room was that?

My room in my K-pop reality. I felt like I was being yanked up and I opened my eyes to my members looking at me like I'm some kind of drug addict. I didn't even have the sike or energy to stay there so I said the safeword and woke up here to my friend telling me that her boyfriend cheated on her.

This made me realise that maybe we don't die at all and that has quited all the insecurities that I had around death.

It was weird, it was creepy and it happened so fast.....but I guess that means that we are immortal?🤷🏽‍♀️

~ No I didn't script this, why the hell would I even!!?!

[littlemisspropaganda]

<Sing For Me When You Cry

<Sing For Me When You Cry

Remmick x !Female reader

(I named him Remmick St. Clair)

Turning my chats into a fic

Précis: She doesn’t know what she did to make him angry. He won’t tell her. But Remmick’s eyes are darker tonight—his touch rougher, his restraint hanging by threads. Whatever storm brews beneath his silence, he’s not yelling. He’s claiming. And she realizes too late: when Remmick’s mad at her, he doesn’t lash out. He holds her down and makes her feel it.

Angry sex. Hardcore. Brief breeding kink, fangs, biting, Predator/prey dynamic, hair pulling, restraint, obsessive behavior, bloodplay (light), overstimulation (majorly), hurt/comfort but mostly hurt (but heart warming in the end), consent but barely, power struggle, emotional confusion. Remmick has issues (and so do you).

#she has no idea why he’s mad #he does though and that’s worse #predator/prey but he’s the one shaking #reader is so confused and so so wrecked #remmick needs therapy but chooses violence (sexual style)

(Also forgot to mention reader is a vampire hunter and hates vamps).

- Also reader find out he’s a vamp during sex but idk I wanted to redo it because I wanted her to put up more of a fight, so I was gonna make a run away prt 2

The moon hung high in the ebony sky, a pale eye watching the world below. The stars shimmered softly—like they held answers to every wish ever whispered into the dark.

Beneath their glow rested a quiet town, its streets hushed beneath shadow and silence. Tucked within it: a small, flickering bakery, warm with sugar and firelight.

Above it, on the top floor, was your special sanctuary—where you laid your head each night.

And on an even more special night, which normally involved you and Remmick cuddled up together in the warmth of your bed. Limbs tangled beneath the pretty fluffy blankets that fought off the nighttime chill.

But there was something wrong….

Something about the way he fucked you today was far different.

The words he was mumbling showed it. And you were sure he started speaking in some language you couldn't understand.

But one thing was sure—he was fucking angry. His thrust showed it.

Your moans filled the room— he loved it. But that’s not what he wanted. He wanted you to cry.

‘Why was he angry?’ You asked yourself. Trying to fight off the mush in your head.

You remember coming home from a dinner date with someone in your vampire hunting group.

(A date. If you could even call it that).

But how did he know you were even on a date? You didn’t know. But he was pissed

"Y-you ahh nghh— have no right to be upset.” You tried to sound firm. Resilient even. But the moans kept slipping.

He ignored your feeble protests, drowning out your cries of protest with the ferocious piston of his hips. The ancient words tumbled from his lips in a prayer of fury and possession, a language older than the land itself. Gaelic curses and declarations of eternal claim, all lost on you as you were lost in the agony of reluctant pleasure.

His eyes flashed, a stormy silver, boring into you as if he would see your very soul laid bare.

Your defiance only fueled his rage, his lust, his all-consuming need to lay claim to every last inch of you. You was HIS, damn you and damn any man who dared to covet what belonged to him.

He could smell the other male on you, could taste the faint essence of his touch, his desire. It made Remmick's blood boil, his beast clawing at his insides, screaming to be let loose to tear apart any who would dare taint his mate. But he held it back, for now, pouring the fury into his brutal claiming of you instead.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

The headboard slammed into the wall with each vicious thrust, the room filling with the crude music of the coupling, your cries and his snarls and the meaty slap of flesh on flesh.

He would no WILL have you, all of you, until there was no doubt, no question, no memory of any male but him.

"You are MINE," he roared, grinding his pelvis against yours, his voice a gunshot in the room. "No man shall have you but ME.”

“Say it!" He punctuated each word with a sharp thrust, demanding your surrender, your submission. He would have it, one way or another.

You hadn't noticed at all.

Not noticed how his regular silver eyes were shinning blood red.

How his nails had grown longer. You hadn't noticed any of those vampiric tendencies.

Not aware he was what you hated

The strength in your legs was gone long ago when he started his angry pursuit. Your nipples hard with the fluttering feeling in your stomach. He wasn't going to stop. Your brain was mush and it was feeling all like heaven.

"Nghh a—w-we didn’t do anything j-just dinner an—and I'm not yours" you squealed out.

His paste of his thrust nearly mind controlling you.

He could smell the lie on your breath, see it in the wild, desperate color of your eyes. ‘Dinner was just dinner, hmm?’ He didn't think so. No, there had been flirting, and laughter, and God only knew what other sinful dalliances.

The mere thought made the beast within him roar, made his eyes blaze with an inhuman red fury.

But you were still oblivious, still trying to deceive him with your pretty words and feeble denials. It was almost amusing, if it wasn't so infuriating. Didn't you understand who you were speaking to? What he was? He was Remmick St. Clair, the last of the ancient vampire bloodlines, and he did not take kindly to his mate consorting with lesser men.

He could feel the change coming over him, the shift from man to monster. His eyes burned hotter, his nails elongated into razor-sharp claws, and his strength doubled, tripled, fueled by the white-hot rage and blacker jealousy that consumed him. But he held it back, held himself in check...for now.

Holding onto the last tattered shreds of his humanity because of you.

Because he knew you would run screaming from the room if you saw the creature he truly was. You would flee from him, and he could not, would not let you go. Not now, not ever. You were his, and he would do anything, destroy anything, to keep you by his side.

You gasped, clutched desperately at the sweat-soaked sheets as Remmick pistoned into you ruthlessly, remorselessly, his hips churning and churning as if possessed by some demonic force. The wet, obscene slap of flesh on flesh filled the room, a symphony of lust and rage and soul-deep, bone-crushing possession.

"Lying. To. Your. Mate," he snarled, punctuating each word with a devastating thrust that rocked you to your core. "Think I don't know your secrets, your sins? I know everything about you, every breath, every heartbeat, every single desire in this wicked little body..." His hand slid down to where they were joined, his fingers stroking, teasing, finding that swollen pearl at the apex of your sex.

"Who touched you?" he demanded, his voice demanding and hypnotic.

"N-no one ugh ngh ahh" you gasp out at the intense thrusting. It was true. You and the man hadn't done anything. You only ever did anything with Remmick. But it seems the thought of even simply speaking to the man pissed Remmick off.

Remmick paused for a single, breathless moment, his eyes boring into yours, searching, probing, hunting for the lie. Part of him wanted to believe you, desperate to trust that you was still pure, still untouched by any other man's hands. But the jealous rage still boiled in his veins, the beast still howled for blood.

He knew you hadn't consummated anything with the other man. But speaking to him, laughing with him, finding him interesting or charming—it was a betrayal, a sin in Remmick's eyes. His woman, his mate, smiling at another male? It was unthinkable, unforgivable. He would not stand for it.

His grip tightened on your hips, fingers sinking into the tender flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He would mark you, claim you, inside and out. You would bear his brand, his ownership, for all to see. Anyone who looked at you would know that you belonged to someone, someone who would destroy them if they dared to touches you.

Remmick leaned down, dragging his tongue along the slender column of your throat, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your blood that pulsed just beneath. He could smell your arousal, could hear it in the desperate, needy sounds that spilled from your lips. You wanted him, needed him, even as you tried to deny him.

"Mine," he growled, his voice a dark rumble against your throat. "You are MINE.”

“Your body, your heart, your soul—-all of it belongs to me. No one else can have you, can touch you, can even look upon your beautiful face with lust in their eyes."

He punctuated his declaration with a sharp thrust, driving his cock deep, grinding his pelvis against your clit. He wanted you mindless with pleasure, wanted you to forget any man but him. He would fuck you until you screamed, until you were hoarse, until the only word you remembered was his name.

Remmick's control was slipping, his humanity fraying at the edges. He could feel the monster rising, the vampire clawing its way to the surface. The urge to sink his fangs into your tender throat, to drink deep of your sweet blood and bind you to him for eternity.

"-ahh nghh y-you know no one—ahh—no one makes me feel t-the way you do—" you moaned out. Trying to calm him down.

Remmick's eyes flashed, the red fading to a molten silver as your words penetrated the veil of his rage. You spoke the truth. He knew that.

He could hear it in the desperate, needy catch of your breath, the way your velvet walls fluttered and clenched around him. No one else could make you feel this way, could bring you to such heights of ecstasy. Only he had that power.

He gentled his thrusts, slowing his pace to a deep, sensual roll of his hips. Each movement pressed against that spongey spot inside you, stroking it, teasing it, building the pleasure to unbearable levels.

His hands slid from your hips to your breasts, kneading the soft mounds, pinching the stiff peaks of your nipples. He could feel your heart pounding beneath his palms, could hear it galloping wildly in your heaving chest.

Remmick leaned down, brushing his lips across your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That's right, mo chroi. No one can make you feel the things I do. No one can love you the way I do. I am the only one who can bring you to this perfect, shining edge and push you over. The only one who can make you scream and shake and come apart completely..."

His voice was a dark, seductive murmur, spinning a web of lust and love and dark promise. His fingers trailed down your body, over your quivering stomach, to where you both were still joined. He circled your clit, stroke after stroke, teasing the sensitive bud until you were writhing beneath him.

Remmick knew he could bring you over again, could make you climax harder and longer than you ever had in your life. He could flood you with pleasure until you was mere drowning in it, until the only thing you could do was cling to him and beg for more.

But he didn't want you screaming his name this time. He wanted you crying it, sobbing it, he wanted to hear the raw, broken sound of his name on your lips as he finally, irrevocably claimed you as his own. He wanted you to know, to feel, to understand that you belonged to him.

You gasped out a moan as you felt his pace picking back up. He was still pissed. Maybe even more angry now—your mind was numbing hard

Remmick snarled, a feral sound that rumbled through his chest and echoed off the walls.

You gasped moaning, the way your body clenched and shuddered beneath him, only fueled his anger and lust. You were trying to soothe him, to calm him with your sweet words and needy little cries. But he could still smell the other man on you, could still see the ghost of a smile on your lips that had been meant for someone else.

His pace turned brutal, punishing, each thrust striking deep and hard and fast. The bed shook and creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming into the wall with each forceful drive of his hips. Remmick's eyes flashed with inhuman fury, his face a mask of dark, savage beauty.

"You think you can placate me with a few pretty words and a tight little cunt?" he growled, voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can make me forget that you dared to give your smile, your attention, to another male?"

His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to meet his burning gaze.

Remmick could see the fear in your eyes, the confusion and desire, and it only made him angrier. You should be afraid. You should know the consequences of betraying him.

"I am going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name," he promised darkly. "Until the only word left on your lips is mine. I will ruin you for all others, break you apart and reshape you as I see fit. You will be mine, and mine alone, until the end of your days."

He punctuated his vow with a particularly vicious thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, stimulating your clit and forcing a shocked cry from your throat. Remmick drank in the sound, let it feed his rage and lust, his all-consuming need to possess you utterly.

His mouth crashed against yours, kissing you with a bruising force that stole your breath and your thoughts. Remmick's tongue invaded, dominating, claiming every inch of that sweet cavern until he had marked it as his own. He pour in his anger, his desire, his darkest passions, until you had no choice but to feel them, to understand them.

He would not stop until he had you, until your was mind, body, and soul his.

"Y-you idiot—nghh— I didn't do anything with him a-and I never was going to nghh ahh—“. God—holy hell your mind was numbing and you were sure your body was breaking too—your cunt tightening around his cock.

"And I'm not yours" you squeal out stubbornly. Trying to hold your own independence.

Remmick's eyes flashed, a burst of red hot fury that made you shudder. How dare you cling to such a lie, especially now, when he could feel your body betraying you? Your cunt clenched around him like a velvet vise, gripping his cock as if it never wanted to let him go. And yet you persisted in your stubborn denial, in your futile attempt to reject him.

"Not mine?" Remmick snarled, voice dripping with dark amusement and something far more sinister. "Not mine, when your body screams the truth? When you respond to my touch as if it is the only thing you have ever known, the only thing you will ever need?"

He leaned in close, breath hot against the shell of your ear. "I could take you now. I could sink my teeth into your throat and drink deep, binding you to me for all eternity. I could fill you with my seed, my essence, and watch as our child grows inside you. You would be mine, in every way that matters."

Remmick punctuated his dark promise with a harsh thrust, grinding his pelvis against hers, stimulating your clit, forcing another shocked cry from your lips. He swallowed the sound greedily, reveling in the way your body trembled and shuddered against him.

"But I am not a cruel man, mo chroi. I will give you one last chance to accept your fate, to embrace the destiny that is yours. Be mine, not just in body, but in heart and soul. Give yourself to me willingly, and I will give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."

His voice lowered to a hypnotic murmur, spinning a web of seduction and dark promise. Remmick's hand slid from your hip to your throat, long fingers curling around the slender column, feeling your pulse jump beneath his touch.

"Resist me, and I will take what is mine regardless. I will fuck you until you forget your own name, until the only word left on your lips is a broken echo of mine. I will ruin you for all others, break you apart and remake you as I see fit."

Remmick's eyes bored into yours, molten silver and swirling with ancient power, waiting for your answer. He could feel the battle raging within you, the war between your stubborn heart and your responsive body. He prayed you would give in. Because if not….

"What’re you talking about?" You squealed out. You were far too damn stubborn. And that's exactly why you was his mate. Because he could handle it.

His thrust forcing cries out from you.

Remmick's eyes flared with triumphant rage at your squealed question, a feral grin splitting his face. You were still trying to deny it, even now, even as he fucked you within an inch of your life. It was infuriating, maddening, and utterly, completely arousing. His little warrior woman, his stubborn mate, refusing to yield even as he conquered your body inch by inch.

"What am I talking about?" Remmick growled, voice dripping with mocking laughter. "I am talking about the fact that you are MINE. That you were born to be mine, destined to be my mate from the moment of your birth. And I will have you, one way or another."

His thrusts turned brutal, punishing, each snap of his hips forcing desperate, broken cries from your throat. Remmick drank in the sound, let it fuel the fire that consumed him, the all-encompassing need to claim you, to possess you, to make you his.

"You can't fight it, mo chroi. You can't fight the bond between us, the connection that ties your soul to mine. It's why you're so responsive to my touch, why your body sings for me and me alone. It's why you'll never be able to find satisfaction with another man."

Remmick's hand slid from your throat to your breast, squeezing the soft mound roughly, pinching the stiff peak of your nipple until you cried out. He could feel your heart racing beneath his palm, could hear the frantic gallop of it, the way it beat for him and him alone.

Remmick captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue invading, dominating, demanding your submission. He could taste your reluctance, your stubborn resistance, but also the unmistakable flavor of your desire, your need, your longing to give in to him.

He would break you, if that's what it took.

He would fuck you until you were mindless, until the only thing you could think of is his cock breaking you down.

Remmick's eyes flashed with an intensity that made you gasp, a primal, animalistic hunger that both terrified and thrilled you. He was terrifying in his intensity, his all-consuming need to possess you completely.

“You can pretend all you want, mo chroi, but your body is as honest as the day is long.”

“You were made for me, created to be my mate, and more”

"S-slow down y-nghh ahh ohh you're killing me ahh nghhh" you moan out. The thrust—his thrust. It was driving you insane. You had already—no he had already made you cum so many times. Another would break you, and you refused to be broken.

Poor you. Could hardly comprehend anything when Remmick is deep inside you.

You could never comprehend how his nails grew sharp. How his eyes was red like fire.

The slight sharpness of his teeth. You hadn't know he was the very creature you hunted and killed. He was the very creature that is currently numbing your mind and senses.

Remmick's eyes flashed an inhuman crimson as he drank in your desperate moans and pleas, your broken cries of ecstasy. The sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a chant, a dark invocation. He could feel your body starting to shudder, could sense the impending shatter of your climax.

And still, you clung to your denial, your stubborn refusal to accept what they both knew to be true.

He was killing you with pleasure, drowning you in sensation, and still you resisted. It was maddening, infuriating, and utterly, completely arousing. This indomitable spirit, this fierce, unbreakable will—it was what he loved about you, what made you the perfect mate for a monster like him.

Remmick's pace turned relentless, merciless, each thrust striking deep and hard and fast, pounding into you so fiercely that the bed frame shuddered with each impact. He could feel you tightening, your velvet walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock, trying to hold back the tidal wave of rapture that threatened to sweep you away.

"No more," he growled, voice rough and ragged and dripping with dark promise. "No more fighting, no more resisting. You will come for me. You will scream my name and shatter in my arms, and you will know, once and for all, who you belong to."

Remmick's hand slid from your breast to your sex, fingers finding your swollen, throbbing clit and rubbing hard, fast, demanding circles over the sensitive bud. He could feel the slick, scorching heat of your arousal flooding over his fingers, could hear the wet, obscene sound of your body welcoming his touch.

"Come for me," he commanded, eyes blazing.

"S-stop" you squealed. Your legs twitching as your body registered the upcoming mind recking climax.

"G-gonna cum I'm gonna cum" you squealed a sob trying to push him back. Oh fuck.

Remmick snarled, a feral, primal sound that rumbled through his chest and shook the very foundation of the room. You were fighting him still, even as your body betrayed you, even as the coil of pleasure inside you wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Stop fighting me," he growled, capturing your wrists and pinning them above your head, his grip unbreakable, unyielding. "Stop resisting what we both know is inevitable."

He could feel your legs beginning to tremble, your belly fluttering wildly as you teetered on the precipice of a shattering climax. The knowledge that he was the one to bring you to this point, that he alone had the power to grant you this ultimate pleasure, only fueled his own dark satisfaction.

"You will come for me," Remmick commanded, voice raw and rough with lust.

"You will scream my name and shatter in my arms, and you will know, once and for all that you belong to me."

He punctuated his declaration with a brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, stimulating your throbbing clit and forcing a ragged scream from your throat. Remmick swallowed the sound greedily, swallowing your pleasure, your resistance, your very breath.

Your cunt clenched down hard, gripping him like a velvet vise as your climax crashed over you. Remmick could feel the scorching heat of your orgasm pulsing around his pistoning cock, could hear the desperate, broken sobs of his name as you came undone.

It was glorious, it was triumphant, it was everything he had ever wanted and more.

Remmick thrust into you wildly, fucking you through your mind-shattering climax, extending your pleasure until you were limp and boneless and begging for mercy.

He would not give you mercy. He would give you only ecstasy, only bliss, only the dark rapture of belonging completely to him.

Remmick threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut as his own climax roared through him, his seed erupting from his cock in thick, scorching spurts.

He would flood your womb with his essence, would mark your very soul as his property.

And then, finally, you would know the truth of the bond, the depth of your destiny as his mate.

"REMMICK" you cried out loudly. Your legs wrapping around his waist since your wrist were being held hostage by him. Tears sliding down the sides of your beautiful face as another orgasm hit you in a sob

Remmick roared in triumph as he felt your legs wrap around his waist, your nails digging into his palms as another devastating orgasm ripped through you. The sound of his name, screamed in ecstasy, echoed off the walls and shattered the last of his control.

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside your spasming cunt, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he emptied himself into you. Remmick's hot seed gushed forth in thick, scorching spurts, flooding your womb.

"Mine," he growled, voice raw and ragged with the force of his release. "You are mine. My mate, my other half, my destiny. And I will never let you go."

Remmick's eyes blazed an inhuman crimson as he stared down at you, watching as tears of pleasure and overwhelmed emotion streamed down your beautiful face. Your beautiful eyes, when they met his, shone with a new light, a new understanding. The understanding of the bond you both shared, the destiny that had brought them together. He leaned down to capture your lips.

You moaned into the kiss. Your body shaking in his. Your mind airy and you hadn't got a chance to register the inhuman red eyes of his.

Remmick's lips curled into a dark, possessive smile against you as you moaned into the kiss, your body trembling and quaking with the aftershocks of your earth-shattering orgasms. He could feel every contour of your lush curves pressed against him, your breasts heaving with each shuddering breath.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering into mouth, claiming every inch of you as his own. Remmick's hands roamed greedily over your body, worshipping the soft swell of your hips, the toned muscle of your thighs, before settling possessively on the round globes of your ass.

In the haze of your pleasure and exhaustion, you hadn’t seemed not to notice the inhuman red glow of his eyes, the sharp gleam of his smile, the way his nails had elongated into razor-sharp claws. But Remmick knew you would learn, in time. Knew you would come to see him as he truly was - a creature of the night, a vampire, the very thing you had sworn to hunt and destroy.

But that was for another time. For now, he would hold her close, would keep you safe and sated and thoroughly satisfied. He woula give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, would show you what it meant to be truly, completely, utterly his.

Remmick broke the kiss to trail his lips down the slender column of your throat, feeling the frantic pulse fluttering just beneath your soft skin. He could hear the blood singing in her veins, could smell the delicious substance.

You were pliant to the pleasure. But your breath hitched when you felt his lips kissing down your throat. Your body unconsciously arching to him.

You were gently fighting sleep.

Remmick's lips curved into a wicked, satisfied smirk as he felt your body arching instinctively into your touch, your breath hitching in a way that sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through his veins.

You was his now, utterly and completely, your pleasure and your pain inextricably bound to his own. And he would spend an eternity making you feel both.

He nuzzled into the warm, fragrant skin of your throat, breathing in the intoxicating scent of their coupling, the musky aroma of their shared climax. Remmick's tongue flicked out to taste you, to lap at the sweat-slicked skin, feeling you shiver at the deliberate teasing gesture.

Remmick could sense your gentle struggle towards sleep, your exhausted mind and body craving the respite only unconsciousness could provide. But he was not done with you, not nearly. He needed you awake, needed you to know, needed you to remember.

"No, mo chroi," he murmured, voice a low, hypnotic rumble against your skin. "You will not slip away from me so easily. Not now, not ever again. You are mine now, and I will have you conscious and aware of every moment of our joining."

Remmick's hand slid from your ass to her hip, squeezing the supple flesh possessively before drifting lower, over the curve of your thigh, the back of your knee, to wrap around your calf. In one smooth, powerful motion, he flipped their positions, rolling so that you were splayed beneath him, pinned by his much larger frame.

Looming over you, Remmick's eyes blazed with a hunger that made your breath catch in your throat, your eyes widening with a mix of fear and exhilaration. You could feel him, hard and ready, nestled between your thighs, a silent promise of the pleasure and pain to come.

Remmick's lips curled into a dark, wicked grin, revealing the glint of sharp fangs that had until now remained hidden. He leaned down, nose brushing against the racing down, nose brushing against the racing pulse in your neck

"R-Remmick—" you stuttered out "y—you can't I-I'm sleepy" you squealed out as you felt his hard fat cock grind into you.

Remmick's eyes flashed dangerously at your stuttered protest, his grin widening to reveal the glint of sharp fangs that had until now remained hidden. He could feel your heart racing beneath his lips, could hear the exhaustion and trepidation in your voice. But he could also hear the underlying current of desire, the way your body responded eagerly to his touch despite your words of objection.

"Shhh, mo chroi," Remmick murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Sleep will come soon enough. But not yet. Not until you have felt the fullness of our bond, until you have screamed my name until it is the only word you know."

He punctuated his words by grinding his hips forward, his hard, thick cock sliding between your slick folds, teasing your sensitive flesh with the promise of another devastating climax. Remmick's hand slid from your calf to your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin, holding you open, exposing your most intimate places to his hungry gaze.

"You cannot deny our connection," he growled, voice rough with lust and dark promise. "Not when your body sings for me, not when your blood calls out to mine, begging to be claimed, to be one with me for all eternity."

Remmick's lips brushed against your racing pulse, his breath hot and searing against your skin. You could feel the sharp points of his fangs, the way they hovered just above your throat, threatening to pierce, to taste, to take. The knowledge sent a thrill of fear and exhilaration straight to your core.

"I will fuck you until you forget your own name, until the only word you remember is mine. I will fill you again and again, until my seed is dripping down your thighs, until every cell in your body remembers who you belong to."

“I am a creature of the night, mo chroi," Remmick whispered, voice a dark caress against her skin. "A vampire, the very thing you have sworn to destroy. But I am also your destiny, your fate, the other half of your eternal soul. And I will have you, now and forever."

With that declaration, Remmick's head dipped, and his fangs sank deep and hard and fast into the tender flesh of your throat. He groaned at the first taste of your blood, the ancient, intoxicating flavor exploding on his tongue, setting his very being alight with primal hunger.

"You're a WHAT?—" you gasp out as you got a good look of his fangs. You went to move back but you were blocked by the mattress.

Under him. A moan left your mouth as his fangs pierced your skin.

It hurt it hurt it hurt.

But you were getting wetter.

"Get off get off me—St. Clair get off" you squealed hitting his back—your toes curling as he drunk and bit you.

Remmick growled around the mouthful of your blood, the vibrations of his hunger and lust rumbling through his chest. The taste of you, the intoxicating flavor of your rare, potent blood, only heightened his desire, his need to claim you, to bind you to him for all eternity. He could feel you squirming beneath him, could hear your desperate cries and pleas, but he would not relinquish his hold, his claim.

"No," he snarled, finally pulling back to reveal his blood-stained lips curled into a feral grin. Remmick's eyes blazed an inhuman crimson, his gaze locked onto your face, watching as the first shock and realization of his true nature registered. The fear and revulsion in your eyes only spurred him on, only made him want to conquer you, to make you his.

“You cannot deny our bond," Remmick said, voice rough and dripping with dark promise. "You cannot run from our destiny. I am your future, your eternity, your everything. And I will never let you go."

To punctuate his declaration, Remmick thrust his hips forward, his hard, thick cock sinking deep and hard into your dripping core. A guttural groan tore from his throat at the exquisite feeling of you, your tight, scorching heat gripping him like a velvet vise. He could feel you squirming, could hear your cries, but he would drown out your objections with pleasure, with rapture, with the ecstasy only he could give you.

"Fight me all you want, mo chroi," Remmick growled, setting a brutal pace as he fucked into you, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. "It only makes me want to conquer you more, to claim you more thoroughly, to make you understand that you are MINE."

Remmick's hand slid up from your hip to your breast, fingers sinking into the soft, pliant flesh, squeezing, kneading, teasing your nipple to a stiff peak. He leaned down to capture your lips in a searing, dominating kiss, pouring all his hunger, all his lust, all his dark desire into the clash of your mouths. Remmick's hips never faltered, his thrust.

The pleasure was unmatched. So good you felt like breathing was no longer and option. So good your limbs could barely move. Your hot wet cunt took his cock deep sucking him in.

Wetting it like an ocean.

"R-Remmick ugh nghh ahh ohh y-you're so deep inside ngh— t-too much ooooohh ngh" you moaned out loosing your mind.

"Y-you're a nghh y-you're a vampire? Nghh ahh y-you're doing this on purpose?—St. Clair you'll be next I-I swear ngh ah ughh mmmhh" you were loosing. Loosing the battle of holding on to your mind. Feeling your eyes beginning to roll into your head.

Remmick's eyes flashed with dark triumph as he felt your body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, your mind fracturing under the onslaught of sensation. Your cries and moans, once objection and protest, now bordered on desperate pleas for more, for harder, for eternity. He could feel your cunt gripping him like a silken vise, hot and tight and impossibly wet, as if your very core was trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you for all time.

"Yes," Remmick growled, voice raw and rough with lust. "I am a vampire. And you are the other half of my eternal soul. You will be mine, now and forever, whether you accept it or not."

He punctuated his declaration with a brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours once again. Remmick's hand slid from your breast to your throat, fingers wrapping around the slender column, squeezing lightly, possessively.

"You cannot threaten what you know in your heart to be true," he said, voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "That you belong to me, that you are my destiny, my everything. And soon, very soon, you will embrace your place at my side for all of eternity."

Remmick could feel your pulse pounding wildly beneath his fingers, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as he fucked into you relentlessly, his cock splitting you open, claiming you, conquering you. He knew you were close to the edge, teetering on the precipice of a climax that would shatter your very soul.

“Come for me, mo chroi," Remmick commanded, voice a dark, seductive growl.

"Shatter in my arms, scream my name until it is the only word you know. Give yourself to me completely, and I will give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams."

*Remmick's eyes blazed with a hunger that promised to devour you, to consume you, to remake her in his.

You squeaked out. Your cunt clenching on him as you sobbed his name "remmickkk-ahh nghh remmick i—I’m cumming nghh ahh oh Remmick" you moaned for him.

"W-wait until I—nngh g-gonna get you back for tricking me— nghh ohh"

Remmick threw his head back with a roar of dark triumph as he felt your cunt clench and flutter wildly around his pistoning cock, your screams of ecstasy and rage music to his ears. He could feel you teetering on the very brink of a climax that would shatter you to your core, could sense the way you mindraced and whirled in futile protest of the inescapable bond that tied them.

"Yes!" Remmick snarled, eyes blazing with inhuman hunger as he fucked into you harder, faster, spurred on by your desperate, ragged moans. "Come for me, my love. Shatter in my arms and scream my name until the heavens themselves shake with the force of your surrender."

As the first waves of your climax crashed over you, your eyes widened as he begin fucking harder and you knew you were dead.

"Nonono s-stop I nghh-oh-" your soft plush lips parted and your eyes nearly rolled back as you screamed his name. And immediately passing out against him.

Remmick's lips curled into a feral, triumphant grin as he witnessed the exquisite moment of your surrender, your eyes rolling back, your plush lips parted in a silent scream of his name. He could feel your cunt clenching and fluttering wildly around his pistoning cock, gripping him like a velvet vise as you shattered in his arms.

With a roar of dark ecstasy, Remmick slammed his hips forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt inside your spasming core. His cock jerked and pulsed as he emptied himself into you, flooding your womb with his scorching seed. Marking you, claiming you, binding you to him for all eternity.

Remmick's arms wrapped around your limp, trembling form as you passed out against him, cradling you close, holding you possessively against his chest. He could feel your heart racing, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps as you struggled to regain some measure of control over your fractured mind and body.

He knew you had not truly accepted your fate, knew that you would resist and fight against the inexorable pull that drew them together. But he also knew that you could not deny the way your body sang for him, the way your blood called out to his own, begging to be one with him.

Remmick's lips brushed against your forehead as he held you, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur against your skin. "Sleep now, mo chroi," he whispered. "Rest and regain your strength, for you will need it to face all that is to come. I will never let you go. Not in this life, or the next."

With those words, Remmick rolled to the side, cradling your limp form, his arms wrapped possessively around you. He knew the road ahead would not be easy, knew that he would have to conquer you again and again, breaking down your resistance until you accepted your place as his eternal mate and queen. But he was a patient man, and he had all the time in the world to make good on his promise.

(Updated like four times since I posted)

Honorable mention:

"I can smell him on you. You may not have fucked him, but your body remembers his touch. And that. Is. Unacceptable."

Mo chroí: Translates to “my heart” in Irish

BONUS:

I like to think that when Remmick is fucking you, and if you’re not slurring, and just plain out sounding stupid when you’re trying to speak. You haven’t been fucked enough. You should be dumb and slurring. But yk how it is.

Remmick is DEFINITELY an eater. Especially when you’re being a bad girl. Attitude the entire day? Putting yourself in harms way—and don’t even try to overwork yourself. He eats you out as punishment. Now any lady would twirl their hair at the thought of it. But with Remmick. This isn’t a game. He’ll tell you to lie down on the table (or lie you down himself) and however you position yourself, you better be comfortable because you’re not moving until you’re screaming—begging for him to stop. You see, this is your punishment. And as much as you’re enjoying it. You’re completed overstimulated.

Btw he’s the KING of after care. He loves you so much. Post orgasm and lust he frowns. Sure you look beautiful (and okay he’ll admit he’s hard seeing your adorable sleeping face and tear stained cheeks) you’re still his woman. So when you wake up—BEST believe a warm steamy bath awaits you. A comfy bed with clean sheets and breakfast/lunch. You’re his queen and honestly he’d die for you.

- this is updated!!

Holy ball sacks.

My fingers hurt😞

Anyway I just HAD TO SHARE THESE.

Also I got superrr lazy towards the end so lemme know if you spot them errors.

I was thinking of making another part. You know, reader runs from him and he chases her😜

I just LOVEE a good runningxchasing plot

ALSO—totally typed and edited this to

Anywho bye bye

ALSO. This is where I got the drawing of our manz: 🩸✍️

[taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me]

The Start

Summary: Pairing you and Bucky together on a mission is probably the worst idea Steve or Sam ever had, but it's the only way to get what they want.

》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"I would rather die than work with him."

"And I'd rather kill myself then work with her."

Steve rubbed his eyes as Sam messaged his temple. They knew from the start that this was a bad idea, but they thought they could make it work. Little did they know, this was going to be the most horrible idea they had ever had.

You and Bucky hated each other. Since the moment you met it had been nothing but loathsome jabs and sarcastic insults. You two couldn't stand each other, even just being in the same room would almost cause world war 3 to break out, so what Steve and Sam were asking you to do, was completely incomprehensible.

"This isn't up for debate." Steve said, looking up at the two of you from his seat at the head of the conference table. "You two will go on a mission together and that's final. We've finally made a breakthrough and I'm not going to let the two of you ruin it."

"Then put someone else on it." Bucky mumbled and crossed his arms, leaning further back in his chair.

"You're my best agents, I only trust you two with this mission."

"Flattery will get you no where Steve." You said, sighing. "Besides, I don't really have a problem with doing the mission, it's our covers that I have a problem with."

"I told you this would happen." Sam scoffed from the side, as Steve gave him the 'not now' look in return.

This conference was supposed to be a thirty minute meeting briefing you and Bucky about the mission and your cover identities, but it had been almost two hours and zero progress was made. And everytime the two captain's thought any progress was made, either you or Bucky would say something to each other, causing a fight to break out, taking you back to step one.

"Why can't Nat do it?" You questioned, testing the star strangled man's patience.

"She's off on another mission with Barton." Samn replied in the blonde's place.

"Well then why don't either one of you come with me?" You pressed further.

"We're public figures, it's gonna cause a problem." Sam answered once again, patience hanging from a thread.

"I'm not that bad of a partner you know sweetheart." Bucky chimed in. He loved riling you up, seeing you get so annoyed at him, it was probably his favorite thing to witness in the world. Next only to seeing you red with anger that he was the source of.

"Is that so?" You rebutted. "I'm sure the agent with a broken arm would beg to differ."

"It was his fault, I told him to stay back, but he just wouldn't listen. You, on the other hand will be fine, as long as you listen to me." Bucky replied.

"Who died and made you king?" You huffed and sat up straight, eyebrows furrowed, lips turned into a scowl, wanting to do nothing but to break Bucky's face.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Spell it put for me Barnes."

"I'm more experienced than you, it only makes sense that I take the lead." Bucky answered, leaning further back with his arms still folded, a cocky expression taking over his face.

"I'd have more experience too if I was born the the 1800s grandpa." You quipped, making Sam snort out a laugh, watching the second unfold with amusement. Before either one of you could take things any further, Steve interrupted.

"Look, this mission is going to happen, weather you like it or not. It's not everyday we discover a hydra trafficking ring and it's definitely not everyday we find ways to infiltrate it. So suck it up and do the mission."

"But-" Bucky started but was instantly cut off by a frustrated Steve.

"That's an order." He slammed his hands on the table and stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'm sick of your crap, Sam's gonna brief you further."

He walked out of the room, shaking his head and sighing out loud. You crossed your arms, sitting in the same stance as Bucky as Sam whistled under his breath.

"Never thought I'd see him break, but here we are. Congratulations, you've just accomplished the impossible." He pulled the chair Steve was sitting on closer and sat down to start briefing the two of you.

"After months of tracking we have finally found out the location of where the hydra's biggest business deal will go down. To be honest, I expected it to be some warehouse in a remote location, but turns out it's in Paris. There's going to be a big party where all the party headliners are going to get together and sign off on about a hundred people's life. Your job is to go to the party as Mr. and Mrs. Smith, get cozy with the folks and then take them out, simple as that."

"Yeah, one more thing." You started, leaning forward with your elbows on the conference table. "Aren't they going to recognize him? I mean" You trailed off, but it was quiet clear what you were insinuating. No one was going to believe that the Winter Soilder was married let alone some Mr. Smith.

There was an immediate shift in Bucky, his shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched further, if it was even possible and he let out and audible scoff.

"That's taken care of as well." Sam replied, noticing the shift instantly. "The people there never mixed with Bucky's side of Hydra. They're all just rich Russian businessmen Hydra kept around for money. They know nothing about anything that goes on."

"Don't worry doll, I'm not going to put you in any danger." Bucky finally spoke up, voice gruff, eyes shifting towards you with his arms still folded. "You've got nothing to be scared about."

"I'm not scared shithead." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "The only thing I'm worried about is you going all robocop leading to me handle everything myself."

"Oh please." It was Bucky's turn to roll his eyes now. "As if you're all perfect."

"Shove it where the sun don't shine Barnes."

"You know what-"

"Okay enough." Sam butted in, finally having had enough. "You two can rip each others head out on your own time, but right now I need you both to listen the fuck up. Two weeks, that's all we're asking of you. Keep your differences aside for two god forsaken weeks and get through this alive. You'll never have to see each others faces after the okay?"

"Fine." Your grumbled, leaning into your chair with arms folded, exasperation evident on your face.

"Whatever." Bucky mumbled, mimicking your stace. You two might have to act civil towards each other for the next two weeks, but that dosen't mean you had to now.

"Bitch." Bucky said under his breath but loud enough for you to hear, knowing it'll get a rise out of you. For Sam's sake you would have left it alone, but you weren't going to let him have the last word.

"Dickhead."

[partynextstarry]

backstage loving— n.jm drabble

⋆ tags: ⊹₊ ⋆ smut, backstage quickie, rough sex, unprotected (wrap it before u tap it!), biting & marking, light breeding kink, hair pulling, dom!jaemin, stress relief, tension-fueled, possessive energy, messy & desperate, idol!jaemin, established relationship

⊹₊ ⋆ pairing: idol!jaemin x reader

⊹₊ ⋆ synopsis: he’s been quiet all day, jaw tight and eyes stormy. the pressure, the cameras, the chaos backstage—it’s all too much. so when he pulls you into a storage room, locking the door behind you, you don’t ask questions. you just let him take what he needs.

🎧: body- summer walker

he didn’t say much when he grabbed your wrist—just shot you a look. one of those low-lidded, jaw-clenched, ‘don’t ask’ kinds of looks that made your stomach twist. his hand was warm, a little clammy, as it wrapped around yours and led you quickly through the winding backstage corridors. dancers passed, staff shouted in passing, but none of it reached you. not really. not when his grip tightened every few steps like he was trying to hold himself back.

when he finally shoved open the supply room door and pulled you in, he didn’t pounce. not right away. he just stood there with his back to you, breathing hard. tension poured off him in waves, visible in the way his shoulders rose and fell, in the way his hand dragged down his face like he couldn’t decide whether to scream or kiss you.

“everything alright?” you asked quietly, even though you already knew the answer.

his head dropped. then he turned, eyes sweeping over you like it physically hurt him to wait. “no,” he said, voice hoarse. “but it will be.”

you opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but he was already on you—walking forward until your back hit the door, his hands planted on either side of your head.

“you always calm me down,” he breathed, nose brushing yours. “you don’t even try. just… need to feel you right now.”

his voice cracked a little on “need,” and that’s when it clicked—this wasn’t just stress. it was desperation.

he didn’t wait for an answer.

his mouth was on yours before you could speak, all tongue and teeth, like he’d been starving for days. your gasp got swallowed by the kiss, hands flying to his shoulders as he pressed you harder into the door—like he needed you caged in, needed you still so he wouldn’t fall apart.

“mine,” he growled against your lips, one hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back. “don’t care who’s outside. they can wait.”

you barely had time to breathe before his mouth moved to your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper. he groaned at the sound, hips grinding into yours like he couldn’t help it. you could feel how hard he was already, pressed tight against your core through too many layers.

“you feel that?” he muttered, teeth grazing the spot he’d just marked. “been hard for hours. all i could think about was this. you.”

his fingers found the waistband of your pants, tugging with impatience, eyes narrowing when they didn’t come off fast enough.

“off,” he snapped, backing up just enough to strip you himself when your hands fumbled. “now. don’t make me ask again.”

his tone sent heat straight to your stomach, thighs clenching without you meaning to. he noticed. of course he noticed.

“fuck—so needy,” he hissed, palming between your legs once your pants hit the floor. “already wet? did you know i was gonna fuck you like this?”

you didn’t get the chance to answer. he leaned in fast, sinking his teeth into the side of your neck—not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp and arch against him. he held the bite, groaning as your hands grabbed at his shirt, your hips grinding into his thigh for friction.

he pulled back slowly, tongue dragging over the spot like an apology. but then his mouth found your collarbone, and he bit again—harder.

“gonna mark you everywhere,” he rasped, lips dragging across your skin like he couldn’t stop. “wanna see them after. want you sore when you walk out of here.”

your head lolled back against the door with a soft whimper, thighs already shaking, but he wasn’t done.

he kissed down your chest, biting just above the swell of your breast, then lower, hand curling under your thigh to hitch your leg around his waist.

“jaemin—there’s people—” your voice trembled as you tried to ground yourself, your back still pinned to the door, nails digging into his biceps.

he yanked your hair, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your head tilt up, exposing your throat to him again. his lips brushed the skin right below your jaw, voice dark and unforgiving.

“i don’t care,” he growled, biting down until you gasped. “those fuckers deserve to be disturbed.”

you felt his grip tighten on your thigh, the edge of the utility shelf digging into your back as he shoved you higher. his hips rolled into yours, slow but deliberate, and the friction made your breath hitch.

“you know how much shit i’ve had on my plate this week?” he spat, voice tight and full of grit. “the meetings, the cameras, the rehearsals—i’m always on. always holding it together.”

his mouth ghosted over your lips, and he sighed, like letting himself break down right here was the only peace he could get.

“never enough time for myself,” he muttered. “except when i’m inside you.”

he was already buried inside you, hips grinding deep as he pressed your back into the wall, making you take every inch. the room was hot, his breath hotter against your skin as he rutted into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“fuck—you feel that?” he grunted, one hand gripping your thigh tighter, the other sliding down to your stomach. he pressed there, just above where he was stretching you open. “right there. that’s how deep i am.”

you whined, breath catching, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“gonna fill you up, baby,” he muttered, thrusts getting rougher now, desperate. “just like this—stuff you so full you leak me for hours.”

his voice dropped lower, almost a growl.

“you’ll still feel me when you walk out of here. still dripping,” he bit at your jaw, “and you’ll know exactly who did that to you.”

“gonna walk around here left pregnant with my baby, hm?” he whispered, breath ragged as he slammed into you again, like the idea of it was driving him insane. “let them all see you glowing—stuffed full and ruined just for me.”

you gasped, barely able to respond, your body trembling under the weight of him, under the filth in his voice. he kissed you then—hard, messy, like he couldn’t hold back any longer—then dragged his lips down to your throat, biting and sucking until he’d marked you up again.

“you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he growled against your skin. “being mine like that. completely. no hiding it anymore.”

his pace got sloppier, more desperate, every thrust laced with the need to claim, to possess—to leave a part of himself inside you that no one else could ever touch.

he whispered, his voice rough but softer now. “didn’t mean to… i just couldn’t stop.”

you couldn’t help but smile faintly, even though your body was sore, still buzzing from the intensity. “i’m okay,” you mumbled, your fingers trailing down his arm, the comfort of his skin soothing you.

he chuckled, though it was tired, his lips brushing your temple. “yeah? you sure?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, a gentle exhale slipping from his lips. “i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

you nodded, your hands reaching up to gently tug at his hair, calming him down in the way only you knew how. “just tired,” you muttered, your eyes fluttering closed, your body aching but satisfied.

he pulled you closer, your head resting on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you both. “i got you,” he whispered, his voice soft and reassuring, like he was still holding you together, even in this quiet moment. “rest now. you’re safe with me.”

you let yourself drift, the weight of his presence making you feel warm and cared for, like the world outside didn’t matter. all that mattered was this moment, with him.

but you heard a voice outside the dressing supply room. “na jaemin! manager needs you on stage now, what are you doing??!”

jaemin stiffened, his hand instantly dropping from your body as he looked toward the door, eyes wide for a split second before he groaned, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “fuck,” he muttered, “perfect timing.”

he pushed himself off you reluctantly, rolling his shoulders as he stood up, adjusting his clothes in a rushed, almost irritated manner. you sat up, watching him, still reeling from the aftermath of what had just happened. his usual cocky energy had dropped a few levels, replaced by that almost too-human exhaustion, his sharp features softened for once.

“you’re lucky,” he grinned, though it wasn’t quite the same. “you don’t know how badly i wanted to finish what we started,” he said, voice low, a little teasing, despite the situation. he leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before grabbing his jacket. “but duty calls. i’ll make it up to you later.”

thanks for all the likes on my past 2 posts!!

[mia-can-yap-too]

What?:- Sukuna is immortal. You keep being reincarnated. Only one of you remembers. It doesn't stop him from finding you in all your lifetimes.

Warnings:- hurt n comfort, sfw, yearning, mentions of death, not exactly historically accurate, sukuna commits arson in every lifetime too

Heian Era (Japan, 900s)

Sukuna doesn't remember how he turned into a monster. He doesn't remember when people started calling him a cursed being. A demon, a God. Unnatural and unwanted. He can not remember if he was ever looked at with gentleness, only fear and hatred. Well, not before you at least.

You were a shrine maiden, bound to the Gods with silk and silence. Your temple sat nestled in the mountains, shrouded in cherry blossoms and untouched by war.

He remembers the day he arrived.

The land trembled beneath his steps. The birds stopped singing. Priests fell to their knees, and villagers hid.

You were told to hide, too. You're not sure why, but you watched him from the gardens, your eyes meeting his through fallen cherry blossoms.

"Are you not afraid of me?" he had asked.

"Why should I be?" you had answered.

He had laughed for what he now considers the first time in his life. It was as if it was torn out of him. Sudden and unexpected. It was a terrible, beautiful sound.

He hadn't taken long to return, something he couldn't quite name pulling him back.

The other maidens ran. Yet again, you stayed.

He sat with you beneath the moon, and for the first time, he talked about things beyond killing.

He told you about the loneliness. About the weight of time. He told you about a childhood he doesn't remember now.

And you listened. You offered tea. You told him about your own experiences. About your fear of dying. You never told him to leave.

But peace isn't meant for monsters.

The villagers had had enough of him, they were tired of cowering in fear. The priests called for an exorcism, and the maidens told them about his fondness for you.

And so, you were offered as a sacrifice. They ignored your screams as they dragged you to the alter. They broke your bones to keep you from moving.

Sukuna arrived as wrath incarnate. He tore through them with bloodied hands and shoved what it truly meant to be a monster. But it didn't matter. He was too late.

He held your broken body close and used his sleeves to wipe the blood from your mouth, even though it only smeared it further.

You had smiled at him then. Sukuna would never find anything that came close to it.

He tried asking you to hold on for a little longer.

"As long as I'm in your arms, what do I have to fear?"

Your voice trembled like the fallen cherry blossoms in the wind.

Then, you died.

Ancient Greece (Athens, 400 BCE)

You were the daughter of an Athenian philosopher. Sharp, eloquent, always questioning. You didn't fear the gods. You debated them. You would call Olympus flawed, and the Fates overrated.

Then he came.

They said he was a child of Ares, a savage hero. They said he couldn't bleed. That, once, he fought 100 men and walked away laughing.

It was your curiosity that made you ask him, "Do you like being mythologized?"

He had smirked then. "Would you rather know the truth?"

You fell in love with him slowly. You were drawn to his silence, drawn to the way he would never touch the food at feasts and the way he never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.

He didn't pray. He didn't kneel. But if you begged hard enough, he would tell you about other empires, about old temples and cherry blossom trees. Whenever you asked how he knew, he would stay silent.

In the moments between waking and sleep, he would hold you as if you would vanish if his grip was too loose, as if you would slip between his fingers like fine sand.

You were poisoned by a jealous student of your father, one who feared your brilliance, your ambition and your love for that bastard.

Once again, you collapsed in his arms. Only in your dying moments did you remember what was before.

He kissed you softly before he laid you down in your final resting place.

Athens burned that night. He made sure no flame touched you.

Later, stories spread that your demise was inevitable, caused by your defiance to faith.

The Renaissance (Florence, 1500s)

In Florence, beauty ruled, and only the bold were remembered.

You were born into a family of artisans. Clever with a brush, invisible to the elite.

He found you in the shadows of a chapel, watched the miniscule tremble of your hands as you painted saints.

He bought all your paintings. He never spoke your name.

He offered you a commission. Endless portraits. Of yourself.

You finally asked his name.

"Sukuna," he whispered, as if it were a secret.

"Have we met before?"

He gave a rare smile. "Yes."

He asked you to teach him art.

You never exactly believed in fate, but as your hands guided his, a sense of deja vu arose. It felt as if this was how it was always meant to be, your hands slotted in his.

You painted him just once, the only time he allowed it. You called the piece 'Remembrance'.

You burned in a fire this time. An accident had set your studio ablaze.

Sukuna was too late. He always was.

He ripped through the flames and pulled you from the wreckage, but your lungs had already blackened.

Florence never saw him again. But left in a burnt chapel was a sculpture of a woman. She had ash in her hair, and her eyes were closed peacefully with a soft smile. The plaque beneath read 'My Soul, Repeating.'

The artist is still unknown.

Modern day (Tokyo, Present)

You're a university student. Studio arts major, to be specific. You're quiet, skilled, observant, and known for painting things you've never seen. Temples that no longer exist, battles no history book mentions, and a man with red eyes.

Your professors say you have an 'ancient eye'. You laugh it off. Though sometimes, you cry in your sleep.

You meet him outside a museum. He stands still in front of your painting. 'Repetition' it is called.

In it, a woman bleed in the arms of a weeping man.

You stop and admire him for a moment before you actually approach.

"Do you like it?"

He turns, his all too familiar eyes meet yours. Your heart stops.

You don't know him. But your soul does.

His voice is quiet. "I've seen this before."

You sit with him on a bench outside. You ask him for his name.

He says it's Sukuna. You say yours.

You don't ask how he knows your favorite tea. Or why his hand slightly shakes when you brush his sleeves.

This time, you don't die. This time, he marries you.

He waited centuries to hold you close. He swears he will never let go.

—

a/n:- 400! wow cant believe it, honestly. i dont usually write this typa stuff, but with the power of the AOT soundtrack and determination, i pulled through. if this flops guess whos dying next

m.list

[theartofwoompwoomps]

Oh scrap

Soundwave x human reader

Summary: the decepticons start talking about who’s the hottest one, and agree that an alien could break the tie (aka reader) and without a hesitation they say soundwave, not knowing this guy can hear everything lol

Pt.1. Pt.2. Pt.3 ———————————————————————

It had been just a regular day on the nemesis. Cleaning Shockwaves and Knockouts tools, updating some data pads, reporting to Megatron, and hanging out with the minicons.

You started this routine since the day they brought you here. 

Apparently Megatron had heard that the autobots had more moral thanks to the human habitants. Thus he decided to do the same.

And that’s basically how you ended up there. 

Thankfully, you got along with a lot of decepticons, especially those in the higher ranks. Mainly since you were a great escape from gruesome responsibilities of the war. that’s why it’s not surprising that you’ve experienced many interesting conversations with your giant comrades.

Especially after explaining common human entertainment would often lead to a lot of chaos. 

Like today, some cons had started discussing about human attraction standards. 

They found it strange how inconsistent the standards were all over the world. 

Yet somehow this conversation shifted into who was the most attractive decepticon. 

It went from being a simple small conversation to a whole blow out debate. You hadn’t even realized how out of control the whole thing had gotten.

At some point knockout had joined claiming that he was the most eye captivating cybertronian even to the humans. But of course, the lanky drama queen known as Starscream was not letting him have all the glory.

All their squabbling was really starting to get on your nerves. Especially since all the commotion kept shaking the platform you were currently resting on.

And clearly you weren’t the only one annoyed with their antics, since Megatron decided to see what all the ruckus was about. 

Though he clearly wasn’t expecting to have his second in command and the medic start stating the reasons why they were more attractive than the other, then forgetting he was even their in the first place and currently occupy themselves in a fully out cat fight. 

He was honestly tired of this whole situation. The way it had escalated was too far out of control and he needed to end this at once. 

Without hesitation he vented a bit before speaking to make sure to convey his anger.

“enough with this nonsense.” 

Oh scarp, they forgot he was there.

“If you truly want to know who’s the most attractive, why don’t you just ask the human in question?” 

Now all attention was on you.

Before you could even plan an escape Megatron was quick to reach his servers towards you. And Lifted you up to where everyone could see and hear you.

“So tell us, as the only human aboard our ship,” he pulls you closer, “who is the most attractive decepticon?”

Honestly it felt like he was taunting you. Maybe the whole thing was a trap. Did he want you to say his name, somebody else, or no one at all? 

I mean, you clearly couldn’t choose any without causing a ruckus.

But before you could stop your mouth and think your answer through, your default brain was let loose.

“Well there’s only one correct answer to that,”

All of them quietly waiting in anticipation for your response.

“It’s obviously Soundwave, have you even seen the guy? He definitely the hottest.”

What?— the whole place blew up with different reactions. 

Megatron was partially amused but also partially uncomfortable with your response towards his most loyal companion.

Knockout feels completely cheated off and starts claiming the whole thing was rigged. And you don’t even have to look at Starscream to hear his complaints and tantrum saying how soundwave doesn’t even have a sexy voice.

And at that you started defending why you had chosen your crush without letting on that he was your crush and still admiring all his qualities.

But unbeknownst to you, the calm alien was having a hard time keeping his composure. 

He could hear everyone’s thoughts and emotions about the whole ordeal. And even though he couldn’t feel your emotions the same way with cybertronians. 

Your emotions were very clear to him. Big enough for him to understand how you felt about him.

Honestly he was flattered at how he could feel you defending your choice and the whole things was starting to fluster him when you started praising his physique and voice.

Even his own cassettes were starting to wonder what was making their boss aka dad so stiff. 

———————————————————————

Masterlist

Next>>>>

[hitlikehammers]

🍪That One Time Wayne Munson Got Gifted Some Homemade Cookies (by the man who’s also His Boy), Some Time to Listen to His Love-Drunk Nephew💍, and Some Opportunities to Answer Questions He Already Knows the Answers To (plus a bonus chance to celebrate Elizabeth Munson—God rest her soul) but Still Got NO COFFEE 🫠

☕️OR: 3/5 times Steve/Eddie talk to anyone but each other about their feelings (for each other), +1 (other time they turn around and talk to one another)

“Stevie made those.”

Wayne turns when he hears his nephew’s voice, the fancy Tupperware still in his hand.

“Figured as much,” Wayne shakes the box; “sure as hell wasn’t you.”

He expects Eddie to squawk, all self-righteous with not half-a-foot to shake on; but he hears Eddie come in just from his footsteps; how he leans against the doorway.

Wayne thinks Eddie’s comfortable way of being in this space is how this little house of theirs has been a place he’s been able to really think of as a home.

“I mean, he made me a batch, and you a batch,” Eddie leans his whole body toward where Wayne’s holding the Hershey-capped cookies: “those are all yours.”

Wayne looks down at the container in his hands, feels something complicated in his throat he don’t have a name for, but is a feeling he is finding himself coming close with more and more these days.

“He gonna be around later?” Wayne asks, gruffer than he means, or expects: but should have done.

Pesky thing in his throat, and all.

“If he gets off work at a decent time,” Eddie answers with a dramatic sigh before his face screws up in distaste as he adds; “inventory.”

Wayne hopes it goes quick; hopes everybody was kind and did rewind or…whatever inventory entails at a video store. He wants very much to thank the boy for his treats—and them being exclusively left for him—Eddie takes the Hershey-tops and leaves the cookie, always has. Grinds Wayne’s gears somethin’ awful.

And Wayne wouldn’t have pegged Harrington as a thoughtful boy, save maybe about the balance of his bank account, if he’d been asked to lodge an opinion on the kid sight-unseen; he admittedly hadn’t heard the name among those he sometimes caught of his Ed complaining about whatever hubbub had taken over the ‘preps and jocks’ in ‘the fiefdom of Hawkins High’.

To his shame as a good supportive listener, but the necessity of his sanity, Wayne mostly tuned out what came after those sorts of words when his nephew went off on one of his…opining spells.

Harrington was only a bit player, though, that Wayne was fairly sure of, simply because he only noticed that name on behalf of his daddy, out of all the names he took little to no notice of at all. And Wayne didn’t notice all that much.

He always perked up for it, and the overarching memory of whatever always followed was mild and tame in comparison to what he expected from the son and heir of that rat bastard.

Most recently, before all hell broke loose and Wayne came to know any better, Ed had been consumed with something of a conspiracy theory involving his new crop of ‘sheepies’ and his dungeon club being bamboozled by a…conniving Harrington seeking to corrupt them into, if Wayne understands correctly, the sins of having a reliable ride to the arcade, to the city for their little dragon supplies, and transportation safely home after dark in the winter.

Also being ‘normal’, which: Wayne knows his boy well enough to at least understand that is indeed an unacceptable offense.

But then all hell had broken loose, and the first time Wayne sees Steve Harrington up close for himself is at his boy’s bedside in clearly pilfered scrubs, which track with how he’s got an IV pole next to him where he sits—he was probably as much a gown-covered patient as Eddie is on the bed in front of them.

I’m sorry, are the first rough, tar-scraped words Wayne heard Harrington say, even if his eyes never leave Eddie to say them. Probably he suspects only family’s allowed in, and maybe already recognizes the sounds of the nurses, and knows that ain’t Wayne.

But those are these words Wayne hears for himself from Steve Harrington.

I’m sorry, followed close by: I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t save him, I got him here as quick as I could, I swear, I—

And that’s where Wayne had walked up and put a careful hand on this kid’s shoulder, even if he’d tended under the touch—or tried to, like his instinct was to go still but there was some deeper thing that trembled harder, unstoppable no matter how he tried—but Wayne set a hand on that shoulder, where the boy sat at his nephew’s bedside, while Wayne pointed out the important bit:

You did save ‘im, though, and Wayne had waited for the kid to look up, eyes rimmed red and expression just damn…shattered, but Wayne, as much as he’d been feeling much the same himself, he’d nodded toward the bed until the boy had followed the gaze to the very point Wayne had been trying to make, the why for how he’s only feeling shattered and nothing worse: his boy is there on that bed. His chest’s risin’ and falling. The monitor counting his heartbeats is steady.

This young man did save his boy. He tried, and he succeeded in the trying.

And that had been Wayne’s first real impression of Steve Harrington. Nothing like his daddy’s money. No nefarious plots, neither.

Hadn’t gone lost on him that nobody’d come to usher him back to wherever he’d come from with that gown and that line in his own arm, not for hours.

Wayne’s shaken free from his mulling when Eddie opens the fridge, grabs a beer—offers one to Wayne as if the man hadn’t just got up for the goddamn day and hadn’t even started his pot of coffee first.

Though, in honest fact: Eddie probably would grab a beer if he wanted one, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Crazy kid.

“He asked me to call and let him know if you want him to pick up pizza or chicken for dinner.”

It takes Wayne a second—maybe he’s the one who needs to shake off the sleep—but…nope. Nope, Eddie means Steve, there, because who else would come over with takeout, expecting the obvious that Wayne’s pretty damn sure Eddie also mentioned already:

“You just said,” Wayne starts and Eddie pops back out of the refrigerator, leans against the doors to push it closed.

“Robin said she’ll cover for him to bring it over, even if he can’t stay,” Eddie shrugs with a bright grin, and Wayne’s hit with the dregs of thinking back to that bright grin pulled tight under bandages, that spring up from a crouch to ransack the fridge stilled, battered, a question mark in the future of Wayne’s whole world—tries to shake it off before Eddie notices; “so that whatever you pick is here before you’re off.”

Wayne shouldn’t have worried about being noticed for dipping too close to the remnants of what it felt like to dance so long on the edges of grief in thinking on the hospital before—he��s teetering on the very opposite, here and now. Because Steve Harrington in theory really was the last person Wayne could imagine holding any positive feeling toward.

But as it stands: he don’t know what life looks like anymore without both his boys, safe and sound.

His eyes slide to one of those boys and notices how he’s staring off into nothing….except no. Not nothing. The counter where he’s got his hands propped now. And Wayne maybe’s only seeing from the side but…he doesn’t think he’s ever seen that kind of stare on his kid.

And his Eddie’s always been prone to just…staring off into space.

“What’s got you starin’ like that?” he asks, more suspiciously than concerned. Not least for the grin teasing the corner of Eddie’s mouth that Wayne can see.

“He gave me a ring.”

Eddie says it, voice low, never looking away from what Wayne presumes is that exact ring. He’s quietly entranced for a good near-on minute before he turns to Wayne, sobers a touch, but really only the slightest bit.

“Not like,” Eddie starts, then he pauses; bites his lips like it’s both incredibly simple and obvious and mighty complicated, all at once.

“I think he was raised too fancy not to ask you first,” Eddie lands on, spaces the words out slow; “for that.”

“Don’t need my permission,” Wayne half-grouses, more…not offended, but maybe closer to concerned—somewhere in the middle. That the boy would think to need his okay, but at the same crossing, to even second-guess he’s long since more’n had it, either way.

“He knows that,” Ed shoots back simply, definitive-like, which sets something more rustled-up than Wayne had expected it’d get back now to ease.

Before he tips Wayne’s world over in a whole other way, instead.

“He would want your blessing.”

The knowing glint in Eddie’s eyes is…Wayne’s not sure he’s had it turned back on him like that before. Knocks him a little crooked for the surprise of it before the words themselves knock him clear over—he’d never thought about being the person someone’d ask, like that.

Wouldn’t hesitate a second for Steve but…knowing the boy thinks well on you versus hearing, confident-like, that he’d seek out Wayne’s approval of the kinda feelings that have been clear from the early days and seem to grow more, and bigger, everything say, just…

Goddamn.

“But he said this was a temporary placeholder,” Eddie says it with such a smile in the words, his face all sunshine as he admires his left ring finger: always bare up to now, Wayne’s pretty sure; “I think he wants to wait until after I graduate.”

“Smart boy,” Wayne nods, gets back his footing a bit more; “gives you some extra motivation to cross the finish.”

And Eddie squawks his indignation right on schedule for it.

“Excuse you, I am doing very extremely passably in all my classes.”

“And I’m proud of ya for it,” Wayne nods, truthful as anything; “don’t mean a little extra nudge ain’t appreciated.”

That bit’s truthful too.

“Or a…colossal extra nudge,” Eddie concedes, tries to play petulant but his grin too big, too full to bite back any longer as he sighs, drapes himself a little more boneless over the precarious creak given by the kitchen chair he’s lounged in.

“He read my paper over, without bothering to tell mehe had a migraine coming on,” Eddie grouses, but he’s so goddamn fond about it through the worry; “sneaky bastard grabbed it up before I could get home to notice the signs it was imminent,” he whines a little more before gesturing out the window at the overcast sky: “not that I’d need to, with this fuckin’ weather.”

And Wayne will give Eddie that—scatterbrained and easily distracted as he’s always been? His biggest distraction is Steve. Steve’s whereabouts and safety, his well-being and caretaking—just Steve.

It’s…it’s heartwarming, Wayne can’t even think up a good way around that as the explanation that best suits.

“Stubborn,” is the explanation that Wayne vocalizes though, already figuring he’s roped into this conversation, and with an inkling where it could still turn?

He needs to save up his softest moments just in case.

“Gotta be why you’re so fond o’ each other,” Wayne hums like he’s reached some stunning realisation; “opposites attract sometimes as much as like finds like,” and Wayne always has reckoned these two maybe found the best of both in one near-world-ending go.

“Tried to tell me he just figured it wasn’t relevant,” Eddie rolls his eyes, brings it back to Steve as he usually tends to with most things, these days; “said it’s not like his eyes on my writing are worth anything anyway, because he’s, well,” and Ed straightens up there, expression hardening a little.

“He tried to call himself something offensive and also untrue, so I stopped him, but,” and Wayne knows well that argument. He’s taken to stopping it himself more’n once.

“Boy won’t accept his smarts are just as good as those rugrats you got,” Wayne says with conviction; “just look different, his do, s’all.”

Wayne doesn’t come from top-of-the-class stock, but he knows intelligence. In the field, in battle, in working hard with your hands, in honest everyday know-how. Recognizes it well in Steve, where Steve was probably only taught college meant smart, and anything other was just different, but mostly worthless.

Wayne really would enjoy a free shot at Steve’s daddy’s jaw, just once.

Cause he’d only need the once to break the sucker.

“Exactly,” Eddie sighs with an odd amount of enthusiasm, only person Wayne’s ever seen infuse a sigh with so much; “and all that, even without believing that he was willing to put himself in pain to make sure I didn’t miss a fuckin’ comma.”

Less than a minute’s-worth of quiet settles before Eddie’s back to talkin’—‘bout the same subject, of course, as per usual.

“He’s gonna help me with the van,” he announces, and that’s good to hear because that van…needs all the helping hands it can get, for as often as Eddie’s on Steve’s good graces for a ride these days.

Though Wayne don’t think Steve minds one lick.

“Next weekend, when he’s off,” Eddie’s elaborating, as if always his way, but Wayne feels…different with this. It’s as rambling as Eddie ever ends up being but, also it’s…it feels like it’s building up to something. Bolstering some other thing, though hell Wayne can suss out what. “He’s, like, really good with cars? Probably because of how much he pampers his—”

“Don’t gotta sell me on the boy, son,” Wayne finally cuts him off, “I know he’s good people,” which was a surprise he shouldn’t have made assumptions on without seeing for himself.

“And I know he’s good for you.”

And that, once he’d gotten clear of the assuming? That, Wayne had been sure on quick and with no doubts at all.

But his Ed still beams for it, red still high on his cheeks like every time he thinks of his boy is the brand new, first blush and everything.

“Yeah?” Eddie asks in that way that don’t require no answer.

But Wayne has one, for this, so he’s gonna give it anyway.

“That boy watches you like you walk on water,” Wayne scoffs, because he might’a known Eddie long enough to clock his heartsick ass from the get-go, but Steve wasn’t ever so hard to read, even at the start. By now, though?

“Looks at you like you shat the stars out and hung them for show.”

Ed looks up at the ceiling for a second, drags his hair to hide his face as he blushes full-on now and grins like anything. Wayne just enjoys the opportunity he never expected to get: seein’ his boy not just this happy, but so damn in love.

“He sees the best and worst in you, Ed, has seen youat your best and worst, and he still looks at you that way for all of it,” Wayne feels compelled to underscore the point, the uncommon magic in it all—here. After everything, sure, but: here, in all the world. “Not in spite of all of it, but for all of it,” and it’s true. Steve loves Eddie toe-to-toe, inside and out. Like Eddie loves—almost uncanny for the match of them.

“Kid loves the hell outta you,” Wayne comments definitive-like as he finally goes to get a mug from the cupboard—only to turn around and meet his boy’s too-surprised stare, those big eyes damn-near shocked at Wayne’s sureness, like he don’t have eyes.

“D’ya really think I’da been keepin’ my mouth shut if I didn’t think he was right for you, loved you right?” Wayne asks, which: it’s mostly meant for the way Wayne specifically makes his opinions known. Which are less about opening his mouth and more about certain combinations to grunting and narrowing his eyes—he ain’t foolish to his own peculiarities.

But this doesn’t qualify for any of that, so.

“World’s not always done right by you,” Wayne lets himself say a little softer, a little more…care-true around the vulnerable things. Ain’t ever been his strong suit but: for Eddie.

And for Steve.

“But for all it’s done wrong?” Wayne works a pointed brow. “I’m fairly sure puttin’ the two o’ you together’s something like it trying to make amends.”

Eddie smiles at that, the small kind he does when his heart’s in it most, but then he looks…earnest in a soft, almost-sober way before he says, dead serious:

“It was worth it.”

Wayne stills at the words—not because he’s that surprised, more just that…hearing ‘em out loud hits different.

Takes him back to those early first days where it was all by-the-hour, in God’s hands someone in the waiting room tried comforting him before he was allowed by Eddie’s bedside—cold comfort, that, when Wayne didn’t know he believed in those hands at all.

Just don’t tell his Ma, might be what sends her to her grave.

“I know you don’t agree,” Eddie sighs, but that’s…

“I didn’t say that.”

Eddie levels him with a doubtful kind of stare.

“Your face speaks for itself, old man.”

Wayne takes his time, sucks his lips: ain’t that simple. And he wants to try and get some words to fit right, when he’s not sure there are any that fit the bill—sure ain’t sure he’s the one to find them.

But for his boy? He’ll damn well try.

“I think you gotta make a lot of assumptions, to get t’that conclusion,” Wayne thinks through out loud—the idea that nearly losing his Ed was worth anything is unthinkable, but…Wayne ain’t blind, yeah? He sees all the signs of Eddie’s heart in this.

Sees Steve’s, too.

“But it’s not likely you’d have crossed paths like you did,” Wayne nods slow; “better part of a year o’ him ferrying those kids from your club and,” Wayne gives a pfft to underscore his point:

“Nothin’.”

So maybe it wouldn’t have needed to be so drastic, so close to heartbreaking, to get his boy next to the man he loved so deeply. But…history weren’t exactly on the side of that argument.

Heartbreaking as that fact was on its own.

“That poor girl, that would have happened either way.”

Eddie’s expression drops and Wayne hates that but: heartbreaking as it, too, was?

There’s truth to it. Wayne knows enough—and onlyenough—of the cursedness of this town, more of how it’s hurt people he cares about.

“Sometimes my worst nightmares don’t take me to the hospital, but a prison cell.”

Wayne’s voice is rougher than he wants. Eddie’s probably more still, and frozen quick with it? Than hewants.

At least not to be seen for it but: it still cuts. Like as much, it always will.

“I don’t know how I could have protected you,” Wayne admit a truth he holds with shame in his chest, much as he knows—or else, Hopper’s told him as often from the source, as much as Steve and Eddie have made clear in their own ways dancing around a truth Wayne bristles, but understand he’ll never know the whole of. “I would have died tryin’, but even if it was just the police, I,” he shakes his head, sighs out slow; “and the fuckin’ people of this town,” and that’s where he’s made more of anger than guilt because even now: this fuckin’ town.

“Ain’t words for how grateful I am to him, bringin’ you back,” Wayne says because it’s where his opinion of Steve Harrington truly started;

“But he’s like as my own now, for how he’s stayed,” and Wayne don’t speak words like those idly. Or lightly.

And Eddie knows it.

But Wayne knows in kind that his words ain’t no gate being lifted. Weren’t no way of convincing Eddie to say the words he follows with next. No: the words that follow?

Those were ones Eddie’s been sittin’ on. Holding close in his chest long enough that Wayne can hear the soul o’ him colorin’ every goddamn letter:

“I want Mom’s ring.”

And there it is. The thing he was maybe suspecting was coming—finally; what his softer feelings needing saving up for.

“What, no,” Eddie asks when Wayne doesn’t reply right away, less shaking with anything like hesitance, more like squaring up in case he needs to be defiant, needs to defend the love he’s damn well vibrating with; “no nothing?”

And see: Wayne’s been keeping Eddie’s mama’s ring safe since she passed—knew a boy that young couldn’t understand why it mattered, and then when he did grow old enough, Eddie’s asked him to keep hold of it. Don’t let me be stupid with it, Wayne remembers it clear as day, when they both knew that instruction was pointed less at the empty field of possible proposals to be made for Ed in Hawkins and far more at the possible temptation to pawn it, for rent or groceries, in the best of cases. And Wayne would rather have starved than lost this piece of Elizabeth, especially when Eddie has so few after Al’s endless string of idiocy, of cruelties and straight-said fuckups, Wayne can’t call ‘em less than they are.

So Wayne had kept hold of the ring.

And had got it shined up nice in a brand new pouch and everything, the first night he found Eddie asleep on Steve’s chest on the sofa, T.V. still on to static, clinging to him as hard as Steve was clinging back with one hand, stretched protective almost over Eddie’s chest, curling over and again ‘round his hair with the other, idle-honest affection even in his sleep.

It hadn’t been the first sign. Or the second. Or the hundredth. But it had been how Wayne had been sure of them, for whatever his own opinion in it counted for at all—again, they don’t need his permission to love.

But that was when his blessing went from full-throated to full-chested, whole-hearted. When Steve had slid from family, to his boy, too.

“Boy,” Wayne meets his other boy with a bit of pu-upon indignation of his own, learned from the master of it sat gaping like a fish before him, and Wayne ultimately can’t hold onto it when the smirk’s just too hard to fight; “you think I ain’t had that at the ready for months? Waiting on you to ask,” he puts his thoughts into words for sharing, which is always a task for him but is getting easier, with Ed. With Steve in a new way, for the chord it struck in him to get to know that boy, as under-appreciated and worn down on the inside as he’d been—save for how he’d loved Eddie brighter than the sun through all of it.

“He’s family already, Ed, s’far as I’m concerned.”

And Eddie closes his mouth, and his eyes look too sparkly, so Wayne clears his throat and looks away to let him…let those tears free or not, and make that decision for himself without an audience.

“Found a guy at the plant, knows someone who can try to resize it, though probably safer to reset it on another band, but,” Wayne folds his hands and locks the fingers, tapping them on his thighs in thought, but also with meaning:

“Bert thinks you could cut the original, somehow embed it inside something bigger, more like yours.” He points to Eddie’s collection, even his latest placeholder—as thick and right for his boy as it could possibly be.

As Steve would obviously know, and make damn sure if.

“No matter,” Wayne says, peeks to see if Eddie’s decided whether he needs some extra space with his feelings, closer to the surface now than they’d ever dared to be before—the doctors warned it could happen after he was discharged but Wayne knows it’s not that. It’s being soft-hearted and having something like what he’s found, to want his mama’s ring; “however you want it done,” and Wayne sees Eddie’s just blinking, red-rimmed but wiped mostly dry.

“However he wants it, to be honest,” Eddie’s breath in is a shaky thing, but it’s true, it’s a thing Wayne can recognize as devotion without trying even to look. “I just want him to have every piece of me he can, y’know? All of me,” and his voice cracks, and now Eddie’s the one who’s clearing his throat to get some footing: “everything I can, every way I can.”

And then he looks up properly, and meets Wayne’s eyes, means every single word when he says the most important part, the most honest thing—the most obvious truth:

“He’s my heart, y’know?”

And the only thing Wayne can think is: he’s found a good one, Lizzie, you’d be so proud of your boy.

So proud of this boy, for your boy.

“And he already graduated, so,” Eddie picks at his nails, the way he does when he makes a smart ass side comment he wants to flag to Wayne that he’s making, but smooth-like. Wayne might be old, now, but he remembers what counted for smooth—and this was never it; “nothing I need to hold it back for as motivation.”

Wayne goes ahead let’s a snort loose to at least acknowledge Ed’s poor attempt, score he shoots for the core of the matter:

“Boy,” he shakes his head with a loose grin, the kind that’s ready to grow as and when needed: “maybe you’ve got yourself a mighty fine placeholder ring,” he nods down to Eddie’s hand and hell, but Eddie’s already admiring the thing at the slightest suggestion, if’n he ever entirely stopped at all.

“But he was never ‘round here with nothing but his whole heart for you,” Wayne says, one of the surest things he knows in this world.

“Almost as obvious as you with it,” he lets himself smirk a little for how Eddie goes a little red, but shineswith it so goddamn bright.

S’just another sure thing Wayne knows.

“Lemme go get you that ring,” Wayne gets to his feet and heads further past the table, waits out Eddie’s confusion, and the inevitable ask:

“You keep it in the kitchen?”

And so what if he did? Wayne lets Eddie dog his steps all the way in before he flips the Mr. Coffee on—fucking finally.

“I ain’t had my coffee yet,” Wayne turns, raises a daring, of teasing kind of brow Eddie’s way as he goes to grab the mug he’s fetched before, lest it feel abandoned; “and my son-in-law-to-be baked me blossoms,” he pops open the Tupperware and breathes in the peanut butter deep; maybe a little extra dramatic because he’s actually pretty tickled to be able to say that for his own self: son-in-law-to-be.

Not that Steve wasn’t already family, but, y’know. Something in the words, out loud.

But still:

“I’m allowed a detour.”

The ring’s waited this long, for something that’s been true all this time already. It can stand a cup-o-joe and some homemade cookies with risk of gettin’ abandonment issues.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

☕️

✨also on ao3

💫for @penny00dreadful—happiest of happy birthdays, my lovely 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @eternal-sunflowers @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit, weird as it is: ME ☕️🍪

[jinuaei]

Wait wait wait... TFP S1 E13 the cortical psychic patch with Megatron... Probably OOC Idc

Yan! TFP Megatron x medic bot reader

Uh... middle of the night writing hopefully it's understandable

Word count: 1.3k

Reader is Knockout's assistant and was tasked to basically be Megatron's bedside nurse. To Megatron, you were no one, just a bot that meekly follows behind Knockout or Breakdown. You are usually seen helping Knockout in checking up on him, or helping Breakdown clean up Megatron. But this time you were tasked to make sure Megatron never wakes up.

So Knockout — under Starscream's orders — had you connect to Megatron via the CPP, and gave you orders to stay low and ensure that Megatron stays in stasis lock. You do, observing him killing Optimus Prime over and over and over. You have stayed inside his head long enough to make you get used to the repetitive behaviour and become negligent on your task.

You were sloppy enough to have Megatron notice you hiding behind one of the rocks, tiredly nodding off. You snapped out of your short nap after hearing Megatron's canon preparing to shoot, scaring you half to death.

Megatron questions who you are, thinking you were an autobot and you quickly answer, fearing his wrath, but he doesn't kill you, instead he lowers his weapon, finally remembering that you are that shy little bort Knockout brings with him. Knowing that you are a Decepticon, he leaves you be, but you follow behind him regardless of his glare. 

Over time, he got used to your presence, following him or keenly observing him do whatever he does. The longer you stayed in his mind, the more he noticed odd quirks of yours that he deemed… adorable. Like how you kick your pedes that’s hanging off the edge of the platform above the arena while you observe him, or how you play with the loose rocks by stacking it on top of each other when you are bored.

Additionally, you tend to recharge a lot, understandable considering there’s nothing really happening much in his mind, other than killing Prime of course. He often sees you recharge on the cold platform, occasionally shivering. 

No, he definitely did not think it was endearing that you stop shivering when he gets closer, finding safety in his presence. And no, he did not think it was cute how you would nuzzle close to his servo when he moves to caress your cheekplate, that did not happen and will never happen again.

But when you woke up you found yourself on a berth, a proper berth on top of the platform, complete with a ‘pillow’, as those humans call it. You look over to Megatron in confusion but you find him killing prime (again), but if you only looked closer, you would see him smile as you cuddle the pillow close to you. He did not know how he managed to create that, but when he thought about how pitiful you looked on the ground, it suddenly appeared 

You don’t know how long you stayed inside his mind, you don’t know what day it is, where the Nemesis is or hell, you don’t even know if you’ll ever wake up in your original body again. But Megatron has been oddly sweet to you, or as sweet as Megatron could be. The berth has now expanded, it became a proper house now, complete with 2 berthrooms, a kitchen (that none of you really use but you enjoy the act of ‘making’ something), and a ‘living room’ with a tv (that only plays Megatron’s battles during his gladiator days)

It’s honestly rather cozy, and you noticed that Megatron has been killing Optimus less and less. Now instead accompanying you inside the house, oftentimes lazing on the couch or watching over you when you do something. 

I like to think this reader, though a cybertronian, has a thing for human homes and how domestic it is. So most of the ‘human’ objects came from your mind, doesn’t the CPP go both ways? So it is possible for Megatron to know about human domiciles due to your knowledge passing onto him. (I’m delulu let’s just say I’m correct on this :P)

One time you talked to him about flowers, and described to him how organic flowers look, he summoned one with the best of his abilities but what appeared was an amalgamation of metals that’s in the shape of a rose. Now those roses are planted outside your house accompanied by your flowers.

The moment you remembered that the bot you are with is the Leader of the Decepticons and is actually dangerous was when you tried to explore the place the best you can. When your pede reached the bottom of the stairs his voice called out to you from the top, it was cold, calculating… dangerous. And as you look up, his face is covered in shadows, optics bright, and frame tense. 

He does not like you being away from him.

Since then, you have not strayed far from your ‘home’ and when you tend to the flowers he is often found staring you down from within the home, his silhouette always standing behind one of the windows, looking over you, making sure you never stray away from his sight.

This routine followed the both of you until one day as you were talking to him, him softly responding to you, you suddenly disappeared. One klik you were there, the next, you were gone. He tried to find you within your home, checking every room, every nook and cranny that you could hide in. He thought you were playing that stupid hiding game, of course, he would always find you, but this time, he couldn’t.

And after searching every place he could think of, even outside yours and his home, he flips out. He deemed you a traitor and destroyed every piece of furniture within your home in anger.

How could you leave him? After giving you everything you wanted? All that stupid organic items, that stuffed bunny that you adoringly name as ‘Megatron jr.’, and even the flowers. How could you betray his spark and abandon him?

He started ripping apart the pillows, the sheets, even the walls are not safe. But when he is staring down at Megatron jr. he feels a sudden coldness on his spark.

Why did he blame you? No you would never, you are too kind to even be a Decepticon, nevermind a traitor, so someone else definitely took you away from him. Yes, that’s it, someone took you, far far away from his safe clutches. And he intends to hunt them down and kill them to even dare to touch you. With renowned energy he gently tucked Megatron Jr. inside his sub space and went out to seek you.

When he reached the arena he found himself staring at the autobot scout, enraged, he went to attack him but found himself unable to. Someone from the autobot team must have realized that Megatron is currently in a dangerous state because Bumblebee disappeared from his very optics, but by then it was too late, Megatron already knew the truth that everything was fake, the house, the plants, the battles, were part of his mind. And a thought crossed in his mind that maybe you were also fake… but he refuses to believe that. 

Due to his feral state or perhaps his obsession with you, he somehow manages to wake up from his processor dead state and is now staring at Starscream and Knockout, he ignores them and tries to find you. You were next to him, recharging, ‘forced into stasis lock by one of the autobots’ Knockout said, it was lucky that you would wake up soon, he would hate to kill Knockout if he was wrong.

Megatron then grabs your recharging form, intending to have you rest in his... no, both of yours berthroom. Just because it was all in his mind, does not mean it was fake, he can, and will be keep everything the same, but this time — everything is real.

[katnissegf]

hard to get — lottie matthews

lottie matthews is the type of girl who’s always in charge of the situation. she knows what she wants, and she always gets it—especially when it comes to women she likes.

that’s why she became obsessed with you in the very first moment she met you.

you were at a party, chatting with your new classmate mari ibarra, when lottie noticed you across the room, instantly intrigued by you.

when you were finally alone, she decided to get close. “are you new here? can’t remember if i’ve seen such a pretty face before.” the drink that was resting on her hand found its way back to her mouth, only making time for your response.

but instead of blushing or getting nervous like she expected to, you chuckled to yourself and decided to be honest with her. “wow, do all your lines come straight from a cheesy movie?”

you didn’t even give her the chance to answer your question before you were gone, already looking for someone else to talk to.

a few days earlier, mari had warned you from this tall, flirty girl from her soccer team. she had a reputation for being very charming, to the point of getting into people’s heads, only to lose interest once the chase was over. so mari told you to keep your distance. “don’t get pulled in, don’t play her game.” her words echoed a little louder in your head the moment you saw lottie standing in front of you moments ago. that’s why you walked away so quickly.

but for this tall, flirty girl.. she’s been hooked ever since. not because she’s in control, but because she’s not.

things get worse for you when you find out you share a couple of classes with her. you really try to ignore her, but everyday, she makes sure the only seat left for you is the one next to hers.

now that she has the chance to talk to you without you walking away, she starts showing genuine interest. she asks about your weekend, and when you finally answer with a good tone, she actually listens. not just nodding along or making a joke, she listens, like she wants to remember every detail.

then she invites you to her soccer matches, casually at first, like it’s no big deal. when she’s lucky enough that you show up (sometimes to support mari, and sometimes… maybe for lottie too) she plays like her life depends on it.

with time, she stops hooking up with people at parties. she starts making time to study with you outside of school. people in the hallways begin to talk about how much she has changed, how she’s gotten better at soccer and classes.

but in your eyes, none of that mattered. you couldn’t accept it. she was clearly playing games with you, doing the same thing she always did with every girl she wanted. you couldn’t trust her, no matter how much you had actually started to like her after spending so much time together.

so you pull away and start creating distance. you stop replying to her texts, not even the one-line messages you always used to sent. you start showing up earlier to class just so you can sit somewhere else.

after days of overthinking, lottie finally notices it because you skip a very important soccer match. she plays badly for the first time in weeks. she doesn’t even go to the after party with the rest of the team.

she finds you after class one afternoon, waiting by the door like she used to. except this time, there’s no smirk, no teasing line, just a nervous fidget in her hands. “did i do something wrong?” she asks, her voice lower than usual. there’s no charm in her tone, only genuine concern. she’s not trying to win you anymore, she’s just trying to understand.

“can you stop acting like you care about me? i know the way you are, lottie. you always do this. mari told me.” for the first time, you see it in her eyes. real and quiet hurt. and it makes your stomach flip.

“if that’s what you want to think about me, then fine. just know that i really wanted this to work. this only happened with you.” and for a second, you want to believe her. but you don’t. not yet.

so you just shake your head and walk away. just like you did the first time you talked to her.

based on this request ❦ thanks for reading!

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

broken promises. l Clint Flood

💔 a few ways to break your heart 💔

Summary: he broke his promise again, you couldn't have done otherwise

Warnings: angst, stable relationship that breaks, broken promises, tears, mentioning violence, pregnancy

A/N: the second season of broken hearts.

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

a few ways to break a heart [masterlist]

“No, no, no! You promised me, Clint! You promised this would end!”

You were furious. Angry. Devastated. The moment that man walked through the door to your house, you knew it had happened again. He had taken another job. And no, it wasn’t a safe and nice job, but a job that could cost him his life.

“Sweetheart…” Clint took a step toward you, but you quickly stepped back, standing behind the kitchen island as if it was somehow protecting you from him. The sight hurt him. “Sweetheart, we talked about this. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, what a relief!” you snorted. “I feel calmer right away.”

“Sweetheart.”

You were sure that tonight he would call you every sweet name he knew, he always did that when he felt guilty, when he knew that what he had done had somehow upset you. This big guy, who the whole town feared, was like a teddy bear next to you, but it wasn’t comforting. Not now.

You saw his injured knuckles and you already had your answer. “Did you kill someone?” you asked, even though the words barely made it through your tight throat.

“No, honey. He’ll be fine in a week or two, but he was alive when I left.”

You nodded. “That’s good. I wouldn’t feel like visiting you in prison or the cemetery.”

“Honey, I know you’re mad. But it was necessary. I did it for us. For you!”

Something in your gaze changed. Clint noticed it immediately. You straightened up, your fingers clenching.

“Don’t say things like that, Clint. There’s nothing about us in what you’re doing.” You said through gritted teeth. “I’ve asked you so many times. You promised me!”

“I can handle this.”

"And me? The past, what you do, will catch up with you eventually! Can't you see that?" you took a deep breath, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. You had to tell him eventually. You had hoped for a better moment, a more intimate one, but apparently this was your fate. "I can't risk it anymore, Clint. I can't let them see what their father did..."

He frowned. He looked at you carefully, as if trying to understand what you had said. What was that supposed to mean? He could feel your anger was greater than usual, but this was...

"I'm pregnant, Clint." you finally said. "I wanted to tell you at a better time, but I see there's no point in it." you took a deep breath. "I can't live like this anymore. I just can't..."

In the blink of an eye he was next to you. His large hands cupped your face as if you were his most precious treasure. Brown eyes looked at you with delight and love that only Clint carried within himself.

“Are you sure, honey?” he asked.

“Pregnant or that I’m sick of it?” you mumbled. “Because if you’re asking, the answer ‘yes’ fits every question.”

“You’re pregnant…”

Clint completely ignored what you were saying to him. His mind was focused only on thinking about the baby. He loved you, you knew that, but you also knew that you didn't have enough strength in you to pull him away from what could tear him away from you forever. This world was dangerous. What if Clint didn't protect all of you?

You turned your head when his lips wanted to touch yours, and after a moment you took his hands off your face. He didn't quite understand, or so you thought, because you immediately felt him trying to hug you. You slipped out of his grip again and circled the island again. "I can't do this anymore, Clint. I... I just can't."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "We love each other. This baby is our dream come true."

"And will you promise me one more time that you'll end all this? I can't listen to this anymore." Tears were streaming down your cheeks, but you quickly wiped them away with your hand. "Clint, I'm tired of fighting for you, for us."

"But I love you!"

"I know. And I love you too." You sighed. "I'm doing this for us."

"What do you want to do? Tell me."

When your eyes met, Clint understood immediately. No, he couldn't agree to this. He had been one step behind you all evening, promising, begging, assuring you of his feelings. You knew all of this. It wasn't the first time, but this time it hurt the most. And you both suffered.

Clint Flood was the love of your life. His child was the fulfillment of your dreams of a family. But the rest? You couldn't risk it. Not when you were carrying a new life inside you.

As you got into your car, Clint tried to convince you to come back.

“I love you so fucking much.”

You looked up at his heartbroken face, feeling like your heart was already in pieces. “I love you too, Clint. I always will.”

You started the engine and carefully pulled out onto the dark street. A part of you remained in the house you were leaving, but you knew you had to do this.

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

The night after the show, a single photo goes viral — and nothing is the same. Ellie isn’t ready to be seen, and the photographer never meant to look that closely. In the silence between texts, something unspoken ignites.

cw for this chapter// emotional vulnerability, mild fame anxiety/identity crisis, smoking (cigarettes), suggestive tension/sensual dialogue, swearing, viral fame/social media overwhelm, intimate texting (non-explicit)

please know that there might be spelling errors!

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaiii2ii2 @liztreez @re1daway

CHAPTER TWO - BETTER MEAN IT

The night after the concert, the photo explodes. Your phone buzzes just past midnight. No greeting. No context. Just one question:

Unknown Number: Why were you staring so long?

You don’t recognize the number. But you know who it is. Of course you do. It’s not even a question. It’s a blade in a velvet sheath — a confrontation disguised as a dare. You hover above the screen, re-reading it. Your stomach turns over like it’s trying to warn you — quiet, sharp.

You type.

You: You looked like you wanted the camera to flinch.

The reply comes fast. Too fast. Like she was waiting. Like she was hoping.

Ellie: It didn’t You didn’t

You stare at the words. You wait. Wonder if that’s it. If she’s still scrolling — through the wildfire you lit together. The post. The comments. The comparisons to saints and demons. Your feed is a mess. Your account is gaining followers by the hour.

The photo’s been called feral, divine, haunting. Someone compared it to Joan of Arc. You should be proud.

But instead, you keep refreshing — waiting for another message. Another demand. Another glimpse of her voice, rough around the edges.

And then—

Ellie: You ever regret taking a photo?

You: Only when it says too much.

Ellie: And that one? Did it say too much?

You: I think it said exactly what it wanted.

Ellie: That’s not comforting.

You: It’s not supposed to be.

A pause. The silence thickens, breathes. You picture her somewhere dim — motel room light bleeding through half-drawn blinds. Her thumb hovering. Jaw clenched. Cigarette unlit between her fingers.

Ellie: It’s weird seeing yourself like that. Like I’m watching someone else be me. Someone I don’t know yet.

You: That’s how I felt too. Like I saw someone I wasn’t supposed to see.

Ellie: Then why’d you keep looking?

You: Same reason you did.

Ellie: You always that poetic, or just with people you shoot?

You: Depends on the subject. Some people ask for it without meaning to.

Ellie: And me?

You: You dared me not to.

Silence. This one stretches. A longer pause, full of weight — the kind that lingers behind your teeth.

Ellie: You make it really hard to ignore you.

You: You make it really hard to stop looking.

Minutes pass. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s pissed. Maybe she’s watching the photo go viral in real time and hating every second of it.

Your heart kicks your ribs like it wants out.

Finally:

Ellie: Goodnight.

You: Sweet dreams, Rockstar.

The morning after the concert, Ellie can’t even breathe. She’s barely out of the shower when Dina shoves her phone in her face.

Her eyeliner’s smudged. Hair wet. Grinning like a demon freshly summoned. “Ellie,” she beams. “You’ve been memed.”

Ellie squints. Blinks. Regrets opening her eyes. It’s her — mid-note, lit in raw reds and bruised violets, sweat sliding down her neck. Her mouth open like she’s about to bite the mic.

But it’s the eyes. That’s what ruins her. Locked. Pinned. Seen. Like she saw the lens. Like she saw you.

It’s worse than a mirror. It’s naked. Honest in a way she never signed off on.

“The internet thinks you’re possessed,” Jesse calls from the kitchenette, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Also hot. Possessed and hot.”

Ellie gets up and walks away before she has to answer.

Later in the day, it’s quiet. A few reposts. A few thirsty tags.

Then it explodes again.

Stream spike. Indie blogs drag her name out of the dirt. PR vultures circle with questions about “grunge mystique” and “the feminine rage renaissance.”

Her inbox is a graveyard. She doesn’t reply. But she opens the photo again. Alone.

She’s on the motel floor. Back against the wall. Guitar case to her left. Crooked blinds casting stripes across her boots. The carpet smells like smoke and bleach.

She studies it — the way her body commands space she doesn’t remember claiming. The camera caught something. Something she never meant to give.

She unlocks her phone. Hesitates. No contact saved. But her fingers know exactly who to text.

Ellie: Why were you staring so long?

She doesn’t expect an answer. But it comes.

Two nights pass — two cities over, booked for another show. Smaller venue. Sweaty crowd. The kind of place where breath and music tangle midair.

Ellie’s guitar strap is sticking to her shoulder and she hasn’t even soundchecked. She knows you’re here. She hasn’t looked. Not directly. But she feels you — the stillness your lens brings. The way it tightens the moment like a wire drawn taut.

You don’t shoot the opener. You wait. You want her.

Later, outside — behind the venue — you find her. She’s half-shadow, all tension. Lighting a cigarette she doesn’t finish.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” she mutters.

You lean beside her, camera at your hip. “Didn’t think you’d look at me this time.”

“I didn’t say I was looking.”

“You don’t have to.”

The silence that settles isn’t empty — it brims with breath, heat, and history that hasn’t happened yet. She closes her eyes. Leans back. Tries not to feel the gravity of you.

“You make a habit of glamorizing your subjects?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to fight the lens.”

She scoffs. Quiet. Almost a laugh. Almost surrender.

You take one step closer — close enough to smell the smoke, the sweat, the clean heat of her skin beneath it.

“You looked…” she starts. She doesn’t finish. You don’t make her.

“So did you,” you say.

Soon enough, the texting becomes a pattern. Late-night messages that read like double-dares. Voice memos. Fragments of lyrics. Photos you send back — not of her, but of light. Of cracked-open. Of silence captured.

You’re not sure if you’re creating something or falling into it.

A week later, you show up to another concert. Of course you do.

The green room is louder. Buzzing with the weight of her unexpected fame. Dina clocks you first.

“The photographer returns,” she drawls, eyes still on her phone. “Thought you’d moved on to some other sweaty guitarist.”

You grin. “I’m loyal. For now.”

Jesse salutes you with a bottle. “Thanks for the memes. And the merch, apparently.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Sure,” Dina shrugs. “And I didn’t mean to flash the crowd last week. Shit happens.”

No Ellie.

“She’s outside,” Jesse says. “Smoke break or existential crisis. Take your pick.”

The door cracks open.

She steps in like she’s bracing for impact. Jacket slung over her shoulder. Doesn’t look at you. Grabs her guitar like it’s armor.

You nod. “Hey.”

She nods back. “No flash?”

“No flash.”

The room fades to background noise. The space between you buzzes like a live wire.

You lean on a crate. “So... did you hate it?”

She exhales. “The photo?”

You nod.

“I didn’t hate it,” she says. “I hated what it did.”

“The likes? The thirst tweets? The bootleg shirts?”

She huffs a bitter breath. “All of it. It was one second. Now everyone thinks they know me.”

“They don’t.”

“But you do?”

You hesitate. “I saw a moment. That’s all.”

Her gaze cuts over. Hard. Hungry.

“Do you always romanticize your subjects?” she says, referencing the conversation from before.

You meet her stare. “Only the ones who dare me not to.”

She nearly smiles.

From the corner, Dina whistles. “Jesus. Either kiss or fight. Pick a lane.”

Ellie snorts. Looks away. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m right,” Dina sings.

You shoot less that night. Watch more. Ellie plays like she’s trying to outrun something. Like the crowd’s adoration makes her skin crawl.

Backstage, after the noise fades, you find her again. She’s alone. Leaning against the brick wall. Cigarette burned down to her fingers.

“You okay?” you ask.

She doesn’t look at you. Just flicks the ash. Quiet.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“The photo. Me. Any of it.”

You step closer, voice soft. “It does.”

“That’s the problem.”

She turns then — slowly. Eyes locked.

“So what now?”

You let the moment breathe.

“You tell me.”

She doesn’t blink.

“If you point that camera at me again…” she says, low.

You wait.

“…you better mean it.”

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: second to last one :)

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything?

warnings: guns/gunshots

word count: 8.5k

…part 4, part 5, part 6

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— SECRETS IN INK —

The automatic doors of the grocery store slide open with a hiss, letting in a gust of cold wind that makes Nina squeal with delight. She jumps out into the snow, which crunches under the soles of her little boots.

"Mommy, look!", she says, puffing out dramatic clouds of steam. You manage a smile, though your mind is miles away. The note in your pocket, which you keep touching with your fingertips to make sure you didn't lose it, feels like a weight dragging you down.

When did she put it there?, you wonder, absently grabbing Nina's hand to make sure she doesn't run off. You approach your car, your free hand holding the handle of the shopping cart. Did she sneak into the house? Or was it the day she left? But when? How?

Too many questions, too few answers. Your brain is a mess, your thoughts louder than your daughter's endless chatter.

Back at home, the warmth of the house greets you as Nina stomps her feet against the entry rug, sending chunks of slush flying. She lets out a quiet "oops" and apologizes, but her wide smile doesn't waver.

"It's okay", you murmur, setting the grocery bags down next to the door. You bend down to help Nina out of her coat, but — again — your mind is elsewhere. You're wondering why Natasha didn't just call. Why she left a cryptic note, telling you to come after her when you don't even know where you're supposed to be going.

There's her apartment, of course. Or the Avengers' Compound. Both would be reasonable, obvious choices, but you doubt them for several reasons. Natasha has never been easy to pin down, for one. Part of you also wonders whether she's testing your resolve — is this a riddle? A game? It feels like something she'd do just to see how far you'd go.

At the same time, an even larger part of you protests at the mere idea that she'd do something like this now, when things are so serious. This is not something she'd use as an opportunity to mess with you, is it?

You rub your temple and turn around, starting to put the groceries away. Nina skips away into the living room, her feet pattering against the hardwood floors. Your hands work on autopilot as you put cans and cartons away, your thoughts circling through the same questions.

Finally, you reach for the note again. Your finger brushes over the paper mindlessly as you stare at the words and the hourglass symbol underneath. The boldness of it is so her — a quiet defiance, a challenge. You almost smile at the thought, but then reality comes crashing down on you again.

Sighing, you turn around and lean against the kitchen island. Nina comes back into the kitchen, proudly holding her notebook.

"Want to see?", she asks, already holding out the notebook for you. You smile and let her put it in your hands, but your smile fades as soon as you see the picture. Three figures — one smaller, two slightly bigger. Red hair and a black jacket. Your breath catches slightly and you silently curse as you realize how serious this has gotten.

"Wow. That's beautiful, baby. Who's this?", you ask, pointing to the figure with the red hair, even though you already know.

"That's Natasha! I like her. I think she likes you", she says innocently, clearly not grasping the complexity of what you and Natasha have. She likes you, alright.

"She's very...nice", you say quietly, running your finger over the page. The three of you almost look like a family.

Nina nods, climbing onto a barstool and swinging her feet back and forth. She pats the surface of the kitchen island with her hands. "I'm thirsty, mommy."

"You are?" You put the notebook aside and turn around, grabbing a plastic cup for the girl. "What do you want? Water, milk? We also got lemonade."

"Lemonade!"

"Got it, honey." You pour some of the lemonade into the cup, then you hand it to her.

She takes a few sips, then sets it down. Her hand bumps it just hard enough to send the cup tipping over, and the yellow liquid spills in a swift arc across the kitchen island. Your eyes widen and your hand quickly reaches out to grab the cup, but it's too late — the lemonade has soaked through the note you left there so carelessly.

"Nina!", you exclaim, grabbing a dishcloth to mop it up. Your daughter seems to shrink, looking genuinely upset.

"I'm sorry, mommy", she mumbles, giving you a sheepish look.

"It's okay", you mutter, dabbing at the counter. You grab the damp note, your heart already feeling heavy — this feels like the last thing connecting you to Natasha, for some reason —, but then you freeze. Faint, delicate writing has started to appear on the back of the page.

Of course. Natasha used invisible ink.

Nina frowns, leaning in to see. She can't quite believe her eyes. It's like the magic she sees in her favorite cartoons, where characters wave their hands and make secrets appear out of nowhere. "What's that?"

"I don't know", you say unsurely, looking at the words that have appeared on the back of the page.

Safehouse. Catskill Mountains.

Underneath it, some coordinates that you won't need. You know what safehouse she's talking about — you went there after the attack on New York together.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you stare at the message. It's more than just a cryptic invitation — Natasha left you a way to find her.

"What does it say?", Nina probes, craning her head to look at the front of the note. She spots the hourglass symbol. "What's that?"

"It's nothing, sweetheart. Just something silly", you reassure her, gently patting the note with a towel and putting it aside. Your daughter tilts her head but doesn't push, instead sliding off the barstool and zooming back into the living room. Your eyes flicker back to the note, more specifically the words on the back.

Natasha was deliberate, careful, knowing you'd want this enough to figure it out. In the end, a simple accident caused you to reveal the additional information on the back.

The question is: do you want it? Do you have the courage to risk everything for it?

Your eyes drift back to the drawing Nina left in the kitchen, to the three of you standing there like you belong together.

. . .

You spend the day trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, for both your sake and Nina's. You have time, after all — you doubt Natasha is going to vanish if you don't show up right away. Besides, Ethan won't be home for another few days, so you can choose whether you want to leave now or wait a bit.

It's hard, though. Deep down, you've made your decision. There's no need to question anything, really. But something is holding you back, and it frustrates you immensely. Because if you go, there's no coming back. You're sure of it.

Nina doesn't notice your inner turmoil, which you're grateful for. You spend the afternoon distracting yourself by entertaining her — picture books, cartoons, making puzzles.

By the time dinner rolls around, you feel more frayed than you'd like to admit. It's not the exhaustion of the day itself — it's knowing this might be the last 'normal' day you can give Nina for a long time.

You watch your daughter happily munch on her mac and cheese, blissfully unaware of the underlying tension in the room and the problems that you might encounter soon. She's chattering about her day animatedly, gesturing dramatically with her free hand and laughing at her own silly impressions. Every now and then, she pauses to take a bite before continuing with her rambling. You cling to every word, savoring the sound of her carefree laughter.

"Mommy?", she suddenly says, putting her favorite green fork aside. "Does Natasha like adventures?"

You force a small smile. "I think she loves them", you say softly.

"I love them, too", she says, proud to have something in common with Natasha. "And you? Do you like adventures?"

"Hmmm..." You smile, reaching out to boop her nose. "I like them when you're with me."

Nina beams. "I like that, too!"

"Yeah?" You laugh quietly and nod, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Good. Maybe one day we'll go on a big adventure. Just you and me."

"Yes! We can see ponies and rivers and a circus and-" A yawn cuts her off — the fourth one in the past half hour. It's still early, but the girl is getting tired.

You wait until she finishes dinner, then you get up and start gathering the plates and silverware. You put everything aside, then you scoop her into your arms.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

Nina scrunches her nose. "Do I have to?", she whines. You smile at her protesting — still not fond of bedtime, it seems.

"Even adventurers need their rest", you tease, tickling her side and making her giggle.

As you tuck her in, her eyes grow heavy. You sit on the edge of her bed, gently brushing wayward strands of hair from her face. "How do you feel about going on a real adventure?", you ask after hesitating for a moment.

Her eyes flutter open slightly. "Like...with Nat?", she mumbles.

"Maybe", you say softly. "Or just you and me, for now. Sounds good?"

"Can I bring Bearie?", she asks, clutching her stuffed bear tighter.

"Of course." You nod and kiss her forehead, then you get up. "Good night, sweetheart."

. . .

— TIME TO GO —

Later you sit on the couch, staring at the crumpled note you've pulled from her pocket. You trace the faint outline of Natasha's hourglass symbol with your thumb, willing yourself to stop overthinking. Natasha has left you a way out, a chance to escape. All you have to do is take it.

But something holds you in place, a nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that maybe you're wrong. That maybe running will only make things worse.

The sound of the front door opening interrupts your thoughts, and you freeze. Ethan's voice calls out from the hallway. "Y/N?"

Your stomach churns. He wasn't supposed to be back before Friday.

Quickly, you shove the note into the pocket of your sweatpants before forcing yourself to stand up. You smooth down your hair as you enter the foyer. "You're back early", you say, trying to keep your voice light.

"Plans changed", he says briefly, his expression unreadable as he looks at you. His tone makes you uneasy, but you don't press further.

"Dinner's in the fridge if you're hungry", you say, leaning against the wall and avoiding his gaze. He puts his coat aside and starts making his way up the stairs.

"Not yet", he says. "I have a call to make."

He disappears into his office upstairs, the door shutting quietly behind him. You exhale and relax, even if only a little, then you tiptoe up the stairs and toward his study.

Through the door, you can faintly hear his voice.

"...promised results, not delays... No, you handle it. I don't want them anywhere near here."

Your heart drops. Them?

"Yes, the wife and the kid are here. They don't know anything... No, don't you dare. They're not involved in this."

Every word increases the nausea you're slowly starting to feel. You take a step back from the door without really meaning to.

"... If it comes to that, clean up your mess without involving me."

You may have doubted your intentions before, but now, you don't. This isn't overreacting — this is survival. This is keeping your daughter and yourself safe from whatever mess Ethan has dragged you into.

You don't think twice before rushing through the house. You grab a duffel bag and throw everything inside that you can find — few changes of clothes for Nina and you, snacks, a couple of documents you don't want to leave behind. You make your way to the bathroom, quietly praying that Ethan won't break his habit of staying in his office until after midnight, and toss in a few hygiene products like toothbrushes and shampoo.

A blanket. A towel. A gun you've been storing in your safe for years.

Yes, a gun. There's just something about being in a relationship with Natasha Romanoff and working at SHIELD that will make you consider buying one.

You distinctly remember her scolding you about living alone without a weapon when she started staying at your place more regularly. A woman. Alone. Without a gun. Seriously, Y/N?

Those words stuck, and you're grateful for it.

Once you're done, you tuck the duffel bag into the corner behind Nina's bed, then you go and lay down.

. . .

You've gone over the plan a dozen times in your head, running through every possible scenario. It's simple, really: wait for Ethan to fall asleep, slip out with Nina, and disappear into the night. But simple plans don't always go smoothly, and that thought keeps gnawing at you

You hear his footsteps approach the bedroom at around 1am. The door creaks open, his shirt hits the floor as he drops it, then the mattress dips next to you as he climbs into bed. The room is quiet, save for the faint rustle of bedsheets and the rhythm of his slow, steady breathing.

You wait, listening to each breath until it evens out. Minutes stretch into what feel like hours before you're finally sure he's asleep, then you carefully and quietly slip out of bed. You don't fully close the door, but you leave only a narrow gap to make sure he won't hear you.

When you reach Nina's bedroom, you hesitate. She's curled up underneath the blankets with her stuffed bear clutched to her chest, her mouth slightly agape. For a brief second, your resolve wavers — and then you remember staying isn't an option. Not anymore.

You crouch down next to her bed and gently run your hand over her head. "Nina", you whisper, your voice soft but urgent. "Sweetheart, wake up. We're going on an adventure, remember?"

Your quiet words rouse her from her sleep. She rubs her eyes, clearly sleepy and confused. Your heart aches at the sight.

"Now?", she mumbles, sitting up blindly and reaching for her Bearie.

"Yes, now. We have to be very quiet, okay?"

She nods, letting you put on her shoes and coat without protesting. You grab her hat and scarf — it's snowed again and the temperatures are icy —, then you scoop her up. You don't bother changing her out of her pajamas. You don't have the time.

With Nina in one hand and the duffel bag in the other, you swiftly move down the stairs. You listen for any signs of Ethan stirring, but the house remains quiet apart from his muffled snoring.

When you reach the front door, you hesitate. It feels like crossing a threshold you can't come back from, and the weight of it presses heavily on your chest. But then Nina looks up at you, sleepy and trusting, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You open the door and step into the cool night air, closing it softly behind you.

"Where are we going?", she whispers, her hand clutching yours tightly. You unlock the car and buckle her into her booster seat.

"To someone who can help us", you say, brushing your thumb over her rosy cheek. "It'll be fun, okay?"

"Okay", she agrees, her eyes drooping shut again already. You slide into the driver's seat and buckle up, then you finally pull out of the driveway. The lights in your bedroom remain dark as you drive down the street.

. . .

The road stretches endlessly before you, cloaked in darkness and lit only by the headlights of your car. Nina has fallen back asleep, her hands clutching her stuffie and her head lolling to the side. The steady hum of the engine is the only sound, but your nerves are on edge.

You glance in the rear view mirror, scanning the empty road behind you. You've been driving for about an hour now, and things have been going somewhat smoothly. Still, the tension in your chest hasn't lessened. Every shadow seems to stretch too far, every turn feels too sharp. You've made it this far, but the weight of your decision hasn't fully sunk in until now.

Then, the car sputters. Your heart jumps.

"No, no, no", you mutter, your grip on the steering wheel tightening. The car lurches and the engine coughs, then everything goes silent. The headlights flicker out and you're in the middle of the road in near-total darkness.

"Mommy?", Nina says after stirring awake, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay, sweetheart", you say quickly, forcing a calmness you're not feeling. You twist the key in the ignition, but the car won't start.

God, why did I insist on keeping this old thing?

Because Natasha sat in it. That's why.

You curse quietly as you glance in the rear view mirror again. From behind, a faint light appears on the horizon — headlights. The vehicles approaches slowly, its beams growing brighter as it draws closer.

Is this it?

Immediately, your mind jumps to worst-case scenarios. Ethan's associates. The people he's been dealing with. Whoever he was on the phone with. They've found you.

Your hand flies to the key in the ignition again, turning it desperately. "Come on, please", you whisper, your fingers trembling. The car groans, catching for a few seconds before dying again. The car behind you is only a few hundred feet away from you now, approaching like a stalker chasing its prey.

"What's wrong?", Nina asks, sitting up.

You glance back at your daughter, panic filling you at the sight. You can't let anything happen to her — not now, not ever.

Summoning every ounce of focus, you grip the key again. You turn it, the engine sputters, and then roars to life. A shaky breath escapes you and, without wasting a second, you slam your foot on the gas. The car gains speed quickly, headlights cutting through the darkness once more. Behind you, the strange vehicle's lights recede, disappearing in the distance.

You glance at Nina once more, who's curled up in her booster seat again. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, but she keeps watching you.

"Are we okay now, mommy?", she asks drowsily.

You manage a small, shaky smile. "Yes, baby. We're okay. Go back to sleep, alright?"

The girl nods, her head tilting to one side as she closes her eyes.

You keep checking the rear view mirror every few seconds, unable to shake the feeling that someone is following you. You're practically waiting for the headlights to reappear again, but it doesn't happen. The road stays dark and empty.

You bite your lip, Natasha's words from days ago echoing in your mind: "Trust me."

Can you?

You have no choice now.

. . .

At three in the morning, with snow falling thickly over the narrow, twisting road, the drive through the Catskill Mountains feels more like a scene from a horror movie than a journey to safety. Towering trees loom on either side, their bare branches clawing at the darkness. The headlights barely cut through the swirling snow, and you curse under your breath at Natasha's choice of a safehouse in the middle of nowhere.

It's not something you're not used to — you've been to creepy, deserted places before. Hell, you've been to places that were way worse than this, since you know that you're actually approaching somewhere safe. But you're alone, with a little child and a car that literally broke down a mere hour ago, and you're terrified.

The fact that the safehouse is enveloped by darkness doesn't help. It's tucked deep into the snow, silent and almost ominous, with a narrow road leading up to it. No tracks mar the freshly fallen snow.

You cautiously park the car at the edge of the clearing, the unsettling silence greeting you. Not a trace of light spills from the windows of the house, and Natasha is nowhere in sight.

It looks too quiet. Too abandoned. Too empty.

You scan your surroundings again, but the snow-laden pines give nothing away. You even start to doubt whether she's actually here, which is something that fills you with guilt. No, Natasha would never do that to you.

"Mommy?", Nina mumbles, looking out the window. She immediately thinks the house is scary. It looks like a place a witch would live in. "Where are we?"

"You'll see, NeeNee." You unbuckle and then — hesitantly — reach for your gun. You tuck it into the waistband of your sweatpants before getting you both out of the car. Snow crunches underfoot as you make your way to the cabin, your one arm holding Nina and your free hand resting on the gun.

You approach the dark cabin, its frame both a promise and a threat. You hold Nina tighter as you make your way up the few steps that lead to the porch, then you pause. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting the forest to shift under your gaze or someone to jump out with a knife, but nothing happens.

The cabin door is slightly weathered, its surface a mix of peeling paint and exposed wood. You lift your fist and it hovers above the door for a second or two. Then, a faint creaking sound coming from inside makes you flinch, and you instinctively reach for your gun.

"Mommy, listen", Nina whispers, her voice small but curious.

"Shh, baby", you murmur, your lips brushing the top of her head. You let go of the gun to grab and twist the doorknob, the door creaking open with a reluctant groan.

Inside, faint traces of moonlight spilling in through the windows illuminate the outlines of sparse furniture. The air carries a scent of pine and dust, mixed with the smell of extinguished candles.

"Natasha?", you call hesitantly, glancing around the room to check if some masked killer will suddenly appear with an axe.

Nothing, of course. This isn't a horror movie. But it feels like one — the cabin doesn't answer, its darkness swallowing your words, and you're standing there helplessly. You tighten your grip on Nina as you step inside cautiously, closing the door behind you.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own quiet breathing, mixed with the rustle of Nina's coat as she shifts in your arms. Then, a muffled voice breaks the stillness.

"Took you long enough."

A breath, half-relieved and half-irritated, escapes you as Natasha emerges from the small hallway. You shift Nina on your hip, your eyes narrowed. "You idiot!", you hiss, your voice trembling with relief. "What were you thinking? Why is it so dark? I thought we'd get jumped by some psycho-"

"Y/N", Natasha cuts you off, firmly but gently. She approaches you, her hands outstretched slightly with her palms up — a silent reassurance. Nina smiles widely at the sight, her eyes squinted so she can see the familiar woman better. "You're safe here. Both of you."

You huff, feeling your daughter's hand grip your hoodie. She's unbothered by your nerves. "You could've turned on the lights", you mutter, your voice cracking slightly.

"Didn't want to risk drawing attention", Natasha says, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she approaches you. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"Yeah, we're here now", you snap halfheartedly, your shoulders sagging. You gently put Nina down when she starts squirming. "Which is a miracle, may I add. Could've warned me about the whole invisible ink thing, superspy."

"Didn't think I'd need to hold your hand through that one", she teases, stepping around you to reach the door. She locks it with one swift, practiced movement. "Figured you'd put the pieces together. Which you did."

"Yeah, well. Try not scaring the hell out of me the next time."

"Noted." She turns around, her gaze lingering on you before dropping to Nina, who's blinking sleepily. The excitement from earlier has faded away, and the girl is tired again. "Hey, Tiny."

"Hi", Nina says, giving a small wave. Natasha's expression melts into something warmer, almost tender.

"You did good", she says, crouching down in front of the girl, "sticking with your mom like that. Brave girl."

Your daughter smiles, perking up at the praise. "Mommy said we're going on an adventure", she mumbles. Natasha glances at you, something like amusement shimmering in her eyes.

"An adventure, huh?"

"What was I supposed to say?", you retort. "'Hey, we're fleeing for our lives. By the way, your dad might be the reason'?"

At the sound of your slight bitterness, Natasha's smirk fades. She nods, her face more serious as she crouches down and holds out her hand like a secret pact. "Well, you made it. Adventures don't scare you, right?"

Nina giggles, shaking her head as she grabs Natasha's hand. "No. But mommy was scared."

You raise your eyebrows at her. "I didn't raise you to be a traitor", you scold her playfully.

Natasha smiles, straightening up. "Smart kid", she says. "Takes after you."

"She's the one who discovered the invisible ink", you say, looking at Nina. Her smile is wide, despite the exhaustion that's evident in her eyes. "You're lucky we found the message."

"Nobody else saw it?", Natasha probes, leading you to a small dining nook. "Ethan, for example?"

"No, he didn't." You sit down, pulling Nina into your lap in the process. "We're safe here, right? I mean, what if he-"

"You're safe here", she reassures you again, her hands resting on the surface of the table. "I would've have brought you here if that wasn't the case."

You nod, keeping your daughter close. Silence lingers, heavy and unspoken, broken only by the quiet howling of the wind outside. Nina nestles into you, her eyes drooping as she lets out a tiny yawn. You run a soothing hand through her soft locks, though your own mind is far from at ease.

Natasha glances at you, her face softening at the sight. "There's a double bed in the bedroom", she offers. "I'll crash on the couch."

You look up, exhaustion and vulnerability etched into your features. You don't say anything for a moment, then you shake your head. "No."

She blinks, surprised. "...No?"

"No." You shake your head again. After everything that's happened, you're not going to sleep by yourself. "We're all sleeping in the same bed", you say, straightening up and balancing Nina in your arms. "I just- I need to know you're here. I need to feel that."

The protests die on the tip of her tongue as she looks at you. The bravado from earlier has slipped away, replaced by something raw and fearful. And she wouldn't argue with that.

"Okay", she says softly, nodding. Relief flickers across your face. You don't thank Natasha out loud, but the way you squeeze your arm as you walk past her says enough.

The bedroom is bare and utilitarian, with a simple wooden frame supporting the double bed, but the thick blankets look comfortable and warm, which is all that matters. You tuck Nina in first before slipping in beside her. Natasha hesitates as she sits on the edge of the bed, then she takes off her boots.

"This is a bad idea", she mumbles halfheartedly, curling up on the other side of Nina. The mattress dips slightly underneath her weight.

"Maybe", you reply, already settling into the warmth of the forest green comforters. There's a nightlight that Natasha plugged in near the door, which is dipping the room into a gentle, golden light. "It's the only one I've got for now, though."

Nina nods off quickly, her little breaths quiet and rhythmic as she nestles against you. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, the faint scent of pine and aged wood wrapping around you like a memory.

"We've been here before", you whisper, not wanting to disturb Nina's slumber.

"After New York", Natasha whispers back, her head turning towards you. She smiles faintly.

"You dragged me here after that mess. I think we slept for twenty hours straight."

"You snored", she teases softly, making you huff a laugh. You shoot her a crooked smile.

"You were out so cold you wouldn't have noticed if the building collapsed." You pause, your expression somewhere between weary and wistful as you absentmindedly stroke Nina's hair. "It felt safe. Like nothing could touch us here."

"It still is", she says quietly, looking at you. Her hand shifts under the covers, brushing lightly against yours. Not a grand gesture, just enough to remind you that you aren't alone. "I promise."

. . .

Morning light seeps through the narrow gaps in the blinds, casting thin beams of sunlight across the room. The cabin is quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing — slow and quiet.

You wake up first, the warmth of the bed making it difficult to separate yourself from the cocoon of sleep. But, as you stir, you realize something: you're tangled in a mess of limbs — yours, Natasha's, and Nina's.

Nina is nestled between the two of you, her body half draped across Natasha, the other half across you. Her face is pressed into Natasha's side, her cheek pink from sleep. Natasha has one arm wrapped across the child loosely, the other is tucked underneath your shoulders and holding you close.

You smile softly, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding you. Your life may have fallen apart, shattered into pieces, but this? This feels like a fragile kind of peace.

You watch for a moment, your heart full and warm, then you shift slightly. You're careful, trying not to wake either of them up, but Nina stirs in her sleep. Her little hand fists the fabric of Natasha's shirt as she mumbles something unintelligible.

Eventually, thanks to Nina's movements, Natasha wakes up as well. The look on her face is warm, content, as if the chaos of last night never happened.

"Morning", she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.

Your lips curve into a small smile. You look at Nina, who's still blissfully unaware of the world around her. "I think we've made a human knot here."

"It's cozy", Natasha says, her hand gently adjusting your daughter's position without waking her.

"I'm glad we're here", you say, shifting a little to press a kiss to Nina's temple. You hesitate, then tilt your head up and kiss Natasha's cheek as well. "For saving us", you tease, though your heart feels heavy. "Can't just exclude you."

"Very thoughtful", she whispers, considering to pull you into an actual kiss this time. But Nina finally rouses from sleep and she sits up, rubbing her cheeks. She scrunches up her face, eyes squeezing shut to block out the sunlight seeping in through the windows. Natasha smiles, pulling the girl into a light hug, and Nina hums happily as she nuzzles into her side and falls back asleep.

You simply look at them, realizing the same thing once more — this is where you're supposed to be. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can finally rest.

. . .

— THE FALLOUT BEGINS —

The moment Ethan opens his eyes, he knows something is off.

His hand blindly reaches out for you, but his fingertips are met with the cold material of the bedsheets. Seems like you're up already — which isn't unusual, as you sometimes manage to wake up before him —, but today, there is no telltale hum of activity coming from downstairs.

Instead, the house is eerily quiet. No faint sound of Nina's giggles, no murmur of cartoons playing on the tv, no waft of coffee coming in through the slightly ajar door. He sits up, running his hand through his hair nervously, then he finally plucks up the courage to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and get up.

His movements are slow, unhurried, as if his body hasn't caught up to his mind yet. He pads to the door and pauses, listening for any signs of life — nothing.

Growing more worried by the second, he makes his way down the stairs. He glances into the living room — empty. The kitchen is spotless, a mug resting in the sink. He frowns, confusion cutting through the mess in his head. You hate leaving before cleaning up.

Then, he notices something else. The drawer where you keeps the keys to your Range Rover is ajar. The keys? Gone.

Ethan looks around the room frantically as if he expects to see them somewhere. Instead, his gaze lands on an envelope sticking out of the fruit bowl. He takes a few tentative steps toward it, then he reaches for it. He pulls out a letter, the text inside typed and printed. His eyes scan its contents, once, twice, then the truth sinks in.

It's the letter you received not too long ago, the one that confirmed your suspicions about Ethan. You had no idea who sent it, obviously — but Ethan knows immediately.

Isabelle.

She sent you this letter, causing you to pack your stuff and leave. With Nina. And now his family is gone, gone without so much as a goodbye.

Fuming, he pulls out his phone and dials Isabelle's number. He starts to pace around the room, his fingertips rubbing at his hairline as he waits for her to pick up. When she does, he comes to an abrupt stop.

"How could you?", he barks without waiting for her to say much besides 'hello', his hand landing flat on the surface of the kitchen island. "Are you dumb? You ratted me out to my wife? Isabelle, I am going to KILL you-"

"Relax, Tiger", she says, clearly amused by his little outburst. She pops a maraschino cherry into her mouth, chewing idly. "You're interrupting my beach day."

"Beach day? You think I give a fuck about that? Isabelle, my family is gone! Because of you!", he yells, breaking out into a cold sweat. "They're gone! She took my kid, you moron!"

"Please. Aren't you the one who's been having an affair for months now? With me, may I add. I really doubt your kid is your top priority."

"That doesn't matter! This- this isn't just about us!" Ethan slams his hand down on the marble surface again, his chest feeling tight. All his secrets, the ones he's managed to keep locked away for so long, are now teetering on the edge of exposure. "You're fucking stupid, that's what you are! Did all that cocaine fry your fucking brain?"

"My god, Ethie-kins. No need to swear so much." Isabelle laughs, emptying her cocktail with one quick sip. "You're always so stressed. You should be relieved, now that you've gotten rid of those two. I mean, you always go on and on and on about how tedious it is, don't you? Now it's finally just the two of us."

"That's not the point! What if she informs the authorities? What if she reports me? I have worked so hard for this!"

Isabelle tuts, a sound that nearly sends him through the roof. He's seconds away from ripping the entire place apart.

"That's what you're worried about? My, my, you're naive. Your little wifey is far too busy taking care of that brat you created. If I were you, I'd worry about her girlfriend", she says nonchalantly, making him freeze.

He stays silent for a moment — girlfriend? what in the world? —, and then it clicks. Mommy's friend. The redhead that left his office building. That's why Nina knew her.

He grabs the neckline of his shirt, which suddenly seems way too tight, and tugs on it.

"What?", he croaks.

"You didn't know? Wow, men really are oblivious. You think you're the only one who can have an affair, boo?" She laughs and keeps talking, but her next words barely register in his mind. "At least we've got them both in the same spot now. Makes things easier."

Ethan shakes his head, his hand stretching out before he balls it into a tight fist again. "You're lying. Y/N is not...she..."

"What? Not gay? Because she married you? Frankly, I thought you'd be smarter. Not much smarter, no, but seriously?" Isabelle slides off the barstool gracefully, her bare feet dipping into the sand in front of her. "You know, you're really ruining my vacation. I'm supposed to get a massage in ten minutes."

"Shut up!", he yells, sweeping the fruit bowl off the kitchen island. It shatters on the floor, shards everywhere, apples rolling around. "I don't give a fuck about your vacation! Isabelle, who is she?"

"Oh, nobody important. Barely worth mentioning." She smiles to herself, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "Ever heard of Natasha Romanoff?"

. . .

The entire kitchen smells sweet and milky. Natasha's sitting in the dining nook, sipping on a steaming cup of something, and there's a pot of rice pudding boiling on the stove. It's warm in the cabin, despite the fact that it snowed all night.

The sound of small feet padding across the floor breaks the calm. Natasha looks up to see Nina, hair tousled and still sleepy from sleep, appear in the doorway. The girl smiles when she sees her, her entire face lighting up.

"Morning", Natasha greets warmly.

Nina's smile only widens. She scrambles into Natasha's lap without a second thought, nestling herself into the safety of her arms.

You appear seconds later, your messy hair and tired eyes still making you look like you've just woken up. You offer Natasha a small smile as you catch her eye, then you step in front of the stove. You nudge the pot of rice pudding to check its consistency, then stir the frozen wild blueberries she's heating up separately. Your voice, when it comes, is low.

"I was thinking we stay here for a while. No rush."

"Sounds good", she says, her hand lightly resting on Nina's back. "I think you could both use the time to breathe."

You nod, scooping some rice pudding into a bowl and topping it off with hot blueberries. You put the bowl in front of Nina and hand her a spoon, watching her scoop some pudding up and blow on it.

"She loves it here", you murmur as your daughter carefully tries a tiny amount of rice pudding. "Which is quite the compliment. She usually needs more time to adjust to new places. I think we can both make peace with it."

Natasha hums, not pushing for more than that. There is no need. For now, you have time.

Nina looks at Natasha, her mouth stained with blueberries. Natasha smiles, using her thumb to wipe the fruit juice off her face. "I like rice soup", Nina declares happily.

"That's rice pudding", Natasha reveals.

"Oh." The girl pauses, then lifts her spoon to offer Natasha a bite. "Do you like rice pudding?"

"I do", she says, smiling, and runs her hand over the little girl's head. "But I should let you finish that before I try some. Or maybe your mom will get me a bowl as well?"

Without hesitating, you scoop rice pudding into a second bowl. Blueberries on top, then you put the bowl in front of Natasha.

"Thank you, mommy", Natasha teases, making you roll your eyes. You gently swat at the back of her head and she laughs, a fond glint in her eyes. You smile and shake your head, momentarily forgetting about everything else.

The soft clink of spoons against bowls fills the living space as you settle into your makeshift breakfast routine. But as the quiet stretches on, something nags at the back of your mind. You've been avoiding it for hours at this point, so you quietly get up and walk over to your bag on the counter.

You grab your phone, press the power button and watch the familiar lock screen greet you. Then, a bunch of messages start popping up.

Ethan: Where are you? — 7.25am

Ethan: This isn't funny, Y/N. Come home. We need to talk. — 7.26am

Ethan: I've called in some favors. You know what that means. — 7.28am

With shaky hands, you put your phone aside. But your eyes stay glued to the screen.

Ethan has resources, you knew that already. You know it's only be a matter of time before he starts looking for you — he won't let you slip away that easily.

"What's wrong?", Natasha's voice cuts through the silence.

You glance at her, then shake your head. "Just Ethan."

"Everything okay?"

You nod, slipping your phone back into your bag. "I'll have to deal with it eventually", you say quietly, as to not disturb your daughter. She's happily eating the last spoonfuls of your rice pudding, scraping out the bowl as best as she can.

Natasha frowns, her fingers gently combing through Nina's hair. At least your daughter is oblivious to the storm brewing just outside your little sanctuary.

. . .

It doesn't take long for Ethan to start freaking out. The texts he sent you are just the beginning. A subtle warning, a desperate attempt to get you back home now.

He googles Natasha's name, asks a few of his 'friends' about her, does his own research. The more he finds out, the worse his nausea gets.

He's been trying to convince himself that he's not the bad guy here all day. What did he do, after all? Attend a few shady auctions? Buy some artworks? Oh no, the horrors.

Deep down, however, he's aware of just how much he's done.

He's been funding human trafficking rings. He's been putting lives at risk. He's the one who's been too complacent, too blinded by his own ambitions, and now his family is gone. Natasha has found them — and now he's up against something far worse than a petty affair.

Natasha Romanoff. Not just a threat, but the threat. He keeps scrolling through the information on her, nervously licking his lips in the process. Her reputation, her history. The things she's done, the lives she's ended. The connections she has. And now, they have his name.

Ethan grabs his keyboard and slams it against the wall, individual keys falling out and clacking quietly as they fall on the floor. He scrubs a hand down his face and gets up, nervously pacing through his office.

Without thinking twice, he picks up the phone and calls the one person who'll get you and his daughter back home.

"Ethan?", he says, his voice deep and rich with depth.

"Hey, Vance", he says curtly, running his fingers through his short hair and tugging on it. "There's an issue. I need you to help me out."

"Calling in favors, I see. What did you do this time?"

"I didn't 'do' anything", he immediately snaps, then forces himself to calm down. If anyone can find the two of you, it's Vance Harrington. He can't get on his bad side. "Look, I need you to find out where my wife is. She left. Took my kid with her."

"Sounds like they're running from you, man. You screwed up?"

Ethan grits his teeth. "I don't need your commentary. Just find out where they are. Make sure they come back home before things escalate."

Vance laughs, a sound that's smooth like butter. "Fine, fine. I can track 'em. But you know the drill — it'll cost you."

"I don't care about the cost! Just get it done."

"Alright, I'll need a few hours", Vance replies. "But I'll find them. When I do, I'll let you know. Don't go anywhere, Ethan. You wouldn't want this getting out of hand."

The call ends, and Ethan sinks back into his chair. A moment later, his phone buzzes.

Vance: It's a small world. You'll want to make sure she knows where she stands. Don't make me remind you. — 10.52pm

It's a cryptic message that makes Ethan feel uneasy, but he pushes the uncomfortable feeling down. He has no choice — he needs you back. He can't let his family slip through his fingers, not after he worked so hard to build everything you have.

Little does he know that a simple, two-minute phone call would start a ripple effect.

. . .

A faint scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs fills the air. Nina is perched on the counter, her little hands clumsy but determined as she follows Natasha's instructions. Together, they carefully cut potatoes and carrots into cubes.

"It's my birthday soon", Nina informs Natasha, briefly looking up from the cutting board. The woman smiles. "I'm going to be four."

"Yeah?" Natasha hums, scooping the potato cubes into a bowl. She adds some olive oil and then hands the potatoes to you so you can season them. "What do you want for your birthday, Tiny?"

"A puppy", your daughter says, beaming. She glances at you to make sure you don't argue — you've said no to pets more times than she can count —, then she keeps talking. "A little one. Can I get a puppy, Natasha? Please?"

You exchange a quick glance with her, raising your eyebrows teasingly. Try getting out of this one, is what your eyes say. But she just smiles, shrugging.

"You know what, Tiny?", Natasha says, scooping Nina into her arms. "How about we first finish making lunch. Puppies can wait."

"Okay", she says, then leans in and whispers into her ear: "Please, Natasha. I really want a puppy."

"I heard that", you say, amused, as your gaze shifts to the window.

Snow is falling in a dense flurry, swirling and thick as they add more layers to the blur of white that's covering the ground. A snowman is waiting next to the porch, its pebble-smile crooked. It'd be a peaceful, idyllic scene, if it weren't for the black SUV disrupting it.

A large vehicle with tinted windows and a man sitting behind the wheel. He doesn't move or get out — he simply sits and stares.

You freeze and stop stirring the soup in front of you. Your heart starts racing, a cold wave of anxiety washing over you. Slowly, you reach out for Natasha. She glances at you, then follows your stunned gaze out the window. Her hand moves toward the weapon she has hidden in one of the drawers instinctively.

The man doesn't move for what feels like an eternity, his eyes fixed on the cabin with unnerving precision. Then he starts the engine of the SUV, the sound cutting through the air like a knife, and slowly pulls away from the cabin.

You watch him disappear. The silence afterwards feels oppressive.

"Mommy?", Nina says insecurely, tugging at your hand. Her head is tilted to the side, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "What happened?"

You look at her, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing", you say, trying to sound reassuring. Natasha bites the insides of her cheeks, still staring out of the window.

The black SUV was just a warning, but it's concerning nonetheless. Ethan clearly doesn't like that you left, and now he'll know where you are.

. . .

You thought one car showing up unannounced would be bad, but neither of you had an idea.

A few days pass in between. Snow melts and then falls again, the temperatures turn icy, the atmosphere slowly shifts to a less tense one. The cabin is silent save for the occasional wind gust against the windows and the soft crackle of the wood stove. The storm outside has grown harsher over the past few hours, with snow piling high around the cabin and isolating you further.

The three of you are calmer than you should be given the events of the past days. You're having dinner together — a sparse meal consisting of canned stew and Ritz crackers, since Natasha hasn't had a chance to go to the only nearby grocery store yet.

You look up from your plate, breaking the silence that's settled over you. "Natasha", you say, putting your spoon aside. "Have you heard anything else from SHIELD? Any updates?"

"No", she says, her posture tensing up. "Nothing yet."

It's clear that she, just like you, has been expecting something — anything — to happen. The quiet you're experiencing now is a prelude to the storm she's waiting for. She can't shake the feeling that the people she's been investigating, the ones she's been digging into so thoroughly, are aware of her presence now.

The silence stretches on, until a faint sound disrupts it. A car engine, too close, too precise, purrs in the distance.

You and Natasha exchange a look. She exhales before rising quietly, subtly slipping her Glock into her pocket before making her way to the window. Nina looks up briefly, her face scrunching up.

"Where is Natasha going?"

"Shh", you say, putting your hand on hers.

Natasha stands in front of the window. Again, a black car is pulling into the clearing by the cabin, but it's a different one this time. Her chest tightens.

It's them. The ones she's been investigating, the ones who've been tracking her.

"Is that...?"

"Yes", she murmurs, her voice low but filled with urgency. "They've found us."

The vehicle has stopped a few yards away from the cabin, its engine dying with a soft hum. No one gets out immediately, the world seeming to hold its breath. Then, the door opens, and a tall man with broad shoulders and graying hair exits. Another one follows, bald and tattooed all over, his expression grim.

They both stand in front of the cabin as they survey it from a distance, taking it all in. You're vulnerable here, and the stakes have never been higher.

"Stay here", Natasha orders, quickly moving to the front door. You frown and shake your head, instinctively pulling Nina into your lap.

"What? No! You don't know who that is, what if-"

"Y/N", she interrupts you, slipping into her coat. "This isn't just a random threat anymore. This is targeted. Now stay here and keep the kid safe."

Outside, the men start heading to the cabin. Natasha glances at you one last time before she opens the door. You want to argue, to follow her, but you can't. It'd be too risky. Instead you watch as the door falls shut behind her with a groan and a click, leaving you and Nina alone.

Natasha approaches them, keeping her distance but not showing fear. They stop in their tracks.

"You", one of them sneers, the other one reaching for his gun. "You think you can just walk away? We don't just let people disappear after they dig into our business."

"I suggest you leave", she says, her voice low. "Otherwise, I could make this way worse for you."

A standoff. A moment of tension thick enough to cut.

The men exchange a look, communicating silently. One of them pulls out a gun, causing Natasha to point her own Glock at him.

Then, without warning, the other man moves, drawing his gun way too quickly for her to react.

A gunshot rings through the air.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlets @upsidedowndanvers @s1ut4nat

[jinjoohaa]

TOJI X READER !!!

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (dad's friend! AU)

Under His Roof

Content Warnings (Please Read): Age gap, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Overstimulation , Corruption kink, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Degrading talk, Jealousy sex, First time sex, Size kink, Fingering, Grinding, Dry humping , Possessiveness/Obsession, Breeding kink, Spanking/Discipline, Biting / Marking, Angst & emotional manipulation, Soft/dom moments later on, Minors DO NOT INTERACT (18+ ONLY)

prev chapter | next chapter

Chapter 14

Few weeks passed in a blur.

Every day, he finds a way to remind you that you belong to him, that your every move, every breath is for him. You don’t even notice when you stop questioning it. When you stop resisting. You’ve already fallen too far into his grasp, and now it feels like there's no way out.

He spoils you—over and over again. New clothes, new shoes, a new purse. All things he picks out. All things that he knows you’ll like. You never have to decide on anything. He makes the decisions for you, and somehow, it’s easier that way. There’s no uncertainty, no need to think for yourself. Toji has all the answers.

One evening, after dinner at one of his favorite spots, he takes you back to his place. The car ride is quiet, the air thick with something you can’t put your finger on. When you pull up to his apartment, he doesn’t let you go inside immediately. Instead, he parks the car, keeping his hand on your knee, making you wait.

“Stay here a sec,” he tells you, his voice low, almost like a command. You glance at him, your heart racing, and nod without a word. He always has that effect on you—one look, one command, and you’re obeying.

He steps out of the car, and when he comes back, he’s holding a bag from a boutique you’ve been eyeing for weeks, the same one where you’d picked out that one perfume you’d loved but never bought. Your eyes widen when he hands it to you.

“Open it,” he murmurs, his voice filled with the same confidence that always makes you melt.

You hesitate, fingers trembling slightly as you take the bag. Inside is the perfume you wanted, along with a new set of silky lingerie—a deep red, the kind of set you’d never thought you'd wear. He’s already picking things out for you without even asking.

“You like it?” he asks, his eyes watching you closely. His hand slides to the back of your neck, rubbing gently as you pull the items out.

“It’s too much,” you say quietly, feeling overwhelmed by the extravagance. It’s like he knows your every desire, your every need, before you even do.

“Too much?” He tilts his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I know you want it, baby. You wanted this stuff, right?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I did, but…”

“But nothing.” He cuts you off, his grip tightening slightly on your neck, pulling you closer to him.

“I told you, you’re gonna let me spoil you. I know what you need. And you’ll never feel better than when you’re in my hands. You get that?”

You can’t help but shiver. He’s so sure of himself, so confident in his control over you. And somehow, that makes you feel safe, even though part of you knows it’s twisted.

“I—” Your voice shakes, unsure of what to say. “I just don’t want to owe you so much…”

“Too late,” he interrupts again, his lips brushing your ear as he presses you back against the seat. His hand slides over your thigh, a slow, possessive motion that makes you feel like you’re his only.

“You already owe me. You’re mine, remember? That’s what this is about. You think you’ll ever find anyone who treats you better than me? No one loves like i do.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he cuts you off, pulling you into a kiss that’s deep, all-consuming. His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and demanding. His hands go lower, slipping beneath your dress as he presses you into the seat, controlling the kiss, controlling you.

You can feel his fingers already pulling at the hem of your underwear, pushing them aside as he slips one finger inside you without a second thought.

Your breath hitches in your throat, but it’s not fear—it’s need. You can’t deny it. You want this. You want him inside you again, you want him to fill you, to claim you.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he growls, his lips trailing down your neck, his fingers curling deeper inside you.

You whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders, your body arching up toward his touch. “I’m yours, Toji,” you breathe out, barely able to control yourself. “I’m yours.”

He smiles against your skin, pulling his fingers out slowly and then licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I knew you’d say that.” His voice is thick with satisfaction, with pride. “You know why? Because you love this. You love being mine.”

You look at him, your eyes wide and vulnerable. “I do…”

His hands slide up your body, cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your dress.

“Good girl. All mine."

When you’re finally inside his apartment, he wastes no time. He undresses you slowly, as if savoring every inch of your skin.

Each touch is deliberate, slow, like he’s marking you—claiming you. When you’re bare before him, he steps back, admiring his work, his smirk widening as he looks at you.

“You look perfect like this,” he says, his voice dark and low. “Just for me.”

You shiver, heat rising in your chest as you look up at him. “Toji… I—”

He cuts you off, his finger pressing against your lips, silencing you. “Shh. Don’t talk. Just feel.”

Before you can respond, he’s lifting you up, guiding you to the bed, and you don’t hesitate.

You don’t think about anything except him—his hands on your skin, his cock inside you. You let him take control because deep down, you crave it.

He kisses you hard, his hands rough as he pushes you down onto the bed, spreading your legs wide.

“You’re gonna stay with me, right? You’re never leaving again.”

You nod eagerly. “I—I’m not going anywhere."

His smile is dark, satisfied. “Good.”

And as he takes you again, slow, methodical, pushing deep inside you, you realize that you’ve given up every last piece of yourself to him. You don’t have the strength to fight it anymore.

The way he speaks to you, the way he touches you, makes you feel like there’s no place for you but in his arms.

No one else will love you like he does.

No one else will ever own you the way he does.

And somewhere deep down, you started to feel it’s true.

————————

The Days repeated. The lies repeated.

It’s past ten when you finally slip your phone back into your bag, the lie freshly typed out in a message to your dad.

“Staying over at Rina’s. Don’t wait up.”

Toji watches you from the kitchen doorway, towel slung around his neck, hair damp from a shower. His eyes linger a little too long on the nervous flick of your thumbs as you lock your screen.

He doesn’t say anything—just smirks.

“You look guilty, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Told your old man you were with your friend again, huh?”

You swallow, nodding silently.

Toji lets out a soft laugh, low and warm, but there’s a bite underneath. “Good girl,” he says. “Lyin’ so sweet for me already.”

You know it shouldn’t make you feel this way—your chest tight and fluttering, heat crawling up your neck—but his praise always does something to you.

Like a reward for misbehaving.

Like you're only good when you're being bad for him.

He brushes your hair behind your ear and leans in.

“You scared I’ll make you do somethin’ filthy again tonight?”

Your eyes widen a little, but you don’t answer. You never do, not directly. You just stand there—nervous, breath shallow, thighs pressed together.

And he loves that. God, he lives for that.

“You always look like you wanna run,” he murmurs against your neck.

“But you keep coming back, don’t you?”

He doesn't wait for permission. He never does.

One of his hands snakes under your hoodie, fingers warm on your bare stomach. You gasp, but he shushes you softly, guiding you back, walking you toward his bedroom like you're something fragile and dangerous at once.

By the time your knees hit the bed, he’s already pulled your hoodie up and off, leaving you in the soft little tank top he likes to tug at, loves to mouth over.

He cups your chest through it, slow and deliberate, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your breath starts catching, your thighs twitching.

“Sensitive again?” he whispers. “Haven’t even touched you properly yet, baby.”

Your face burns. You want to hide, to turn away, but he won’t let you. His grip’s firm under your chin, making you look at him.

“Say it,” he says quietly, gaze locked onto yours.

“Tell me what you want.”

You shake your head, lips parted but no words coming out. He squeezes gently—your jaw, then your breast—before speaking again.

“Don’t make me tease it out of you all night. You know what I like. C’mon… tell me where you want me.”

Your voice trembles when you whisper it. “T-Toji…”

“That’s not an answer.”

You take a breath. “Touch me…”

He raises a brow, but stays silent.

You bite your lip. “I want y—your hands on me… inside me…”

His smirk sharpens, like he’s just won a bet. “There’s my girl.”

What follows is slow and unbearable. You’re already wet before he even gets your panties off, and he makes sure to tell you just how soaked you are, how easy it is to slip two fingers in and make you writhe and how soft you're inside your cunt.

When you try to hide your face, he doesn’t let you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your breasts—tongue flicking, teeth grazing—and he keeps whispering how soft you are, how good you take him, how sweet you sound when you’re trying not to beg.

And when he finally slips inside you—deep and slow, like he’s slotting into a space that was always his—he makes you keep your eyes open. Keeps you face-to-face while your body trembles under his.

He doesn’t fuck you fast. Not this time.

This time, he holds you still, your legs around his waist, his cock filling you until you're squirming, clinging, shaking with the need to move.

But he won’t let you.

“You’ll sit like this for a while,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your flushed face.

“Feel how good I am to you. Feel what you ran away from.”

You whimper. “T-Toji, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes, dragging his mouth over your cheek. “You can take all of me. You will.”

You stay like that, buried in him, barely able to breathe.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s perfect.

Your whole body clenches and shakes and you know you shouldn’t want this, not this badly, not after everything—but the way he touches you, the way he fills you and murmurs into your skin, it’s like he’s the only person who’s ever really seen you. Claimed you.

When you finally come, it’s not loud. It’s broken—choked into his chest, your fingernails digging into his back. He groans against your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. He stays inside you after, still hard, still deep, his hand stroking over your thigh.

“That’s it,” he whispers.

“That’s how I want you. Too fucked-out to lie. Too full of me to think.”

You nod weakly, blinking up at him.

He leans in and kisses your forehead.

“You scared, baby?”

You hesitate. Just long enough for him to notice.

“That’s okay,” he says, his voice almost soft.

“You ran away before. It's in the past now I get it. I pushed too hard.”

You bite your lip, eyes glassy.

“But you’re not gonna run again, are you?” he asks.

“Not when I take care of you like this. Give you the things you like. Make you feel this good.”

“I—” Your voice is thin. “I was just… overwhelmed…”

He nods like he understands. “So I’m gonna always do better,” he says.

“But in return…”

He slips his hand between your thighs again, just enough pressure to make you jolt. “You keep being good for me. You stay right here. Where you belong.”

You shudder. “O-Okay…”

He smiles. “Atta girl.”

And when he finally lets you rest—pulls the blanket up, tucks your hair back, cradles you in that same chest you just sobbed into—he whispers, “I love you baby. You know that, right?”

You nod into his skin.

“I’ll spoil you. Fuck you. Own you. And you’ll love every damn second.”

You fall asleep like that. Wrapped in his scent, full of him, trapped in the safety of his arms and the danger of his promise.

to be continued in the next chapter.....

.