#dragging your fingers through his strands

[spookyji]

marquis diamond. s.jy

cw. baby trapping, dubcon, toxic relationship (jake is obsessed).

so pretty, jake murmurs, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. in the dress he chose, the jewelry he picked. and despite his loving voice, admiring gaze, you can’t help but flinch at his touch as his hand caresses your leg beneath your dress, feeling the soft skin of your inner thighs. the skirt of your dress pulled up to reveal the wet spot in your panties, as he smiles slightly. good girl.

as if there’s anything but an option. jake never lets you outside. it’s only on occasions like this, dinner with his parents on the rare overseas visit to pretend like everything is perfect. it’s not all pretend for him, the way it is for you. in all his lovesickness, this insanity really is perfection. the doors with only one key… after the biometric scanners, the jewelry embedded with trackers. and the mark you can’t escape, the cum he’s filled you up with every chance he can, dripping into your panties from your swollen pussy, sore from only an hour ago.

his parents adore him, you even more so. the restaurant dinner should be heartwarming, romantic, as jake never lets go of your hand, always leaning in for kisses every couple of minutes, obsessed. his parents preening at how good he is to you, listening to him say words for you as you smile, your thighs rubbing together uncomfortably at the feeling of his cum seeping out into a sticky mess in your panties, the fear that they’ll see through the facade,, because jake is frightening through the lovesickness if you try and resist. but there’s something more disturbing him, as his dark gaze flits around.

not feeling well, my love? jake asks, his voice laced with concern as you shake your head, the hand tightening around your wrist. play along. and he lies to his parents with such ease, saying he’ll take you outside for a little for some fresh air. they miss the way he takes you anywhere but, the bathroom door locked behind the two of you. i don’t like it, all those people who can see you, jake’s grip bruising your wrist as he drags you towards the sink counter, his free hand holding your face, i hate it. an insanity in his gaze, as his lips press against yours.

you’re the most beautiful thing in this whole word, jake murmurs, his teeth nipping on the lobe of your ear, slowly breathing in the scent of your hair, the edge of the bathroom counter digging into your ribs as he turns you around, his body pressed up to every inch of yours, kisses pressed into your hair, cheek, the line of your jaw, hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulder. look at you, so perfect. the mirror reflects back to you lovers that should’ve never been, but in his rose tinted eyes, lovers that are nothing but perfect.

i don’t know what i would do without you, he sighs, i love you so much, i’m going insane… jake quietly shushing your little whimpers at the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, the slow drag of the zip of his pants following. his voice so soothing for someone so deluded, his stiff hard on pressed into you from behind, jake’s hand sliding between your legs to push them apart slightly, just enough to tug away your panties, sticky with the cum he’s left in you. rubbing your clit through your panties, fingers deftly coaxing out your slick arousal, semen seeping from your pussy down your thighs. jake, t-they’re waiting for us— you mumble, only for his free hand to push against your lips. open up, he murmurs, sighing as you hesitantly part your lips, sucking on his fingertips the way you know he wants you to, don’t think about anyone but me. you’re at his mercy, unable to resist as he coos at the way you tremble under him, remnants of cum and fresh arousal coating his fingertips.

‘til he’s satisfied as you weakly cling to the smooth countertop, his fingers pull out of your mouth. j-jake, please, you whisper, i— you begin, only for your words to be silenced by his hand over your lips, muffling your hesitation, as he slowly ruts into your ass. no, he won’t wait to ruin you. not when jake owns all of you, he doesn’t take no. spit, he instructs. good girl, his palm covered in your saliva as you reluctantly obey, the slick, lewd sound of his hand coating his cock with your spit, your dress pulled up as tears prick at your eyes, forced into his desires. his hand on the small of your back pushing you into the countertop, biting your lip to resist the moans that threaten to slip through as jake pushes into your swollen pussy, your body betraying you as your warmth sucks him in little by little, clenched tightly in need.

mm— so fucking good f’me, jake groans, his hips sharply snapping into yours roughly, thrusts loud with slaps of skin on skin. the countertop jutting into into your skin as the first tear slips down your pretty face, jake—! you whimper, shocked by the rough intensity of his urges, somewhere, pleasure ebbs with the pain, the soreness that comes with being fucked again and again. that’s right, say my name, baby, his moans laced with such lovesickness, adoration. look at you. through the blur of tears welling up, you can see in the bathroom mirror, your ruined face to him must be so pretty. and jake’s hard thrusts abusing your cute cunt, tip kissing your womb with relentless intentions.

you’re all mine, he moans, mine. gonna fill you up, yeah? full with my baby– in his deluded fantasy, you’ll be completely his. you, him, and a little family. knocked up with his babies, you’d never be able to leave. so vulnerable and reliant on him, even more than you already are,, after all, jake just wants to completely adore you, spoil you, and keep you, his perfect lover. he has so much love to give you, won’t you accept it? he’ll prove it to you, with how good he’ll take care of you and his baby. and it’ll happen sooner or later… if it hasn’t already happened, with how much he’s filled you up with his release. kisses so lovingly pressed into your shoulder, your hair, the corner of your lips. jake loves you so much, won’t you love him back the same?

your sobs freely slipping from your lips, as your body gives into release, so pleasing to him as he murmurs praises into you, ‘til hot, creamy cum fills up your abused pussy, seed filling your womb as warmth spreads beneath your skin, tummy bulging with his heavy load. mm, love you, love you, love you, he moans as your heat milks him of his release, as if your body knows what he wants. jake, you cry, as pain throbs between your thighs, pussy sore from being used again and again, bred up so full every chance he has.

my perfect doll, jake whispers, pulling out to turn you around, so vulnerable into his arms. you’re so pretty when you cry, your glossy eyes and bitten lips, so absolutely ruined. so bred full, you’ll behave for him. flinching as he slides your panties up, his fingers pressing briefly into your swollen pussy through the thin fabric, satisfied with the way it’s still wet with his cum as it seeps from your folds. kissing your lips sweetly, slow and romantic… and spitting possessively into your mouth, wiping away the remnants on your lip. jake’s fingers combing through your hair, wiping away your tears before holding to your waist, taking you back to the dinner table. and you know it doesn’t end here tonight, even when you’re constantly swollen and full with his load.

jake’s insatiable.

—

officially adding enha to the list of groups i write for !

[formulaonecrumbs]

always hated the quiet

Lando Norris x university-student!reader

summary: both of them had a weird day and just needed each other.

warnings: just a kiss, swearing? ig. purely fluffy

A/N: i love soft domestic lando and i’ve been missing writing him (+ i’ve never been more motivated to write like this in my life so y’all get a lot today) enjoy!! i lovezzz uuzzz ❤️

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

the silence had been too loud all day.

you’d tried music, then turned it off. tried switching rooms. even made a cup of tea you didn’t really want just to fill a few minutes. but nothing worked—not really. the stillness of the apartment without him in it made everything feel muted, like your thoughts were running underwater.

you were supposed to be studying. there was a test next week and a stack of notes highlighted in every color under the sun, but nothing was sticking. it wasn’t burnout. it wasn’t even the material. it was just… too quiet.

so when the door finally clicked open and lando walked in, the relief hit you like air after holding your breath.

he looked exhausted. didn’t say a word as he stepped inside, just let his bag drop and wandered into the living room, limbs loose and heavy like he’d barely made it through the day.

“hi,” you said softly, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

he didn’t answer right away, just sat down beside you, his body sinking into the couch like it had been calling to him all day. he leaned forward with a quiet groan, elbows on his knees, hands dragging down his face.

“everything went wrong today,” he mumbled.

you closed your laptop, letting it slide off your lap and onto the coffee table. “want to talk about it?”

lando shook his head, curls shifting with the motion. “not really. just… wanna be here.”

“okay,” you whispered. and that was enough.

he leaned back into the cushions, and slowly—so slowly—rested his head against your shoulder. your hand found his hair without thinking, fingers brushing gently through the soft strands. his body melted a little more, like just the touch of you was enough to loosen everything wound tight in his chest.

“couldn’t focus,” you murmured after a while. “not the same when you’re not home.”

lando hummed. “missed you too.”

you stayed like that for a long time, both of you wordless and still. the weight of the day unwinding in the quiet hum between you. but eventually, his stomach let out a low, mournful growl.

you laughed softly, tilting your head to look down at him. “someone needs dinner.”

“someone,” he echoed, eyes closed, “wants to keep lying here forever.”

“you’ll starve,” you teased.

“worth it.”

you nudged him gently, but he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles, warm and unhurried. “come on,” you said. “we’ll cook something together.”

lando groaned like the idea was physically painful, but followed you anyway, trailing into the kitchen like a sleepy puppy. the two of you moved in quiet sync—nothing fancy, just pasta and garlic bread and salad, but it was enough. you boiled water while he chopped vegetables, sneaking a few pieces into his mouth when he thought you weren’t looking.

“we should open a restaurant,” he said, bumping his hip into yours.

“we’d go bankrupt in a week,” you said, grinning.

“worth it,” he repeated, and leaned in to kiss you. it was soft, slower than usual. he tasted like basil and something warm, something familiar. your fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, holding him there just a second longer before pulling away with a reluctant sigh.

“the sauce is burning,” you whispered against his lips.

lando blinked. “shit.”

you both scrambled to save it, laughing quietly as he stirred too fast and splattered some onto the counter. you threw him a towel, and he wiped it up with exaggerated flair. “chef norris to the rescue.”

“chef norris almost ruined dinner.”

“minor details.”

eventually, you both sat on the floor in the living room, dinner spread out on the coffee table like a makeshift picnic. it wasn’t fancy, but it was good. warm. easy. lando stretched his legs out, one of them draped over yours like he needed to keep touching you to stay grounded.

“feels better now,” he said after a while, poking at a piece of garlic bread. “being here. with you.”

you smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “me too.”

after dinner, he helped you clean up—insisting on drying the dishes with a ridiculous amount of flair that made you giggle under your breath. and when the kitchen was back to normal, he followed you to the couch again, curling up beside you like he belonged there.

“okay,” he said, peeking at your laptop. “show me what you’re stuck on.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re tired.”

“i’ll live.” he reached over and tapped your screen. “besides, i kinda like hearing you talk about smart things.”

you laughed. “i don’t think you’ll be saying that in ten minutes.”

but he stayed beside you, head on your shoulder again, eyes on the screen as you read through your notes. he asked questions when you stumbled. helped you work through an explanation or two. and even though he wasn’t an expert, even though half of it probably went over his head, it helped.

because he was there.

and the quiet didn’t feel empty anymore.

THE END :>

[sacred-treasure]

suggestive, smut, 18+, mdni

“on your right,” toji mumbles, his words muffled from where his lips press into your neck. his arms are loosely wrapped around your stomach while his eyes are trained on the screen, watching you play a game on the big television hanging on the wall opposite of the bed.

“how are you so good at this? i only bought the game two days ago,” you speak up from your spot between his spread legs. he merely chuckles at your question and the sound rumbles through you; your back is pressed against his bare chest and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t distracted by his close proximity as you followed every one his directions.

you push the joystick on the controller in your hands, guiding your character to the right. “he’s not looking. use the shotgun, baby,” he whispers, his gaze now trained on your focused face. you squint your eyes, fingers moving to switch weapons before aiming the gun and firing.

“there you go,” he praises as the other player is eliminated in just two hits, your own experience points rising from the combat. “knew my girl had it.”

you swear he’s doing this on purpose: his smell completely engulfing you, his thick fingers tightening into your soft skin, the raspy tone of his voice that he’d most likely chalk up to just exhaustion. it’s like he’s trying to work you up.

with your brain working at about half clarity, you try your best to scope out any other players. thankfully, the pixelated city is empty, but you do find a large stash of loot on the ground. it’s clear that this player didn’t last long and whatever items are left in front of you are what’s leftover after their killer had picked through their belongings.

“trade the smg for the sniper,” he instructs, his left hand ghosting up under the hem of your shirt—in truth, it was an old one of his that fit virtually like a tent on you. his calloused palm trails up your warm torso before finally grabbing hold of your chest, blunt fingernails squeezing the smooth skin.

“why? i’m a better shot with the—,”

“trust me, ’ma. i’ll show you,” he cuts you off, his words lazy as he drags his nose just under your ear. your breath hitches in response, dizziness clouding your mind as you nod blankly. you press the appropriate buttons and change the weapons in your inventory.

“attagirl.”

you swear you can hear the smug smirk tugging at his lips but even with his cockiness, you can’t deny the effect he has on you. he pecks your cheek gently before brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, ensuring there’s no barrier to the tickle of his warm breath. he’s damn near intoxicating and he isn’t even doing anything.

“find some high ground—the cliff up there,” he nods towards the screen and your thumbs push the joystick, following his every command. his own thumb toys with your nipples, rolling around the sensitive area and feeling it harden in response.

“you’re making this more difficult, y’know,” you remind him with a shaky breath wound around your words. “game’s already tense enough as is and you’re…”

your words die on your tongue, never quite leaving your mouth, as he pulls his hand out of your shirt and leaves you reeling from the chill that runs through you from the cold air now leaving goosebumps on your skin.

“I'm what? go on, doll, finish that sentence.” the flare in his green eyes makes you shrink; you don't want to say anything else in fear he’ll leave you without his touch altogether. you remain silent, swallowing quietly and giving him an apologetic look.

he says nothing but breaks into a shit-eating grin. his hand dives back under the loose fabric and immediately grabs hold of your chest again. he ushers your attention back towards the screen, but not before planting a quick peck of his scarred lips to your jaw.

before long, you’ve settled on the highest part of the map and begin to take aim. he talks you through the entire thing, motioning how far to go in one direction or the other to be able to see any scarce players.

“a little to your left… little more. see him?” he asks, his unoccupied hand beginning to leave its home on your tummy. you hum in acknowledgment, using the scope to zoom in on the avatar running across the street.

“easy now. track him slow and when you go to shoot, aim a bit higher than his head,” toji’s pointers come out in second nature—as if what he’s suggesting is common knowledge, similar to how the sky is blue.

you stalk the player through the scope of the sniper and feel his warm touch begin to slip under the waistband of your panties. the sudden heat makes you shudder against him and he only tightens his grip on your plush chest in response.

just as you’re about to press the trigger on your controller, he reaches for your clit, easily slotting it between his long fingers and squeezing the sides. you jump from the contact, a wet gasp spilling from your mouth as the bullet fires and completely misses your target.

“what happened, sweetheart? thought you had that,” he asks cluelessly. you snap your head to face him and give him the meanest glare you can muster.

“you’re a jerk,” you whisper, grabbing hold of his arm. you let your smaller fingers trail over the veins protruding from the skin of his forearm before guiding his hand lower, urging him where you need him the most.

“yeah, guess i am,” he retorts as he gently bites the skin of your ear, slipping his fingers inside your already slicked entrance and chuckling at the sound of your soft moans filling the room. "you love it though."

[whore4mattsturniolo]

Inexperienced Matt! Cums from kissing reader

for inexperienced!matt's biggest fan @chrattho1

Matt's hands held onto your hips in a bruising grip, the pads of his fingers tracing the hem of your dangerously short pajama shorts as his tongue explored the inside of your mouth. He moans against your lips, feeling your clothed clit grinding against his half-hard cock, already twitching and throbbing under his sweats as you ground against him with slow, deliberate rolls of your hips.

You smirk into the kiss, amused at how wrecked he already looked just from kissing. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, damp strands of his post-shower hair clung to his forehead. You giggle as his hands tighten on your waist, dragging you against him again, chasing every bit of friction he could get.

His breath hitched, sharp and high in his throat. One of his hands flew to your waist like instinct, gripping tight before quickly loosening again like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this so much.

“You okay?” you teased, voice low and honeyed.

He nods a little too fast. His cheeks were already flushed pink. “Y—Yeah,” he says, barely a whisper, his eyes darting anywhere but your face. “It just—feels—”

You lean in close, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Good?” Matt swallows hard at your words as you roll your hips again.

His hips jerk a little, and his hands grip tighter. “Good,” he breathes out. “Really good.”

"Yeah?" You tease. "You like it?"

He nodded, frantic and breathless, his grip on you growing needier by the second. “Yeah—yeah, I like it… Don’t stop, please…” Matt looks up at you through his lashes, his eyes glossed over, his breathing heavy.

You rock again, feeling him buck up just slightly, his body chasing it, more eager than him. Matt gasps, lashes fluttering, lips parted. A soft, desperate noise gets caught in his throat as his thighs twitch under you.

“Are you—?” he starts, then pauses, his voice shaky and unsteady. “You’re not gonna laugh at me, right?”

“Never.” Your lips graze his again, soft and reverent, your hips never ceasing their motions.

You drag your nails lightly along his sides under the hoodie, and he arches on instinct. “S—sorry,” he stammers out, breath catching. 

Matt’s anxious words make your body soften. “Don't be sorry, baby. You're doing so well," You praise, your words gentle and slow. Your lips skim his cheek as you feel his muscle relax under you.

The tension in his hands pulses, then releases as he lets out a shaky breath, finally letting go. He lets his hands roam your sides, then your back, fingers pressing in with confidence. You kiss him again, this one slow and deep and aching. He moans into your mouth, making your pulse thrum.

His eyes meet yours, glossy and wide, his cheeks still glowing. “Sh—Shit…” He whimpers. “Don’t wanna—M’gonna…Too soon…” Matt continues to babble against your shoulder, drowning in the feeling of your core against his throbbing cock, leaking and desperate for release. 

You lean in close, brushing your nose against his. “You’re okay…Just keep going, Matt,”

Matt goes to speak, but the words get caught in his throat, broken off in a whimper as you shift just right, grinding down in a way that makes his hips jolt upward. His fingers dig into your skin, desperate to hold onto you. 

"Oh God—" he gasps, his head falling back, eyes fluttering shut. "I—please. Please don’t stop—" Every breath from him was ragged, unfiltered, desperate, growing louder by the second.

"Relax," your lips brush his temple. “You’re shaking.”

“Can’t help it,” he mumbles, voice wrecked, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. His eyes were heavy-lidded, drunk on the feeling. “Feels too good—I don’t—wanna come yet, I wanna make it last—”

“Then slow down,” you whisper, even though you didn’t entirely mean it.

He shakes his head ferverently. “No—don’t wanna. Just—just wanna feel it.” He keeps moving, chasing the tension growing between you. His hoodie was ridden up on his chest, revealing his pale skin flushed pink. You could feel the way his stomach tensed every time you rocked into him just right.

“I can’t—You’re gonna make me—I can’t hold it—”

“You don’t have to,” you hum, the vibrations close to his ear sending a shiver down his spine. His hips buck up hard, one last time before he freezes beneath you, panting hard. 

“Oh my—fuck! Pleaseplease--” Matt’s thighs clench as he lets out a sharp, needy cry, spilling his warm load into his boxers. He lets out a low groan, his release forming a wet patch in his sweatpants, the light gray turning almost black.

You kiss the side of his neck as his body twitches, soft and shaky beneath you. “You did so good,” you murmur.

Matt didn’t answer, not right away. He was still catching his breath, eyes glazed and lips parted, completely wrecked, as he looks up at you through heavy lashes. His lips trail a path up your jawline, before landing on your mouth, gentle, thankful.

[rikiiluvr]

— 𝙇𝙊𝙊𝙎𝙀

☆ stoner!nishimura riki x rich!reader ☆ wc: 1.9k ☆ warnings: MDNI, heavy usage and mention of weed, blunts, drugs etc., hotboxing, smoking, VERY SUGGESTIVE, making out, slight grinding (let me know if i missed anything). PART 1.

i didn't really proofread this-

THE gala was all glitter and gold and too many fake smiles. you lasted an hour tops before you snuck out through the back entrance. now your heels are in one hand and your feet are in the grass, the hem of your expensive dress dragging across the dew-soaked grass bed. you didn’t know where you were going but what you did know was that you had to get away from the dizzying smell of champagne, the shallow conversations and pointed stares. 

you walked ahead until the lazy waters of a lake came into sight, but what intrigued you more than the glistening surface was the soft trail of music drifting through the air at a distance, and that’s when you caught sight of a tall, sturdy figure leaning against a beat-up toyota, hoodie pulled over his head, one hand tucked into his pocket and the other holding a lit blunt. you inched closer to him, and the strong smell of weed invaded your senses.

he looks up and his eyes find yours—amused but not shocked. his eyes trailed up and down your figure, taking in the breathtaking sight before him. silk dress, gold hoops, tousled hair, and glossy lips. you looked every bit of one of the city’s most powerful socialites. he knew who you were. everyone did. but he didn’t want to scare you off so he pretended not to know you. “you lost?” he finally uttered, taking a drag from the rolled-up blunt between his hands. you rolled your eyes, walking closer although maybe you shouldn’t have considering you don’t even know the guy “escaping.” you uttered when you were at a respectable distance from him. he shot you a lazy grin “me too”— his voice hoarse and breathy, probably from all the smoking. “can i try that?” you hesitantly pointed to the blunt between his fingers which he passed to you wordlessly. 

you held it awkwardly between your thumb and index finger “so do i just puff on it or…  what do i do?” you asked, examining the blunt. the man beside you chuckled, “yeah princess, just wrap your lips around it and inhale it.” his voice was gentle but grounding. 

you wrapped your lips around the blunt and inhaled once, too quick, too deep—and it hit you hard. you immediately broke out into a fit of coughs, puffs of smoke drifting in the air, eyes watering, throat burning, and head spinning. you took deep breaths of oxygen this time, trying to catch your breath. you heard a low, lazy laugh from the attractive man beside you, he leaned back against the hood of his car, “damn” he started, “you tryna smoke or swallow it?” he teased, you coughed a little more before flipping him off, your mascara smudged from tears “that… was intense” you croaked.

he took the blunt out of your hand with practiced ease “well, yeah,” he said, eyes gleaming. “first time always hits the hardest.”. you cleared your throat, choosing to ignore the possible double meaning.“i’m fine” you glanced at him, eyes still glossy “what do i even call you? the blunt guy?” you remarked, earning a grin from the said blunt guy “riki. but if blunt guy is what you prefer, that works too” he shot you a lopsided smile which sent a sudden rush of warmth through your body, you narrowed your eyes at him, cheeks burning but not just from the smoke—his appearance was annoyingly appealing, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbow, silver rings glinting and strands of silver peeking out of his hood. “done checking me out?” he teased, cocky smile spreading across his pink, plump lips. 

you shifted your gaze immediately to the lake in front, and for a while, there seemed to be comfortable silence, the cold winds brushed past you, and a sudden echo of chatter and fake laughter brought you back to your senses as you straightened up and brushed your fingers through your hair in an attempt to tame it, “i should head back” you mumbled, slipping your heels back on. “or” he started, “you could stay with me a little longer” he cocked his head to the right, indicating his car. you glanced at the toyota— faint smell of weed seeping through the open window, and the soft, low bass music vibrated in the air. you shouldn’t agree; in fact, you shouldn't even be here. 

riki raised a brow at the hesitation in your eyes “its just a car”, he started “i’m not going to kidnap you or anything—well, unless you want me to of course,” he added on, trying to lighten the mood. you snorted despite yourself, rolling your eyes—and then the passenger door creaked open. warmth wrapped around you immediately, the faint leather, cheap cologne, and lingering traces of smoke in the air made your head spin. you slid in, the leather sticking to your skin slightly as your skirt rode up your thighs. riki climbed in behind you, shutting the door, making your heart skip. “you ready?” he asked, already reaching to roll up the windows. adrenaline buzzed through your body—you were doing it. you were doing something that could’ve set the entire media into shambles if anyone found out. “no”, you replied honestly.

you looked over at him—his hood down, piercings glinting, silver hair tousled slightly, eyes hooded and his plump lips adorned a lazy grin, like he knew what was happening, but he lit the blunt anyway and smoke curled in the air, soft and slow, turning the car into a hazy dream, it filled your lungs less violently this time but the intensity of the moment was no less than earlier. the heat, the smell, and the proximity between you and riki had you spiraling already when he hadn’t even touched you yet 

riki leaned back, legs sprawled and eyes half-lidded. his hoodie slipped down his shoulder, revealing a silver of his collarbone that you couldn’t take your eyes off of. the blunt burnt between his fingers as he brought it up to his soft lips from time to time. you couldn’t tell if it was the weed getting to you or the tension between the two of you that made the space feel so thick  all of a sudden. “you always smoke with strangers?” you questioned, your eyes hazed as you took in the smoke drifting around you. he smiled, pulling the blunt away, tilting his head slightly to blow out the steam “only the pretty ones that sneak out of galas” earning a small smile from you.

 he passed you the blunt “take it slow this time, pretty.” the nickname that slipped out of his lips so easily sent a rush of heat in your lower abdomen. you gulped and nodded, slowly taking the blunt between your fingers as you took a slower, deeper drag, and this time you felt the warmth spreading slowly in your chest. everything felt a little louder and slower. the rhythmic thumping of music playing in the car ringing in your ears. your fingers twitched, and your mouth felt dry and bitter yet sweet. you exhaled the smoke slowly with parted lips— you turned to see riki staring at you, eyes darkened, and you didn’t miss the way he licked his lips when his gaze fell on your plump ones.

“you good?” he asked, softer now. 

you nodded. 

he smirked, “high?” 

“a little.” you admitted

you brought the blunt to your parted lips once again, taking in slow drags and letting the drugs settle into your bloodstream. the car felt like another world. smoke curled thick in the air, layers of it drifting with every breath, every movement. the fog blurred your line of sight, adding on to the hazy state of your mind. it felt warm. too warm. the leather squeaked when either of you moved. his knee brushed yours once. maybe twice. you weren’t sure anymore. it felt like a dream you were supposed to be in, but you didn't want to get up either. 

riki groaned, “you’re really pretty,” he said, voice dipped in smoke and something heavier. “especially when you’re high out of your mind.”

you laughed nervously, not sure how to respond to that. you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and glanced at him. the blunt burned completely, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray without taking his eyes off yours, and then there was silence—the hum of the music in the background tuned out as your pulse roared in your ears.

you leaned in first. locking your plump lips with his. the kiss was soft at first, testing the waters, but one of his hands stretched out to your jaw, the other one wrapped around your waist, guiding you closer to him, mouth opening against yours, gliding his tongue into your mouth as the kiss deepened. it was warm and messy, full of weed and unsaid attraction. 

riki pulled away first, allowing you both to catch your breath. he reached out to the console and pulled out a fresh blunt and a lighter from a ziplock bag. you only stared at him in confusion. he pulled you onto his lap and lit the blunt. he took a slow, deep drag but didn’t exhale—smoke curled at the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t let it out, instead he pressed his thumb against your lips, making you part them, and pulled you closer, his fingers held your chin firmly as he brought his lips inches away from yours, parting them slowly and deliberately, exhaling the smoke into your mouth. 

your breath hitched. this newfound form of intimacy spiked something in you. the warmth of the smoke filled your throat, your lungs and your chest. it spread through you—sweet and slow, dizzying in the most delicious way. riki didn’t let you dwell for too long, immediately connecting his lips to yours. this time the kiss was deeper, more passionate. it was needy and hot, making you whimper as you wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged at the strands of hair on his nape. 

he threaded his fingers into your hair, pulling you closer and tugging at them—the delicious pain adding onto the otherworldly feeling, making you moan into his mouth as he swallowed all your sweet sounds. you were high enough already, but something about the way his mouth tasted, the wee,d and the warmth was more addictive than any drug. your hands slipped under his hoodie, your fingers grazing his skin, tracing the lines of his abs. his movements faltered but only for a second and his grip on your hair tightened slightly. you pressed down on him, making him hiss at the feeling. 

slowly, you pushed him away, your hands still under his hoodie, his warmth more comforting than ever. your foreheads pressed against one another as you struggled to catch your breaths. “damn.” riki spoke up first, his voice hoarse and barely audible. a small smile tugged at your lips. “you do this with every girl you smoke with?” you questioned, trying to come off teasing but secretly hopeful. his lips curved, just barely “nah.” his fingers tightened their hold on your waist as he tipped his head back “only the ones i hope don’t walk away after” he grinned, the signal clear.

and luckily for him, you were nowhere near ready to walk away after tonight either.

☆taglist: @rizzimura-babes26 ; @zoeyyyuu

[multistan-247]

dilf!sukuna thinks it’s annoying how much you ogle him over the dumbest shit—but the smug tilt of his mouth says he eats it up. he was well-maintained for a man who ate the food for three people and went to the gym whenever time allowed him. infact, his trainer was surprised at his muscle definition, and asked tips from sukuna instead. his sharp words and scowls had mellowed, along with the addition of a few lines on his face, countable strands of grey in pink.

he's bent over the bonnet of his car, white tank soaked through and through, painted to his back. he was a sight for sore eyes, your husband, as he grumbled something about "fuckin' mechanics overcharging for shit—"

every muscle is on display, thick biceps flexing as he props the hood open with one arm, veins trailing down to thick, grease-smudged fingers. his wedding band flashes when he lifts his hand to rub at his lightly stubbled jaw, staring at the dozen hundred engine parts, deep in thought, that did something to you that you could never explain. one of the reasons why some of your fights never lasted for more than 2-3 days.

you hated summer, always whining about the heat and the stickiness that comes with it, but suddenly had a new-found liking for it.

"been calling your name like five times, woman. the fuck you starin' at?" he grunts, huffing as he lifts his top to wipe at the sweat collecting at his forehead. dilf!sukuna, whose abs peek out when he shifts, glistening like a damn oil painting, that stupid tank top riding up just enough to flash his happy trail and that sinful v-line you ached to trace with your tongue.

“if you’re gonna keep eye-fuckin’ me, at least be useful and grab me a cold beer.”

you roll your eyes, already halfway there to the fridge because—how do you say no, especially to a man like him when he's standing there, looking like that?

shirt clinging to his frame, grease staining his fingers and cheek like it belonged there, sweat trailing down his neck like it knew where it was going. you hand him the beer, and he pops the cap on the edge of the car hood like it's nothing. he takes a long swig, jaw flexing, throat working, and the scene before you seems to roll in slow motion. you shake your head to clear yourself of the haze that seems to consume you from head to toe, settling into a quiet ache between your legs.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, red eyes catching yours over the bottle like he knows what he's done. he always does.

and sure, this image of him reminds you of your apartment from before, the one you guys had before the bungalow. annoyed yells over the trail of socks he'd strewn around the place, or the way he'd let the dishes dry in the sink for more than two days, which would ultimately lead you to snipe at him, do the dishes yourself, or when you were at your limit, you’d shove at his chest, wild with irritation and sweat-slick fury, only for him to grab your wrist, drag you close, and say “do that again, I dare you."

the last time that happened, the AC had given up mid-argument. the place was already small to begin with, landlord couldn't care less about maintenance, the mess didn't help either. july was a damn furnace and you both were pissed, breathing in each other's heat, too hot and too stubborn to back down. and then, you had yielded when his calloused hands sought purchase on your waist, pressed you up against the counter, kissed you like he was picking a fight with your mouth, pawing at the silly excuses for clothes like he couldn't get it off you fast enough.

his name spat out in anger turned into unwilling moans he pushed out of you—thrust after brutal thrust. he bent you over the kitchen counter like he owned it, like he owned you. one hand palming at the fat of your hip, the other in your hair, yanking you back so he could hear the way your voice broke each time he drove into you.

the sharp slap of his hand across your ass had you jolting forward, only to arch back with a desperate whimper. the sting bloomed, made your hips snap back to meet him harder, clenching around his cock, your body was begging for more. it earned you low, mocking words and a harsh tug to your nipples.

“where did all the fight go, hmm?"

he'd murmured into your damp neck, the vibrations of his words the last thing you remembered, your cunt clenching around him helplessly till the moment he found release in you, breathing heavily.

now? you’re here again. sweat trailing down your back. his hold, bruising the skin around your waist, pulling you flush as fingers tangled in his spiky, short pink hair while you chase at his lips like he’s your last meal. his hold, tying you to him, to this moment.

you're barely catching your breath when he mutters,

“when did you say nanami’s bringing the lil’ brat back?”

you blink, brain fried. “not ‘til evening."

he grins, his eyes flaring. “good. now get on the hood. haven't even started on you yet.”

maybe you do hate summer. but if this is what it looks like on him, you’ll happily burn for it.

A/N: had to get this out of my system. my ovaries are sobbing. currently summer here, it's soooo hot. and I'm prepping for exams. haven't written or posted in years. hoping this fed you as much as it fed me. might make this a series, based on requests. feedback is welcome!!

[clownprincesshq]

the unmasking pt2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: angst, hurt some comfort, murder, cecil is his own warning, mark is such a caring ex bf

w/c: 11k

a/n: next chapter is gonna be so fluffy and smutty since its a flashback chapter. yall deserve a break!!

The wind screams past your ears. The city shrinks beneath your feet. And in front of you, the Guardians land. Bulletproof touches down hard. Concrete craters under his boots. He rises, goggles gleaming.

“You need to stand down.”

You laugh. Not cruel. Not kind. Just done.

‘Let’s show them what we are.’

Your hands curl into fists. And you say, loud enough for them to hear.

“Make me.”

The wind screams over the rooftop like it knows what’s going to happen. It slices through the ruined architecture, through shattered masonry, exposed beams, and the lingering stink of smoke from the last rooftop you tore apart. It rips through your hair, stirs the symbiote over your skin. It moves like warning.

Across the rooftop, they drop. The Guardians.

Not drones. Not GDA nobodies. These aren’t containment squads with tranquilizer guns and naïve hope. This is the highest tier. You’ve battled beside them. You realize just how deadly they are.

Dupli-Kate hits the rooftop first, already tearing apart, four, five, six copies spreading out around her like shadows. Each of them observes you with the same studied attention. Shrinking Rae lands next, a subtle swirl of motion and equipment that lights blue under her fingers. Black Samson comes down heavier, boots hitting concrete, arms crossed like a wall with eyeballs. Judging.

Then Rex. Rex leans out of the Guardian dropship like he’s still playing a game, like he’s not here to bring someone down. Like he’s not here for you.

His hair is wind-tousled and gorgeous. No smile. No concealed gaze. Just that arrogant expression and the weight of everything you used to believe hanging behind his eyes like it never left.

You gaze at him. He glances straight back.

“Well,” Rex replies, throwing a bright charge up and down in his hand. “You gonna come quietly? Or do we get to have some fun first?”

You don’t answer. You merely bend your head, lift your hands slowly, like submission. The another thicker layer of the suit slides up your arms covering the previous one. Black strands extend lazily from your fingertips.

Dupli-Kate’s clones change on impulse. Samson doesn’t flinch.

“Last chance,” Kate shouts, coming forward. “You don’t have to do this.”

You smile behind the mask.

“No,” you say. “But you do.”

You move. The rooftop explodes. You punch the nearest clone with your hand first, cracking her jaw sideways with a wet crunch. Her body flies back, spinning, tumbling, slamming through a corroded air unit with the power of a cannonball. Another charges from your right. You pivot, elbow slashing through her ribs, symbiote-enhanced strength turning bone into mush. She falls, glitching out of existence mid-scream.

You utilize her body as a shield. Just in time.

Rex’s disk charge glides overhead and detonates, BOOM, a blaze of orange and red that tears up the rooftop corner in a spray of sparks and debris. You’re tossed sideways, slide across gravel, catch yourself with a tendril that whips out and pulls you upright.

Another clone rushes. You’re already there. Venom spikes from your forearm and drives through her gut. She gasps, flickers, and leaves. The blood isn’t genuine. But the damage? The harm is yours.

“You’re actually killing,” Dupli-Kate exclaims, appalled. She stands just out of reach now, five more replicas spreading behind her in practiced formation. “They’re copies, but you’re still-”

“Still what?” you snap, unleashing a webline and dragging one of the clones directly into your fist. “Still making a point?”

You fling her into the next one. Both flash out. The real Kate stumbles back.

“She’s gone rogue,” Shrinking Rae calls, voice tense. “We need to incapacitate, now.”

“Trying,” Rex bellows.

You turn just as he hurls a kinetic disc, bright silver and sparkling. You duck. It clips your shoulder. The suit absorbs most of it, but it still burns. You snarl softly in your throat. 

‘He believes he can damage us. He feels he is exceptional.’

You lunge. Rex narrowly dodges as your claws slash past his side. He throws another charge. You catch it mid-air and smash it in your fist. The explosion goes off like a firework behind you, searing the sky as you jump over Samson and land in the heart of another group of Kate’s clones.

You don’t hesitate. You rip through them. Tendrils whip out in perfect unison with your hands, gripping, crushing, impaling. Clones explode like glass. One shouts out as your foot smacks into her chest and pushes her right off the building.

You don’t glance down. You’re not even winded. The roofs is starting to crumble. Smoke swirls through the air, mixed with dust and debris. You kneel, fists curled into claws, blood, real and not, slicking your palms. And still, they come.

Shrinking Rae darts at your flank. You swing and miss, she’s already gone tiny, darting beneath your knees and up your back. She sends a shock into the base of your head. You scream, whip her off you, and fling her over the rooftop like an insect. She smashes the wall hard. Doesn’t get up.

“Rae’s down!” Rex barks. “Hold her in place!”

Three more Kates dogpile you. You spin, tossing them off, but the fourth climbs right onto your shoulders, wraps her arms around your neck. You push a spike straight into her chest and tear her off like a leech. Rex scores a hit then, a full blast to your ribs. You stumble, agony cracking through your side. You heal swiftly. Too quick. You should be dizzy.

You’re not.

The suit is singing now. Buzzing like it’s intoxicated on violence.

‘More. Let them come. LET THEM COME.’

Black Samson lunges, fists uplifted. You face him head-on. Fists clash with a bang that vibrates glass six storeys below. Your arm bends, then snaps back with the suit’s aid. You shriek and drive your fist into his stomach.

He grunts, stumbles. You kick him in the chest and send him flying into a billboard. You pause. Breathing hard. Then you straighten. Kate’s clones are diminishing. Rae’s down. Samson’s moaning amid the debris of a steel beam. Rex is the only one still standing, chest heaving, fingertips glowing with new explosives.

He wipes blood off his mouth.

“You are so far gone,” he mutters.

You don’t talk. You just take a step toward him.

The rooftop is a battleground of shattered glass, blood, and remembrance.

Smoke clings to the holes where support beams used to be. Sparks fly from a split generator box near the ledge, sending flickers of gold over people strewn on the rooftop like discarded puppets. Rae is down and not moving. Black Samson moans, barely awake amid the twisted ruins of a vent tower. Dupli-Kate’s clones are gone, torn apart or dissolved into crimson mist. Rex is hobbling, half-dragging himself to cover, his blood creating a trail.

You’re the only one still standing tall. Venom pumps over your skin, writhing across your shoulders like it’s famished, like it needs more blood. You don’t stop it. Not this time. You let the wrath consume the guilt. Let the violence smother the anguish in your chest.

And suddenly the wind shifts. Fast. Sharp. Too sharp.

A sonic boom shakes the air, powerful enough to rattle the windows of the nearby buildings. You turn just as a form bursts down from the clouds, yellow, black, and blue and quick as hell, ripping through smoke and night like a bullet made of light.

He lands hard.

Invincible.

The earth trembles under his weight. The rooftop shakes, scattering loose debris. His boots split the gravel. He straightens slowly, eyes scanning across the scene, hands already tense, jaw set.

And then he sees you. He freezes. Only for a second. But you see it.

In the way his chest tightens, the way his posture falters just slightly. Like something about you strikes him too deep, too fast. Like his head is racing to make sense of what his heart already understands.

“You need to stop,” he says.

You reveal your teeth underneath the symbiote. “Why? You here to take me in?”

He shakes his head once. “I’m here to stop this.”

You take a hesitant step forward, the symbiote moving restlessly with every breath. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’ve done enough,” he replies, calmer now. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You snort. “You don’t know me.”

“I might,” he says, and it sounds too near. Too intimate.

Something in your chest twinges. You disregard it.

“You’re not walking away from this,” you warn.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

“Too bad.”

You lunge. Venom whips forth with your assault, claws slashing through smoke. He dodges, barely, your punch smacks into his side and sends him tumbling. He catches himself midway, boots scraping against gravel.

He launches back.

You face him head-on.

Fists clash. The collision splits the air. You sense his strength immediately, unforgiving, unrelenting. But you don’t yield. You twist under his arm, elbow him in the ribs, and slam your knee into his stomach. He moans, then grabs your leg mid-strike and tosses you into the rooftop generator.

Sparks fly. The steel crumples behind your back. You rise, chest heaving, shoulder scorching. He watches you. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t charge.

“You’re stronger than they said,” he mutters.

“You’re softer than I thought.”

You rush him again. The roofing under your feet fractures from the impact. He soars higher and you follow, Venom throwing a tendril like a grappling hook. You catch his ankle mid-air and drag him downward. He slams against the ceiling with a yell.

You’re on him in seconds. He catches your claw mid-swing. Your faces are inches apart now. You freeze. Your breath catches.

Because the sound of his breathing, his heartbeat, his presence, it all hits you like a déjà vu you can’t understand. He doesn’t shove you away. He just stares up at you.

“You feel familiar,” he whispers quietly. “I’ve fought beside you before… haven’t I?”

Your stomach flips. You growl and tear your arm away. “You don’t know me.”

But your voice trembles. And he hears it.

“I think I do.”

You throw your foot into his side, knock him over the rooftop, and scream, not from wrath, but from terror. He recovers, floats aloft, and wipes blood off his lip.

“You don’t have to do this,” he adds again. “Whoever you are, whatever they’ve done, you can stop.”

“You think this is about them?” you yell.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything?!”

Your voice breaks at the corners. The symbiote flickers. Invincible doesn’t answer. But something about his expression breaks. You see it in the way his shoulders droop. The way his jaw softens.

“You sound…” he starts again. “I’ve heard your voice before.”

He landed a few feet away now. Carefully. Slowly. Like approaching something wild.

You step back. “Don’t.”

“I’ve touched you,” he adds, seemingly astonished. “I’ve held you.”

“Stop.”

“I’ve kissed you,” he says. “Haven’t I?”

And the air leaves your lungs. He makes another stride.

“You’re-”

“No.” You shake your head. “Don’t say it.”

You charge him one final time. Desperate. Screaming. He lets you hit him. He doesn’t even block it. You slam at him, hands banging into his chest, until your knees give out. He catches your wrists. Gently. Slowly. You struggle to draw away.

Then.

Rex.

You sense him before you see him. Staggering. Half-dead. He smacks something into your ribs. Click. You don’t have time to yell before the heat disk bursts. A white-hot bolt smashes into your side. The ache is instant, unreal.

You drop.

Venom screams. A loud, writhing cacophony within your skull. The suit recoils, pulling off your skin like it’s being pulled from muscle. You struck the rooftop hard. You attempt to move, but you can’t. The flames sears through you. The suit retreats.

Your disguise melts away. You suffocate on smoke. Blood. Air. You’re on your knees. Your face is exposed. And Invincible lands in front of you. Ready to strike. Then he sees you. He stops. Everything goes still.

His breath catches. His mouth opens. And for a long, astonished minute, he doesn’t move. He glances at you like he’s witnessing something that can’t be real. Something inconceivable. You blink through the tears.

And Invincible.

Invincible says your name.

Not Spider-Woman.

Not Venom.

Your name.

Like it breaks him.

You don’t say anything at first. You just kneel there, the gravel digging into your palms, your ribs on fire, the symbiote twitching along your spine like it’s trying to crawl away from the disgrace.

But Invincible shouts your name like he’s bleeding it. And everything inside you tilts. Because you know that voice. That trembling. That breath. You know the way he hesitates right before saying something dumb, like he’s trying to swallow his emotions before they blaze through his tongue.

That’s not Invincible standing in front of you.

That’s Mark.

Mark Grayson.

Your boyfriend.

Your ex.

Your secret-keeping, suit-wearing, late-night-ghost-of-a-boyfriend. And that makes sense. Too much sense.

“…You’re Invincible,” you whisper.

The words taste harsh. Like treachery and irony encased in gravel. Mark flinches. Just barely. His hands sink to his sides.

“I was going to tell you,” he says.

You laugh. It’s not pretty. It’s bitter, biting, and low in your throat.

“I asked you if you were hiding something. Remember? I asked you that so many times.” You stand slowly, jaw clinched. “And every time, you said no.”

“I didn’t know how.”

“You just had to say it, Mark.”

“I was protecting you!”

“From you?!”

Your voice cracks like a whip over the rooftop. Mark looks like he’s been punched. And you want to quit. You want to breathe. To sit down. To scream into your palms like none of this is happening. But you don’t. Because you’ve been waiting for this time. Even if you didn’t know it. Even if it’s shattering something inside of you you’ve been pretending wasn’t still delicate.

You draw the sarcasm around yourself like armor.

“Well. Guess it makes obvious now why you never died on ‘group projects.’”

“Don’t do that,” Mark adds, coming forward.

You lift your eyebrows. “What? Joke? I thought you appreciated that about me.”

He pauses in his tracks.

You smirk, but your eyes hurt. “Oh, I’m sorry. You were expecting me to cry and beg you to fix it? Please. I’ve cried enough. And you were never good at fixing anything, Grayson.”

“I wanted to tell you,” he repeats.

You shrug.

“Guess we both sucked at secrets.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I’m Venom.”

“I know.”

You laugh again. But this time it sounds like it could collapse into a sob. The suit ripples up your back, coiling over your shoulder like a hand attempting to pull you out of yourself.

‘He deserves agony,’ it murmurs. ‘You should make him feel it. All of it.’

Your expression falters. For a time. And then you repair it again. Because that’s what you do.

“You know what the worst part is?” you say.

Mark doesn’t move.

“I broke up with you because I thought I couldn’t trust you. Because you were disappearing. Because you were lying to my face and acting like nothing was wrong.”

“I never stopped loving you,” he adds.

You roll your eyes. “Congratulations. Doesn’t mean anything now.”

He steps closer. Too close. You hold out a hand, but he doesn’t stop. You loathe him for that. You loathe yourself more for not wanting him to.

“I still love you,” Mark adds again, blue eyes beaming.

You can’t help it.

You scoff. “Of course you do. I mean, look at me. I’m everything you like. Stupidly devoted, utterly self-destructive, and wearing a skin-tight black suit. You must be in heaven.”

“Stop it,” he says. “Stop making this a joke.”

You freeze. Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you tell me how to deal with this!” you shout. “I’ve spent the past three days trying to convince myself I did the right thing leaving you. That that was the right call. Because I couldn’t live with someone who looked me in the eye and lied like it was breathing.”

Mark seems like he’s about to say something. So you shut him up.

“I gave you everything,” you remark. “And when it got hard, when I needed you to just show up for me, you put on a mask and flew away.”

His mouth opens. But no sound comes out. The quiet is terrible than anything. Venom crawls over your cheek now, slow and steady. A warning. A threat.

‘He harms us. Let us show him what we’ve become.’

You shake your head. Your voice lowers. Quiet. Sharp.

“I’m not your girlfriend anymore, Mark. I’m not your happy ending.”

His hands shake at his sides. “You’re not a monster.”

You grin, broken and big. “Aren’t I?”

“You’re not!”

You cringe at the volume. At the rawness.

He steps forward again. You let him.

“You’re still you,” he adds. “Even under all that. I felt it when we fought. You pulled punches.”

“You did too.”

He nods. “Because I hoped it wasn’t you.”

You gaze at him. Really look at him. And for just a second, you see the Mark you loved.

The one who made you pancakes at 2 a.m. because you couldn’t sleep. The one who held your glasses before you got your powers like they were something sacred. The one who looked at you like you were everything in a world that took too much.

But that second passes. And you feel it again. The shift. The way your vision narrows. The whisper evolves into a chant.

‘Let go. Let go. Let go.’

The suit lashes out. Tendrils spike from your back and crash against the rooftop beside him. He stumbles back.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“I’m not leaving.”

“I’m not asking.”

You slump to your knees with a shriek, gripping your head. It’s louder now. Like it’s within your bloodstream. 

‘No more agony. No more heartbreak. No more HIM. Only us.’

Mark runs forward.

You yell, “STAY BACK!”

He stops. But he doesn’t run. The suit falls over your mouth. Your nose. Your eyes. You fight it.

God, you fight it.

But it aches. Because part of you wants it. Wants to cease suffering. Wants to stop bleeding. Wants to quit being the girl who loved someone who never told her the truth.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says again. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve chose you.”

The last thing you see before the black takes over is his face. And it looks precisely as it did the day you first fell in love with him. It makes everything worse.

You scream as the suit closes shut.

And then you ascend. Taller. Heavier. Stronger. Venom seeps through your teeth in a voice that doesn’t belong to you.

“Too late, Grayson.”

Mark backs up, astonished.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t do this.”

But it’s done. Because you’re not you anymore. And he never spoke your name when it mattered. The comm crackles in Mark’s ear, crisp and clinical, cutting through the static like a knife.

“Mark.”

He doesn’t answer. Not yet.

His eyes are still fixated on you, on the shifting black mass of the symbiote snaking over your arms, coiling at your throat like a living noose. You’re not moving. Not yet. But the air around you seems heavy, like the whole rooftop is holding its breath.

Cecil’s voice cuts in again.

“I need a status report.”

Mark swallows. He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

His hands stiffen at his sides.

“…She’s still standing.”

There’s a pause. On the other end of the intercom, Mark can virtually hear Cecil peering at a monitor, trying to measure your pulse from a thousand miles away. Trying to make judgments with numbers on a screen instead of people’s names in his mouth.

“Has the symbiote taken her over?”

Mark stares at you. You haven’t talked in minutes. Not really. Not you.

The suit pulses about your face, lips split into something between a sneer and a grin. Your stance is broader now. Your shoulders rolled back. Not cocky. Not confident. Just hefty. Like the creature inside you is pulling you further into the soil with every second.

He still sees you below it. Even today.

Mark’s voice lowers. “Yeah. It’s got her.”

Cecil doesn’t skip a beat. “Then you know what happens next.”

Mark shuts his eyes for half a second.

“I can talk her down.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“She’s still in there.”

“She was in there,” Cecil corrects. “You’re not talking to her anymore. You’re talking to something else.”

“No.”

“Mark.”

“No!”

His yell booms over the rooftop, shocking even you. Your head tilts, the symbiote twitching along your jawline, but you don’t fight. Not yet. Not even with Cecil’s words droning in his ear like a countdown.

“I’m not doing this your way,” Mark says.

Cecil’s voice flattens.

“She’s already lost.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She’s a threat now.”

Mark’s voice drops, harsher than it’s been all night.

“So am I.”

Another pause. Cecil exhales softly on the other end of the line. When he talks, it’s cold, determined.

“You are ordered to apprehend.”

Mark shakes his head. “Don’t do this.”

“If she resists, take her down.”

“She’s not a damn target-!”

“If she turns violent, you neutralize. Do you understand?”

Mark goes still. The comm buzzes with quiet. He looks away from you for half a second, hands clenched into fists so hard that nails dig into his palms. And then, softly, barely audible.

“I’m not losing her again.”

Cecil says nothing. Then the comm goes dead. Mark turns back to face you. The rooftop is quiet again. But not still. You’re watching him.

The mask is half-formed now, breaking at the edges, rippling like liquid armor. Your fingers twitch. Your spine straightens. You bend your head like something inside you is assessing his weakest point.

But your eyes. They’re yours. For now.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” Mark says.

His voice is low. Hollow. You don’t react.

“Cecil wants me to take you in.”

Still, you don’t speak.

“Or kill you.”

A gentle smile sweeps over your face. Venom’s voice slithers out.

“You should try.”

Mark doesn’t move.

“She’s not yours anymore.”

And for a second, he nearly believes that. But then you blink. And he sees it. A flicker. A wince. Something beneath the mask. You’re still there. Buried under a mile of sorrow and dark tendrils and bitterness, but alive.

“I know you’re still fighting it,” he adds.

“We are not.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

Your body jerks. Like something inside you pulls tight, like wires cracking in a stretched machine. Mark takes a step forward.

“I know this isn’t who you are.”

“You don’t know me,” you hiss.

“I do.”

“You lied to me for years.”

“And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Your lip curls. “Good.”

Mark flinches like that actually impacts harder than your claws would’ve.

“I tried to do the right thing,” he continues, voice raw. “I thought if I told you, I’d lose you. But I lost you anyway.”

Your hands tighten. The suit twitches. The earth cracks beneath your feet.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve picked me.”

“I did! Every day I didn’t die, I chose you.”

You take a step forward. So does he.

“You can’t fix this, Mark.”

“I’m not trying to fix it.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer for a second.

“I’m not letting that thing turn you into something you’re not.”

You laugh. It’s harsh. Bitter. So unlike you, yet so exactly like the version of you that’s still clinging to what little self-worth left behind all the damage.

“They already did.”

“You’re still in there,” Mark adds.

“Then maybe that’s the problem.”

‘He’s lying. They all lie. Let us burn him down and move away.’

You tilt your head to the side, attempting to shake the voice out. You hold your cranium like it’s too full. Mark steps forward again, gently.

“You’re stronger than this.”

You snort. “Says the guy who can’t keep a girlfriend alive.”

Mark’s breath catches. And you regret it the second it leaves your mouth. But you don’t apologize. Because that’s who you are today. That’s who the outfit allows you be. Ugly. Petty. Hurtful. Venom thrives on it. Mark lowers his head.

“You didn’t mean that.”

“Didn’t I?”

A long pause. And then, gently.

“I miss you.”

You hate how your chest aches at that. Hate the way it echoes through your bones. Your breath trembles. The suit moves like it’s trying to decide whether to let you collapse or strike.

“I miss your stupid coffee orders,” he says.

“Shut up.”

“I miss watching you get mad at horror movies for being unrealistic.”

“Shut up.”

“I miss you looking at me like I was worth something.”

You turn your back on him. Because it hurts. Because it’s working.

‘He undermines us. We should quiet him.’

You scream and pound your hands into the pavement, breaking a crater beneath you. The rooftop trembles. Mark holds his ground.

“Let me in,” he says.

“No.”

“Please.”

“I can’t.”

You turn. Your eyes blaze white. The mask wraps back into place over your face like a second skin.And this time, when you speak, it’s not your voice.

“Then you’ll die with her.”

The wind up here always sounded like it had something to say. You used to find comfort in that, the way it rustled rooftops and carried far-off city noise up to your ears, made you feel less alone when the sky got too big.

Tonight, it just sounds like it’s mocking you. There’s glass crunching underfoot, the twisted frame of a busted vent groaning in the wind, the low creak of a rooftop that’s seen too many fists slammed into it in the last hour. And above all of that?

Silence. From him. Mark.

He's right there, ten feet away. No mask, no swagger, no excuses left between you. Just Mark Grayson. Looking like someone threw him into a wall and then asked him to apologize for it.

He hasn’t said your name again. You’re not sure if you want him to.

Your arms hang at your sides. The black suit crawls along your shoulders, pulsing, twitching like it’s waiting for the signal. Your fingers curl, then relax again. The weight of the symbiote is familiar now, like gravity. You can’t remember what it felt like to move without it.

Mark swallows. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Then you’re wasting both our time.”

Your voice doesn’t even sound like yours. It’s too calm. Too practiced. You used to trip over your words when you were nervous. Now they slide off your tongue like razors. That should scare you.

It doesn’t.

He takes a step forward. Just one. “You don’t have to do this.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“You sure? Because from where I’m standing, I think I do.”

“Come on,” he says, a little breathless, a little angry. “You know I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You didn’t stop it either.”

His jaw tightens. You watch the way his hands flex like he’s not sure whether to reach for you or keep them down.

You turn your back on him. You walk to the edge of the roof, let the wind hit your face, let your hair whip around your skin. You try to remember what this city looked like when it made you feel safe. It doesn't come to you.

“You remember that first week we started dating?” you say without looking at him. “I was too nervous to text you first. I waited until two in the morning to ask if you wanted to hang out, and you said you were already outside my building.”

A pause.

“I remember,” he says.

You nod once. “Back then, I thought if someone loved me, they’d show up.”

“I did.”

“Not when it counted.”

You turn back around. He’s closer now. Not by much. But enough that you can see the guilt in his eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says.

“I think you wanted me to stay soft,” you reply. “I think it made it easier.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was lying to me for years.”

Silence again. The suit coils tighter. It doesn't like this. It never does. Conversation makes it restless. Vulnerability makes it worse.

You take a step forward. “Do you know what it’s like to feel yourself disappearing? Not because of a monster, or a fight, or some world-ending bullshit but just… slowly. Day by day. To watch everyone around you become something bigger, stronger, louder, while you keep folding yourself smaller so no one notices? Uncle Ben used to tell me I was meant for more. That I had this light in me. Something that didn’t need powers or a costume or headlines to matter. Just me. The way I see people. The way I care. He made it sound like that was enough. But then he died. And somewhere along the way, that version of me died with him. And now I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, or if any of that even matters anymore. Because no matter how hard I try, I’m not enough, not for the world, not for May or Ben, not even for me. And if I say that out loud, if I admit that I feel small and useless and like I’m wasting the life he believed in… then it’s like I’m failing him all over again.”

Mark looks like he’s trying not to flinch.

“That’s who I was,” you say. “And I was okay with it. Because you made me feel like that was enough.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“But then I started noticing,” you continue. “The way your eyes got distant. The missed calls. The bruises. The half-excuses. And I waited. I waited for you to say something real. And you didn’t.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Mark says, quiet. “Every day, I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He looks up at you, eyes sharp, voice sharper. “Because I was scared.”

That catches you off guard.

You blink. “What?”

“I thought if you knew, you’d leave. I thought… if you knew what I really was, what I was doing, it would ruin everything.”

You cross your arms, more to feel like you’re holding yourself together than anything else.

“You were the one good thing in my life that felt normal. And I didn’t want to lose that.”

The silence sits thick between you.

Finally, you exhale. “Then maybe you should’ve dated someone who didn’t want the truth.”

“I didn’t want someone else,” he says. “I want you.”

That breaks something in you. And you hate it. You’ve built so many layers between who you were and who you are now. Layers of anger. Layers of control. Layers of something cruel that talks like you but doesn’t feel the same way. The kind of voice that throws barbs so you don’t have to sit still long enough to cry.

You close your eyes. The suit stirs again.

‘He lies. Like before. We keep you strong.’

You take a breath. Then another. When you open your eyes, Mark hasn’t moved. But his expression has changed. He looks at you like he’s seeing you again. Not the suit. Not the voice you use to keep people out.

Just you.

And it hurts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m still someone you can save.”

“I don’t think you need saving.”

You laugh. It’s not a good laugh. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I think you need to know you’re still in there,” he says.

You shake your head. “No. The girl you knew? She’s gone.”

“She’s not.”

“She’s quiet,” you admit. “Too quiet. And I don’t know if she’s ever coming back.”

Mark steps forward again. “I think she already is.”

You don’t move this time.

“I still love you,” he says.

The words don’t knock you over. They don’t surprise you. But they land heavy all the same.

“I know,” you whisper.

“I was a coward. I should’ve told you the truth from the start.”

You meet his eyes. And finally, something in your chest cracks open.

“I should’ve stayed,” you say. “I should’ve fought for you to tell me the truth instead of just walking away.”

His hand lifts slowly. And you don’t stop him when he touches your face. Your skin feels too hot. Too sensitive. Too wrong. But his hand is warm. Steady. For a second, the suit doesn’t react. For a second, you remember what it felt like to be kissed like a secret.

And then it snarls. The tendrils lash out violently. You scream, not because of pain, but because of the sudden clarity. You don’t want this thing to win. But it’s stronger. Louder. It always is when you’re vulnerable. Mark catches you as your knees buckle.

“Hey. Hey. Stay with me.”

You clutch at his suit. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing great.”

“No I’m not,” you whisper. “It’s coming back.”

“Fight it.”

You nod. But you can already feel it climbing your spine like smoke. You try to tell him something else, maybe that you forgive him. Maybe that you love him. Maybe just his name.

But you never get the words out. The black pours over your face like water, drags you under, closes the door. And when your body rises again, It’s not yours anymore. The eyes glow white. The jaw splits open. The voice that comes out isn’t yours.

“She is gone.”

Mark doesn’t flinch. He just steps back. Arms at his sides. Eyes still fixed on the place your face used to be. Because he doesn’t believe it. And maybe, deep down, neither do you. The plunge off the rooftop is higher than your body can manage. But the symbiote doesn’t care.

It grips the ledge with a lashing tendril, pivots midair, and smacks both feet into the side of the opposite structure. You bounce, jump, twist, your body lurching like a puppet on a string. You’re traveling too quickly. You can’t tell if you’re falling or soaring. You can’t even tell where you are anymore.

You’re gone before Mark can blink. Not that he chases. You feel it. Somewhere behind you, beneath the dense, rapid-fire motions of the suit, behind the pressure of wind and increasing heat from the city, you feel the absence of him. He doesn’t come after you. He doesn’t even try.

And the first thing you think, the part of you that still feels like you, is ‘He let me go.’ The second half, the sharper, colder part that’s grown louder over the previous two weeks, says ‘Of course he did.’ But the third voice, the one that wears your face when you dream and only murmurs in your most frail moments, knows the truth.

He didn’t follow you because he’s trying to protect you. Not from himself. Not from the symbiote. But from the man in his ear. Cecil.

You saw it on his face just before the black took over again. That glimmer of worry, not for himself, but for what would happen if they caught you first. If the GDA had eyes on you. If your disappearance from the rooftop entailed a detectable trail.

You recall the sound of his voice ‘She’s still in there.’

You recall what followed after that.

Silence.

Because he knew if he spoke one more word, the comms would capture it. And if they caught it, if they caught that you weren’t lost, but buried, they’d come for you. Like they did with others. With threats. With creatures they swore weren’t people anymore.

So he stood there. And let you run. To save your life. Even if it meant losing you in the process.

‘He gave up. Weak. Predictable. Just like before.’

The symbiote travels quicker now. It senses your thoughts. Always does.

It heard the minute you softened. The instant Mark’s name slid through your chest like breath instead of flames. It sensed the part of you that still wants to go back. Still believes in him, in the boy who sat up all night holding your hair when you were sick, who once skipped a GDA call simply to watch an old comic book show you liked.

It dislikes that part of you.

‘You think he loves you? He hesitates. He compromises. He works for them. He will hand you to them if you hesitate, too.’

You bang into a billboard mid-swing, knocking over a rusting scaffold. The suit doesn’t slow. It smashes through a brick wall like it’s paper, sending your body into the subterranean sector, down into the blackness.

You smash into shadow like a meteor. The tunnel swallows you altogether. Your body smacks to the pavement, skidding across the floor. Sparks fly. Gravel embeds in your palms. The suit wraps around you quickly, drawing you upright like a marionette.

‘We keep you protected. They never did.’

You attempt to breathe.

It tastes like ash.

You stagger, palms pushed to the wall, and the memory hits you like a hammer.

Mark holding your hand for the first time. His thumb touching your knuckles. How warm it was. How lightly he caressed you like he was worried he’d destroy it. You laughed at him, but inwardly, it made your ribs ache.

The suit feeds off it. Replays it. And then warps it.

Mark glancing at you that night, his fingers twitching, his lips open like he was about to say something but didn’t.

He almost told you what he was. But he didn’t. You see it now. Every lost chance. Every lie he swallowed behind his gorgeous, frightened smile. He didn’t trust you. He lied to you. You collapse to your knees.

The suit hisses across your flesh, building armor where you don’t need it. It’s attempting to distract you. Give you something to focus on. It doesn’t want you to think too hard. Because it knows what happens when you do.

When you remember. You’re not the mask. You’re not confident. You’re not the monster. You’re the girl who cried when your comic books got soaked in a storm. The girl who worried when you thought Mark might cancel your first date because you forgot to bring cash. The girl who wanted to be better, not stronger, not harder, just better because of her Uncle. You claw at your face.

The black peels back for a fleeting second. Air strikes your flesh. You gasp like someone bursting through water. It aches. But it’s you.

“I’m still here,” you mumble.

The suit recoils.

‘No. You’re weak when you’re alone.’

“I was alone before you.”

Your fingers clench into fists. The air burns in your lungs. You force yourself upright, every muscle trembling. The ceiling above you leaks. An aging fluorescent light flickers once, then dies.

The stillness is worse than the noise. You want to cry. But you don’t. Not yet. Because sobbing still belongs to the part of you that’s alive. And the symbiote is learning how to shut her off.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Mark sits on the rooftop long after you’re gone. Cecil’s voice comes through the earpieceeventually.

“Do you have eyes on her?”

Mark doesn’t answer.

“Grayson?”

“She’s gone,” he says.

A pause.

“Do you mean she escaped, or she’s compromised?”

Mark wipes the blood from his mouth.

“I mean she’s gone.”

Cecil sighs. “So you let her go.”

“She wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“She took out over fifty GDA personnel today.”

“She didn’t kill all of them.”

“She could have.”

“But she didn’t.”

Cecil’s voice hardens. “You’re not her boyfriend anymore, Mark. You’re a soldier. Act like one.”

Mark grinds his teeth.

“I’m not bringing her in.”

“Then I’ll send someone else.”

Mark’s stomach twists. He doesn’t let it show.

“I said she’s gone,” he answers. “You won’t find her.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Mark responds. “It’s a promise.”

He rips the comm out of his ear. Stares into the dark where you disappeared. And says nothing else.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You’re not sure how long you’ve been down here.

The concrete is chilly under you. Not just under you, inside you. The type of cold that gets into your bones and remains there. The kind that makes your fingers twitch even when they’re motionless.

You’ve been curled in the same position for hours. Days. Years, maybe. Knees pulled up, face pushed on Mark’s sweatshirt. It doesn’t smell like him anymore. It’s been moist too long. Too buried.

But your flesh remembers. Your heart does too. And that’s the problem. Because the past is louder than the voice that’s been residing in your brain. And the voice, the symbiote, has gone quiet. Not gone. Not sleeping. Just waiting.

Letting you break yourself. Memory from memory. You clench your eyes shut. But it doesn’t stop.

You’re seventeen again.

It’s raining.

You’re standing outside the school lab, drenched through, carrying a stack of notebooks and trying very hard not to cry since your circuit board shorted during the final test and your project partner bolted to go smoke behind the gym.

You’d told yourself you could handle it.

But now your shoes are squishing with every step and you can’t feel your fingers and your presentation is tomorrow and-

“Need help?” he asks.

You glance up.

Mark’s clutching an umbrella. One of those cheap, folding ones that barely covers him. His hair’s pouring, his backpack’s falling off one shoulder, and he’s smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer.

You blink at him. “Why are you here?”

He shrugs. “I heard something explode. Figured it was you.”

You want to laugh. Or yell. Instead, you offer him a notepad and say, “Do you know how to fix a microcontroller in under twenty-four hours?”

“I don’t even know what that is,” he answers. “But I’ll hold the umbrella while you do.”

You’re back in the tunnel. You bite your lip. Hard.

Because that was one of the first times you allowed someone to see you like that.

Not when you were polished. Not when you were confident. But when you were chilly, scared, wet, and ready to give up. And he didn’t flinch. He stayed.

You remember that night so well today.

Back at your place, wiring strewn over the floor, textbooks open to dog-eared pages, your soldering equipment kept together with tape. He didn’t know what he was doing. But he remained up anyhow. Holding tools. Holding light. Holding you together as you started to crack.

And when it finally worked, when the LED lighted up and your sensor really activated as it was meant to, you put your arms around him without thinking.

He froze. Then hugged you back.

“I knew you could do it,” he remarked.

“I didn’t,” you muttered.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll believe for both of us.”

The tears come without notice. Your chest tightens. You dig your fingers into the sleeves of the hoodie. Because it wasn’t about the project. It never was. It was about being enough. About being worth it. About him seeing you when you didn’t even want to be noticed.

You recall the day you sat on his bed with your legs tangled together, reading him a comic as he stroked lazy patterns into the back of your knee. He wasn’t even paying attention to the words. He just liked your voice. You came to the moment when Superman sacrifices himself, and your throat caught.

He glanced up. Noticed instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, pushing your thigh with his. “You okay?”

You nodded. Lied. He didn’t press.

Just snatched the book out of your hand and said, “Let’s take a break.”

You didn’t talk about it. But you still remember how safe his hands felt. How warm. The symbiote alters at the border of your thoughts.

A pulse. A flicker.

You feel it now, not only inside your body, but under your memories. Coiled. Tight. Jealous. It doesn’t like this. It doesn’t like that you miss him.

‘He’s not here.’

The voice cuts in, quietly. Deliberate.

‘He let you go.’

“I know,” you whisper.

‘He won’t wait forever.’

“I wouldn’t ask him to.”

Silence.

‘So why do you keep thinking about him?’

You close your eyes. Because it’s not just memory. It’s survival.

Because if you forget this, if you forget him, you forget yourself. You forget who you were before the rage, before the armor, before the black threads started saying words that sounded like comfort and tasted like blood.

Another recollection slips in.

You’re at his kitchen table.

Debbie’s preparing something on the stove. You’re sitting on one knee, gnawing on a pencil, attempting to finish a calculation for extra credit. Mark steps in with a smoothie and a granola bar.

You don’t even glance up. He lays them down near you.

Then leans near and adds, “Don’t forget to eat, supergenius.”

You murmur something sarcastic. He touches your hair and snatches your pencil. You tried to act upset. But you’re smiling. Because he’s never looked at you like you were too much. Not once.

Back in the tunnel, you put your forehead to your legs.

“I miss him,” you whisper.

And you detest how much you mean it. You think of the night you almost told him the truth. About how you felt something altering in you before the symbiote ever touched your skin. About how your temper was growing shorter. About the way terror started feeling like static behind your teeth.

You’d climbed into his bed that night shivering. He dragged you beneath the covers. Didn’t ask questions. Just held you, his hand pushed to your spine like he was anchoring you in place. You wanted to say it.

“I think something’s wrong with me.”

But the words wouldn’t come.

So instead, you said, “Promise you won’t leave?”

He kissed your temple.

And said, “I’ll be here. Even if you can’t be.”

You didn’t believe him. But he meant it. You know he did. You saw it on that rooftop, his face, torn between anguish and constraint. Wanting to reach for you. Knowing he couldn’t.

Because of them. Because of Cecil. Because if he touched you now, he wouldn’t be able to let go. And they’d use it against him. So he stayed back. And it broke something in you. But it wasn’t his fault.

The voice presses harder.

‘He’s not coming.’

“I know.”

‘Then quit waiting.’

“I’m not.”

‘Then what are you holding on to?’

You don’t answer right away.

Then, slowly.

“Hope.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. Sit up straighter. You’re still here. The version of you that kissed him on a rooftop. The one that stressed over lab work and grieved when Barry Allen died. The one who believed in goodness before the world taught you to weaponize it.

She’s still here.

Battered. Bent. Buried.

But breathing.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You don’t glance back while you leave.

The last thing Mark sees of you is the way your body folds into shadow, fluid, too quick, too silent, like you were intended to disappear. You vanish into the skyline, no pause, no sound, nothing left behind except blood, smoke, and the awful stillness of a battle he didn’t realize he’d already lost.

Three GDA agents lie dead in the wreckage below. Their faces don’t leave his thoughts.

One had freckles. One had a crooked mouth that made him appear like he was always half-smiling, even in the field. The youngest hardly appeared older than high school. He wore his badge too low on his chest, like he hadn’t worked out how to adjust the armor yet.

You didn’t give them a chance. And for the first time since this all began, Mark doesn't have the luxury of pretending. The flight back to base is a haze.

He moves on muscle memory, too fast for thought, too slow for comfort. The sky feels thicker than usual. Like it knows what he’s holding. He doesn't recall how he landed or who opened the hangar doors. His eyesight only sharpens when he hears Cecil’s voice.

“You let her go.”

Mark doesn’t answer. He moves by the guards without glancing at them. Past the terminals. Past Donald, who doesn’t even bother to speak. The corridor leading to the control room feels longer tonight, like it’s pushing him to go through every single second he waited too long. Every time he hesitated.

Because he did. He hesitated. And many died. Cecil doesn’t say anything as Mark enters the debrief room. Not at first. There’s a file resting on the table. A physical one.

That’s how you know it’s bad, when Cecil wants anything to feel genuine enough to touch. Mark doesn’t sit. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s inside.

“Three agents,” Cecil adds finally. “Confirmed dead. A fourth in critical condition. We don’t expect him to endure the night.”

Mark glances straight forward.

“I saw,” he says.

“You didn’t intervene.”

“I didn’t have the chance.”

“You had the chance,” Cecil adds, voice harsh. “You stood there. You let her tear through them.”

“I wasn’t trying to get her killed.”

“No,” Cecil says. “You were trying to protect her. And people died because of it.”

Mark’s hands are trembling. He twists them into fists. Tight. Controlled.

You’re in his brain again, your voice, your hands, your hoodie balled up in his duffel bag like a heart he hasn’t let stop pounding. The way you gazed at him, just for a second, before the black took over again. Like you were still there. Like you were sorry.

Like you needed help.

He wants to yell. Wants to punch something. Wants to think that love is enough to repair this. But right now? He’s not even convinced he gets to say your name out loud.

“You knew she was compromised,” Cecil adds, pacing now. “You saw what she was capable of. And you still took her to the midst of a city.”

“She wasn’t attacking civilians.”

“That’s your defense?”

“She was fighting us.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“I think it makes it complicated.”

Cecil smacks his fist down on the table. “This isn’t complicated. She killed three people in less than an hour.”

Mark flinches. Not noticeably. But inside? It lands. Hard.

“She’s still in there,” Mark replies, quieter now. “I saw her.”

“I don’t care what you saw. I care what she did.”

“She didn’t want to.”

“You think that matters?”

Mark breathes out through his teeth. “It has to.”

“Why?”

Mark’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because he loves you. Because he still believes in you. Because if he lets go of it, he has nothing. But he can’t say it. Not here. Not with Cecil scrutinizing him like he’s one bad statement away from being placed in a jail next to the demons he’s been battling since he was seventeen.

“You’re benched,” Cecil adds.

“I figured.”

“Until we figure out how much of you is still working for us.”

Mark raises his head. His eyes are weary. But they’re not soft.

“Don’t test me.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

There’s a pause.

“We have to bring her in.”

Mark’s chuckle is brief, harsh. “You think she’s just going to come with me?”

“You said she’s still in there. Prove it.”

Mark’s jaw tightens.

“And if I don’t?”

“You already know.”

Mark turns away. But they don’t let him leave the base. Not this time. He’s not restricted. Not even technically grounded. But the lockdown is slight. A progressive tightening of movement permits. A peaceful absence of shuttle access. The way Donald avoids eye contact as Mark advances toward the hangar bay and finds the doors momentarily locked for “calibration.”

He doesn’t resist it. Not yet. Because they’re watching him. Waiting. And if he makes one bad move? They’ll send someone else.

Someone who doesn’t care that you used to snore in your sleep. That you cried during Star Wars. That you trembled at thunder even if you claimed not to. That your favorite mug said “Woman of Steel” in peeling red glitter lettering and that you once told him you were terrified of forgetting who you were.

They’ll perceive you as an asset turned liability. He still sees you as you. Even today. Even after the blood.

He winds up back in the debriefing room.

Cecil leaves him there. Alone. The lights buzz overhead. The room smells like steel and sanitizer. Your voice doesn’t echo here. But it does in his chest. He pushes his palms to his face. Tries to breathe. Tries to recall the last time things made sense.

When you weren’t a threat. When your biggest concern was failing your chemistry midterm and upsetting your lab buddy. When he held you during one of your panic attacks and murmured, “You’re okay.”

When you believed him. He thinks about going after you anyhow. Breaking protocol. Tracking you underground. Tearing through every inch of concrete and sewage and forgotten tunnel if it means getting you back in one piece.

But he doesn’t move. Because if he tries? He won’t be the one who discovers you. They will. And if they discover you? They’ll murder you. He knows it. They’ll say it’s containment. They’ll claim it’s mercy. And then they’ll clean the floor and file the papers. And you’ll be gone.

Just another footnote in a secret files.

His eyes burn. He doesn't weep. But something close. The type of sadness that doesn’t need tears. Just stillness. He crushes his head against the wall. He murmurs your name once. Just enough to recall how it feels on his tongue. Just enough to remember you’re real. Still out there. Somewhere.

Then he hears it. A voice in the corridor. Muffled. Familiar. Not GDA. Not Guardian. Something else. Someone else. Mark lifts his head. The talk becomes closer. The tone is sharper now. Firm. Confident. A little haughty. And suddenly he hears it clearly.

“Tell Cecil I’m not leaving until he speaks to me directly.”

Mark’s heart skips. Because he recognizes that voice. He hasn’t heard it in days. But it’s clear. Measured. Cut from glass and silk. Harry Osborn. Cecil doesn’t glance up when the door hisses open. He doesn’t have to. 

The override alone tells him everything. Whoever just strolled through circumvented two levels of protection and activated none of the alarms. That needs clearance, real clearance. Or someone affluent, smart, and reckless enough to fake it. 

And just one individual ticks all three boxes. 

“Osborn,” he mutters. 

Harry strides in like he owns the place, but it’s not swagger. Not today. His posture’s stiff. Coiled. Like he’s been keeping something in for too long and finally finds the opportunity to let it split open. He wears a sleek jacket, sneakers sprinkled with ash, and electronic cuffs shining faintly around his wrists. He’s not here to make an entrance. 

He’s coming to make it stop. 

“I want a word,” Harry says, voice pinched. 

“You’re not cleared for this.” 

“I didn’t come for permission.” 

Cecil raises an eyebrow. “This is a closed environment.” 

“Then open it.” 

Mark hears it from the next room. 

He’s still in the debriefing hall, silent, unmoving, hands laying uselessly on his lap. But the second Harry’s voice rips through the air, he sits up straighter. 

They haven’t talked since the fallout. SInce the day you misunderstood his relationship with Eve. Since you went into smoke and shadow and blood. 

But he recalls the look on Harry’s face the last time you talked.  Something was amiss even then.  And now?  Now it’s worse. 

Harry sets a tablet on the table.  Cecil doesn’t move.  Harry’s fingers fly across the screen. 

“Three weeks ago, I started picking up low-frequency emissions from beneath New York, oscillations, patterns too structured to be tectonic. At first, I thought it was residue from a dimensional breach after what happened with Angstrom. But suddenly the waveforms stabilized.” 

He glances up. 

“Living matter.” 

Cecil frowns. 

“You’re tracking her.” 

“I was tracking it. Before I even realized it bonded.” 

Cecil narrows his gaze. “Explain.” 

Harry turns the screen so the projection strikes the table. A 3D model develops itself out of light, black sinew winding through muscle, synapses crackling with fake electricity.The structure pulses like a heartbeat. 

“It’s a symbiote,” Harry explains. “A sentient, adaptive parasite. Subcellular in origin. Carbon-based, yet it behaves like something older than our planet. Possibly interstellar.” 

The room darkens slightly as the model zooms in. 

“The organism operates by integrating with a host’s nervous system. At first, it resembles behavior. It learns. Then it begins reinforcing neuronal pathways, rewarding some ideas, punishing others.   Eventually, it doesn’t need to replicate anything.” 

“It controls,” Cecil explains. 

“No,” Harry responds, and his voice is harsher than before. “It convinces. It makes the host feel such decisions are theirs.” 

He glances over the simulation again. The lattice pulses with sickly light. 

“It heightens aggression, lowers inhibition, exploits trauma responses. And then it builds emotional dependency…” 

He meets Cecil’s gaze. 

“It doesn’t let go.” 

Mark stands in the corridor, frozen. Every phrase smacks him like a memory. The way you snapped at him that night for anything petty. The way your eyes stopped focussing occasionally. The way you used to apologize for everything, and then, one day, stopped totally. 

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t violent. It was crawling. Like a fog. 

“It picked her,” Harry adds, voice low. “It found her when she was vulnerable. When she felt she’d lost everything. And it didn’t attack. It didn’t consume.” 

“It offered comfort.” 

He swipes to another panel. Brain scans, real ones, annotated with timestamps and biometric ID numbers. 

“These are from her last visit to Oscorp.” 

Cecil’s eyes dart toward the data. 

“She was already showing signs of cognitive destabilization,” Harry recalls. “Split impulses. Memory deterioration. Heightened fear response, mixed with irresponsible external risk tolerance.” 

“She came to you,” Cecil adds. 

Harry nods once. “She didn’t even know what she was asking.” 

Mark takes a hesitant breath.  Because that night, you returned home shaking.You assured him it was just the city. That you were OK. You lied. But maybe you didn’t even realize it. 

“She’s not possessed,” Harry replies. “It’s worse than that.” 

Cecil folds his arms. 

“She’s bonded.” 

Mark enters inside the room suddenly, quiet, eyes fixated on the projection. Harry pauses. Doesn’t look away from Cecil. 

“Say it,” he tells him. 

Cecil is silent. Harry doesn’t let up. 

“It’s a symbiote.” 

Mark's voice fills the area before anybody else can move. 

“And it chose her.” 

Cecil turns. Mark’s face is inscrutable.  But his voice isn’t. It’s full with sadness. And rage. And the type of hurting loyalty that doesn’t know where to go anymore. 

“I was with her when she changed,” Mark explains. “I watched her fight it. And then I saw her lose.” 

He stares down at the model. 

“I’ve seen what she is now. What it made her.” 

Harry exhales. “But that’s not all she is.” 

“She killed people.” 

“I know.” 

“She didn’t stop.” 

“I know that too.” 

Mark shuts his eyes. “Then why the hell do I still believe-” 

“Because you remember who she was,” Harry adds gently. “And so does she.” 

Cecil observes them. Two people who lost the same person in different ways. Two humans standing in the same fire, reluctant to let the other burn alone. Finally, Cecil speaks. 

“What do you want?” 

Harry straightens. 

“I want access to every piece of GDA data you have on the subject. I want a lab. I want to do brain overlays on past sightings, cross-reference stress responses.” 

“And?” 

“And I want to be the one who speaks to her when you bring her in.” 

Mark lifts his head. “We’re not bringing her in.” 

Cecil narrows his gaze. Harry doesn’t blink. 

“She’s not a prisoner,” he says. “She’s a host. And if we use her like a weapon, we lose her.” 

Mark talks without thinking. 

“We already might’ve.” 

“No,” Harry says. 

And for the first time, he stares at Mark directly. 

“She’s still in there.” 

Cecil doesn’t reply. Not right away.  But the tension shifts. Like the room itself is holding its breath. 

“You’ve got forty-eight hours,” he adds. 

“To what?” Mark asks. 

“To prove she can come back.” 

“And if she can’t?” 

Cecil stares at them both. Flat. Final. 

“Then she doesn’t.” 

Mark doesn’t argue. He merely breathes. Then turns to Harry. And nods. The lab they offer Harry isn’t much. Just a frigid, modular area two levels below the GDA surveillance bay. White light, steel countertops, one reinforced door, and a full wall of equipment that hasn’t been touched in weeks.

But it’s silent. And right now, that’s what matters.

Mark stands with his back to the distant window, arms crossed, eyes fixated on the display Harry is producing in real-time, a simulation of your neurological system overlaid with the throbbing weave of the symbiote’s tendrils. It vibrates like a live map. The black veins flow deeper than before. More complicated. More certain.

“You’ve been working on this for a while,” Mark says.

Harry doesn’t glance up. “Since the night she came to me.”

Mark swallows. “You knew something was wrong.”

“I knew she wasn’t okay. And I knew it wasn’t just her.” He adjusts the magnification, honing in on the brain cortex. “But I didn’t know it was a symbiote until the scans came back. The connection had already started by then.”

Mark doesn’t speak. Because he recalls that day. Remembers the way you flinched at startling noises. The way your sentences drifted off. The way you didn’t laugh as much. Didn’t smile. The way you’d look out the window like you were trying to recollect something you’d already lost.

Harry straightens. “It targets the brain first.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “How?”

Harry taps the projection. “It latches to the base of the spine, then spreads through the nervous system like a virus. But it’s not just physical. It’s emotional. Psychological. It learns the host’s discomfort. The gaps. The cracks. Then it fills them.”

Mark doesn’t move.

“Everything she hated about herself?” Harry continues. “It used that. Everything she was terrified of? It vowed to protect her against it. It made her feel strong.”

Mark exhales, leisurely. “Because it never says no.”

Harry nods. “Exactly.”

“It doesn’t fight her.”

“It affirms her. Until she can’t tell where she stops and it begins.”

Mark shuts his eyes. Because you told him once, quietly, in the dark, that you didn’t know whether you were someone worth loving. And he hugged you harder and whispered yes. Over and over. Like that might make it true.

“So how do we get it off her?” he says finally.

Harry hesitates. And that’s when Mark understands it’s not a straightforward response.

“It’s not about ripping it off,” Harry explains. “This isn’t an infection. It’s a partnership.”

Mark glances up.

“Then we kill it.”

“No,” Harry says. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s her.”

Mark’s stomach twists.

“It’s inside her thoughts now. Her recollections. Her intuition. If we kill it by force, we’ll lose her with it.”

“So what are you saying?”

Harry turns, slowly, to face him.

“To separate them,” he argues, “she has to reject it.”

The room goes still. Mark stares at him.

“She has to want to let it go,” Harry continues. “Completely. Consciously. It needs to come from her.”

Mark doesn’t speak. Because he understands what that entails. You’re not simply lost. You’re trapped. And only you can unlock the door.

“The symbiote can’t exist without consent,” Harry explains. “Even if it twists that consent into something it feeds from, the bond starts with a yes. Even a silent one.”

Mark shakes his head. “So all we can do is wait?”

“No,” Harry says. “We can try to reach her. We may try to show her what it’s stolen from her. Try to remind her of what’s real.”

“Do you think that’ll be enough?”

Harry’s eyes are fatigued. But steady.

“I think if anyone can break through to her,” he continues, “it’s you.”

Mark turns away. His hand finds the edge of the table. He holds it like it may save him from coming apart.

“I can’t even picture her without it anymore,” he says.

“She’s still in there.”

“I know. But every time I close my eyes, I see the blood.”

Harry doesn’t answer. Not right away.

Then, softly. “So does she.”

They both go silent. The simulation keeps operating. The dark tendrils pulse like they’re breathing.

“She’s going to fight us,” Mark says finally.

“She’ll fight everything. Especially what hurts.”

“She won’t believe me.”

“She doesn’t have to believe you,” Harry replies. “She just has to remember.”

Mark pushes his hands to his face. The weight of it, of you, of this creature snaking its claws down your spine and whispering safety while the world falls around you, it’s too much.

But he can’t stop now. He can’t stop till you’re free. Or till you quit breathing. And it can’t happen. He won’t allow it.

Harry returns to the simulation.

“There’s one more thing,” he says. “If we can trigger enough neurological stress, if we can cause the bond to destabilize without breaking her completely, it might be enough to weaken its hold.”

“You mean hurt her.”

“I mean scare it.”

Mark’s expression darkens. But he understands. Symbiotes don’t sense fear the way humans do. They only flee when they’re outmatched. Which implies their survival instinct can be harnessed.

If they can create the appearance that the host is no longer viable… The symbiote could try to retreat. Or run. But even that is a gamble.

“She has to be the one to say no,” Harry adds again, more forcefully this time. “That’s the only way it works.”

Mark nods slowly. Then murmurs your name. Like a prayer. Like a weapon. Like a hand reached out in the dark.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[nanamiskentos]

kashimos like pussy muncheratron 300. Do you understand my vision. Comes up chin all messy and everything

cw ➤ afab!reader, orál (f), hair pulling, fíngering, praisè kínk. MDNI.

kashimo's always been reckless, especially whenever he's slotted into his favourite place in the world. right between the plush flesh of your thighs.

you had never expected him to be, because for the longest time, you had amusedly watched as the tips of his ears would flush pink, ivory skin mottled red as kashimo coughed and kneaded at the back of his neck. the medieval sorcerer being surprisingly prudish to the concept of anything intimate, that is, until . . he got his first taste.

and he's just so fixated. so unflinchingly devoted to the slick, twitching mess of you. it's visible in the way he presses pale lips to the inside of your thighs, sharp fangs tucked away lest they pierce and puncture.

you can see jus' how desperate kashimo is to dip your hips into his mouth, from the way he nudges your knees open wider with his chin. like you're a book he's desperate to study front to back, cover to cover, to memorise every sopping fold that oozes translucent slick over his slender fingers.

"you're already shaking, little dove," kashimo murmurs, voice thick and raspier than his typical snide tone. cyan eyes flashing with unbridled desire as he drags his electric gaze across your soaked cunt.

the sorcerer's grinning when he says it, that little flash of mischief tucked behind the sharp tip of his tongue, as though he knows exactly what he's doing to you. and worse? he knows that he's only just begun.

". . hajime, i –" you whisper, breath hitching when he brushes the very tip of his shapely nose against your inner thigh. pressing his lips to your skin in a way that blooms a fresh bruise that you'll marvel at tomorrow.

the sorcerer's gaze flickers up, jewel-turquoise eyes ringed by lashes of the very same shade. the effect is almost disconcerting, but fascinating all the same.

"mhm?" kashimo's voice is airy, distracted. and he's far too busy mouthing along your skin, open-mouthed kisses soaking into your flesh like he's trying to leave a trail, some path back to you, in case he ever gets lost, "you nervous?" he grins, "don't be, i'm not."

yeah, hajime kashimo never gets nervous. or apprehensive. you've yet to introduce him to every wonder of the modern world that the edo period lacked, but you know that if you dangled him over the edge of the mariana trench, he'd probably excitedly ask you to just drop him right in, just for fun . . . and right, where were you?

the moment kashimo finally presses a tender, leering kiss to your cunt, soft and slick, your body tenses with a gasp. and marble-sculpted hands tighten at your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin. keeping you open and steady. he hums, as though he's just tasted ambrosia.

"ouh, wait. ." he mutters, "that's, that's good. keep 'em open for me, little dove, i like that."

and kashimo's messy with it, shameless. his eager tongue laps through your glossy folds, slow and steady, as though he's trying to memorise the way you taste, every twitch of your thighs alongside him.

and you can only jolt beneath him, your hand blindly groping out to curl into the soft strands of his teal hair, latched right around one of the knots he pulls his hair up into.

kashimo just groans, lips dragging up to your throbbing clut, suckling the nub with a soft, wet sound that echoes in the space between your legs.

". .there she is," kashimo reverently whispers, half to himself, half to the trembling, quivering mess of your swollen pussy, "you gonna' cum just from this? just from my mouth, sweet thing?"

and what else can you do, but choke on your reply? fingers threading through blue-green strands, already damp with exertion. and he's moaning at that, a grunt that gives way to a needier, unabashed sound. as though you're the one pleasuring him.

"if i had known that you'd like it this much. ." his tongue teasing at your clit in lazy circles now, deliberately slow before laving down to part your sticky, messy folds, "like me right here?" gentle breath fanning over your folds, hot and uneven. and you can nearly sob when his eager lips wrap around you once more, right over the throbbing pulse that jumps up and down.

"say it, wanna' hear how much you like it."

you can only nod, desperate. angling your hips just so, in a way that slick pools and trickles, and he shakes his head to side to avoid wasting even a drop. but there's just so damn much. .

kashimo lifts his head just enough to look you in the eyes, chin gleaming with spit and slick, lips swollen pink and tacked with your arousal.

"hey, what did i jus' say?" he's slowly inching the very tips of his fingers into your glossy entrance that's winking up so prettily for him. "use your words, little dove. don't make me ask twice."

"y-yes," you pant, eyes fluttering as stars begin to prick at your vision, feeling kashimo's digits press and meld to every crevice of your gummy, sticky walls. searching eager for that sweet spot, "yes, i like it. i l-love it when you – . ."

that's all kashimo really needed to hear. there's a faint jostle in the bouncy mattress beneath you, and you have no doubt he's probably rutting himself up against the soft bedding. eager to chase some friction of his own beneath the thick weave of his ivory martial pants.

the sorcerer eats as though he's starved, sucking your clit like air is a mere second priority to him. licking into you, greedily pummelling his fingers into you, and curling them against the rough patch towards your abdomen that makes you squeal.

you can hear the god of lightning groan, pant against you as though it's euphoric, hands bruised into your thighs. and you're already tipped over the edge, hips stuttering, mind startlingly blank. mouth parted in a soundless gasp as your brows knit together.

but. . just before that sweet release knocks on the door, kashimo pulls back slightly. fingers still curled and oodling pretty, sloppy patterns in you. but that searing gaze is trained up at you, through half-lidded, ruined eyes.

"you better cum, better make a fuckin' mess," kashimo breathes, slick strands of your arousal clinging to his lips as they part, "all over my face, can you do that? mhm, can you do that for me?"

when kashimo has his mind set to pleasuring you, it's never casual. never tame, never a favour. not a warm-up, nor a means to an end. the tip of his nose bumps right up against your pulsing, swollen clit, you can hear the sorcerer mutter, almost to himself, like a vow, "gonna' have you on my face next."

[brklynbxby]

She stepped into the storm like it belonged to her. Rain sheeted down in silver knives, carving through the night with a fury that might have stopped lesser men in their tracks. But not her. She didn’t waver. Purpose radiated off her like heat from scorched metal. In his earpiece, the comms whispered static—barely audible over the storm’s roar—but the world around him narrowed to stillness. Through the distortion, her form appeared. The team held the silence like it might shatter if touched. A thousand instincts roared—drag her back, anchor her to safety, wrap her in steel and keep her from vanishing into the dark. But Luna had never been made for safekeeping. She was wildfire wrapped in flesh. And this… this was the path she asked for. Fingers tightened on the mic, and his voice, when it came, was carved from stone. “Keep walking but dip left slightly. Don't make it obvious where you came from. There's a two-second dead zone on the corner cam. Cam will count you through it.” Flat. Precise. That tone he only ever used when seconds counted and lives hung in the balance. “Keep your pace. No sudden moves. You’re not a threat, just a ghost passing through."

From his perch, he tracked her silhouette through the smoke and silver of the downpour. Her movements were liquid—grace honed by necessity. The sight of her, so calm beneath chaos, felt like watching lightning take shape. “Twenty meters away, careful now” Cameron murmured, eyes flicking to the thermal feed. “Now cross. Three… two… now.” Rain slicked down her face, soaking through fabric, clinging to her like a second skin. Strands of hair curled along her cheekbones, dark and wet like streaks of war paint. A whisper crackled over comms. “Camera two is swinging.” The words were a blade. Cam's gaze pinned the feed, heart rhythm steady, mind locked in. “They’ve noticed her.” On the thermal screen, the smaller heat signature—barely more than a flicker—shifted. A stir. The faintest twitch. Enough. “Confirmation,” came Cameron’s voice through the shared line. “Pattern interrupted. The child responded. Guard posture altered.” A pause. Silence bloomed again. Azriel didn’t blink. “Luna, pull back,” he said lowly. “Now!” Hand wrapped tight around the grip of his sidearm, cold steel anchoring him in the now. The storm raged. The building loomed.

Luna sat frozen for a moment, listening. She couldn’t see much—just shadows moving beyond the rain, flickers of light through the storm-soaked glass. The voices over the comms painted the scene clearer than her eyes ever could. Cameron. Jonah. Will. Olly. Each one slotting into place like pieces in some brutal, living machine. And then—her name. Azriel’s voice. It hit different now. Low, measured, pulling her straight out of her own head. She closed her eyes for a second, listening. The plan unfolded around her in pieces—tight, clean, ruthless in its efficiency. It was his voice that made her heart skip. Not because he was giving orders, but because he was asking. Asking her.

She gripped her knife tighter the second she heard him say it: a small body, unmoving. Her pulse slammed against her ribs. "Henry would panic if he saw you guys," she said softly, voice tight with something she didn’t bother to hide. “But he would cooperate if he saw me… or at least he’d feel safer. He knows me, he calls me Mama.” The words came fast, but quiet. She forced herself to breathe after. To slow down. The air felt too thin in the car. Or maybe she was just unraveling under the weight of what might be waiting for them in that building. She didn’t hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat. “I’d do anything,” she whispered, “anything to get him out." She didn’t care what happened to her. Never did. Her gaze stayed fixed on the front of the garage, where shadows shifted like something alive. She trusted Azriel. She trusted that even if everything went wrong… he would get them out. A pause. Then firmer, steadier: “It’s not a mistake. It’s a good plan. Let’s do it.” Before she could talk herself out of it, she moved. Hand on the door, the weight of it grounding her for a single breath. And then she opened it and stepped into the cold. Rain slammed against her skin, the wind wrapping her bones in ice. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. Didn’t falter.

Luna slid the knife into the back pocket of her jeans and stood tall. “I—” she started, glancing into the darkness where she knew Azriel was watching. “I’ll listen. Just… guide me.” She needed him to understand. This wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t about proving anything. It was about Henry. About getting that little boy out of a nightmare and back into the light. She wasn’t trying to disobey. She just… couldn’t not do something. “Tell me where to go,” she said quietly. “And I’ll walk straight into the fire for him.” But even as the rain poured harder, as the garage loomed ahead and the shadows swallowed half the sky—she felt it. The quiet certainty that Azriel would catch her if she fell. And somehow, that was enough.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 2) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Explicit Sex, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Angst. Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.3K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in green (see-line)

Wears silk stockings (see-line)

With golden seams (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

Bodies jammed to music next to other bodies crammed inside Bernice's tiny third-floor apartment. A phonograph played the hot jazz they liked and shiny Black faces shimmied and shook the floor down. Max manned the drink table with his girl, and Bernice collected money at the door.

Lena clutched Stack's hand, and he grinned from east to west entering the raucous rent party. Two seconds after tossing five dollars into Bernice's finest church hat, he entwined his fingers with hers and joined the sweaty dancers cutting the rug.

Oh, he could dance!

Lena squealed as he spun her around. She wiggled her hips, stomped her feet, and threw her arms in the air. Her friends, neighbors, and co-workers eyed him up and down as he swiveled his hips and thrust against her. Later, they shared some cheap reefer and glasses of terrible hooch, then bought plates of fried chicken wings, pickled pig's feet, and potato salad.

Bernice threw an old scratchy Charley Patton record on, and Stack squeezed his eyes shut. He threw one hand up and moaned, "Ohhhhh, shit! Some down home blues!"

He ground his hips against Lena, and she matched his seductive ways with a steamy, slow drag. His hands wandered up and down her back, but once it headed further south and palmed her ass cheeks, they had to leave.

"Follow me," she whispered in his ear.

She led him out of Bernice's place and guided him down a flight of creaky stairs to her smaller kitchenette apartment. She stopped at the shared bathroom on her floor.

"If you need to go, there it is," she said.

Inebriated, he could still tell her living conditions weren't great. He took a quick piss, and she waited for him outside the door. Despite the substandard housing, Lena liked the people who lived in her building.

Stack flicked water from his hands after washing them and trailed behind Lena to her place.

"It's not much, but it's home," she said.

They kissed in the doorway until she felt his dick poking through his pants. His eyes were glassy while peering at her, and she chewed on her bottom lip, studying his expression.

"What do you like about me?" she asked.

"Everything," he said.

"Be specific."

"I like your beauty…your hair…the way you look at me all night. I like the way you smile…dance…everything. Is that satisfactory for ya, or should I keep going?"

"Keep going."

"I like the way your lips feel pressed against mine. I like how you feel against me, all soft and warm and made for me…"

His lips danced along her neck, and he sucked the skin on her collarbone.

"Make love to me, Stack."

"I will."

He lifted her into the apartment and kicked the door closed. Her place only had two rooms, so he went to where the small bed was.

He kissed her clothes off her body. When she was completely nude, he memorized every inch of her, even the twisty strands of her midnight black spiral curls that everyone always admired and women copied.

"I'll be right back. Gonna wash up first," he said.

"Okay. I'll get you some soap and things."

She gathered up a clean towel, a bar of soap, and a brand new pink wash rag.

He left her apartment and padded down the hall to the shared bathroom. She went into her kitchenette and used the sink with another wash rag to clean herself. Drinking a glass of water, she rinsed out her mouth and waited for him.

While she reclined on her soft bed, he returned with only the towel wrapped around his waist. He carried his shoes, garments, and underwear in his hand. Tossing them on a dresser in the room, he climbed onto the bed next to her.

"I have rubbers," he whispered.

He held out a square tin box in his hand that housed condoms.

"Good."

It didn't matter. Lena couldn't have human children, anyway.

Stack reached for her, and she hugged him tight, sharing her lips with his. She carefully kissed his forehead and eyelids, and puckered both his cute cheeks and groomed chin, leaving lipstick smudges. Lena kissed him long enough until her lips were swollen and tingled. He chuckled softly against her mouth and the warm breath added another rich sensation.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"I'm usually knee deep in pussy 'bout to bust by this point."

"Is that what your other women like? Fast sex?"

He leaned back on her pillow and she cuddled on his wide chest, tracing her index finger on his soft chest hairs. His fat dick rested on her thigh, leaking teardrops of pre-cum. He cupped one of her upturned breasts and admired the pert cocoa brown nipples ready for his lips.

"It's not always fast, but I'm usually on the go…working all hours…traveling for the boss. Things get tense. Got no time to waste."

"Seems like the stresses would make you take your time and enjoy yourself. Sounds like you're spent before you even get your trousers off, Mr. Moore."

"Stack."

"Stack…"

She poked the tip of his nose playfully.

"Let me show you how to do it right," she said.

"Hold on."

He opened a condom and rolled it down on his erection.

Lena climbed on top of him and slid down his length, letting his penis stay warm inside of her without moving her hips. She lowered her face to his and kissed him softly, enjoying the languid time she spent just exploring and loving his mouth. His breath shuddered against her lips as he rested his hands on her hips.

She used her teeth to snag his bottom lip and bit it playfully, clenching her vaginal walls to squeeze his heavy dick twice.

"Fuck…!" he gasped.

She still didn't rock or bounce on him, simply allowed her natural lubrication to coat the rubber with a gradual slippery ease. The cock warming worked on him. He stayed focused on her eyes. His lips parted, and he panted her name.

"Lena…Lena…Lena…shit…Lena…"

"You feel so good inside my pussy, Stack. I'm so full of you…"

She slipped her tongue between his lips and their tongues tussled and twisted with groans spilling out. His skin felt like fire and she matched his temperature. She squeezed that big dick again and his eyes widened with the pleasure.

Lena started bouncing then, and he helped give her more girth by thrusting up. His fingers sank into the soft flesh of her backside and her bed suffered the strain of their weight humping each other.

He played with her breasts, licked and sucked her nipples tenderly, letting their passion rise to a scorching level. She slammed her ass on him and his body handled the loud smacking of their erratic friction. His eyes narrowed, and she brought him to the place she needed him to be.

"Show me why they call you Big Stack," she cried out.

The energy in the bedroom shifted and Stack flipped her over and rutted inside of her like a man with a serious mission. She yelped in surprise at the ferocity. He grunted with the exertion of stretching her walls to kingdom come…and then some.

Clawing his back, she stared up at the paint peeling on the ceiling and understood completely why the women flocked to his dick. He pumped in and out like a locomotive trying to reach the other side of a tunnel. The curve of his dick tugged on her clit and kept her in a maddening state of almost cumming, but not quite. It made her wetter, and she started crying because it felt too good to be true.

"Fuck me, Stack…oh…Big Stack…baby…!"

She thrashed under him and he pushed her legs up to her ears and fucked the sin outta her. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she waited for the bed to crash down to the first floor. Glancing at the wall, the distance had changed. They'd fucked the bed a good seven inches from where it originally sat.

She jammed her cheek against his and hooked her legs over his hips. Her body writhed, keeping pace with his thrusts.

"Fuck… baby…fuck…oh…fuck that dick…fuck me…Lena! Lena!"

"Yes Daddy," she huffed in his ear, "Give it to me…I wanna feel it deep!"

He hunched over her and his body weight pushed her deep into the mattress. His release roared out of his throat, almost scaring her.

He collapsed on top of her, and she stroked the back of his neck.

"What did you do to me?" he gasped.

He rolled over and pulled her on top of him. She peppered his face with tiny kisses, and then jumped off the bed, grabbing her robe off the hook of the bedroom door.

"I'll go pee…wash up… and then we can do it again," she said.

Stack peeled off the condom.

"I'll be ready when you come back."

"You better. That was just the appetizer," she said.

"My God," he yelped.

She dashed out of the apartment and headed to the shared bathroom.

Lena and Stack kept their connection lowkey.

Very private.

A week after they started sleeping together, he moved her from the shabby apartment and paid to keep her in a luxury one inside a newer building with a doorman. She no longer had to share a bathroom and delighted in coming home to a hot bath inside her own space. He spoiled her with new clothes, jewelry, and fancy perfumes. If he couldn't see her, he'd send an errand boy to bring her the roasted peanuts she loved with some flowers. Just to let her know he was thinking of her above all his other paramours. At work, they pretended to be platonic acquaintances even though Max and Bernice knew better from the rent party.

None of the material gifts mattered to her. She only wanted his company and lovemaking.

However, she was greedy.

Lena turned her eyes on Smoke.

Out of the two brothers, Smoke was the more subdued and introverted. Women desired him as much as Stack and took great pains to catch his attention, but the man seemed to be in an insular world of his own. Contemplative. Not overly friendly. One who moved in shadows. He was pleasant with the Sunset staff and stuck close to Ernie as one of his lieutenants, like Stack.

When she knew Stack had to travel to Detroit, it surprised her that Smoke didn't go with him. They ran together on most syndicate runs as Ernie's reps, and this trip shouldn't have been the exception. Yet she stood behind the bar counter working and watching Smoke run the club and the streets while Ernie and Stack were away.

He ran a tight ship.

Lena liked that.

He exuded a quiet power that permeated the club. If Stack acted like a red rooster, strutting around and crowing orders to the staff, Smoke was the hawk watching far above, ready to swoop in with talons raised like a silent assassin.

A big band played to a packed crowd and Smoke perched himself at Ernie's table like a king observing his subjects, keeping them in line. She mixed him a Cohasset Punch because he liked dark rum, and walked it over to his table.

"You always seem to know when I need a drink," he said.

She set the glass down in front of him. Tried to think of a way to engage him without being a nuisance. Caroline, the server in that section of the club, bumped into her on purpose.

"I know what you're trying to do," Caroline hissed.

Lena stepped away from Smoke's table.

Caroline followed her.

"What are you talking about?" Lena said.

"You tried getting Stack, and that didn't work. Now you're going for Smoke. Stop flirting. He's off limits."

"Says who?"

Caroline put a hand on her hip. Her svelte physique was better suited to be a dancer instead of a server. She had the fair skin and keen features to be the next Fredi Washington.

"Stay away from him if you know what's good for you."

She jabbed her finger just under Lena's throat. Lena grabbed her finger and twisted it.

"Is there a problem, ladies?"

Smoke approached them with a neutral expression. Lena yanked her hand back from touching Caroline.

"No, sir," Caroline said with a slight grimace from the pain.

"We like to keep our reputation as a classy establishment. Can't have the staff bickering in front of customers. What's the issue?"

"Nothing, Mr. Moore. Just a misunderstanding," Lena said sweetly.

Lena tried to give him an openly carnal stare. He ignored it.

"Back to work then," he said, pivoting to his seat.

Caroline glared at Lena and quickly stomped off to see about a guest.

Lena had to figure out a way to attract him. Being pretty and using lethal stare-downs didn't work on him. He didn't chase tail. All kinds of pussy surrounded him and she never witnessed him taking advantage of it like his brother did.

All night, she plotted how to catch him. Because he had to run the club, he'd be there all week from opening until closing each night.

Two days passed. She tried everything from chatting him up to changing her hairstyle to see if he noticed.

Nothing.

There had to be a way to capture his attention.

He loved the big bands. Loved the dancing of the chorus girls and the patrons on the dance floor. He especially loved the vocalists who enchanted their audiences. She watched him get lost in the music, sometimes closing his eyes and tapping his fingers on the table.

On an especially busy night with a young horn player from New Orleans enthralling the club with an improvised solo, Lena watched Smoke struggle to roll his favorite tobacco. Taking a break from her job, she wandered over to him and helped roll the cigarette. Without saying a word, she handed it to him and even lit it with his gold lighter. He took a puff, blew out a stream of smoke, and eyed her.

"Thanks," he said.

She left him alone and twenty minutes later, before he could summon Caroline, Lena had a fresh drink ready for him at his table.

Snooping among her co-workers, she found out what brand of tobacco he liked and pre-rolled a few for him in her apartment. She left them in a silver cigarette holder with his first drink of the evening the next day.

It aggravated Caroline.

The other female servers, too.

The Smoke Stack twins had the raw animal magnetism that dampened panties and inflamed hearts. They were dangerous in the forbidden bad-boy way that made being around gangsters titillating. All the square broads and loose women preened in front of the brothers with their tongues damn near hanging out of their mouths like stray alley cats in heat.

Smoke became dependent on her for his comfort at work. He didn't want anyone else making his drinks or serving it to him…not even his meals there. The head chef told her that Smoke requested for her to bring his evening meal, not the regular servers on duty. She did so and Smoke stayed his normal, subdued self.

Except…

He started looking at her.

She'd wipe down the counter, retrieve bottles, joke with Max and Frank, serve guests with the charm and professionalism that garnered her a sterling reputation, and now and then, she'd feel eyes on her. When she glanced his way, he'd turn his head in another direction.

It surprised her to see him approach the counter and check in with the bar staff. He still said very little to her unless it was complimenting her hard work.

It clicked in her head to disappear.

Call in sick.

Smoke believed in order and things running smooth on his watch. If she threw a wrench into that comfort…

She called Max and told him she was down with the flu. Would be out for three days. She sat in her apartment listening to old blues records Stack liked and played with new styles for her hair. Ate candy. Cooked greasy foods. Napped for hours.

On her second afternoon playing sick, someone slipped a black envelope with a gold wax seal under her apartment door.

Lena used a letter opener to slice under the seal of an hourglass embedded in the wax. Inside the letter was plain white cardstock with a name written on it in gold embossed script. She memorized it, then placed the envelope and card on the floor, where it burst into flames. It withered away until there was only a whiff of smoke left. Sighing, she opened her bedroom window and quickly undressed.

Lying on her bed, she waited quietly for her transformation.

It always started as an intense heat in her toes that worked up to her midsection before painfully engulfing the rest of her. Her physical form liquefied into a gooey mass of black matter on the bed as her consciousness hovered above it, waiting to re-connect.

The essence of her floated down into the corporal form of a large crow.

She hopped off the bed and made her way to the window, perching on the sill. Leaping out, she spread her wings and soared above the tree near her apartment, and used a warm draft to carry her to the person she needed to see.

An elderly Black man sat on a park bench dressed in a smart blue suit holding a bag of breadcrumbs. He fed some pigeons vying for his generous offerings near his well-worn shoes.

Lena dropped next to him and the man glanced at her.

"You want some too, big fella?" the man said.

He sprinkled a small amount of crumbs for her on the bench, and she accepted a few to be polite. She cawed loudly and all the pigeons flew away. She needed his undivided attention.

"That wasn't real nice fella, those other birds weren't bothering you…oh," he said.

He gazed into her left eye, finally noticing the iridescent color.

"Oh," he said again, clutching his arm.

His breathing became haggard, and he grimaced before relaxing.

"I guess it's my time," he whispered to her.

Death came then.

She walked down a path unseen by other humans in the park. Mothers pushed baby prams, children ran around with nannies in tow, and young couples in love strolled in the sunshine holding hands.

Death wore a long sable veil that covered her entire body and trailed behind her into eternity. Underneath the covering, her obsidian skin shined brightly in an ethereal light, creating a tangible warmth that was as comforting as the womb the old man floated in when he was a baby. Back then, Death came to him as Life, coaxing him into the world. She was the first to hear him take his first breath as an infant beyond the veil. Now she had returned for his homegoing journey.

"Do not be afraid," Death said, reaching for him.

Unshed tears shined in his eyes.

"I'll try not to be."

"Thank you for finding him, Lena," Death said. "You may go now until I need you again."

Lena flapped her wings twice and leapt into the air. Looking down, she watched Death pull back her veil and envelop the old man in a loving embrace.

They vanished.

The bench held only the empty vessel that had once been Mr. Parnell Thomas James. Seventy-five years of age. He left behind a wife, four adult children, and five grandchildren. One day Lena would have to visit them, too.

But only when Death called for her.

Chapter 3 HERE.

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[gukcnt]

۶ৎ A SYMPHONY OF TOUCH —

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice shaking with need. “Look at you, falling apart just from this. You’re mine, flower, all fucking mine.”

pairing: husband dom!taehyung x wife sub!femreader

genre: established relationship, slice of life, domestic fluff, passionate love, erotica, smut

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, slight d/s dynamics, oral sex (f. receiving), sensual body massage, oil play, sensory experience, breast play, intense focus on nipple stimulation, clit play, heightened arousal, fingering, light non penetrative anal teasing, making out, hickies/marking, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, emphasis on heightened sensitivity due to oil, touch and prolonged foreplay, teasing, begging, intense reactions, crying and screaming in pleasure, dirty talk, passionate and possessive praising dialogues from taehyung, emotional and physical intimacy, vocalizations, oil slicked bodies, slight edging, body worship, emotional intimacy, showering together, loving and soft aftercare

wc: 4.80k

masterlist

۶ৎ

The apartment was a haven, steeped in the amber glow of the setting sun that seeped through gauzy curtains, painting the hardwood floor in warm, honeyed hues. The air was heavy with the delicate scent of lavender from the diffuser, laced with the faint, musky undertone of your perfume, now dulled by the relentless grind of a twelve-hour workday. Your body was a canvas of exhaustion—every muscle taut, your feet screaming from the confines of pointed-toe heels, and a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind your eyes. You stumbled through the front door, your navy pencil skirt clinging to your thighs like a second skin, your cream silk blouse slightly unbuttoned, revealing the delicate curve of your collarbone. Too drained to even consider changing, you collapsed onto the bed, the downy mattress yielding beneath you, its cool, crisp sheets a fleeting reprieve against your overheated skin. A low, shuddering groan slipped from your lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet hum of the apartment.

Taehyung had returned an hour earlier, his tailored suit jacket slung carelessly over the armchair, his burgundy tie loosened to hang askew. His dark hair was tousled, strands falling into his eyes from the absent-minded habit of raking his fingers through it. He stood in the kitchen, the faint clink of a glass against the marble countertop punctuating the stillness, when he heard your footsteps—slow, dragging, each step a testament to your depletion. His heart twisted, a visceral pang of protectiveness and love. Setting the glass down with a soft clatter, he strode to the bedroom, his tall, lean frame filling the doorway. His eyes, deep and molten, softened as they landed on you, sprawled across the bed in your disheveled work attire, your chest rising and falling with shallow, weary breaths.

“My little flower,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety caress, rich with warmth that seemed to seep into your bones. He crossed the room in three fluid strides, kneeling beside the bed, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The pads of his fingers, warm and slightly rough, lingered on your cheek, their heat a stark contrast to the cool air. “God, you look utterly wrecked, love. I missed you so fucking much today.”

You cracked open your eyes, meeting his gaze—those dark, expressive pools that seemed to hold galaxies, pinning you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. A faint, tired smile tugged at your lips, though it took effort to muster. “I missed you too, Tae,” you whispered, your voice raw, frayed at the edges from exhaustion. “Today was… brutal. I feel like I’ve been run over, and I can’t even think about moving.”

His chuckle was a deep, resonant rumble, like the crackle of a fire on a winter night, warming you from the inside out. “I can see that, sweetheart. You’re still in those torture devices you call heels.” His eyes flicked to your feet, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features. “Let me take care of you, hmm? You don’t have to lift a finger.” His words were a vow, dripping with adoration, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in his universe—made your chest ache with love. “How about a massage? I’ll make every ounce of that tension disappear, I swear.”

You nodded, too spent to form a proper response, but the idea of his hands on you, unraveling the knots in your body, was a siren’s call. “Please, Tae,” you breathed, your voice a fragile thread, barely audible.

He rose, retrieving a sleek bottle of massage oil from the nightstand, its amber liquid catching the light as he poured a generous amount into his palm. The air bloomed with the heady scent of jasmine and sandalwood, rich and intoxicating, wrapping around you like a silken veil. He rubbed his hands together, warming the oil, the soft sound of his palms sliding against each other filling the quiet. “Let’s get you out of these clothes first,” he said, his tone gentle but laced with a quiet authority that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

With reverent care, he helped you sit up, his fingers deftly unbuttoning your blouse. The silk whispered against your skin, cool and slick, as it slid off your shoulders, revealing your white lace bra, the delicate fabric clinging to the swell of your breasts. His eyes darkened, a storm brewing in their depths, but his touch remained tender as he unzipped your skirt, easing it down your legs. The fabric pooled on the floor, leaving you in your matching lace panties, the thin material hugging your hips. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking, but he didn’t linger, guiding you to lie on your stomach. “Lie down, love,” he murmured, his voice a soothing command, and you complied, the sheets cool and crisp against your bare skin.

Taehyung straddled your hips, his weight carefully balanced to avoid pressing too heavily, and began with your shoulders. His hands, strong and calloused from years of work, glided over your skin, the warm oil creating a slick, decadent friction. The scent of jasmine enveloped you, mingling with the faint musk of his cologne, grounding you in the moment. He pressed his thumbs into the knots at the base of your neck, working them with slow, deliberate circles, the pressure firm but exquisitely controlled. The tension unraveled, melting under his touch, and you moaned, a soft, throaty sound that vibrated against the pillow. The oil amplified every sensation, his rough palms contrasting with the softness of your skin, sending tingles radiating through your body.

“Fuck, that feel good, flower?” he asked, his voice low, husky, a trace of amusement curling the edges.

“So fucking good,” you slurred, your words thick with relief, your body sinking deeper into the mattress. “Tae, you’re a miracle.”

He laughed, a dark, warm sound that sent a pulse of heat through you. His hands moved lower, tracing the elegant curve of your spine with long, languid strokes. His fingers splayed across your mid-back, kneading the tight muscles with a rhythmic pressure that made you arch slightly, a louder moan spilling from your lips. The oil was warm, slick, and the glide of his hands was hypnotic, each stroke unraveling another layer of tension. He lingered on your lower back, his thumbs pressing into the dimples above your hips, and you whimpered, the sensation teetering on the edge of pleasure, your skin prickling with sensitivity.

“Taehyung,” you gasped, your voice trembling, “you’re killing me.”

“Patience, love,” he murmured, though his own voice was strained, a hint of his own arousal seeping through. “I’m just getting started.”

He moved to your arms, lifting one and starting at your shoulder. His fingers dug into the tight muscles, then slid down to your bicep, his thumbs pressing into the tender flesh with slow, circular motions. The oil made his touch glide, and when he reached your forearm, he massaged the muscles with a gentle intensity that made you gasp, the sensation almost ticklish but deeply soothing. He worked his way to your hand, kneading the palm, then rolling each finger between his own, tugging gently. The relief was so profound you moaned, a needy, high-pitched sound that made him pause, his breath hitching.

“Goddamn, those sounds,” he growled, his voice rough with desire. “You’re making it real hard to focus, flower.”

He repeated the process with your other arm, his touch unhurried, reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you. When he finished, he gently turned you onto your back, his eyes locking onto yours, the intensity in his gaze stealing your breath. He poured more oil into his hands, the liquid glistening, and started on your stomach. His palms glided over your abdomen, fingers splaying wide, the warmth of his hands seeping into your skin. The oil was slick, the scent of sandalwood heavy in the air, and the sensation of his hands moving in slow, deliberate circles was intoxicating. You let out a series of soft, breathy moans, your body trembling under his touch, your skin hypersensitive.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes drinking you in. “I could spend my whole life touching you like this and never get enough.” His hands moved to your thighs, and you tensed, the proximity to your core sending your pulse into overdrive. He kneaded the muscles there, his fingers brushing agonizingly close to the edge of your panties, the oil making every touch glide effortlessly. The roughness of his palms against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs sent sparks through you, and you let out an obscene whimper, your hips twitching involuntarily.

“Tae,” you whined, your voice thick with need, your body aching for more.

“Not yet, my love,” he said, though his voice was taut, and you could see the bulge in his trousers, his cock straining against the fabric. “I want to worship every fucking inch of you first.”

He moved to your calves, lifting one leg and pouring more oil, the liquid dripping onto your skin, warm and slick. His thumbs dug into the tight muscles, working out the knots with a firm, steady pressure, and you moaned, the relief so intense your toes curled. When he reached your feet, he took his time, cradling one in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the arch with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The sensation was exquisite, the pain from hours of standing melting away, and you let out a needy, high-pitched whimper, your body squirming. He moved to your toes, rolling each one between his fingers, tugging gently, the oil making his touch slick and decadent. The sensitivity of your toes sent shivers up your spine, and you couldn’t help the desperate, keening noises spilling from you, each touch making your core clench.

“Fuck, flower, those noises,” he growled, his voice low and rough, his eyes dark with hunger. “You’re driving me fucking insane.” He repeated the process with your other foot, lingering on your toes until you were panting, your body trembling, the oil and his relentless attention making you hypersensitive.

Your bra and panties were now drenched with oil, the white lace clinging to your skin like a second skin, nearly transparent. Your nipples were hard, straining against the fabric, and your pussy throbbed, the ache a pulsing, unbearable need. Every time his hands neared your breasts or inner thighs, you let out a keening, desperate sound, your head spinning with pleasure, your skin so sensitive it felt like you might shatter.

Taehyung’s breathing was ragged, his eyes molten with desire as he watched you writhe beneath him. “Jesus Christ, love,” he rasped, his voice shaking. “You’re a fucking masterpiece, you know that? Those sounds, that body… you’re killing me, and I haven’t even touched you where you want it most.”

“Please, Tae,” you begged, your voice breaking, tears of need pricking your eyes. “I can’t take it anymore. I need you, please.”

His smirk was dark, predatory, but his eyes were soft, full of love. “Oh, flower, I’m gonna give you everything,” he promised, his voice a low growl. He leaned down, his fingers brushing over your lace-covered nipples, the touch light but electrifying. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, the sensation so intense it was almost painful. “So fucking sensitive,” he murmured, his tone reverent. He pinched your nipples through the lace, rolling them between his fingers, and you sobbed, the pleasure-pain sending waves of heat through you. He teased you mercilessly, his fingers circling, tugging, until you were panting, your chest heaving, your body trembling.

Finally, he unclasped your bra, tossing it aside, the cool air hitting your bare skin. He peeled off your panties, the oil-soaked lace leaving you exposed, and held them to his nose, inhaling deeply. A guttural growl rumbled in his chest, his eyes flashing with raw hunger. “You smell like fucking heaven,” he said, his voice thick with lust, his pupils blown wide.

He poured more oil into his hands, the liquid dripping onto your breasts, pooling in the valley between them. His fingers found your nipples, slick and warm, and he cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. The sensation was overwhelming, the oil making every touch glide, and you screamed, your hips bucking. He pinched and rolled your nipples, his touch firm but precise, and you writhed, your hands clutching the sheets, your voice reduced to sobbing his name. “Tae, oh God, Tae,” you gasped, your body trembling.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice shaking with need. “Look at you, falling apart just from this. You’re mine, flower, all fucking mine.”

His hand slid lower, cupping your pussy, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, the oil mixing with your arousal. The sensation was decadent, slippery, and he circled your clit with slow, deliberate strokes, making you scream, your hips bucking against his hand. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and you saw stars, your body trembling as he worked you toward the edge. His other hand kneaded your ass, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, the oil making every touch electric.

Desperate for more, you pushed yourself up, straddling his lap, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him. Your lips crashed against his, the taste of him—mint, salt, and something darkly Taehyung—flooding your senses. The oil on your skin transferred to his, his dress shirt clinging to his chest, the fabric growing slick and transparent. Your breasts pressed against him, the oil making them slide, and you ground against his cock, still trapped in his trousers, the friction making you moan into his mouth. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you, raw and desperate.

“Fuck, flower, you’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Grinding on me like that, all slick and needy. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?” He tore off his shirt, buttons scattering across the floor, and you ran your hands over his chest, the oil making his skin gleam, his muscles taut and defined. Your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, the slickness making every touch glide, and he groaned, his head falling back.

You fumbled with his belt, your hands trembling with need, and he helped you, stripping off his trousers and boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip glistening, and you whimpered, the sight making your core clench. He poured more oil over your body, the liquid dripping down your breasts, pooling in the hollows of your collarbone, and he growled, his eyes raking over you. “You’re a fucking vision,” he said, his voice shaking with desire.

He positioned himself between your thighs, his cock sliding through your folds, the oil making every movement slick and decadent. He thrust into you slowly, filling you inch by inch, the stretch exquisite, and you screamed, your nails digging into his shoulders. The oil amplified every sensation, the slide of his cock against your walls almost too much, each nerve ending alight. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the oil making them glisten, and he growled, his eyes locked onto them, his hands gripping your hips.

“Goddamn, you feel like fucking heaven,” he groaned, his voice trembling, his thrusts deep and deliberate. “So tight, so perfect. Look at those tits bouncing for me, flower. You’re mine, every fucking inch of you.” His words were a litany, raw and possessive, and you moaned, needy and desperate, your body trembling as he fucked you. The oil made every movement slick, the friction both intense and luxurious, and you could feel every inch of him, stretching you, filling you.

“Tae, please,” you sobbed, your voice breaking, your breasts bouncing harder as he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing relentless. “I’m so close, I need you.”

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his thumb finding your clit, circling it with slick, rapid strokes. “Let me feel you, let me hear you scream my name.” Your body convulsed, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, and you screamed, your walls clenching around him, your vision going white. He followed moments later, spilling inside you with a hoarse shout, his body shuddering, his cock pulsing.

As you collapsed, panting and spent, he pulled you into his arms, his lips brushing your forehead, soft and tender. “I love you, flower,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” you murmured, your body still humming, wrapped in the tapestry of his touch.

The room was hushed, the air thick with the lingering scent of jasmine and sandalwood, now softened by the musk of sweat and intimacy. The golden glow of the setting sun had faded into a twilight haze, casting the bedroom in a gentle, indigo light that danced across the rumpled sheets. Your body was a languid, sated weight against the mattress, every nerve still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your skin slick with oil and glistening in the dim light. Your chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths, your heart still racing, and a faint, blissful ache pulsed between your thighs. Taehyung lay beside you, his own breathing heavy, his bare chest gleaming with the oil you’d transferred to him, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. His arm was draped possessively over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on your hip, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the aftermath.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence a tender cocoon that held the weight of what had just transpired. The only sounds were the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you and the distant hum of the city beyond the apartment walls. Taehyung shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, his eyes—deep, molten, and impossibly tender—roaming over your face. His gaze was a caress, drinking in every detail: the flush on your cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on your brow, the way your lips were still parted, swollen from his kisses. He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, their roughness softened by the oil that still coated them.

“God, flower,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, thick with emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. All soft and glowing, like you’re made of starlight.” His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, and the reverence in his touch made your chest tighten. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you. Not in a million years.”

You smiled, a tired but radiant curve of your lips, and leaned into his touch, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tae, you’re too much. I’m a mess right now, and you’re calling me starlight?”

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that vibrated through you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “A mess? No, love, you’re beautiful. My beautiful girl.” He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and slightly salty from sweat. The gesture was so tender it brought a lump to your throat, and you closed your eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of him—oil, musk, and something uniquely Taehyung—that enveloped you.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, his tone gentle but firm, the quiet authority you loved slipping through. He slid off the bed, his movements graceful despite the intensity of what you’d just shared, and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the faint creak of the faucet, the rush of water, and moments later, he returned with a warm, damp washcloth and a fluffy towel, both folded carefully in his hands. The sight of him—tall, bare, his skin still glistening, his expression so full of care—made your heart swell.

He knelt beside you, his eyes locking onto yours as he gently took your hand, wiping the oil from your fingers with the washcloth. The fabric was plush, the water just warm enough to soothe, and he moved with meticulous care, cleaning each finger, then your palm, his touch as reverent as it had been during the massage. “You worked so hard today, didn’t you?” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with concern. “Tell me about it, flower. What made my girl so exhausted?”

You sighed, the weight of the day resurfacing but softened by his presence. “It was just… endless,” you said, your voice still hoarse from your earlier cries. “Back-to-back meetings, a client who kept changing their mind, and my boss piling on last-minute reports. I was on my feet all day, running between floors, and those heels were a nightmare. I feel like I aged ten years.”

His brow furrowed, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features as he moved the washcloth to your arm, wiping away the oil in long, slow strokes. The warmth of the cloth was heavenly, easing the faint ache in your muscles, and you let out a soft hum of contentment. “That sounds fucking brutal,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but tempered with tenderness. “You shouldn’t have to push yourself that hard, love. Makes me want to storm into your office and tell them to back off my girl.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy despite your fatigue. “You’d cause a scene, Tae. My boss would probably faint if you walked in looking like you do now.”

He grinned, a flash of mischief in his eyes as he moved to your other arm, the cloth gliding over your skin, leaving it soft and clean. “Good. Let ‘em faint. No one gets to wear you out like that except me.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of possessiveness that sent a warm shiver through you. He leaned closer, his breath fanning across your cheek as he added, “Seriously, though, I hate seeing you this drained. You’re too precious for that shit.”

Your heart fluttered, and you reached up, cupping his face, your thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “How was your day? You got home before me, but you looked stressed when you walked in.”

He paused, the washcloth hovering over your collarbone, and his expression softened, a mix of vulnerability and love. “It was a lot,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more introspective. “Board meetings, budgets, some asshole exec trying to undermine my team. I was ready to lose it by lunch. But the second I heard you come through the door, it all just… melted away. You do that to me, flower. You make everything better, just by being you.”

His words were a balm, soothing the raw edges of your day, and you felt tears prick your eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming depth of his love. He resumed his task, the washcloth gliding over your chest, careful to avoid your sensitive nipples, though his eyes lingered there, a flicker of heat in their depths. “Tae,” you murmured, your voice trembling, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You make everything bearable.”

He smiled, soft and radiant, and leaned down to kiss you, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “You’ll never have to find out, love,” he whispered against your mouth, his breath warm and minty. “I’m yours, always. Gonna take care of you forever, you hear me?”

You nodded, your throat tight, and he continued cleaning you, the washcloth moving to your stomach, then your thighs, his touch gentle but thorough. The warmth of the cloth was soothing, the faint scent of lavender from the towel mingling with the lingering jasmine in the air. When he reached your feet, he took extra care, wiping away the oil from your toes, his fingers brushing over them with a featherlight touch that made you giggle, the sensation ticklish but grounding.

“Still sensitive, huh?” he teased, his voice light, but his eyes were warm, full of adoration. He finished with the washcloth and used the towel to pat you dry, the fluffy fabric absorbing the last traces of moisture, leaving your skin soft and warm. He draped the towel over your lap, then slid back onto the bed, pulling you into his arms, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours.

The heat of his body was a cocoon, his skin still faintly slick with oil, and you nestled into him, your head resting against his collarbone. His arms wrapped around you, one hand splaying across your stomach, the other tracing idle patterns on your thigh. The scent of him—musk, oil, and that indefinable essence that was purely Taehyung—enveloped you, and you let out a contented sigh, your body finally relaxing completely.

“Tell me more about your day,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver through you. “What was the worst part?”

You tilted your head, thinking, your fingers playing with his, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “Probably the client meeting at three,” you said, your voice steadier now, warmed by his closeness. “They kept nitpicking every detail, and I had to redo the presentation on the spot. I thought I was going to scream. What about you? What made you want to lose it?”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “This prick in a suit who thought he could talk over my team. Took everything in me not to deck him. But I kept picturing you, coming home to you, and it kept me sane. You’re my anchor, flower. Always have been.”

His words wrapped around your heart, and you turned your head, meeting his gaze. His eyes were soft, unguarded, and the love there was so palpable it stole your breath. “You’re mine too,” you whispered, your voice thick. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

He grinned, a boyish, radiant smile that made him look younger, softer. “I’m the lucky one, love. You’re my everything.” He tightened his arms around you, his lips brushing your shoulder, and for a moment, you just sat there, wrapped in each other, the world outside fading to nothing.

He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a glass of water he’d brought earlier, and held it to your lips. “Drink,” he said, his tone gentle but insistent. “You need it after all that.” You obeyed, the cool water sliding down your throat, crisp and refreshing, and he watched you with a satisfied smile, setting the glass down when you finished.

“Better?” he asked, his fingers brushing your hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Much,” you murmured, leaning into his touch. “You’re too good at this, you know. Taking care of me.”

He laughed, a low, warm sound, and kissed the crown of your head. “Gotta keep my flower blooming, don’t I? Can’t have you wilting on me.” His tone was playful, but the love in his eyes was fierce, unyielding, and you felt it in every fiber of your being.

He pulled the duvet over you both, the soft, cool fabric settling over your skin, and you curled into him, your legs tangling with his, your head resting on his chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat was a lullaby, grounding you, and his fingers continued their lazy dance on your skin, tracing patterns that felt like promises. The room was quiet now, the only sounds your soft breaths and the faint rustle of the duvet, and the world felt small, safe, contained in the circle of his arms.

“I love you, Tae,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you, felt you, in the way his arms tightened around you.

“I love you too, flower,” he murmured, his voice a vow, eternal and unshakable. “More than words can ever say. Sleep now, love. I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes, a smile curving your lips, and let the warmth of him, the scent of him, the love of him carry you into a deep, dreamless sleep, knowing that no matter how brutal the days might be, you’d always come home to this—to him, to love, to a haven woven from touch and tenderness. The night stretched on, soft and endless, and in his arms, you were whole, cherished, and utterly, irrevocably his.

[melanchol1cs]

HEAVEN IS BETWEEN HER LEGS.

leon kennedy x reader

word count: 1.5k summary: leon eating that pussy, craaazzyy styleuhh masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. porn with no plot basically, oral sex, fingering, teasing, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk leon (meow).

notes: boo. i probably could’ve thought of a better title than this, but considering this kinda just came to me on a whim, oh well. also, don’t mind if this sucks, i kinda wasted the last bit of motivation i had left just to finish this, so don’t expect anything from me in the next few weeks…

it wasn't uncommon for leon's days to revolve around getting his dick wet. and this particular mid-afternoon found him parked between your thighs, your legs draped lazily over his broad shoulders.

leon's busy tongue works its magic between your legs, his skilled mouth lavishing your most sacred spots with worship as he devours you whole. lost in a haze of pleasure, you couldn't begin to fathom how many minutes, hours, or even days he's had you spread out like this for him, your world narrowing down to the feel of his scruffy chin grazing your inner thighs and his insatiably curious lips seeking out every inch of your sweetest flesh.

perhaps it's still morning, or could the sun be high overhead casting a warm glow through the windows? time's become irrelevant when he's at work dismantling your resolve, reducing you to nothing more than a trembling mess of sensation begging for release.

you can't even begin to tally up the number of fingers he's got buried inside you, stretching your walls and coaxing out every drop of pleasure. all you know for certain is that it feels impossibly good.

those same large hands knead the globes of your ass, pulling you further open for his eager tongue. his other hand sneaks between your thighs, stroking and teasing over the hypersensitive skin until your back arches sharply off the couch in a silent plea for more.

you sighed and tangled your hands in his dirty blonde hair, urging his face deeper into your heat as he worked his way into you. leon made a mental note, his tongue flicking out to taste you anew: the spot where your thigh crests hit his chin when you're missionary, now, the dip where your knee bends, and the subtle groove that promises your clitoris...these geography lessons kept him occupied as you writhed against his lips and tongue with an impassioned 'ah'.

“fuuuck,” he growls against your soaked cunt, the vibrations almost enough to send you careening over the edge right then and there.

leaning into you further, he dragged his nose up your slit, savoring the musky taste before giving your clit a playful nip. he’s rewarded with a sweet, high-pitched sound that seemed to vibrate straight from your core into his palms pressed firmly against your asscheeks.

he loved the tiny quiver that ran through you each time his tongue or teeth brushed against your sensitive spot, the flush of pink that spread across your pale thighs.

leon hums, the low rumble vibrating against your wet flesh an additional torment you can ill-afford. not that you're trying much, really. your fingers continue to tug at the blonde strands of his hair, urging him deeper.

one fingertip swipes gently against your entrance before delving inside, the delicate invasion sending a shiver up your spine. he curves around your g-spot, relishing the subtle twitch of your inner walls in response. as he withdraws his digit with a lewd slosh, he brought it to his lips, sucking off your essence like a thirsty man rediscovering a favorite colada.

his gaze flicks up to meet yours, seeing how you're struggling to maintain eye contact in result of the overwhelming pleasure crashing through you.

"you like that?" he rasped, voice low and rough from the effort of speaking over the wet, slurping sounds of his ministrations.

the way you tighten around his tongue and the way your back arches told him all he needed to know. and maybe he was a sadist, a twisted little fuck, lapping at your wet slit over and over, denying you that final peak. but seeing the desperate way you clung to his hair, hearing the broken sounds of pleasure tumbling from your lips, he couldn't bring himself to hold back, not now that he'd caught a glimpse of the fireworks in your pretty, glassy eyes.

he knows the telltale signs, the little tells that indicate you're teetering on the precipice. and hell if it doesn't make him harder.

but he's far from done with you yet. he gentles his touch, slowing his movements to a teasing pace that keeps you teetering on the brink of another release without quite reaching it. a soothing hum escapes his throat as he drags his thumb up to circle your sensitive clit, the touch so light it might barely register, but the effect is electric.

you're panting hard, gasping out his name like a prayer, a plea, a hymn to the divine sensation he's conjuring within you.

"come on baby, gimme another one," he coaxes, the words muffled by the flesh of your pussy. the words are slurred, almost indistinguishable from the rhythmic groans he's making as he eats you out with single-minded determination.

his own hand slides from your hip to gently part your lips, opening you further in welcome as he delves back in. the muscles in his broad shoulders flex beneath your thighs, the effort of maintaining position between your spread legs clear. but fuck, he's a stubborn one. unwilling to yield, even as the drool that escapes his lower lip drips onto the couch.

fuck, he's a damn masochist, too, because the desperation in your eyes, the way your voice cracks as you beg for release is like a sweet, sweet aphrodisiac to him. his cock throbs, weeping in its confines, eager to join the fray, but no, he holds back.

he's addicted to the view—your sweat-streaked face, flushed and slack, the glassy eyes locked on his, the plush thighs trembling with the effort of staying put.

he doubles down, tongue flattening against your weeping slit as he presses in deep. the squelching noises are so loud in the stillness, his ears echoing with the rhythmic wet blurp-blurp-blurp he's creating. he swirls that long, dexterous muscle around your throbbing clit before plunging back to your tender insides, over and over and over again.

to him, you taste divine, an intoxication of sweat, need and the tangy sharpness of arousal he drinks from greedily. his fingers slide up to press firm and unyielding against the shell of your ear, blocking out the world as he tongue-rapes you with an unrestrained intensity you barely understand but crave so deeply. when he senses your body start to wind down, the thrumming ache receding, he abruptly changes tack.

his fingers play around with your clit, tracing abstract patterns meant to torment and tease. your hips buck reflexively, seeking more even as your body screams for mercy. and fuck, now that he's got that addictive rhythm down, you know you're a goner, fucked six ways from sunday and you'll thank him for it later.

“lee- leon, please—“ your pleas slip out in ragged gasps against the backdrop of his relentless ministrations.

he could play coy, keep driving you to the brink before letting you crest, drawing the sweet, mindless pleasure out even longer. but he so badly wants to see (and feel) your complete surrender to him, his greedy tongue devouring you, his hands bringing you closer and closer.

his balls ache, his cock straining against the zipper, begging for freedom to bury itself deep inside you, to feel your tight, slick heat engulfing him, milking him for all he's worth. but no, not yet, not until you're wrung dry, trembling and sobbing on the edge of oblivion. that's the real prize here, watching you break apart at his mercy, your sweet surrender a reward he craves above all else.

leon's movements become frenzied, his pace a blur of tongue and lips and teeth as he chases that elusive peak, determined to push you over the edge, to hear you scream his name as you come undone on his face.

he's a goddamn addict, and this is his fix, and fuck, it's the best drug in the world.

“come on baby, do it for me…”

he utters against your soaked slit before he curls his tongue into that perfect 'come-hither' formation, seeking out the swollen little bundle of nerves at the apex of your sex. one, two, three languid swirls around it, stoking the embers of your arousal until it's a raging inferno capable of incinerating any thought of restraint.

your hips jerk wildly, trying in vain to grind against his relentless tongue or mouth or whatever he's using to torment your oversensitive clit and swollen lips into one glorious, never-ending orgasm.

the pleasure is so overwhelming you barely register the choked-off cry that rips from your throat.

when the aftershocks finally subside, leaving you limp and trembling against the couch, he finally releases you, pulling back to admire his handiwork with a cocky smirk. your thighs still clench weakly, trying to keep him close, but he's not about to complain.

you're half dazed and delirious, and leon’s breathy whispers barely penetrate the haze of lust clouding your mind.

“just one more baby, please?”

tags: @bonnibuckets @kuntprodukt

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ SLOW MORNING

hwang junho x f!reader series

words: 2.1k

warnings: minors do not interact!! smut! first time writing this kind of thing please be kind oh my god. p in v, praising, junho slightly dom, unprotected sex, female reader.

enjoy! :)

—

a few weeks had passed since that night. you were getting used to it, and honestly, it was so simple. you two were basically domestic before you even got together. now, the glances just lasted longer, the touches were softer.

his hand would always find your waist or the small of your back when he passed near you—whether it was in the kitchen, around your apartment or his, even out in the street. at first, it didn’t feel weird. just a little outside your comfort zone. it was the same for him. you had talked about it, one late night over tea, like always. you talked about what you wanted, how it had felt being apart, how afraid you both were to mess this up. you talked, and ended up with you on his lap, finishing what you couldn’t the night of your first kiss. and god—it was soft.

he touched you like you were something fragile, praised you under his breath, called you his, kissed you like he’d been holding back for months. you can still picture his fingers curling around yours while he was deep inside you—his touch so careful, it contrasted with how hard he was fucking you. it made your whole body ache in the best way.

but now? there were no more excuses for why he kept ending up in your bed. no excuses to wait for him after your shift, or the other way around. he was still busy with the island, but you kept him company anyway—even if he always tried to keep you out of it.

“i just want to keep you safe, love,” he’d say, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you gently took off his glasses, just so you could lean in and kiss him.

it was a sunday morning. early summer, soft light slipping through the windows. you were both off for the day. junho had slept over—of course he had.

you’d woken up a little earlier than him, which wasn’t usual. you wanted to make something sweet for breakfast. you hadn’t even heard him come to bed last night, that’s how late it was. you were standing over the stove, trying not to burn the pancakes, when you heard quiet footsteps padding into the kitchen. you tilted your head slightly, still focused on the pan, and caught his sleepy eyes.

“good morning,” he mumbled, voice low and thick with sleep as he rubbed his eyes.

“morning, sleepyhead,” you said, concentrating on the pancakes. “smells good,” he said, his hand finding your waist like it always did. he reached past you for a glass. “what are we working with here?” his lips brushed your temple.

“burned pancakes,” you smiled, glancing over your shoulder just as his eyes flicked to your mouth. he kissed your cheek, then your lips—soft and slow. not urgent. just instinct.

he tugged you gently from the stove by the waist, and you blinked at him, a little confused. “come here,” he said, still a little groggy, guiding you toward the counter. “let me take care of it. enjoy the morning.”

you laughed softly and let yourself sit on the counter. the cool surface made your bare thighs shiver. he moved around your kitchen like he belonged there—barefoot, sleep-tousled hair, old pajamas hanging loosely on his frame.

“you look good like that,” he murmured, glancing at you with a teasing little grin.

after the last round of pancakes and a few slow, familiar kisses, he turned off the stove, placing the plate beside you. his thumb traced lazy circles on your thigh, drifting higher, fingertips brushing your skin like he was barely thinking about it.

he leaned in to kiss you again—slow at first, like always—but it deepened fast. his hand slid under your shorts, fingers finding the waistband of your underwear but not moving further. your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging him closer before either of you could think twice. when you pulled back for air, your lips were glossy, breath shallow. his hand didn’t move, and yours had wandered to his lower stomach.

he hissed softly at the touch, and you shivered as his fingers played with the elastic of your underwear—just enough to make you squirm. “you’re driving me crazy,” he whispered, voice low as he shifted closer, and you felt how hard he was already.

“is it too much?” you asked, tilting your head, voice soft.

he didn’t answer right away. his fingers brushed against your cunt through your underwear—already damp. your breath hitched. a quiet moan escaped before you could stop it. his eyes didn’t leave yours—there was a softness there, and something teasing too. his lips found your jaw, then your neck, warm and unhurried, while his fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

“look at you,” he murmured against your skin. “already so wet for me.” you didn’t say anything. you didn’t need to. his fingers worked you slow, his thumb circling your clit, coaxing moans from your lips one by one.

“junho—” his name left your mouth like a prayer.

he loved that.

the way you said his name, the way your voice trembled around it. like it belonged to him. his movements didn’t stop—slow, intentional, fingers working you open. your hands found his shoulders, gripping lightly, like you needed something to anchor you. your forehead pressed against his, breath mingling, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to stay grounded, tried to stay quiet, but it was getting harder.

his pace picked up, just a bit. deliberate. teasing. you could hear the smirk forming on his lips, could feel it in the way his breath hitched slightly, in the way his chest rose and fell against yours—faster now.

“fuck, you’re so good like this,” he whispered, voice barely audible, almost like he was afraid to break the moment. your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his shirt. you let out a soft whimper as his thumb pressed just right, your hips tilting forward instinctively. his nose brushed yours. his lips hovered. he didn’t kiss you yet.

“look at me,” he murmured.

you opened your eyes slowly, barely able to focus through the heat in your stomach. “that’s it,” he breathed, gaze locked on yours. “let me see you fall apart.”

and god—you were close.

“i need you,” you breathed out, voice shaky and honest, right before his fingers could slip inside you. he looked at you then—like he always did in these moments. soft, but hungry. like he was holding back everything just for you.

he didn’t say anything at first. just paused. waiting. like he needed to hear it again, needed that final permission to let go.

his hand slipped out of your underwear, and instead, he pulled you gently toward the edge of the counter. his touch was careful, never rushed. he lifted you just enough to tug your shirt over your head, sliding your underwear down with it in one slow motion. your hands found the waistband of his pants, fingers brushing over the hard outline of him. he was already aching, and you both knew it. you didn’t bother pulling them down completely—just enough to free his cock, thick and hard, leaking at the tip.

he leaned in, lips finding your chest, kissing the soft skin there before his mouth wrapped around your nipple—slow, wet, his breath uneven.

your hand moved around him, slowly, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm. you heard the softest whisper against your skin—half curse, half praise—as he breathed into your chest, his voice breaking just a little. his thumb brushed against your hip, slower than it had on your cunt. his body was trembling slightly, like he was holding back too much.

then, you felt it—his tip pressing against your entrance, slick with precum, teasing the edge of you. with this, everything else went quiet. like the world paused just for a second—just long enough for him to look at you again.

“you sure?” he asked softly, lips brushing your collarbone. you nodded, voice catching in your throat. “yeah. please.”

he groaned, low and deep, as he finally pushed in—slow, careful, letting you feel every inch of him. he sank into you slowly, every inch deliberate, his forehead pressed against yours as your breath caught in your throat. your hands found his back, fingers digging in just slightly.

“fuck—” he muttered, like the feel of you around him knocked the wind out of him. “you feel so good.”

he stayed still for a moment, just breathing with you. his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly over your skin. his other hand rested on your thigh, holding you in place, grounding you. then he started to move.

slow thrusts, deep and controlled, each one making your body shiver where it met the cold of the counter and the heat of him. he kissed you between breaths, messy and open-mouthed, like he couldn’t help it. like he needed to feel you everywhere.

“so tight for me,” he whispered against your lips. “always take me so well.” your head dropped back slightly, jaw slack as he kept the rhythm—perfect, maddening. his fingers curled around the back of your neck, steadying you as your legs trembled slightly around his hips.

“junho—” you breathed again, voice barely there, but it made him move a little rougher, just enough to have your nails scratching softly at his back. he groaned at that, deep in his chest. “say it again.”

you did.

his name again and again, like it was the only thing you could remember. his hips snapped forward a little harder now, pace still controlled but more desperate, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

“you’re driving me fucking insane,” he muttered against your neck, voice thick with heat and need. his hand slid behind your thigh, lifting it just slightly so he could angle deeper, hitting that spot that made you cry out. your hands clutched at his shirt, the fabric wrinkled beneath your fingers. he was still halfway dressed, pants barely pulled down, and there was something about it that made everything feel more urgent—more raw. like neither of you could wait.

“you’re gonna come for me?” he whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “right here, on the counter?” you nodded, eyes squeezed shut, too far gone to even speak. your body was trembling, back arching into him as he fucked you just right—slow but deep, dragging it out.

he kissed your jaw, then your mouth again, and you felt the way his rhythm faltered just slightly. he was close too. you could tell by the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened on your thigh.his thumb found your clit again, circling slow, perfectly in sync with his thrusts.

“come on, love,” he said, forehead pressed to yours again. “let me feel you.” your body obeyed before your brain could catch up. your orgasm hit you hard—tight and overwhelming—your moan caught in your throat as you clenched around him, legs shaking. he held you through it, moving slower now, whispering praise into your skin.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” your hands slid up his back, pulling him impossibly closer as he fucked you through the aftershocks, pace starting to lose its rhythm.

“inside?” he asked, voice ragged.

you nodded, already knowing you wanted him to. with a low, broken groan, he buried himself deep, stilling as he came—his breath uneven, face tucked into the crook of your neck, body pressed flush against yours.

the room was quiet except for your breathing, your bodies still tangled, warm, and trembling. he stayed there for a while, still inside you, his arms wrapped around your waist like he didn’t want to let go. his breath slowly evened out against your skin, lips pressing a few lazy kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, wherever he could reach. “you okay?” he asked again, quieter this time, almost like he was asking himself too. you nodded, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “yeah— just ruined for anyone else now.”he chuckled softly, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. “good. that’s kind of the goal.”

he eventually pulled out with a soft hiss, careful and slow like he didn’t want to hurt you. he helped you down from the counter, hands firm at your waist, steadying you when your knees wobbled a bit. “legs work?” he teased, and you gave him a look.

“barely.”

he grabbed a clean dish towel from the counter and ran warm water over it, gently cleaning between your thighs without a word. his touch was delicate, and when he was done, he leaned in and kissed your hipbone, like a quiet thank you.

“come on,” he murmured, tugging his pants back up one-handed while offering you his other. “let’s go lie down for a bit. i’ll reheat the pancakes later.” you followed him back to your bed, legs still a little shaky. he pulled the blankets over both of you and let you curl into his chest, his fingers tracing soft shapes along your back.

[arthurmorganist]

WIP WEDNESDAY ✮

once again, here’s a not so little snippet of riverdance, the first chapter of two most wanted 🩸 i’ve been reworking it for the past couple of months and i’m glad to say that i’m finally happy with how it’s coming together ⭐️ thank you so much dearest @cassietrn for tagging me ❤️‍🔥

1899

He’s seen that mare before.

Arthur sits on the edge of his cot, the roof of his canvas tent protecting him from the chilly wind whipping through the trees, ruffling their leaves and making them sing a haunting melody. He’s been itching for a smoke since earlier today, since the very moment he woke up at the crack of dawn after another night of restless sleep, body sore and mind clogged with one too many worries. He’s been too busy, as usual, always the working dog, being sent from one point of the map to another, not allowed to have even the slightest moment to himself.

So, before he bothers to get his hands on his journal, he pats his coat in search of a rolled cigarette.

The weather is cold tonight, clouds don’t threaten the skies above any longer but the smell of the past afternoon’s rain remains in the midnight air. His horse is hitched to the trunk of a nearby tree, munching on the tall grass that surrounds him, if he can judge by the sounds that reach his ears. The silent presence of his most loyal companion is enough to bring him a sense of security in this uncertain moonless night.

Pulling a single crumpled cigar out of his breast pocket, he lights it up with the stray match he finds along with it, using the sole of his boot to strike it into life. When he takes the first drag, he feels his lungs expand with it, filling up to their limit, as a dry cough builds up in his throat. He holds it in for a second, just to expel it through his crooked nose a minute later, the heat burning the inside of his nostrils on its way out of his chest. He can feel his body begin to warm up, his broad shoulders sagging, his back cracking as he stretches, finally finding relief after all the pent up stress of such a hard day.

He should lit a fire, eat some of the cooked meat stored in his saddlebags and sleep, sleep until the birds or the sun wake him in the morning. It’s been months since the last time he ate and rested properly, since before Colter, or even longer before that. But the last months of his life have turned such natural and easy tasks into something impossible for him, and the dreadful events of the last several hours have done nothing but add more knots to his already tight stomach.

After a couple more puffs, he stabs out the remaining of the cigarette on the dewy grass, tossing the crushed butt into the thick blanket of darkness that expands in front of him. His hands go to his face, rough fingertips rubbing circles around the parched skin of his eyes. They move later to his temples, sliding through his hair until they reach the wavy strands of his nape, finally clasping them together over his neck. He rubs his palms over that spot and the movement seems to bring back the thought from earlier to the forefront of his mind, forcing him to rest his forehead on his knees. It doesn’t go unnoticed by him the way in which his heartbeat pathetically picks up against his own will.

You ain’t a kid no more. Echoes the voice inside his head, always too loud for his liking. You've been persecuted your whole life. By bounty hunters, other gangs, the law, the government, the Pinkertons. So why the hell are you—

One of his hands unclasps from its confines and, once again, travels all the way to his chest, right above his heart, where a strange burning sensation has resided for the past couple of weeks. Something akin to the pain of an old wound that aches when the temperature drops. He tries to scratch it away in no vain, the tips of his fingers tingling with the futile effort he just made. If only he had the proper words to name this feeling, he could get rid of it.

Taking a deep breath, he opts to drag his worn out body inside the tent at last, removing his boots and placing them to his left, before he unbuttons his blue-colored coat to take it off as well. The lantern he brought is providing not only light but also warmth, allowing him to sit comfortably just in his shirt, pants and woolly socks. He turns around and reaches for his satchel, which had laid forgotten in the back of the tent for a few hours by now, when he began to set up camp while the sun was still setting on the west. Rummaging through it, he comes in touch with his leather bound journal first, pulling it out and placing it in between his thighs. His free hand continues to fish around the bag for his pencil, touching everything else except for what he’s looking for, until he finds it tangled up in the cord of an old golden pocket watch he stole from a dead O’Driscoll ages ago.

Aimlessly, he opens it and chooses a random page in between instead of the one where he wrote last. The tip of the pencil hovers momentarily over the blank sheet as Arthur closes his eyes over again, recalling the shape of the animal.

I’ve seen that mare before.

(no rush and no pressure at all!) tagging: @zae-heeyyy, @lotvsflwrr, @dilf-luvr-4evr, @redwritr / @wipidek, @stottlemorgan, @heartsickspider and whoever wishes to participate 🦌✨

[targaryenfelikayt]

headcanons: joint trip. |The Sinclair Brothers|

wc: 1,029 summary: this installment of road trip headcanons showcases three very different sides of the Sinclair brothers - Bo, Vincent, and Lester - as they go on a road trip with you. tags/warnings: very fluffy fluff, lots of romance (not typical for movies), a trip for two, a bit of realism. note: if you read this in Russian, then yes, I am translating my works into English.

Bo Sinclair.

— Before heading anywhere, he always makes sure everything under the hood is in perfect order, and the tires have been changed. The car’s condition is important to him — can’t risk getting stranded on some highway like a few of the victims did. So while still at home, Bo checks every detail. No exaggeration. Literally every single one, without exception.

— Once he’s satisfied the metal beast is roadworthy, he tosses the packed bags into the trunk. Then, after buckling your seatbelt himself, he circles the car and slips into the driver’s seat.

— Half-jokingly, he’ll suggest you hold the wheel while he searches for his cigarettes. But once he realizes there’s only one left, he slips into that strange state somewhere between frustration and despair.

— At the gas station, he starts pestering the local clerk: Is the fuel watered down? Why does the oil smell funny? What do you mean you’re out of his brand of smokes? You’ll practically have to drag him out by the arm before someone ends up bleeding (and honestly, it’s unclear who would start it first).

— Then comes his little ritual again — Bo leans in to fasten your seatbelt with deliberate care, only returning to his seat once he’s done.

"Baby, I just don’t wanna replace the damn windshield if some asshole causes a wreck," he mutters, adjusting his cap as he shifts the mirror and tries to look effortlessly cool.

He’ll never say it’s your safety he’s worried about — the only real threat here is him.

— Be ready for Sinclair to drive with one hand, the other wandering between shifting gears and letting his fingers graze your thigh. Gentle, steady touches — always within reach.

— And don’t be surprised when that hand occasionally moves higher, teasing with soft strokes. He likes seeing the way you unconsciously hold your breath when he does that — it gives his ego a little boost. Bo just can’t bring himself to deny that little indulgence.

— Hours into the drive, he’s still riding the high of cicadas singing and the sharp tang of the night air. It makes him feel alive — and maybe, just maybe, like he could do something right for once. He’s done plenty of things others would call wrong, sure, but right now? Everything’s just fine.

— After all, if there’s still a pack of cigarettes in your pocket — today can’t be that bad, right?

Vincent Sinclair.

— Vincent settles into the back seat, perfectly content to spend the ride in quiet comfort.

— But first, he takes care of packing the suitcases — everything arranged with such precision and spatial logic that you can’t help but wonder if he secretly played Tetris while the wax was cooling on his future creations.

— He enjoys the scenery outside the window, holding your hand the whole time. If something especially catches his eye, he’ll try to sketch it in his notebook.

— Of course, the motion will eventually get to him. His inner ear’s not the best. And while he’s trying to steady his breath, you’re tearing through the bags he’d packed so carefully, looking for the right pills — and not finding them.

— He ends up spending the rest of the trip in the front seat, staring straight ahead with a bottle of water clutched in hand. He knows it’ll be at least another hour before the next town.

— Passing a field of sunflowers, Vincent insists on stopping again — subtly, politely, but with a kind of quiet determination. The massive yellow blooms draw him in like magnets. He disappears among them, wandering from one flower to the next.

"Vince, we need to go unless you wanna sleep in the car. If you really like it," you gesture to a sunflower that looks exactly like all the others, "take it with you." He mumbles something that sounds both like agreement and protest, then leans in to press waxen lips to your forehead before turning back toward the field.

— Two minutes later, he comes jogging back, clutching a sunflower—roots and all. You're informed, in no uncertain terms, that it’s now your duty to plant it by the front door when you get home.

— Now he’s not afraid of anything. Unless, of course, the plant dies. Then you’ll have to throw it away — and that’s a nightmare he’d rather not face.

Lester Sinclair.

— He’s ready to go anywhere, anytime. Just say the word, and he’s already starting the engine — even if it’s the middle of the damn night.

— Unlike his brothers, Lester actually prefers riding in the truck bed or the open-back area, stretching out like he owns the place.

— First thing he does is throw all the snacks back there with him, devouring half the stash in the first leg of the trip. After that, he turns into Donkey from Shrek, hitting you with a constant, “Are we there yet?” — even though he knows every roadside diner in the state by heart.

— When the speedometer needle starts climbing in direct correlation to your rising temper, he finally shuts up and pretends like he doesn’t even exist.

— But of course, he pipes up again the moment nature calls — and all you’ve got around are endless stretches of farmland. He takes the opportunity to "multi-task," stealing as many ears of corn as he can carry — in his hands, shirt, and shorts. What a resourceful man. Always thinking of the homestead.

— Long trips aren’t easy for him. The wait alone is enough to dissolve whatever tiny bit of focus he has. But he really tries not to annoy you out of sheer boredom.

— Eventually, he flicks on the radio in hopes of livening things up — and naturally ends up singing along. And then he surprises you again, dropping random backstories about the old songs he likes best. "How do you even know that?" He just shrugs.

— By 9 PM, when you finally pull into a diner parking lot, hunger hits him all at once. He’s the first one out of the car.

"You city folks ain’t never had cherry fritters this juicy," he says, and soon the tray in front of you is overflowing with local delicacies — half of which look nothing like anything you’ve ever seen at home or in a restaurant. At least there’s French fries. You won’t go hungry. And Lester? Already eating like he’s feeding twins.

[httpiastri]

osc podium smut 🫶

love this!! i’m about to fall asleep any second so sorry if this makes no sense, but i just had the thought about finishing my podium fic from suzuka and remaking it to fit this weekend, but… sweet sweet boy was so exhausted after the race, ain’t no way i would be able to do anything other than get him into bed and drink the world’s largest bottle of water 😭 my mind is sadly only in soft thoughts mode rn (but that can def change)