#ears from the 3/4 side don’t make sense

[theshuitsuki]

this version of shu is so visually uncanny

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[incognit0slut]

Angel

PART 5 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Single Dad!Spencer x Nanny!Reader Spencer likes having you around to look after his daughter, in fact, he likes you a bit too much.

content: (18+) 5.4k, breeding kink, fingering, fem oral, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, d/s dynamic but he still tries to be a gentleman although reader doesn’t want him to, mutual pining, body worship with slight religious metaphors bc he’s down so bad, and of course sweet aftercare a/n: 1) i know the gif isn’t spencer but i just had to; 2) i changed the title from the original plan bc i was listening to angel baby while writing this; 3) if i have the chance to describe his happy trail and tummy i will in a heartbeat; 4) this fic is basically the epitome of D-I-L-F!

“I want you to understand,” he mutters against your skin, kissing the sensitive spot just below your ear, “that I’m not trying to take advantage of you.”

A hand creeps up the back of his neck. “What if I want you to?”

“I’m serious.”

“I am serious. I’m not the one hesitating.”

His hand glides slowly up your side, fingertips barely ghosting over your skin, and a soft, shaky breath escapes his lips. “I’m trying to be responsible."

“I think we’re past being responsible,” you counter as his fingers trace your waist. “What are you so worried about, anyway? You’re not forcing me into anything.”

“I want to make sure you don’t feel like—” his fingers twitch, lingering over your bare skin, “—like I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

“I’m literally naked under you,” you remind him. “If anyone’s taking advantage here, it’s me.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he exhales. “You’re making this really hard, you know that?”

“That’s kind of the point.”

And it’s true, Spencer realizes with a rush of heat, because he’s incredibly hard, the heavy length of his cock pressed against your stomach while he braces his weight above you. His lungs tighten, squeezing around breaths that feel too thick to swallow as his teeth graze his lower lip. It takes everything in him to keep from losing himself when his mind is already slipping.

How could he have ever imagined it would go this far?

Spencer can’t quite make sense of how this quiet, unassuming crush that crept in the first time he saw you with his daughter has led to this. It wasn’t anything grand or sudden, just this slow bloom that unfurled every time he caught you reading to Violet or laughing with her over some little joke in the living room. There was just something about the way you slipped so easily into his life, fitting into the spaces he hadn’t realized were empty until you filled them.

He’d never let himself imagine it would go beyond that. He’d convinced himself those feelings for you were just something he’d have to live with quietly, a small ache that would fade with time. But somehow, despite his best efforts to keep it hidden, you’d found your way to him. And against all his expectations, you liked him back. You like him enough that you’re now wearing nothing but a smile.

Flushed skin kissed by the moonlight spilling through the window.

Innocent eyes touched with a hint temptation.

It all feels like some sort of surreal dream.

The moment that led to this replays in his mind, clear as daylight even if it happened well past midnight. He’d gotten home somewhere between too late and way too late, running on nothing but caffeine and sugar, and there you were, leaning casually against the kitchen counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You started talking about your day with Violet, recounting how you’d taken her to the park, read her favorite book before bed, and how she’d peppered you with endless questions about why the sky changes colors when the day changes into night. But something was different in your voice, a softness to the way you said his name, and your gaze lingered on him just a beat longer than usual. It wasn’t anything obvious, nothing he could point to and say that’s it, but he felt it. An almost imperceptible shift in the air.

Before he knew it, he had crossed the room and kissed you. He should’ve thought it through or paused to consider the consequences, but the way you responded made it clear you’d been waiting just as long for his attention.

His shoulders fall with a quiet exhale.

“This could get complicated,” he continues, as if reminding you (and maybe himself) that there’s a line between employee and employer that he’s about to cross. A line that could change everything between you both once it’s blurred. “We should think about what this means.”

“We’ve had plenty of time to think. If you wanted to stop, you would’ve done it already.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say.”

“Then please enlighten me.”

Instead of answering right away, he leans in, his lips finding the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and then he’s gently pulling the tender flesh between his lips that draws a sudden moan from your throat. The sound seems to fuel him, and before you can even register what’s happening, his fingers are already slipping lower, exploring the soft space between your thighs.

“What if I want more than this?” His fingers inch closer, teasingly brushing against your heat with a slowness that borders on torment. “What if I want everything?”

Your hips buck against his hand. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirms. “Not just tonight.”

The words send a ripple of electricity that blooms deep in your core. When his fingers finally slip between your folds, a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can hold it back.

“You… you mean you want… more than this? More than just us… here?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice catching like gravel in his throat as his fingers trace over the slickness he’s found. “Does that scare you?”

For a moment, words fail you. The slow, coaxing rhythm of his fingers pulls you deeper into a haze where coherent thoughts are hard to grasp. There’s a pause, a heartbeat where he stops. Waiting.

“No,” you confess, the truth slipping out more easily than you expected. “It doesn’t.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “It doesn’t?”

Your lungs expand, filling with a rush of oxygen and a nervous flutter that lands somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “I think this is the right time to tell you I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

Spencer stays motionless for a beat. Then something shifts—his gaze softens, and a small, almost incredulous smile curves his lips. “You have a crush on me?”

“Yeah.”

“As in… you have feelings for me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you’re not just… turned on right now?”

“Well, that too,” you admit with a grin, your fingers brushing the back of his neck. “But it’s more than that. I really like you.”

His smile widens, and his fingers begin to move again, circling your clit with just the right pressure to pull a sharp intake of breath from you. It’s as though your confession is a final green light he’d been waiting for. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your teeth catch your lip, struggling to hold back fragments of breath. “I thought it was obvious,” you manage between heavy exhales. “Why do you think I always stay late?"

"To avoid traffic?"

You huff. "I tried to be around you as much as possible, Spencer."

His fingers toy at the edge of your entrance, tracing the slick, warm wetness that clings to his skin as a quiet hum rumbles in his chest. “You know I’m not always the best at picking up social cues.”

“You’re a profiler.” Your breath catches halfway between a gasp and a sigh when he slides a finger in. “You're supposed to notice everything."

He lets your words settle, eyes narrowing slightly as he turns them over in his mind.

“I guess I was too focused on trying not to cross any lines to see the ones you were trying to draw."

A soft moan escapes your lips as another finger slides in.

“I'm… glad you finally caught on."

"I'm catching on now.”

His eyes drop to the way your body greedily takes his fingers. The sight alone sends a rush of heat straight to his gut like a line of fire winding up through his chest and spreading into his limbs. You’re dripping, the slick sound of your arousal nearly derails him as he continues to watch the wetness coat his fingers with every slow thrust.

“Since when have you had this crush?” He asks curiously.

There’s a beat of silence, only punctuated by the soft, breathy noises escaping you. When he finally looks up, he catches the way your face scrunches in pleasure, brows furrowed and eyes barely open, and he can’t help but find it almost unbearably adorable. The corners of his lips twitch with a quiet laugh before he leans in, pressing the softest it’s okay, you can tell me kiss against your lips.

“Since when?”

You blink your eyes open at his question, and there’s a flush of embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Since—” you start, but your voice catches when he curls his fingers slightly, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a barely-contained grin.

“Since?” he prompts again.

You swallow the lump tightening in your throat. “Since you interviewed me for the job."

He absorbs your words. "That’s… more than a while."

"It was innocent at the time," you confess, trying to regain some control over your thoughts. "Just a silly little crush."

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, and whatever sense of composure you had left is slipping away piece by piece. “What changed?”

Desperation claws at you with every passing second, your hips moving against his hand as you scramble to gather your thoughts. But the way his fingers are mapping every sensitive spot makes it nearly impossible to articulate anything coherent. He doesn’t miss the way your breath stutters, or how your words break apart into fragmented attempts to answer.

“I-I—” you stammer, wincing as the words catch in your throat before you finally manage to continue, “I probably shouldn’t say…”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing."

He lets out a soft laugh. “Tell me anyway,” he urges. “I want to hear it.”

You fall quiet again, and the only sounds that fill the space between you is the ragged pull of your breaths and the slick rhythm of his fingers pumping lazily inside you. The words sit heavy on your tongue, threatening to disappear if you don’t say them quickly enough.

"Remember when… you taught Violet how to… ride her bike?”

He tilts his head slightly. There’s a furrow in his brow as he searches your face. “You’re going to have to be more specific, there were a lot of lessons.”

“The very first time.”

“Ah,” he muses. “Around June, then.”

You nod. “When I… saw you with her that day, I-I… I got curious.”

His fingers falter, just slightly, the subtle pause enough to show that you’ve grabbed his attention. “Curious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You were so adorable with her… and I started thinking about what it would be like… to have your kids.”

If there was ever a moment to leave him utterly speechless, this was it. His brain seems to stall, the gears grinding to a halt as the reality of what you’ve said settles in. He’s spent so much time trying to be the one holding it all together, but now? Now all he could picture was you holding a baby—his baby—and the thought sent his mind reeling, knocking him off balance in a way he didn’t expect.

“You… thought about that?”

Your fingers trails his shoulder before slipping up into his hair, curling gently at the nape of his neck. “It crossed my mind more than once.”

“That’s—” wow. He leans his forehead against yours. “Not embarrassing. At all.”

“Really?”

“That’s probably the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life.”

You let out a soft chuckle, gently pulling on his curls before drawing his bottom lip into a gentle suck. “It’s never been innocent since then.”

Goosebumps rises along his skin, and the heat pooling low in his stomach tightens as he grows impossibly harder. “Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted you to fuck me for a long time.”

His jaw clenches.

He’s so close to completely losing it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he mutters, pressing his fingers deeper inside you.

“Why.. why not?”

“Because I might give you exactly what you want.” When he feels you clench around him, he huffs in amusement. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

There’s a tender spot he finds deep inside, one that feels achingly sensitive, and your mouth falls open, a soundless gasp escaping before you can catch it.

“You really mean it,” he says, more a realization than a question, as he watches your body go pliant beneath his touch.

“I do,” you manage to say.

“You want me that way?”

You nod frantically. “Want your cum in me.”

The second those words leave your lips, his groan rumbles through his chest, and you swallow it down as his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling in a chaotic rhythm that’s both desperate and needy. When he finally pulls away, you’re left panting, your lips swollen, his forehead resting against yours.

“Never would’ve guessed you had such a dirty mouth."

"There's a lot of thing you don't know about me."

His breath brushes against your lips as he whispers, “I’m starting to figure that out.”

When he slowly withdraws his fingers, you can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your throat. Your eyes follow his every move as he sits up and settles between your thighs. You’ve always thought Spencer was an attractive man, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t admired the way his shirts fit just snug enough to hint at what was underneath. But seeing him naked like this? That was a whole new level of breathtaking.

Your gaze trails down his frame, landing on the soft curve of his stomach, something you'd secretly adored every time it pressed against his dress shirts. It was even more captivating without anything hiding it now, especially with the trail of dark hair leading down. Soft, scattered strands, drawing your eyes right to the place where you can’t help but stare.

He gives himself a slow pump. Once. Twice. And then, finally, you feel the firm pressure of his tip pressing between your folds.

“Are you sure?” he asks, the head of his cock sliding over your sensitive skin. “There's a condom in my drawer."

Your body tenses at the thought of him pulling back, and without thinking, your hand reaches between the two of you, wrapping around his cock before he can pull away. “When was the last time you got tested?”

He exhales sharply. “A few months ago,” he mutters, hips twitching against your grip despite himself. “If there was any risk, I wouldn’t even consider this without telling you.”

“I got tested last month,” you assure him quickly. “We’re both safe.”

He nods absentmindedly. “We can… still grab the condom if you want…”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, gently brushing the bead of precum that had formed at his tip. “I thought I made it clear I want you to cum inside me.”

He can only stare as your delicate finger trails along the thick vein. It feels like all the oxygen he’s desperately clinging to has been sucked from his lungs.

“I know you said you don’t want to take advantage of me…” you continue, guiding him right to your entrance. “But I really want you to.”

He finally lets out a low, gruff sound, something between a growl and a sigh as he slowly pushes himself in. His eyes are locked on the sight of your walls stretching to accommodate his size, watching as your body struggles to take him.

"You should stop talking like that," he rasps through gritted teeth. "I’m barely holding it together."

"Here's another thing you should know about me.”

He ruts gently into you. A push. A pull.

A heartbeat in between.

“I really like it rough."

That’s all it takes.

He slams his hips into yours.

Intense doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels. It’s more like a surge, a rush of heat and desperation that floods every inch of him the same time you cry out. His throat tightens, constricting around breaths he can’t seem to catch as he resorts to inhaling sharply through his nose.

“Jesus… you feel so—” His words falter, his voice rough and breathless as his fingers figs into your skin. His chest rises and falls with each labored breaths, and his eyes squeezes shut for a moment.

Tight. Warm. Wet. That’s exactly how you feel.

"Perfect." His large hands grips your waist. “You’re perfect.”

You mewl at his words, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it, and the soft, needy noise is enough to make his eyes flicker open. He begins to pull back, just enough to make you whimper from the sudden loss of contact, but before you can catch your breath, he snaps his hips forward with a rough, powerful thrust.

Your hands fly to his arms, holding onto him tightly. "Spencer… Please…”

He lets out a sigh.

No man is immune to that tone of desperation, least of all Spencer. Not when you’re offering yourself to him like something out of a dream. Not when your eyes lock onto his with a look that belongs more to an angel—if angels could be so helpless and desperate. Because what angel pleads with every breath for more?

What angel cries out as he holds your hips firmly in place and thrusts with a force that drives you to the brink of sanity?

He’s mesmerized. His eyes track the way your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips. There’s something almost greedy in the way his gaze roams over you, but it’s when he locks onto where your bodies meet that he really loses himself. A glossy ring coats his cock each time he pulls out, and when he pushes back in, the friction between your bodies creates a lewd, wet sound that fills the room.

He laughs. Not out of mockery, but out of sheer delight.

You’re an angel wrapped in sin.

“I can’t—oh god, right there—” Your nails leave little crescents moon on his skin. “You’re so… so deep.”

You’re really testing his limits, and Spencer knows he’s very far from a violent man, but right now, the temptation to cover your mouth with his hand is becoming dangerously real. Although with the way you’re writhing beneath him, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, he’s sure you’d probably enjoy it.

“Spencer…”

His balls slaps your ass as he slams into you.

“O-Oh—fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He squeezes your waist tightly. “Already?”

“Ngh.”

Your grip loosens on his arm, and before he can fully process what’s happening, your fingers dance along your clit. It takes all his willpower not to spill into you right then and there when he feels you tighten around him in response. But he holds on, because he needs you to cum first. He needs to feel your velvety walls flutter along the rigid veins of his cock, needs to watch the way your body tenses with pleasure.

He needs to feel it more than once.

He lets you have your first orgasm. Although letting seems like the wrong word. There’s nothing passive about it. He’s making you cum, driving you to it with each calculated thrust. You’re toying with your clit, rubbing in frantic circles just like you do whenever you touch yourself with the thought of him, but this time, it’s even more intense. This time, he’s inside you. And this time, it takes only a few moments for the tension to snap.

You clamp down on him. Hard. So hard that his movement falters for a second, but he quickly recovers, thrusting into you with a relentless rhythm. Just as you start to catch your breath, he pulls out, and you’re left in that delicious, dizzy haze, but your mind is even more disoriented when his face suddenly lowers between your thighs.

“Oh, you’re gonna—” you moan as his shoulders nudge your legs apart, opening you wider for him. “Spencer, you don’t have to—”

Before you can finish, before you even take another breath, the tip of his tongue flicks out.

“I want to.”

And he means it. He dives in with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt. His tongue starts firm and flat, pressing against you before dragging slowly upward, gathering your slickness in one deliberate sweep. Then he changes rhythm, the broad strokes shifting into something more focused, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, hungry pulls, and it’s doing things to you that no amount of late-night fantasies could have prepared you for.

Your head is all over the place that you reach out blindly, trying to find something solid, but the air merely glides over your skin. You stretch for the edge of the bed, fingertips just skimming the surface before your arms flail helplessly in the empty space. He notices your struggle almost immediately, and without missing a beat, he pulls back, lifting your legs to rest on his shoulders.

“Here,” he says, reaching out his arms toward you. “Give me your hands.”

Gladly. The second your fingers lock with his, a sense of grounding floods you, though it does nothing to ease the intensity of what he’s doing. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders flex under your thighs as he positions himself. And sure, your legs somehow feel weightless, like they’re floating in the air, but the rest of you?

You’re a mess of nerve endings on fire.

It’s impossible to think clearly when every cell in your body is buzzing. Your thoughts scatter the second his mouth moves in that devastating way, driving you out of your mind. You try to hold on to some semblance of control, but who are you kidding? He has officially turned you into a puddle of desperate, needy nerves, and you don’t even care.

It doesn’t take long before that coil snaps, and when it does, your entire body trembles. It’s always the second orgasm. The first is a tease, a little warm-up. The second one is the worst—or the best, depending on how you look at it. It doesn’t just tug at your edges, it tears right through, leaving you gasping and shaking and completely undone like every part of you has been pulled apart and put back together very wrong.

His mouth is glazed with your slick when he finally pulls away. “Good?”

You can barely feel your legs.

“Speechless,” is your answer.

His nose twitches in amusement as his hand leaves yours only for them to slide down your body, gently coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist. “Continue?”

“Please.”

A palm slips down your thigh. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

You swipe your tongue across your bottom lip as he hovers above you. “About what?”

“About taking advantage of you.”

You huff out a sigh. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Say it again,” he urges, guiding his cock smoothly along your folds before your whines travel into his ears. Ah, there it is. This is the sound that would greet him in heaven, if such a place existed for someone like him. Men who’ve taken lives to save others. Men who carry too many regrets to count. Spencer knows he’s not the kind of person heaven was built for, but if it were, he’s certain it would sound exactly like the breathy moan that escapes your lips.

And he’s tasted the afterlife, once, when he was younger—drifting somewhere between consciousness and oblivion with a ghost of a needle stuck in his arm. But nothing about that brush with death was like this. This feels like he’s been pulled back into something he didn’t believe he deserved.

“Say it again.”

He’s pleading now. It sounds awfully like a prayer.

“I want you to take advantage of me,” you say, the words spilling from your lips like a soft, sinful confession, music to his ears. An angel. “I want all of it.”

He takes your hands again. “So you won’t be mad if I get a little rough?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

That’s all he needs. He gently pushes your hands above your head, pinning them to the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours as his weight presses you into the bed. There’s a sudden rush—like a switch has flipped that it knocks the breath out of you. Your heart skips a beat, but not from nerves. No, this is anticipation, excitement.

You test his hold on you, just to see what happens, but his grip stays firm, almost daring you to resist.

“You asked for this,” he warns as he shifts his hips, aligning himself right to your entrance.

You shake your head. “I begged for this.”

He laughs, a flash of teeth in the dim light. “Yeah,” he breathes, his grip tightening as he presses deeper, “you did.”

A breathless whine escapes your lips as he fills you.

Angel, angel, angel.

He looks at you with a kind of reverence that borders on worship, though his movements are anything but saintly. There’s nothing gentle or innocent about the way he’s taking you, and there’s a quiet madness in the way you respond. Making love would be too tame, too soft for what this is. But fucking seems too crude, too disconnected for the way your eyes meet his, for the way you say his name like a prayer and a demand all at once.

The moment your voice breaks, breathless and needy, something inside him snaps. He feels the tightness coiling in his gut, and once it starts, there’s no stopping it. The pressure is mounting, and with every hard thrust it becomes harder to hold back. He knows he should slow down, give you a moment to catch your breath, but he can’t—his body won’t let him.

His fingers tighten around yours. He’s moving with a single-minded intensity now, pushing you flat against the mattress, your body pliant beneath him. The bed creaks every time he moves and your legs wrap tighter around his hips as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer leans down, brushing his lips against yours, so close but never quite closing the distance, like even the simplest kiss would shatter him too soon. Instead, he rests his forehead on top of yours and whispers, “l’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, like he’s stuck on some endless loop. It’s not a real apology, not for anything he’s done, but for how much he needs you and how he’s afraid of breaking you with how much he can’t hold back.

He’s so close and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

“I’m—” He groans as he feels the tension in his body snap, the wave building up in his spine and crashing down with brutal intensity. “I—fuck—I can’t hold it—”

You’re barely coherent yourself, but your voice comes out strong. A little breathless.

“Inside,” you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist. “I want it inside.”

Your words push him over the edge. He shudders, hips stuttering as he buries himself as deep as he can the moment the last thread of his restraint snaps. He can feel it, the way he pulses inside you, filling you completely. Every thrust is accompanied by a harsh groan as his release paints your walls, and the sound of your soft, desperate whines only pushes him deeper into the overwhelming pleasure.

When it finally becomes too much, he carefully pulls out. But the intensity is still coursing through his veins, and he’s too addicted to the sound of your sound, too drawn to the way your body trembles beneath him.

His hand drifts from your wrist almost on instinct, tracing its way down between your legs. He doesn’t need to see the mess he’s made—he can feel it. There’s a fleeting moment where he pauses, almost in awe, before his fingers brush over your clit, and your hips jerk in response. He’s not even sure if he’s teasing you or himself at this point, but he’s too far gone to care.

He slides two fingers inside you.

Your back arches instantly, your nipples brushing against his chest, and you gasp, fully aware of what he’s trying to do. “Oh… I—I can’t…”

He shakes his head. “You can,” he reassures you, watching in fascination as he pushes the white liquid of his release deeper into you. His gaze snaps back to yours. “I think you can give me one more.”

Your body trembles, and you can’t hold back the soft, broken cry that escapes your lips.

“Spencer…”

He loosens his grip on your hand, guiding it gently to rest around his neck. “Please,” he begs, his lips brushing your skin, “for me?”

The way he says it makes it impossible for you to deny him. And he knows it. He feels it in the way your nails dig into the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the tension inside you builds again. His fingers work faster, more desperate now, curling inside you just the way you like.

He’s watching, waiting, and when you finally cum again, it’s like witnessing something so divine. Your body shakes beneath him, a violent, beautiful quake that feels like it’s pulling him into its orbit. He’s unable to tear his eyes away as your head tilts back, lips parting with a choked moan that’s as delicate as it is devastating like an angel’s breath caught on the edge of rapture.

If angels looked this breathtaking in heaven, no wonder people were willing to risk damnation.

Spencer smiles wryly to himself.

Since when did he become so religious?

Another strangled moan escapes your lips. When your orgasm finally subsides, your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, and with what little strength you have left, you reach up and yank weakly at his mop of brown curls.

“…no more.”

He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “No more,” he agrees, pulling his fingers from you carefully.

Without saying a word, he slips off the bed and disappears from the room, only to come back with a damp towel in his hand. You expect him to hand it over to you, but you’re surprised when he kneels at the edge of the bed, gently spreading your legs apart.

Your skin tingles under his gaze as he stares at the mess between your thighs.

“That was…” he starts as he begins to wipe the towel over you. “…very reckless of us.”

With a small, tired smile, you mutter, “You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

He glances up at you. “I’m not,” he admits, finishing his cleanup and setting the towel aside. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least pretend to be responsible.”

You reach for him as he climbs back into bed. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m on birth control?”

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his body visibly relaxing as he lets out a quiet laugh. “It definitely helps,” he says, tucking you under his chin, “but I’m still going to try to be more careful next time.”

Your grin is as wide as the warmth spreading through your chest. “Next time?”

He smiles softly. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“Which part? You said a lot of things.”

“You know what I mean,” he insists.

“I know. But I want to hear it again.”

The tip of his nose brushes yours. “I want everything.”

“Everything?”

“Every single part of you.”

You take a deep breath. A whiff of his sweat and the faintest trace of soap clings around your senses until you release a happy sigh. “Do you think Violet will be okay with this? With us?”

His hand slips to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head to look at you. “She already loves you,” he reassures you. “She’s more adaptable than you think. And she trusts you.”

“But... what if it changes things for her?”

“It will change things,” he admits. “But all the changes will be good ones."

You mull over his words. “You think so?”

“I know so, because you make her happy. You make both of us happy, an—”

He stops, his lips just barely parted as he catches himself.

He almost said it. He almost called you angel.

“What?”

He shakes his head slightly, a faint embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m just really happy,” he explains, his fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. There’s a curious look in your eyes, but instead of pressing him, you bury yourself into his neck, which he’s quietly grateful for because he’s not sure he could have explained himself without sounding like a total sap.

And maybe he is a sap, but even he’s aware that words like that shouldn’t be thrown around too soon, especially after just one night. Not before things settle in, before everything feels a little less like a dream and more like reality.

But he thinks about it. Oh, he thinks about it. The word stubbornly lingers at the edge of his mind he’s keeping for another time. He imagines letting it slip on some quiet morning, when you’re half-asleep and bundled in his shirt, golden sunlight filtering through the window to cast a warm glow across your skin. Or maybe when you meet him at the door after a long day, and Violet runs up, chattering away while you smile at him with that look that feels like coming home.

He can picture it falling easily from his lips someday, maybe even in a future where you’re holding the baby you had wondered about having with him and he’s standing there, watching you like someone who can’t quite believe his luck.

He’ll say it with a kind of certainty then. Not as a prayer, not as some lofty declaration of divine grace.

And when that moment comes, without hesitation, he’ll finally call you his angel.

[lologoinsolo]

Added after this one, Part 3, Part 4

Cats and Their Men Masterlist

You stammer at the man as he holds what looks to be a calico. His face looks worse for wear despite how handsome he is. Cut lip and cheek that look as though maybe the cause is from the one wiggling in his hands. “Sir, the uh,” you look down at your phone for the time. “The stores about to close.” You look from him to the kitten and then back to him.

“I know,” he sighs, “I’m sorry. Really, I am but I’ve no idea what I’m doing.” He rubs at the baby’s head and she nips right at his finger. He groans, “why are you so mean? You were all cuddly in my lap and now you’re being hissy.”

You laugh a little at his lament and rub your own face. “Alright,” you can’t very well leave him like this. You’re sure the kitten would be more than happy to chew on something better than the man’s finger. “Come on,” you motion for him to follow. You don’t bother to page for someone to cover the front. The store’s about to close in 2 minutes anyways. “I’ll get you started, sir.”

“Kyle,” he grins when you quirk a brow, “just Kyle, none of that ‘sir’ business or else I’ll feel far older than I actually am.” He rests his kitten against his chest when she starts wiggling even more. “Curious little bugger, found her shivering at my front door.” There’s a glint in his eye as he retells his findings, “she didn’t even notice me grabbing her till I picked her up and look what she did to my face.” He says with dramatic flare when he holds her up to his eye view. The kitten merely blinks at him and her paws prod his nose.

You pull a cart since you have a feeling he’ll need a lot of things. He doesn’t give off ‘I already have a cat’ energy. “Serves you right for spooking her.” You joke about his woes when he gives you a playful glare.

“You’re only siding with her because she didn’t mark up your pretty face.”

You cough at that and push the cart more quickly down the aisle. You can handle getting yelled and cussed at but god forbid a handsome man says you’re pretty. “So,” you manage to say when he gives you a dazzling smile. He caught up quickly to your step and looks neither winded or strained. Why are all the tall men getting kittens? You inwardly roll your eyes, “you said a friend told you to find me?”

His brow raises slightly and he maneuvers his kitten to be more in his arms. “Yeah,” he simply says, “says you know a thing or two about cats.”

“Did he..” you look a bit hopeful, “did he say if he’d come back to the store.” Picking up some cat toys and placing some cute orange cat shaped bowls in the cart. “He uh, he left in a hurry last I saw.” You give a quick reasoning so as not to feel as desperate as you sound. You still feel the phantom touch of his hand. You never got his name…

“Can’t really tell,” he shrugs and he plucks some crinkle toys and tosses them in the cart. He doesn’t seem to care about pricing either. “Man’s unreadable unless you tell him a stupid joke.” There’s a short chuckle and flash of a memory that goes through his eyes.

You deflate a little, it wouldn’t make sense to feel like this. You don’t know mafia guy anyways. “Ah, well. If you see him, tell him he needs to take his cat to the vet.” Kyle nods and he perks up when he sees the cat clothing.

“When you get older, rug, I’m gonna buy you one of these.” He points to a cut pirate costume as if the kitten understands him. “You’ll hate me for it but at least I can get a picture out of it, yeah?”

You smile at his enthusiasm, from what you seem cats have never been a fan of clothing… but then again the clothing here doesn’t look— “wait,” you jerk your head to him, “rug? As in,” you gesture to the kitten that’s starting to meow when he pulls her back down from his shoulders. She must’ve climbed up there when he was looking through the clothes. “The cat?” You blink once then twice when he shrugs once more.

“Not really a naming guy, plus,” he rubs along her ears, “she was shivering on my rug. Figured I’d just say that and be done with it.”

Better than garbage, you think. “Well…” biting on your lip, “that’s unique.” Trying to save face, you don’t want to be too judgmental.

He gives you a look and then snickers, “I’m just kidding, love.” He comes close and you freeze slightly till he plops his kitten down in your hands. “About the rug name at least. I really am shit with names. Johnny’s better at naming animals.” Placing his hand on his hip and you wonder if that’s mafia guy but then you think maybe not. “If you got an idea then I’m all ears.” He turns on his side and he rubs his chin in thought. He mutters something and then walks off to the litter aisle.

You hold her in your hands. “A name, huh?” Bailey was the only name you could think of but that one’s been taken already… “hm,” you rub her nose to the top of her head. She seems to enjoy that as she curls into your fingers. “Pretty girl, what should your name be?” Humming softly in thought and leaning against the cart when Kyle comes back with a tub of litter and a nice looking litter box. You hadn’t expected to see the nice flex of muscle from his arms but you’re certainly not gonna complain about the view. “I got a secret to share, Kyle.” You say as he comes within earshot

“Oh, yeah?” He smiles and places the litter box in the cart first and then the tub. “What’s that? Promise I won’t tell a soul.” He makes an X over his chest.

“I’m shit with names too.”

His shoulders jump and he lets out a laugh. “Really?” Rolling his eyes, “guess we’re both in a pickle. Might have to stick with rug for now.” He rubs a thumb over his kitten's little head. She nips a little at his finger but he doesn’t seem to mind. He pats the top of her head like one would a dog.

“I think she hates that idea.”

“Very opinionated this one,” he takes over the pushing of the cart and you lead him down to the cat food aisle. You check her teeth and you are pleasantly happy that she won’t need formula. “Now,” he turns side to side to check the kinds of food the store sells. “What does my girl need?”

You give him a thorough answer after having learned your lesson with your mystery man. Explaining what he should and shouldn’t do and placing a weeks worth of 3 different foods. You then also speak about how he’ll need to see a vet. You checked her for fleas and you are incredibly happy to tell him that she only had one but that it’s still good for him to get some flea drops. After you give him the runaround once more around the store, checking for items you know she won’t need but she absolutely needs a carrot cat scratcher. You finally take him to your register so he can pay. Your manager looks none too happy about a remaining customer but your manager has nothing to remark when Kyle looks right at him.

“Okay,” you finally say after bagging all his items and placing them in the cart. “Here’s your receipt,” you pass it to him and you give a little pet to his kitten. “Sweet girl when she wants to be.” He chuckles around you and pockets his receipt.

“Only when she wants to, that’s for sure.” He lets out a low whistle, “cost me a high bill but only the best for her.” He tucks her a little closer and gives you a kind look. “Thanks for staying late for me,” he looks like he wants to say more but hesitates. “I’ll see you around?”

You blink and then nod quickly, “I’m always here, Kyle. Gotta make money,” you laugh shortly and his lips pull back so that you can see just a peep of his pearly whites. He takes his leave, chugging along his cart to place it in his car. He mouths something to his kitten when she tries to get out of his hands. Probably a scolding with how he tuts a finger side to side in front of her face. She’s hearing none of it though from how her tail flicks back and forth. You wave him goodbye and he waves back right at you before he steps in to drive away. You hope he’ll come back to tell you her name once he’s figured it out. You wonder if mafia guy will come back too…

[motorsportbarbie13]

The Yapping Hour Is Upon Us - The Royal Wedding

In which you and Max tie the knot.

Warnings: just fluff. a bit of anxiety talk but nothing Max can't fix. Pairing: Max Verstappen x Podcaster!Reader Word Count: 5k

- The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 2 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 3 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 4 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Bonus Sessions - Master List

After getting engaged, there were two things that you and Max almost immediately agreed upon: first, because so much of both of your lives were already available for public consumption, you wanted to protect the peace and privacy of your wedding as much as possible. And second, you didn’t want to wait until the next summer break to get married. 

Growing up, it was a cliche fact but a fact all the same, that you often thought of what you wanted your wedding to be like. You were even very much guilty of having secret wedding Pinterest boards set up all through high school and college. But the moment the even presented itself in real life, you suddenly felt choked by the weight of what a big wedding could entail. 

It had been Max that had suggested the solution in the end, his idea passed by you casually one night as you walked hand in hand back to your hotel after dinner before the race in Italy. He had sensed your hesitation around hosting such a big, over the top wedding that everyone seemed to assume you wanted. The spark in your eye faded just a bit when Alex and Carmen had started talking about wedding venues and guest lists and he hadn’t missed the way your shoulders hitched up a bit more towards your ears as you listened to your friends ramble. 

“What if we just eloped?” He works to keep his tone causal, not wanting to give away how appealing that idea sounds to him. He wants you to choose the kind and scale of wedding you want all on your own because he knows you’d do anything for him, right down to agreeing to plan a wedding that doesn’t suit you at all. 

You stop dead in your tracks, Birkin bag swinging wildly at your elbow from the sudden halt. “What?” 

Max sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his khakis, giving you a knowing smile. “You heard me. What if we just said ‘fuck this’ and ran off to the beach and got married by some old fishing captain. Captains can legally marry people, right? That’s a thing?” 

Not for the first time in your relationship, you’re stunned into silence at something your soon-to-be husband says. For a moment all you can do is blink at him, trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you or not. “You’d…you’d want that?” 

Max steps forward, earnest look on his handsome face. “Baby,” He murmurs, framing both sides of your face with his strong hands. “Baby, I’d marry you in an alley way in the middle of New York City. I don’t care where or how, all I care about is that we come out at the end of this married and tied together for life. I don’t care about the wedding, I care about the marriage.” 

Max watches as your pupils blow wide, shy smile tugging at your lips. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

Max’s forehead rests on yours and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Well, it’s true. I want you to have the wedding of your dreams because I know that will make you happy but other than that, I don’t care.” 

He’d do anything to make sure you were happy, knowing it was just this side of obsessive the way he took you into consideration with every decision he made. Standing opposite of the man who consumed your entire soul, your stomach dipped low, the pleasant swooping sensation something you’ve become accustomed to over the last year. “I just feel so overwhelmed. Both of our lives are already so public and under scrutiny. I want this to be something that we can cherish without any of the potential tarnish of what it means to be so public.” 

You shake your head, feeling a little silly and what you’re feeling. “I love our lives and know we’re privileged to live like this but sometimes I just want to have something that’s just ours. I want to share our love and relationship with everyone but maybe we could just shield some of it from the world?” 

An idea forms in Max’s head then. “What if we eloped somewhere just the two of us and then have a party to celebrate with everyone after?” 

You nod, “Have is quietly ours for a while before sharing the news with everyone?” 

Max reaches for you, enjoying the way you press against him with ease. It’s a warm Italian summer night, the scent of perfumed flowers and left over sunshine hung heavy in the air and you wanted to snap this moment into something that stayed with you forever. Max’s hands heavy on your hips, digging into the flesh there as if he can’t get enough of you despite not leaving your side for the last 24 hours. 

Ever since getting engaged, you’d hated spending any length of time away from Max, almost like your soul had already started to twin itself to him. It made leaving difficult but returning was always so sweet. You had this weekend in Italy before you had to leave on another trip but you’d been considering ramping down your travel over the next few months. But, that was another conversation for another day. 

“Where would we go? And when?” The more you thought bout it, the more the thought of what Max was suggesting appealed to you. 

Max releases you before taking your hand as you two start back towards your hotel, feeling a bit lighter at seemingly solving the problem that had been weighing on you for a few days. 

“We could do it this winter? There’s always a total shut down of everything that week between Christmas and New Years. We’d see our families for Christmas and escape saying we were just taking a trip the two of us.” 

You grin up at him, liking where he was going with this. 

yourpersonalinsta posted

129,938 likes liked by yourdad, assistantshannon, maxverstappen1, and others yourpersonalisnta sun, sand, and a very cute finace kikagomes is this that place in Mexico you were talking about?! It looks so pretty! >>>yourpersonalinsta yes!!! it is gorgeous. you and P need to come here some day. alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous gorgeous girl >>>yourpersonalinsta love you bby user029 dream life fr user0092 looks like paradise! tell max congrats on his 5th title for us!!

December, 2025 

The warm ocean breeze fluttered through the wide open doors of the villa behind you as the bright December sun heated your skin where you laid on a lounge chair. Next to you, Max was sprawled out on on the chair next to you, snoring softly as he took what you thought might just be his third nap of the day. 

Ever since the pair of you had arrived in Mexico a few days ago, you hand’t done much beyond sleep, eat, and fuck. The 2025 season had been the most stressful, chaotic, out of control season Max had ever had and while he had managed to clinch the championship on in Abu Dhabi from Lando, but it had been a difficult ride to get there. So when Christmas had been celebrated and you had jumped on the jet to fly from Monaco over to Mexico, you couldn’t help but continually breathe a sigh of relief. 

The fight had truly weighed on Max, the hollows underneath his eyes growing more and more prominent as the race weeks ticked by. The only relief he had gotten had been your midseason trip to Thailand when he had proposed. When Jensen had asked him what had gotten him through the difficult second half of the season during an interview after he won the championship, his immediate answer had simply been you. 

Much to the disappointment of your fans, you had decided to really ramp down the amount of travel and work you had done following the summer break. Max had been resident at first, not even wanting to entertain he conversation at first when you had brought it up shortly after it had been decided you were going to elope. He didn’t want to even think of you putting your career on hold for him, to take care of him, to follow him. Not because he didn’t want you around. It was the exact opposite. Just the thought of you spending more time traveling with him instead of the insane schedule you’d been keeping over the last year had relief flooding through him. While he was tired from his schedule and the pressure of winning a 5th consecutive world title, he knew you were tired too. There were many times you both went weeks without setting foot in your shared apartment and sometimes you’d go weeks between seeing each other too. 

No, it wasn’t because he didn’t want you around. It was because he didn’t want you to resent him one day down the line that you had given up your career for him. He couldn’t bare the thought of being the cause of any resentment or heartache for you and despite how much he wanted you by his side every possible moment. 

In the end, reason had won out as you had explained that you weren’t taking a break because of him. He was certainly part of it, but like him, you were exhausted. You reminded Max of Brazil last year, how you had slept for so long the day after the race there that Max had postponed your flights home for another week he was so worried about you getting sick. 

You had done a few interviews since the engagement, mostly with people in the motorsport world: Susie and Toto Wolff, Natalie Pinkham, and of course Lewis being your biggest interviews. In addition, you had done some post race interviews and coverage for F1TV, which allowed you to have even more of a reason to be in the paddock week in and week out. You weren’t sure where your podcast was going in the future, but for now, you were content with the schedule and where you were professionally, despite what some of your critics might be whispering. 

All of this works through your mind as Max begins to stir beside you. His eyes blink open eventually and when they do, they immediately find you. “Hi baby.” He whispers, voice rough with sleep. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” You grin, setting your book down beside you as Max rolls over onto his side, creating some space for you on the oversized lounge chair, beckoning you to join him. 

As you snuggle deeper into his chest, Max slots his thigh between your legs and slips his top arm over your waist, pulling you closer. “You looked deep in thought. Everything okay?” He murmurs before his lips ghost over your cheek. 

“Hmmm, of course. Just thinking about this year and how good it feels to just breathe.” 

Max could tell when you got in one of your thinking moods just by the way your body language shifted. In those few moments between when he had woken up and you had noticed his eyes open, he had watched you staring out over the villa’s lawn. Your shoulders were relaxed, the usual pinch between your brows completely absent and with legs crossed at your ankles as you read your book, you had looked the picture of relaxed. 

“You still feeling okay about tomorrow?” 

Just the thought of what tomorrow would bring made your heart rate pitch up a bit. The first morning after your arrival, you and Max had gone over to the concierge in the main reception building to tell them of your plans for an elopement. They had, of course, been ecstatic and ready to help you in whatever way you wanted. After a few hours of discussion, you had everything planned and the concierge snapped into action. 

“I am…unless you’re not?” It occurs to you that Max has been awfully quiet this morning, a soft reflective mood taking over his usual energetic attitude and suddenly, anxiety pinches in your chest. You desperately search Max’s face for any sign of hesitation or regret, not knowing what you’d do if he suddenly got cold feet before tomorrow. 

Max shakes his head before pulling you even closer, fingers digging into the bare flesh of your hip, covered only by the little string of your bikini that you’ve been living in since you got here. “Lifeje, stop that. You know I would have married you the moment after I proposed to you months ago.” 

Something settles in you at his words, having just needed that little bit of reassurance from him. As hard as you tired and as much as Max made sure to never leave any doubt in your mind that he was all in with you, you sometimes still found your anxiety getting the best of you. Scenarios about how Max was having second thoughts, how he didn’t really want to marry you, how this was all in your head sometimes ran rampant in your head. You were getting better at controlling them, especially after he had proposed but that was the funny thing about anxiety, you couldn’t always control it. 

“I know.” You whisper, fingers trailing up and down his toned arm that was wrapped around you tightly. 

“Anxiety?” It was almost spooky how well Max could read you from just a shift in your tone of voice. All you could do was nod, suddenly feeling silly. Max rolled his hips into yours, pulling your lower half closer. “Do you feel what you do to me?” He asked, pressing his already half hard cock into your center. “Do you feel what you do to me just laying here? All you have to do is look at me and I’m a goner. There isn’t a single second thought in my mind, love.” 

“I’m sorry I’m hard to love sometimes.” Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as Max lifts your chin so he can have a better look at you. “I’m sorry you have to constantly reassure me despite not giving me any reason to doubt you. I know  it can’t be easy.” 

You had spent most of your adult life being told how difficult you were to love. How hard it was to deal with the constant reassurance you needed when the anxiety crept in, telling you you weren’t good enough. It was unnerving sometimes when Max loved you so easily and effortlessly because how did he find it so easy to do when no one else before him had? 

Max pulls back so he can get a good look in those pretty eyes of yours. It made him rage internally knowing how insecure you were. Not because he faulted you. Oh, absolutely not. He raged at the people that made you feel like you were inferior and hard to love because that was something that he simply didn’t see. Loving you and being with you was the easiest thing he’d ever done in his life. 

“I want you to listen to me, okay?” He waits, brows raised, until you nod. “I will gladly spend the rest of my life telling you how much I worship you whenever and however you need or want me to. When I take those vows tomorrow, I mean it with every bit of my soul, schatje. For worse or better, you’re mine and I’m yours from tomorrow on, okay? You are not hard to love and I am so lucky I get the privilege of telling you every single day how much I love you.” 

Your mind settles a bit at his words as you let the sensation of having Max so close to you wash over your anxious nerves. “How did I get so lucky to have you?” 

“Oh, sweet girl it’s not you that’s lucky.” Max leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips as you sigh into him. “I’m the lucky one that somehow coincided you to love me back.” 

There were only two people in your lives besides you and Max that knew what you two were really doing in Mexico. GP because Max was physically incapable of keeping anything from his race engineer and your assistant Shannon. GP had called Max out on his sudden change in demeanor in Italy after the decision to elope had been made, asking Max what had happened in the previous 12 hours to make him not so grumpy when he showed up to the track that morning. Max being a terrible liar when it came to GP had been unable to think quick enough to come up with an excuse and when he had simply looked at GP with a deer in the headlights look, he had fessed up and spilled the beans. When you had found out that Max had told GP you had sworn the race engineer to total secrecy, telling him you’d cut off a very important body part of his if it got leaked. 

Shannon was the other person that knew and it was only because you had needed help with choosing and figuring out how to sneakily order, tailor, and pack a wedding gown without anyone getting wind of it. You knew if the paparazzi had caught sight of you leaving a bridal boutique with a dress in hand nearly a year before you had told everyone else that you were planning on getting married, people would talk. So, with Max’s approval, you had enlisted the help of your personal assistant who had honestly turned into one of your closest friends over the time that she had worked with you.

 It had been Shannon that helped you choose the dress that you wore the morning you married Max, the white lace clinging to every curve and valley of your body. It was just going to be the two of you, the officiant, and the photographer there and the utter quiet and simplicity of getting ready in complete silence and peace was something you would cherish for the rest of your life. Max had left the villa about an hour ago, telling you he had a few errands to run before the officiant would turn up for the ceremony. What kind of errands could he be doing in the middle of a luxury resort in the middle of the Mexican jungle, you had no idea but you hadn’t asked any questions because you wanted the time alone to get ready. 

You’re just slipping on the second thin strap up over your shoulder when there’s a knock at the villa door moments before it swings open. Max comes bustling in, wearing the khaki pants and white linen shirt you had chosen for the beach nuptials. He’s got a fresh haircut and shaved face, his bright blue eyes looking for you the moment he walks in the door. In his hand dangles a little black bag with silver ties that doesn’t look big enough to hold much more than a small box or two. 

“Lifeje, where are -” Max stops in his tracks when you round the corner out of the bedroom and he sees you for the first time. His hand goes straight to his sternum, rubbing at the place that is suddenly aching at the mere sight of you. He had thought he’d been prepared to see you in your wedding dress but what he saw in front of him made every coherent thought tumble right out of his head. If he had thought you were the prettiest woman he’d ever seen before, seeing you standing there before him in the white lace dress with it’s plunging neckline and fabric clinging to your every curve, just confirmed that he was the luckiest person in the entire world. “Christ.” He whispers, unable to move from the spot he’s rooted to. 

You let out a little uncertain giggle, tucking a piece of hair that you had left out of the sleek low bun you had styled your hair in for the day behind your ear. “Do I look okay?” 

Max finds the ability to move then, crossing the room in just a few strides, suddenly needing nothing more than to touch you. He had to know what that lace felt like under his fingers, had to know if your skin looked as radiant up close as it did when he had first walked into the villa. 

“I am so glad I wrote my vows down because there is no way I’m remembering anything while I look at you.” He croaks, voice becoming totally unreliable with emotion just seeing you dressed like this solely for him brings up. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life, schatje. ” 

And it was the truth. Max had never seen anyone as gorgeous as you were standing there in that white dress, veil tucked into the top of your bun so it cascaded down over your shoulders. The dress pools at your feet and dips low in the back, showing off the tanned and toned body you work so hard for. At your ears wink the diamonds Max had gotten you for Christmas just a week earlier. A diamond and sapphire necklace set in platinum sits at your throat, also a gift from Max for your one year anniversary earlier in the year. Seeing you wearing the jewels that he’s bought for you does something to Max, a possessive streak proudly zipping through him at the thought of you dripping in expensive baubles that he’s bought you. 

“What’s in the bag?” You ask as Max settles his hands low on your hips, still checking you out with absolutely no shame whatsoever. 

He seems to remember that there’s something else in the room other than you then, holding the bag out to you with a sly grin on his face. “I know we said our wedding bands were going to be our presents to each other but I saw this the other day when we were out shopping in that little jewelry store and had to go back to get it.” 

You raise a brow but know better than to argue about Max spoiling you. It’s a lost cause at this point and you settled for just accepting the pretty things he liked to give you simply because he loved seeing you in them a long time ago. You take the bag from his hands and reaching in, you pull out a long, slender velvet box. 

When you open the box, you barely stifle a gasp at the delicate bracelet sitting on the black satin. It’s the diamond and pearl tennis bracelet set in platinum that you had casually looked at yesterday when you and Max had gone into town to do some shopping and had mentioned in an off handed comment that you had liked how the pearls and diamonds worked so well together, although you had ultimately decided not to get it because of the price tag and the fact that you thought you’d never have anywhere to wear it. 

“Max.” You whisper, gaze darting up from the box to Max’s own eager look. “It’s…it’s so pretty I don’t have the words. You spoil me.” 

“And I’m going to continue to spoil you for the rest of our lives, lifeje. Now, can I put it on you so you can be dripping in diamonds for our wedding day, please?” 

You laugh a little, somehow unsure of how you got this lucky to be here in Mexico marrying the man that literally worships the ground you walk on. 

“Now, I understand that you both have written your vows for each other. Max, would you like to go first?” 

Later that afternoon, the two of you stand barefoot on the beach, a gentle breeze teasing the veil at the back of your head, while the officiant the hotel recommended stands before you. The atmosphere could not be more perfect. The sun hangs low in the sky, sunset just an hour or two away so the golden rays cascade over you and Max. Behind you, the photographer you hired snaps discreetly away. The fact that it’s just the four of you on the beach witnessing this could not have been more perfect. 

Max stands opposite you, large hands swallowing your smaller ones, and takes a deep breath. You can see the emotion playing plainly on his face and know he’s going to have a hard time getting through these words. For the outside world, Max Verstappen is a hardened competitor that takes no shit and will do anything to win. But here? On the beach with just you and 2 others as he professes his love and adoration to you, he’s as soft as kitten and almost more emotional than you are. 

He couldn’t have been happier at his decision to write down the words to his vows because the emotions that swirled in him then, as he stands there looking at you in your wedding dress is so overwhelming he can barely put together a coherent thought. Here he was, the man that has won five world championships and zips around a race track at 200 miles per hour regularly, completely unable to speak he’s so happy. 

The paper is a bit crumpled when he pulls it out of the pocket of his khakis but it’s fine all the same. He clears his throat nervously and then begins. “When Melissa suggested I go on your podcast, she said it would be an amazing PR opportunity for me. I think I told her no five times but on that sixth time, I agreed because GP said he thought I’d like you and then he sent me that interview. And then I walked into that studio on that cold, rainy April and have never thanked GP and Melissa so fast. That first time I saw you, I felt my entire world shift beneath my feet. Having the childhood I did ruined the idea of love for me for most of my life but the moment you waltzed into my life, schatje, I knew that you were going to show me how wrong I’d been. I love you endlessly and will forever be thankful that you’ve shown me what the meaning of real, true, unconditional love is.” Max takes a breath, swiping at an errant tear that falls down his cheek. 

Across from him, you grip at his hands, desperately trying to commit this entire moment to memory. You’re endlessly glad you both had written your vows so you’d be able to look back and remember what was said today on this beach. 

“I promise to love, honor, cherish, and spoil you,” He pauses when you chuckle and roll your eyes, but just squeezes your hand before continuing on. “Whatever you need, you’ll have. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I promise to spend the rest of my life making sure you never want for anything ever again, both material wants but also emotional wants. You are my number one priority from here on out and I vow to never ever stop living up to these promises. I never believed in soulmates until I saw you for the first time and words can’t accurately describe how much I love you. Having the title of your husband is worth a million and one world champion titles and I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that to you.” 

The emotions ripple over you as Max concludes his vows. The officiant turns to you, dipping his head to let you know it’s now your turn. Max squeezes your hands together and you drown in the watercolor blue eyes looking back at you for a moment. 

“I stopped believing in soulmates a long time ago. That is until you walked into that recording studio and looked at me like you’d known me for our entire lives. I tried so hard not to get ahead of myself for so long, but it was that first time you flew me down to Miami two weeks after meeting you that I knew. I knew that you were it for me, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. We’ve been through so much in such a short time and I know there are so many people that are going to think we’re criminally insane for doing this. But it’s nearly impossible to put into words what you’ve done to my soul in such a short time, Max. I know it’s beyond cliche but you’ve altered who I am at my very core. I’ve never been with someone so unwaveringly supportive of everything that I am and everything that I do.” You draw in a shaky breath then, needing a moment before you can make the rest of your words materialize. 

“I promise to love you so unconditionally and strongly for the rest of my life. I promise to be by your side during the highs and lows of your career, on and off the track. The life we live is so fast and so difficult sometimes but just knowing that you’re on the other side of that plane ride, waiting for me to come home to you, makes everything we do worth it. I promise to give you whatever you need no matter how difficult it may be. You are my life now and I will spend the rest of my life showing up for you. Soulmates are real and you’re mine. I’m so thankful that I found you, Max. I love you.” 

A quiet settles between you and Max then, the vows cementing the bond you’ve been building since that first day in the recording studio. The officiant and photographer seem to sense it too, their soft smiles playing on their lips as they give the vows that were just exchanged a chance to sink in for each of you. 

Rings are exchanged and before you’re able to get a handle on things, the officiant declares you and Max husband and wife. The feeling of sheer relief and excitement washes over both you and Max as you’re told to seal the vows with a kiss. And what a kiss it is. Max pours his entire soul into the first kiss he shares with you as your husband. Everything he said in his vows being repeated by the way his lips cover yours, working over your mouth in such a way that has your knees buckling. 

“I love you so much, wife.” Max murmurs against your lips just before breaking the first of many kisses between husband and wife. 

maxverstappen1 posted

1,309,292 likes liked by yourpersonalinsta, redbullracing, assistant shannon, and others maxverstappen1 she's stuck with me forever now danielricciardo EXCUSE ME BUT WHAT THE FUCK user028 did they ELOPE??? Without telling ANYONE??? OH MY GOD??? HELLO??? user448 somehow, this feels very on brand for the both of them >>>user432 i was just thinking the same thing. charlesleclerc I'm sorry, WHAT??? yourpersonalinsta love you, husband >>>user0299 oh my god, i cannot be normal about this landonorris kinda heartbroken I didn't get to be the flower boy, ngl >>>user998 this is such a lando comment oscarpiastri wow! didn't even know you were engaged! congrats. man! >>>user332 why is this the most Oscar Piastri comment I've ever read??? >>>user948 HAHA OSCAR

yourpersonalinsta posted

1,029,398 likes liked by yourdad, maxverstappen1, assistantshannon, and others yourpersonalinsta wife>>>fiance user0298 the HAND PLACEMENT in that last photo. Max, my maaaan. user918 they eloped and didn't tell a single soul. i fucking love this so hard. kikagomes OH. MY. GOD. Congratulations gorgeous girl!!! >>>yourpersonalinsta love you pretty girl! user8892 my man wins his 5th world championship and then gets married in secret, max is winning at life rn assistantshannon so happy for you boss lady. you and max deserve the world. love you!!! >>>yourpersonalinsa so thankful i had your help with this, sweet girl. user827 are we just going to ignore the TATTOO on Max's wrist??? HER??? >>>user0291 oh my god oh my god

tag list: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland

[kisses4kaia]

nobody does it better by carly simon but it’s the radiohead cover and it’s patrick… cw: DISGUSTING smut with this evil man, no less no more . im shameless.

a/n: so we all know the photo. and what ThePhoto did to me was… this! enjoy. 😌

the room is loud. there’re a million people you could be talking to, looking at. a hundred people you could sit in the corner and people watch, but his eyes are on you. and you cannot look away.

patrick zweig was a reoccurring character in your life. starting off as low-commitment boyfriend freshman year, turning to effervescent fuckbuddy you could never get far enough away from to become detached. you hated him, god, you hated the pull on you he had. the iron grip that steeled you right where you were across the room from him, eyes locked like a guarded palace onto his. good lord.

it truly takes the will of god to keep your feet planted where they are, forcing yourself to divert your eyes from him. but, never fear, he’s already moving towards you.

his towering presence is felt immediately as he stands in front of you, looking down into your eyes as if he can hear your heart pounding regardless of the blaring song around him.

“hey,” he says quietly, tone soft but gravelly, as if there wasn’t a sound barrier around the two of you that might keep you from hearing him. “what do you want, zweig?” your voice comes out more pointedly than you intended, but with the way your pulse is thrumming and your hands are shaking, you can hardly blame yourself.

looking at you with that look in his eye, the one that almost mocks you as to say ‘got ya’, he cranes his neck down to whisper in your ear. “what do you want?” and he knows.

patrick turns without another word, and before you can process what you’re doing, your feet are moving with him, as if a collar was wrapped around your neck, choking your senses, and the leash was hanging haphazardly from his hand.

his path leads you into a bathroom, small, no shower, with a buzzing, lagging light. his hands are on your waist as soon as you step through the door, pushing you against it. patrick doesn’t kiss you immediately, unusual for him. “i miss you,” he breathes out, nervously, and it is jarring.

patrick zweig is not nervous, ever. he was self sure and confident and a fucking dickwad who knew it and embraced it as part of his “charm”. “yeah? and how many girls have you said that to, hm? britney posted you on her story yesterday, patrick. last friday, it was ántonia. fuck you,” you spat out, the 3… maybe 4 vodka sours you indulged in half an hour ago making your head pound, or maybe it was his dior sauvage.

he sighs, looking away from you impatiently, but when his eyes lands back on you, his gaze is crazed. “fuck, they don’t matter to me. i don’t know their last names, i don’t know their little siblings, they don’t know my favorite band, and i don’t look them in the eye when i fuck them. shit, baby, it’s you, don’t you realize? always fucking you,”

oscar winning preformance, is what you want to say, but his exasperated exhale after the words come out, paired with the rihanna song dully thrumming behind the door, bass vibrating against the wood, you look between his eyes, down at his lips, and your eyes don’t travel again before you smash your mouth onto his.

never fucking again, you tell yourself as his lips move in desperate, hungry, almost disbelieving tandem with yours. this is the last time.

��do you have a boyfriend?” he breathes out between kisses as he unbuckles your belt and unbuttons your jeans, shimmying them off. “like that’d make you walk out right now,” you kiss him again, biting his lower lip. “fuck. no, fuck no, but if you do, i’m going to make you remember exactly why nobody does it better.”

patrick lifts you effortlessly and places you on the sink, pulling your sticky, lacy panties to the side, smirking that evil damn smirk at the fancy little bow at the top. “did you know i was gonna be here tonight?” he nibbles as your ear, bringing loving bites down your jugular to your shoulder.

“no, but i knew art would be.” your smile is devious as his eyes light up, not with jealousy, but with the same fire he gets when he realizes his opponent on the other side of the net is really playing with him, when they’re really playing fucking tennis.

patrick jerks himself once or twice, languidly, before sliding his cock into you. a hardly contained whine pulls from your voice, and your mouth drops into an ‘o’ at the stretch. he nearly has you in an embrace, the way he’s holding you closely against his chest, and his curls are begging to be pulled. you entwine your finger with the hair at the nape of his neck and tug with every sharp thrust into your leaking pussy.

“more, give me more, patrick, don’t hold back on me, asshole.” he doesn’t even respond, just obediently lifts you up every so slightly off the sink and moves you on and off of his cock, giving him a much wider range of motion. his dick is nearly completely out of you each time his hips snap back, but you’re moaning like a pornstar each time he’s in again.

his ability to hit that spot inside of you with near perfect accuracy every fucking time is expert, a skill that could only be acquired by someone so in tune with your pleasure—and if patrick zweig was nothing else, he was that.

“fuck, gonna, shit! gripping me so fucking tight, leaking all over my shit, baby. she miss me? huh, pretty? you miss me?” he was talking right through you, each word penetrating your deepest desires and fantasies. you hated how he knew you. you hated that you let him. but most of all, you hated how close you were to coming.

he keeps fucking you unforgivingly, whining and moaning like a whore all the while. “you still on that pill?” he asked, voice pitchy and annoying and sexy.

“no, insurance stopped covering it.” you say seriously, and you can’t keep your laughter in when his thrusts slow and he looks at you panicked. “i’m fucking with you, don’t stop,”

“you’re evil, you know that?” he says endearingly, playful as always, and it’s no more than a minute later that he’s coming inside you.

patrick never was a selfish lover, so it came as no surprise that after pulling his softening girth from you, not one, not two, but three of his finger were quickly pumping in and out of you, making him moan sluttishly at the way his own cum coated his fingers. his other hand made busy circling your clit with his thumb, fast and calculatedly.

he knew every button to push because he sewed them onto you, and so it was no surprise that with that special angling of his wrist, you were coming undone on his fingers in minutes.

it’s quiet for the next few minutes, you cleaning yourself up, patrick washing his hands, the both of you redressing in silence.

“so… same time tomorrow?” he smiles at you, pleased with himself and sure your answer will be affirmative.

you walk up to him, smile, kiss him tenderly on his lips, let your heels touch the ground again softly. “go fuck yourself, patrick.” your words are sharp but your tone is sickly sweet, and patrick recovers from his shock quickly, smirking stupidly.

“after that, i most definitely will be.”

[girl-lostconnection]

Unsweetened Lemonade AU (part 4)

Part 3 || Part 5

Warnings: Punk!Ghost x Nerd!Reader, hints that reader is plus size, disturbing attraction, they are both traumatised your honour, biting as love language, unhealthy attraction

You are always with headphones in your ears, always somewhere deep inside your head — eyes slightly glassy as the tip of your shoe sways.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Simon can hear faint thumping from your headphones but it’s not loud enough for him to be able to actually make out a melody.

He doesn’t notice when he starts straining his ears — trying to catch the melody by its tail, but it mostly feels like trying your hardest to remember the dream you forgot the moment your eyes open.

It slips through his fingers, agitating him further, short annoyed huff of air forcing its way out when your eyes finally flicker back to him.

You two don’t speak much, it still feels weird to converse freely with him.

It still feels awkward and you both just turn your heads other way ignoring the elephant in the room.

But this time you don’t just pretend not to notice anything, the same impulse that made you thrust your scarf in his hands now making you pull one headphone out and extend it to him.

You don’t say anything and Simon isn’t sure whether or not he should sneer at the offer because it’s awkward and it would mean he needs to move closer to you and is he sure it’s not pity and—

Thought makes him feel hot under the collar, uncomfortable heat coiling under his skin, setting his nerves on the edge. So he doesn’t think anymore.

Simon moves closer, chair making a sad grating creak when it gets moved too hastily.

You just carefully push the headphone in Simon’s ear (don’t mind that he could do it himself, he has hands after all, he absolutely could. But didn’t) and press “play”.

Melody fills Simon’s ear, thumping with energy, cording him in a vibrating spring, colours popping in his head when he leans in closer.

Simon is all awkward angles and long limbs and he’s too wide-too broad-too heavy.

But in the moment he feels so light. He feels pure absolute joy, his eyes flickering to you.

“Fucking ‘ell”, the exhale is almost reverent and it takes him a few moments and your widened eyes to realise that he’s smiling. “You ‘ave more?”

It takes him a few more moments when you smile back.

Fucking hell, indeed.

You just hum under your breath, pressed to him — shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee and elbow to elbow. All soft lines and soft flesh and warm body.

Simon wants to wrap himself into you, wants to sink his teeth in your hand and hold onto it so you wouldn’t be able to snatch it away.

Simon wants to find his way under your skin and bury himself there, feasting on tender insides and sleeping in a safe warmth of your ribcage. Forever fed and forever warm and forever belonging.

Simon is awkward angles and you are soft lines and heavy stares and rhythm that suddenly makes sense.

Simon makes it his routine from then on, body pressing into your side, eyes hungry for more as soon as you pull headphones out.

You don’t know what to make of his fascination with your music but it’s weirdly satisfying to see that perpetually brooding Simon Riley can grin like a mad lad, eyes crinkling in a way that makes you want to touch his face.

Just to feel these crinkles for yourself, to brand the way he smiles on the back of your eyelids.

You would never admit but Simon smiles and you feel like smiling back, like touching his face, like leaning in closer and always sharing your headphones with you.

Even if he doesn’t ask.

Simon doesn’t say anything but drapes his hand over the back of your chair, eyes dark and attentive — a guard dog, a feral mutt of a boy. He’s slowly herding you back in your corner again and again, hoping to cement the thought that it’s safety.

He’s safety. You can stay with him. You can be warm and soft so he’s never cold and never hungry.

He will make sure no one bothers you ever again.

Taglist: @figthoughts @pastelbabygirl19 @haven-1307 @viennakarma @themadamehydra-blog @squishytap

[zkg2318]

Blood on Fire ~ pt. 4 | PSH

A/N: this is part 4 of the BOF series (LAST part), please read part 1 for the story to make sense as these are heavily driven by plot.

genre/tags for this part ✶ MDNI reverse harem!hyung line x afab!reader, angst, smut, gore and violence, supernatural themes, (sirens, werewolves, vampires, shapeshifters, phoenixes, frost elves, dragons, witches, and more…), blood, verbal and physical violence, lots of murder, manipulation, murder, significant self doubt, government themes (not political), fight club au, ot7

synopsis ✶ In a city where the supernatural are arrested on sight, the only refuge for their pent-up rage is “The Enha Arena”- an exclusive, hidden venue where creatures engage in brutal, blood-soaked battles with one another. Concealed beneath the unassuming exterior of “Dusk and Dawn,” a gym that serves as the front of a totally legal business, this underground fight club acts as the epicenter for this violent world where supernatural beings not only fight for dominance and pride but for the sheer thrill of it all. In dire need of some money, you find yourself drawn into the fight club when you come across a black market job posting- an offer for a new trainer at the gym. Desperate for new ways to keep your own abilities under wraps and even learn about other supernatural beings, you accept the position, completely unaware of the dangers and complicated relationships that await you

WC ✶ 18.4

part 3

smut warnings under the cut

smut warnings ✶ monster erotica (obviously), unprotected sex, temperature play, fingering, oral fem!receiving, squirting, dirty talk, size kink, making out

The gunshot cracks through the air like a whip, deafening those around it yet not quite reaching your ears. For a momentary, blissful second, you brace for impact but don’t feel anything, making you question if you were even shot. In that fleeting moment, hope stirs within your stomach and you pray that it was just a warning shot. But reality comes knocking and you feel a crushing force on your chest as the bullet barrels into your heart, an impact so hard it slams all the air out of you. Right then, you feel the world begin to close itself in on you. 

And then the pain. 

A searing, unbearable burning sensation flows through your veins like a slow moving poison as the bullet rips through layers of your body. Each breath of yours becomes a vicious battle for more time, every inhale feeling like glass is sliding down your throat. The pain consumes you completely and threatens to swallow you whole, but you desperately continue to claw for more air as blood quickly rises in your throat and spreads across your chest.

The metallic tang of your blood floods your mouth and bubbles past your lips, painting your chin scarlet. Eventually, what was once a warm sensation quickly turns cold and you lose feeling in your extremities, like the bullet has drained you of all that you have. Coolness travels your body like a map and you feel yourself slip away more and more. It’s almost peaceful, but the world before you refuses to slow. 

K stands over your body with a maniacal smile. He’s completely indifferent to the chaos around him, laughing with a malevolent satisfaction that drips from his every breath. The necromancer's shadows move in on you, slowly wrapping you up into a void of darkness that’s colder than death itself. It suffocates you more than the bullet, and you find yourself yielding to the weight of its darkness. 

“No! No, no, no!” An animalistic scream rips from Heeseung’s throat, reverberating around the gym as the sight of you lying lifelessly on the ground tears into his soul. He shoves away the soldier pinning him down and races over to you, falling to your side and pulling you into his chest. With each broken sob, red tendrils spread further out from his body and slowly engulf you both, muffling the chaos from outside. Within his sphere, time slows down and he holds you impossibly close to his chest. He buries his tear-streaked face into your hair and sobs, whispering broken apologies as though it’d reverse your last breath. His body shakes uncontrollably, barely steady enough to rock you back and forth in the protective sphere of his shadows. 

Outside of his shadows, chaos ensues like a violent storm.

Jake lets out a feral howl, his animalistic instincts consuming him like a starved man. His eyes burn with fury and he moves to tear into the nearest soldier, sinking his fangs into their throat and clawing at their flank until there’s nothing but carnage left in his wake. Blood splatters against his face as his canines slice into the man’s carotid. The flash of red only drives him deeper into his blind rage, erasing the little instinct he still has. He bares his teeth and shoves the soldier to the ground, turning to his next victim but encounters the butt of their rifle instead, striking his face and sending him backwards as his own blood pours from his nose. With a guttural snarl and a throbbing nose, he crushes the man’s throat with his bare hands. With the soldier gasping for air, Jake then drags his bloodied fingers down to his chest and rips it open with his claws only to shatter the bony cage surrounding their heart. Eyes red with rage, he rips the man's heart out and holds it up for all to see. Blood drips from the base of the organ and draws racetracks of red down his arm. His graphic act of violence works as a warning to those that dared to approach him. 

Jay moves in tandem to Jake, making his way through the crowd with his flames dancing along the skin of his targets, scorching the air with the sickening smell of burning flesh. He pushes through the stream of soldiers with force, sending them flying backwards with the force of his fiery exhales The scales on his back glow with rage and act as a beacon for his team as he moves forward. In his path, a few soldiers manage to land a couple hits to his side and face, resulting in a cut lip and bruising eye, but it doesn’t stop him. Slowly but surely, he reaches the edge of Heeseung’s sphere and starts to fend off the encroaching soldiers, determined to protect what little was left of you.

Just beside him, Jungwon and Minnie have made their way to the center of the chaos as well, their movements hardly visible to the naked eye. They move in a blur of speed and precision, Minnie shining beams of energy at soldiers while Jungwon moves at the speed of light to disarm them of their guns. 

Sunoo is nearby as well, hanging around the edge of the crowd and weaving his hands in the air like he’s painting with water. Jets of water shoot out of the palm of his hands, attacking whoever is near. His stream moves around the people like a tail and coils around individuals with a deadly squeeze. Zeroing in on a particular soldier, he watches their body explode from the pressure of his water wrapping around him like a lasso. Blood and organs paint not just the floor and walls, but those around him as well. 

The relentless rage of the group’s efforts reduces the soldiers to a mess of lifeless bodies that litter the floor of the gym. There’s red everywhere, making it hard to tell whose blood is whose. At the same time, the air is thick with iron, leaving a sour taste in all of their mouths, the weight of murder dissolving on their taste buds. 

In the end, only K stays standing. Surrounding the tall necromancer are the bodies of his team, but he doesn’t seem to care. It doesn’t seem to matter to him that his team has collapsed. 

Jay, panting and drenched in sanguine fluids, speaks with fatigue evident in his voice, “K.”

The necromancer’s name carries in the air with a heavy burden, but K is indifferent to the void of guilt.“You fuckers are so easy,” he sneers, “ It was almost too easy to ruin you all. You didn’t even notice my cameras.” The man points upwards at a small red light that blinks above them, just barely visible as it sticks to one of the light fixtures. Letting out a deep sigh of content, he wipes at his face to clear up the blood that marred his features. “Just give it up, boys. The government’s got enough data to track you down, arrest you, and condition you to become part of their army of supernaturals.”

The malice in his words seems to reach Heeseung as he finally lets his shadows dissipate, revealing your lifeless body laying limp in his arms. The original color from your face has drained completely and your body is hauntingly cold in his arms. Your hoodie, which was once a nice lavender color, is practically black with your blood seeping from the gunshot wound on your chest. Wincing, Heeseung looks at Niki and nods in his direction, letting the youngest replace his spot immediately as he goes to stand up. Niki’s  hands shake as he cradles you close to his chest, hoping that the warmth of his body could restore what you lost, though he knew it was futile. While Niki quietly sobs to himself, Heeseung points a threatening finger at K and explodes, “This is your fault!” His words crack with his pain, “What the hell were you thinking, working with the government? They’ll kill your ass the second they don’t need you anymore.”

K only laughs again, the echo of his sounds dripping with venom. “Enough hiding, Heeseung. I’m sure there’ll be tons of vampires now that they know how deadly you are. You made for such a perfect little murderer.” He narrows his eyes at Heeseung when he says the word ‘murderer’, his eyes creasing into crescents as he smiles wickedly at the younger boy.

Heeseung’s face pales before him as the word, ‘murderer’ cuts deep through his chest like a fallen blade. His expression is full of pure horror, realizing that his past has been exposed for all to know.  A secret that had only been revealed to you, was now coming back to haunt him. K unravels his years of guilt like it was a habit. “I’m not a-”

“Save it. I know every single name of the people you killed: innocent, harmless people.” His eyes widen with a sadistic pleasure as he forces Heeseung to eat his own words. 

The group stiffens, subtle but unmistakable. They try to mask the foreign unease they harbour towards the eldest, but it doesn’t matter. Heeseung has grown to be too aware of the changes in people’s body language, just a fraction of what his guilty conscience has taught him to do. 

Practically radiating with anger, Heeseung takes a step closer to K, but Sunoo reaches a hand out to hold Heeseung back with desperate strength, keeping him grounded as Heeseung’s composure fractures. “H-how, how could you know that?” He says through tears that threaten to spill down his paled face. 

Heeseung doesn’t get a verbal answer, just a bloody cough that splashes red onto his face. He’s bruised and battered and definitely looks like he’s had better days, but his injuries don’t stop him.“This should be familiar to you, right Jake?” K’s eyes widen as he turns to the werewolf, who stands off to the side with his knuckles blanching white. “You were just a boy when everyone in the Sim pack died, right? Trembling in the corner while you were all hunted like prey. Good riddance, I always hated werewolves, dirty mutts.” 

Jake lets out an angry growl, “Keep my family’s name out of your mouth!” 

“What, are you afraid I’ll tell them what you did?” He walks toward Jake with a sadistic glare, each step echoing his entertainment, “Or, what you didn’t do? Afraid they’ll find out just how much of a coward you are? You don’t want them to know about how you hid behind a bush and watched them all die slow, painful deaths, right? Pathetic, couldn’t even protect your own blood.” K spits at the floor, a glob of red mucus landing next to Jake’s foot. “I know you have nightmares about it, feeling guilty and powerless for letting your pack die. Some things just don’t change, do they.” 

In a lapse of anger, Jake lunges forward  with his arm in the air, but his fist is caught by Jungwon, catching his strike with his palm and guiding it back down to his side. “That’s cute, always protecting your hyungs.” K’s words drip with a venom that threatens to leak into their bloodstream as he addresses Jungwon, “-But who’s protecting you? Surely it can’t be Jay. I mean, who would want to live with someone that killed off the people trying to adopt me.” 

Jungwon’s breath catches in his throat and he almost lurches the entirety of his stomach contents forward. He had confided in Jay countless times growing up about his longing for a real home, a way out of the damned community. He knew the reality of being adopted wasn’t at all glamorous, but he believed anything would be better than sleeping outside in the cold. And Jay had always reassured him, told him that being adopted wouldn’t help him live a fulfilling life, that he could be loved as long as he stayed by Jay’s side. 

Jay speaks up immediately, panic arising in his voice, “Jungwon, don’t listen to him!” He rushes to the younger boy's side, grabbing at his hand like he always does, but his expression falters when Jungwon suddenly flinches away. 

Despite the cold front Jungwon seemed to be sporting all of a sudden, he reassures his hyung, “I won’t.” It was a whisper, but his words felt hollow, K’s voice rattling him to the core. All that safety and love that Jay had provided him, had it really been genuine? 

There’s a beat of silence that follows Jungwon’s halfhearted reassurance and the group thinks that K has finished talking, but they’re wrong. He never does. “Sunghoon, would now be a good time to tell them about your night terrors? You know, the ones where you slaughter your friends- every single night.” His voice twists into something sharper now, almost light with teasing, like he’s relating to Sunghoon’s violent tendencies. 

Sunghoon screams at K to shut up, his voice shattering with despair under the weight of his vulnerabilities being broadcasted. He clenches his fist, mist coiling around them like an uncontrollable fog as he thinks about the effort he went through to keep that secret buried. All those nights he spent barricading his apartment door, just a desperate attempt at keeping his darkness inside- to protect them from himself. But when he looks around the room, all he sees is the face of shock on his members faces. 

“How does it feel to think so similarly to a necromancer, hm? You have a very dirty subconscious, Sunghoon. You’re drowning from the weight of your sick, psychotic mind. Just let go.” 

Sunghoon only screams again, this time unable to find a suitable word to express his outrage. For a moment, rage is the only thing that courses through Sunghoon’s veins, but slowly does he fall to his knees, his pale blue eyes brimming with tears now. “Why- why are you doing this?” 

“Because hiding is for cowards, and in exchange for your information, I was promised protection.” He says, smiling sadistically. “I didn’t think I’d get the pleasure of digging up all this dirty on you guys in the process.” He pauses to let out a loud chuckle, sneering down at Niki. “Your hyung’s are fucked in the head, Niki. I’d kill them off while I still can.” 

K locks his gaze onto Niki, daring him to strike, but he doesn’t move. Instead, Sunghoon crosses into his vision and a fist that’s wrapped in a shard of ice, makes brute contact with K’s face. The necromancer staggers back, clutching his face as crimson liquid pours between the crevices of his fingers. Before he can even gather his bearings, Sunghoon strikes again, but this time it’s the force of an ice blade driving him backwards. The knockback of his attack is so strong that K ‘s back slams into the body of the nearest pillar, rendering him more breathless than he already was. 

Slumped to the ground, K coughs up spurts of blood as his chest blooms with blood, yet his laughter still lingers, triumphant even. “You’ll get what’s coming for you,” he mutters before taking his last breath. 

Silence, and then, “You bitch!” Heeseung’s voice cuts through the thin string of tension and shoves Yuqi to the ground, hard. “How could you just watch her die? Huh?” Yuqi doesn’t make any moves to strike back, quietly accepting the eldest' anger like she was being scolded by her parents. “You were right there! You could’ve stopped him from pressing the fucking trigger!”

Yuqi mutters quietly, for the first time, afraid of what the boys may do, “I did this for a reason-”

“A reason?” Sunghoon’s snarl cuts her off, “What kind of sick idea made you think we’d be okay with watching her die like that!” 

The two boys' interaction with Yuqi goes unnoticed as the rest are too focused on crowding around Niki, who is still holding onto your body. “Y/n…” Jay cries, gently moving your body into his lap. His entire face is flushed and there’s snot dripping everywhere, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the touch of your body on his and how he’ll never feel your warmth again. 

Rather than fighting back, Yuqi just sighs and gestures for Minnie to stand by her side.“Burn the bodies, all of them. I don’t want to see a single trace of K or the government here again.” Yuqi commands, but there’s a waver in her voice.

Jake looks at Yuqi with hesitation before flitting his eyes back to you- completely lifeless in Jay’s arms. He clutches your body to his chest, talking to you in hushed whispers as if you were still alive, like you could still hear him. 

“And burn Y/n separately.” 

Niki finally speaks, fury overshadowing his grief in that moment, “Are you being serious? You can’t even wait to give her a proper burial? Who the hell do you think you are to be ordering us around!” 

“Obey me, or don’t bother coming back to this fucking gym.” She snaps at the youngest, flicking her tongue out in warning. 

Niki bites his tongue and watches Jay and Heeseung move around the gym to throw the bodies into one big pile. Jay looks back at Yuqi, waiting for her nod of confirmation. When she gestures for him to hurry up, he proceeds to  light a fire in his hand and throws the embers onto the pile. The stack of bodies lights up in flames immediately, cinching the air with burning flesh. Sunoo’s nose wrinkles in disgust and he shields his eyes from the blazing fire. 

For a few minutes, the gym is silent save for the crackling of the fire. They watch the blaze die down without saying a word, a communal mix of grief and anger residing in all their hearts. Slowly but surely, the last of the fire burns away and all that’s left is a mound of ash. “Ok, now burn Y/n.” 

Niki clenches his fist and looks to Jay, but all he receives is a gentle nod that does nothing to reassure him. Yuqi pushes him forward and he grunts back at her. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he seethes, pulling away from her. She ignores him and gestures to your body which has been moved to the center of the gym. Biting his lip, Niki flicks his arm out and a fire ascends his limb. With one last hesitation, he forms a ball of fire in his palm and drops it onto your body. 

Immediately, the flame consumes you and travels against your skin like a whisper. The inferno only grows bigger as the seconds go by, forcing the boys circling around your body to take a few steps back. As they watch on in tears, Sunghoon is the only one to notice your arm twitch, “Wait-”

Your eyes snap open, glowing with that same orange hue they always did as the flames snake down your veins, lighting your blood on fire. In an instance, your body becomes weightless in the inferno and you rise, flames spinning around you like a cocoon. And then you scream. 

In the heat of the fire, you let out an ear piercing scream as you feel the embers melting your skin off, cutting into you like knives. It’s searing in heat and scalds your heart like a wildfire. Breaking through the pain, a black shadow erupts from your chest and transforms into a spectral phoenix that spreads  its wings before quickly dissolving into a flurry of ash. The phoenix is reborn, rising from the ashes. 

“It’s working…” Yuqi whispers, stars in her eyes. 

In absence of the smoky phoenix, a solstice of light floats out of your chest, flash banging everyone around you. In a matter of seconds, the blinding white of the solstice dims and your body descends back down to the ground, embers no longer dripping off your body like molten lava and smoke curling into the air in its stead. Your hoodie is back to its lavender color and your face looks years younger now. 

Silence surpasses you as you lay still and the boys hold their breaths. Without warning, you sit upwards with a sharp gasp, “Wh- what…”

Jake trips over his own feet as he rushes towards you, crushing your body with the force of his embrace. “Y/n? Is it really you?” He trambles into the crook of your neck, disbelief washing through him as he takes a deep whiff “How- fuck… I seriously thought I lost you.” 

Sunghoon, Jay, and Heeseung crowd around you, shocked into complete silence. Their expressions vary from surprise  to relief, but there are no words that follow in explanation. Confused by the uncharacteristic quietness of the boys, you subconsciously move your hand up and down Jake’s trembling back to comfort him. Your fingers run over the ridges of his spine and to his shoulder blades and then back down. It feels good to have him in your arms, though you’re not sure why it feels like you missed out on a lifetime of hugs. 

“Yuqi, what just happened?” Sunoo speaks with a low strain in his voice, gaze flickering between Yuqi and the smoke that still remained thick in the air. 

Yuqi, who still stands separate from the group, watches on with awe in her eyes, “She was reborn, so the legends were true.”

His lips part in silence, glaring daggers into Yuqi, “You didn’t think to tell us that she’d come back to life? We just went through the five stages of grief, Yuqi!”  Frustration spills through the cracks in his voice, the weight of his emotions flooding forward. 

Before Yuqi can offer an explanation, Sunghoon turns to confront Yuqi, breaking away from the circle and tilting his head to the side. “We could’ve avoided a lot of this conflict if you had just told us what’s going on.” 

Yuqi’s expression hardens into something unreadable, but guilt flickers beneath her gaze, a little bit shocked by the outburst, “I’m sorry, but the idea didn’t come to mind until she was staring down the barrel of the gun.” Yuqi repents, sparing Sunghoon a guilty look. “Phoenix’s can only exist one at a time, reviving countlessly until their purpose is fulfilled. I wasn’t entirely sure it’d even work, it was a long lost legend, but there was no other option. I needed to use your guys’ anger from her passing, letting Y/n die was the only way to refocus and direct us all towards a common goal: killing K.” 

Her words do little to extinguish the heat of anger coursing through his body but he doesn’t respond, just gives Yuqi a hard look and turns back to you and Jake, letting his silence speak for him. They all turn their backs on her and refocus their attention on you, who is now holding Jungwon in your arms.

He sobs into your chest and clutches at your hoodie strings, murmuring nonsense into the heat of your chest. You can’t make out anything through his incoherent babbles, but you look up to see the boys match his anxiety. “Please don’t cry, Jungwon. I’m fine, really.” You pull apart from him and gesture to your body which was free of any evidence of the last few hours. Jungwon doesn’t let up, in fact his cries only grow louder, “I think we should all just head home for the rest of today. I don’t know exactly what happened, but it’s clear from the pile of ash on the ground that there was more than one casualty tonight.” You part from Jungwon and wipe a tear off his cheek, offering him a strained smile. 

The boys mumble in agreement and help you to stand, each one giving you one final, lingering hug before calling it a night. Their embraces felt hollow, their postures hiding the strained dynamic that now drove a wedge between the boys. You shake the feeling, unaware of the context that accompanied the new change. 

In the back, Yuqi grabs a hold of Minni’s hand and squeezes it. “Did I do the right thing?” She asks with a tight heart. 

Minnie looks at Yuqi and softens her gaze, “I think- you could’ve gone about it in a better way. But all that matters is that Y/n is alive and well.” Minnie tells her, brushing a hand up and down her arm. “The boys won’t stay mad at you for long, they’re just dealing with some difficult emotions right now.” 

Yuqi stiffens beside her friend but she doesn’t speak, instead choosing to find solace in Minnie’s presence. Minnie turns her gaze to the boys and watches as Sunghoon moves to place a hand on the small of Sunoo’s back, wincing when the boy flinches away. “I- I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I just-”

Sunghoon shakes his head, like he knows what the boy is about to say. “Dont. It’s fine, Sunoo.” He speaks quietly and forces a smile on his face. Sunoo could tell it lacked genuineness, even without being familiar with the shape of Sunghoon’s smile as he was always so closed off, but it didn’t matter to him whether Sunoo could see the lie straight through his teeth. Sunghoon didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to press the issue any further. He knew what was happening. Instead of talking any more, he straightens up awkwardly and takes a weird side step away from the boy, letting the silence bridge the gap between them. 

Sunghoon knew this would happen, the slow pulling away of the members once they realized the kind of monster he really was. He had wondered how long it would take for them to see past his mask, and it looked like today was the day. The tension was palpable now, the avoidant gazes of his members leaving his heart clenching. 

He wonders if you know too, if you heard everything K said. The idea of you looking at him with the same fear he convinces himself to believe the boys harbor towards him has him spiraling. He’s terrified of hurting you or the boys, even by accident, and that fear alone drives himself to put a space between him and everyone else. His night terrors are like a relentless attack on his subconscious, reminding him that his hands were stained with the blood of the people in his dreams. He was so afraid of hurting the ones he loved, and that fear came at the cost of keeping himself at arms distance from those around him. 

He just didn’t know it’d hurt so much to see them push him away instead of himself.

With a sad look, Minnie looks away, unable to bear the sight of seeing someone she knew to be so strong and indifferent, look so pitiful. She turns around to move to Jake who was working to pack up his bag in a haste. Her expression on the werewolf is one of concern, shimmering with sadness that would’ve looked so pretty if not for the reason of her gaze. Minnie’s mind races with concern as she watches Jake withdraw back into his shell, shoulders tense and muscles straining under every movement. Jake notices the heavy look in Minnie’s eyes when he throws his bag over his shoulder and brushes her off, “Don’t give me that look,” he snaps. “I know exactly what you’re thinking of right now, and you can go shove it.” 

Jake hated the way he spoke to Minnie, but it was easier to push her away than to face the truth. He’s well aware of the coward that he is, and it eats him alive every day. Flashbacks of his packmates' blood painting the rocks while their lifeless eyes bored into his soul play in his mind like a carousel, spinning and spinning around his brain until he can barely stand. He recalls the names of all the people that died, all because he was too scared to move. He could’ve saved them, but he didn’t. He didn’t even try and that ruined him. Jake doesn’t want pity, doesn't deserve pity, especially not Minnie’s when the weight of his conscience is pitiful enough.

“I’m sorry, just- I’d like to be left alone right now.” He says in contrast to his snippy comment moments ago, his tone is considerably softer when he observes Minnie’s injured look. 

Minnie nods her head at the werewolf and then turns away, walking back over to Yuqi while feeling heavy with sadness. 

Meanwhile, Heeseung and Niki walk side by side as they approach the exit, their heads hanging low despite the bittersweet outcome of the night's events. When Niki reaches for the handle of the door, Heeseung brushes his hand against his by accident. The touch doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but it has the hackles on Niki’s neck rising and he jumps backward, hand recoiling like he touched something hot. Upon seeing the broken look on Heeseung’s face, Niki begins to stammer out an apology but Heeseung interrupts.

“You first,” he murmurs, gesturing to the door. 

There’s not enough fight left in Heeseung to care about the way the youngest member looked at him. Too consumed by his own trauma, the only thing on his mind is to go home and reflect in silence. He had tried so hard to let his past erase itself through his ignorance, tried so hard to be the opposite of reality and care for his loved ones. Never once did he want to revert back to the mindless killer that he was as a teenager. 

Back then, Heeseung had been brainwashed by his parents, conditioned to believe that they’d love him a little more if he just got rid of his parent’s competitors. Obviously, that became so far from the truth the moment he had come home that night with flesh tangled in his fangs, squirming under the disappointed gaze of his parents. Apparently, his job was sloppy and a person had escaped. But it doesn’t matter now, his parents are long gone and so is the escapee, he just wants to go home and rest. 

Niki hesitates for a moment but then walks out the door, Heeseung following a few strides behind in an effort to put some space between them.  It was clear that the dynamic between the oldest and the youngest had changed, but that was an issue for another day. 

Watching as his members leave the building one by one, Jay turns to Jungwon.“Let’s get out of here, Jungwon.” He says tiredly, running a hand through his hair. There’s no real urgency in the way he grabs at Jungwon’s hand, it’s more like a plea to escape the reality of what just happened and go home, start anew. 

Jungwon stiffens at the mention of his name leaving his best friend’s mouth and reluctantly pulls his hand away. “I- I think I’m gonna stay with Niki tonight.” He says quietly, rushing after to follow Niki who was already out the door. 

Jay’s shoulders slump, disappointment etched in his posture. He wants to argue with Jungwon and tell him he’s being ridiculous, but he knows better not to. There’s a sudden mistrust in Jungwon’s gaze and it wraps Jay’s heart with guilt. It was clear to Jay that the influence of K’s words had made its way into Jungwon’s brain, planting a seed of doubt in the echo of his thoughts. 

Jay couldn’t really explain why he did what he did, maybe he had convinced himself that a pair of strangers wouldn’t be capable of loving Jungwon the way he did, maybe he convinced himself that they would exploit him like all other humans did, he wasn’t sure. But he doesn’t regret it. He knows Jungwon would’ve been taken away from him and hidden in the confines of a stranger’s home, alone and scared. Jay wasn’t ready to lose 17 years of friendship with Jungwon just because some couple had the money to buy him out of the community. They had only gone five years without knowing each other, meeting at the age of 5. And it took only three years for Jay to slowly become obsessed with his presence, to kill off any opportunity Jungwon had at escaping the community. Things were better off anyway with Jungwon by Jay’s side, he could protect him that way. But Jungwon doesn’t know that, and he never would based on the way he avoided Jay’s gaze. 

He knows deep inside of him that lying to Jungwon was wrong and that he should’ve told him the truth, but it’s too late now. So, with a broken frown, Jay watches the back of his best friend's body disappear, and for the first time since Jungwon was almost adopted, Jay feels him slipping out of his fingers again. 

With a frustrated sigh, Jay turns to you and engulfs you in a sudden hug, ripping you away from your conversation with Yuqi and Minnie. “Oh- Is everything okay, Jay?” You ask into his shoulder, buried beneath the scent of his cologne. 

“I hope so…” his strong arms wrap around your waist and he buries his face into your neck. “K said a lot of bad things.”

You push on his chest gently only so you could look into his eyes as you said, “No matter what he said, we’ll figure out how to move past it.” You didn’t need to know what he said to know that you and the boys would find a way through it, you always did. 

Jay wears a soft smile on his lips and leans down, pressing himself to your lips in response. Memories of his night spent with you flood his mind and he lingers on your lips for a moment longer than necessary, savoring the tenderness of your contact. “I’ll see you later, Y/n.” He says before taking his leave. 

Blushing, you turn to Yuqi and feel the thrum of your pulse beat against your skin. “Come stay with us for the next few days, I want to discuss something with you two.” She says, gesturing between you and the light fairy beside her. 

Thinking about it, you’ve never once visited Yuqi’s place, or anyone else's for that matter. The idea of staying in her home feels oddly comforting, and given the fact she’s inviting you over must mean it’s not safe for you to stay alone, at least for now. . Spending a few nights with a serpent and light fairy suddenly didn’t seem all too weird. You smile at Yuqi and nod your head, a quiet confirmation that you’d stay with her and Minnie. 

Not another word is shared between the three of you and she directs you to her car. She’s parked just out front of the gym, her white sedan waiting patiently for her to return. The silence between you all stretches on through the ride to Yuqi’s place. It’s not more than a 15 minute drive from the gym, but it feels like the minutes leak into each other, the ever-pressing weight of what’s to come lingering on your shoulders. 

Outside the car, the city blurs and that in itself causes your brain to slow down, unable to focus on anything more than the fast moving streaks of light. There’s tension lingering in the small space of the car and you clear your throat awkwardly, shifting around in your seat. “Yuqi, what happened at the gym?”

You watch as she shares a look of concern with Minnie, pursing her lips and glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “K came to attack us, brought an army of soldiers from the government.” She pauses to place a hand on Minnie’s thigh, gripping it as if it provided her strength. “You passed away when K shot you in the chest… When you were dead, K had said some things about the boys that were supposedly long kept secrets, it definitely shook the boys’ dynamic with each other.”

You find it difficult to process that you had passed away, and you felt like you had cheated life. But then the legend of the phoenix comes to your mind and the pieces suddenly start to come together. “Did you know that I’d revive?” You ask her. 

Instead of answering, she speeds up the car and within seconds, she pulls into a driveway. “Let’s talk more inside.” She says, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaving in a haste. 

Your body seems to be weighed down by invisible weights, preventing you from moving. Minnie, who’s movements seem to be slowed down, clicks out of her seatbelt and twists around in the passenger seat. She reaches out a hang to place on your knee and gently rubs her thumb up and down the side.  

“Let’s go in together,” she says quietly, the glow in her eyes no longer bright. 

The two of you walk into Yuqi and Minnies shared apartment hand in hand, ready to face the reality of the situation together. She guides you over to the couch and excuses herself, saying she was just gonna change into something more comfortable. Yuqi was busy tinkering around in the kitchen, which left you all alone to be consumed by your thoughts. 

You look around the apartment and see the distinctive characteristics of each girl, yellow and white decorations with black accents scattered about the apartment. It was homey, well lived in and you saw on the side table a picture frame of Yuqi and Minnie, laughing with one another. You grab the frame and take a closer look, smiling subconsciously. 

“I think we were 14 when that was taken,” Yuqi says, sitting on the couch across from you. 

You hurriedly put the frame back, muttering an apology. You suddenly felt small. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she smiles at you. “So, you asked me if I had known if you would revive after being killed, and the short answer is yes.” 

You nod. 

“You were face to face with K, while the boys were scattered all over the gym. I was the closest one to you, close enough to run and intervene if something happened to you.” Yuqi clasps her hands together. “He pulled out a gun, and in that moment iI recalled the legends I had read about phoenixes and the prophecy that each bird fulfills. I read that they continue to rise from the ashes until their prophecy was completed. In that moment, I realized that it might apply to you as well, so I didn’t move. I knew letting you die would send the boys into a rage.”

“You said, ‘might.’ Meaning you let me get shot without even knowing if I’d stay dead or come back to life.” You're growing timid now, tired of people beating around the bush. 

“We were losing, Y/n! There was no way we would’ve come out of that attack alive and well unless the boys used their anger to control their fighting. You know how much stronger they get when they’re emotional.” Yuqi spits out her words in a hurry, trying to get you to see her side. 

Maybe you would if the circumstances were different, if your death had been a result of nature and not in the hands of a murderer. “Unbelievable,” you say, leaning back against the couch. 

Becore Yuqi can say more, Minnie enters the living room and plops down beside you, the fuzz of her pajamas brushing against your leg. As if sensing the visible tension in the room, Minnie places a hand on your leg and a soft glow emits from her palm, seeping into your bone. “I- I guess I understand why you did it, but it hurts that you were willing to take that risk.” You tell her, much calmer than before. 

“I’m sorry, Y/n. I really am.” Yuqi apologizes with sadness in her voice. You’re not used to this, not used to seeing Yuqi so lost and afraid. It made you uncomfortable. 

20 minutes go by before Yuqi and Minnie finally finish explaining to you what had happened in detail. You’re left absolutely shocked, jaw hanging open as you process what really happened in the attack. From Jake ripping a man’s heart out of his chest to Sunghoon driving his blade into the hilt of K’s torso, ultimately killing him. They even tell you about Heeseung running to you and shielding you both in a ball of his shadows. The whole thing seems so surreal. 

“Ok, now what was it that you wanted to talk to Minnie and I about?” You ask, forcing yourself to move on to the next topic. 

“I want to use Jungwon’s shape-shifting ability to infiltrate the governor’s office. He’ll act as their head officer, Jaehyuk and approach the governor with a proposition.” She pauses to slide an envelope across the coffee table, catching the attention of you and Minnie. “Jaehyuk is reported to be a close friend of governor Lee, so I’m hoping that will give us some leverage. I think it works out perfectly because Jaehyuk died during the attack in the gym, so we won’t need to worry about being caught.” 

Yuqi nods at you to pick up the envelope so you do, the weight of its contents making everything feel much more real. You open the unsealed flap and pull out a piece of paper that was covered in words. Overwhelmed, you skim through the contents of the letter, “Why are we asking to form an alliance with the government? They don’t even know about us, only the enforcement division does.” 

You hand the letter over to Minnie and look at Yuqi expectantly. “This letter exposes the constant abuse the enforcement division has subjected the supernatural to. It also states for how long we have lived in secrecy, lingering in the shadows and burdening ourselves to be perfect. There’s a USB in the envelope too, it’s the video surveillance from the hidden cameras K had put up, it recorded the attack in the gym.”

You lean back on the couch with your arms crossed, the weight of your own morals pressing heavily on your chest. On the one hand, the idea of exploiting the government to secure your freedom with the possibility of negative backlash seemed undesirable. If things were to go wrong, you would have no other option than to silence the governor- by eliminating him, and that in itself brought along a whole string of challenges you weren’t ready to face. But on the other hand, your long-held birthday wish to roam the streets in the daylight, unburdened by the fear of being arrested etched a scar in your heart. 

Minnie, who is sitting next to you in her favorite pair of pajamas, shifts uncomfortably and puts the letter down. “Ok… How do you plan to go about this, Yuqi?”

“Y/n and Niki will enter the governor’s office as Jungwon's prisoners. Jungwon is gonna speak to the governor, deliver the letter, and recount the stories you told him during your interrogations. He’s going to explain to the governor how you and all the other supernatural beings deserve to live like everyone else, that he had gotten to know the two of you through your interrogations. Essentially, Jungwon is going to be the advocate you never had.” 

Minnie looks skeptical, unsure. Her lips part in the way like she’s about to say something more, but she can’t seem to find the words. “And if it doesn’t work?” You press, asking the question she was too afraid to voice.

“Let’s hope it does.” 

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Yuqi’s plan develops over the next week, starting first with convincing the rest of the group to go through with it. Over the course of a few days, Yuqi painted the picture of a future they had all yearned for so long, explaining that this was the sacrifice that had to be made. Obviously, it took them time to agree to the plan, particularly proving to be a difficult task with Niki’s ego and Jake’s fear, but their dreams outweighed their doubts. 

But collaboration proved to be difficult, particularly with the hyungs and the maknaes. Jungwon frequently avoided Jay while Heeseung and Sunghoon seemed to be iced out by everyone else. And Jake was just a shell, a lifeless, poor, shell. You had bever seen the dynamics so strained. Like it was a string being pulled to its max, the sllightest tug enough to snap it in half. 

The plan was simple. Niki, someone who had taken his hours of free time to become a certified IT specialist online, hacked into the government’s email servers and forged a message sent under the name of Jaehyuk. The point of the email was to request for a meeting with the governor, the subject header titled: URGENT. Once you had confirmation that an appointment had been scheduled, the plan would move into the next phase. 

A day before your meeting, Niki wired up your typical black spy van, equipped with the latest technologies and headpieces that would establish a line of communication between you and them. Yuqi, Minnie, and the rest of the boys would remain safely in the confines of the van, waiting on stand-by in case things went wrong. At the first sign of trouble, they’d be ready to jump in and intervene, though everyone was silently pleading that it wouldn’t come down to that. The rest of the plan was painfully simple. 

Fast forward to today, you and Niki proceed to stumble forward as Jungwon, no, Jaehyuk, pushes you forward with your hands bound behind your backs. You deliberately grunt about and feign resistance against Jaehyuk who continues to shove you forward while the badges on his uniform gleam under the stale building lights. “Move,” he barks, tone monotonous. 

Passing the front desk was easy, Jaehyuk just had to show his badge to the clerk and explain his reasons for being here and he was let through. You could feel Jaehyuk’s hand tighten on your wrist, nervous by the first obstacle, but the clerk barely flicked their eyes up at him. Despite the assurance, Jaehyuk made sure to put up a show with you and Niki, moving the latter around aggressively while shooting you stern looks. It almost felt real, if not for the way Jaehyuk whispered to Niki to stop acting so dramatically. 

After a long time traversing the hallways that seemed to be identical to one another, you came across a grand oak door with a label that read ‘Governor Lee’s Office.’ Jaehyuk knocks against the wood firmly, waiting with his hand raised until a man from inside ushers them to come inside. 

Jaehyuk swings the door open and pushes you into the office first, Niki following after you and eventually Jaehyuk as well, closing the door behind him. The office is quite humble compared to what you had imagined, maybe the size of your bedroom and decorated with photos of him and his family. It wasn’t the stately look you were expecting, but much more lived in and humble. 

Before you, a middle aged man whose hair has started to gray and his face has started to crack, rises from his chair and moves to lean against the front of his desk. “Sergeant Kang, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He asks, his voice a rough mixture of curiosity and authority.

“Governor Lee,” Jaehyuk says, bowing to the man. He pulls a white envelope from out of his chest pocket and drops it to the table beside Lee. “I’ve brought you something rather unusual. A phoenix and a dragon.”

The mention of your kind being spoken into the room has the governor narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to the side in curiosity. It was a known fact that the supernatural was not something openly acknowledged by the rest of the government, its issue being a strict enforcement division subject only, but rumors spread quickly. 

“Oh, interesting.” He murmurs, taking a step closer. “This is the phoenix?” He asks Jaehyuk, to which he nods. 

He walks towards you and leaves only inches of space between you, peering into your eyes and raking over your features like a starved man. “You are a sight to behold,” he says, tracing his fingers down your arm. “Remarkable…” You tense under his touch, pressing your lips into a straight line as you inwardly cringe at the intimacy. 

Besides you, Niki bristles and bites his tongue to prevent himself from roaring at the governor. No one was supposed to touch you, not on his watch. 

“So, what is the reason for this?” The governor lacks surprise in his voice and you find yourself letting bits of anxiety creep in. 

“During their interrogations, I was made aware of the injustices that they have been faced with- and by extension, the supernatural community as a whole. They have told me about the years they’ve spent living in the shadows, yearning for nothing more but the same freedom as we humans have. Unfortunately, my due diligence with matters elsewhere have led to me overlooking the mistreatment that my division has subjected them to. So to make amends, I would like to act as an advocate for the community and propose a treaty- an alliance between the supernatural and us. I would like to stop hunting them.” 

Governor Lee raises his eyebrow at Jaehyuk, but it’s more of interest than skepticism. It seems that he has been privy to the actions of the enforcement division, aware of what lurks beneath the guise of their group. “An alliance? What makes you think I’ll agree to that?” 

Jaehyuk points to the letter, “Yuqi, the leader of a sanctuary where many supernatural beings go to find peace, has written about the specifics in that letter. Enclosed in that envelope are the details of their request, as well as a USB drive that contains footage of the enforcement officers illegally raiding their sanctuary, harming innocent beings.” 

The governor opens the letter and spends a few minutes reviewing the contents before sighing and throwing it back onto his desk. He crosses his arms, crinkling his suit. “If this goes public, the whole country will know about them. While I’m not opposed to hosting a conference to discuss this, things could go south very quickly.” 

“Yuqi is aware of the ramifications, that’s why she has stated that the limitations of the supernatural’s freedom stays within Luxta. No other cities will be put under the expectation to grant them the same rights like Luxta does, she is aware it is a lot to ask for. They want justice, Governor. They want to exist in this world without living in fear.”

The governor flicks his gaze between Jaehyuk, you, and Niki. “And what’s the catch, Jaehyuk?” 

“There is no catch. The supernatural have never posed an actual threat to the public despite my division hunting them like criminals. They’re arrests were made for their existence, not for any crimes.  The reason for our hunting was out of fear, but now, I have talked to more than enough supernatural beings to understand that they’re innocent, like all of us.”

“Ok, you’ve convinced me. I’ll let the office know to prepare a conference to discuss publishing this letter.” The governor moves to put a hand on Jaehyuk’s shoulder and smiles at him, “I trust you, little brother.” 

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To the citizens of Luxta,

For several decades, the government of Luxta has been operating a covert unit known as the Enforcement Division. The grounds for this establishment was to maintain public safety with several officers patrolling the streets and detaining individuals that were deemed “criminals”.

It is the government’s duty to maintain transparency through an open line of communication with the public. Therefore, it is within your rights to be aware of the true intentions of the Enforcement Division. At the start of its origin, supernatural beings began to populate our streets, and out of concern for the city's safety, each individual was detained without question. They were unfairly categorized as a threat and resulted in hundreds of unwarranted arrests. The safety of our citizens was our number one concern, prompting our unethical actions. 

As a result, supernatural individuals were forced into hiding and a marginalized community called The Veil was created. Through a thorough investigation following a particularly poor arrest, it has been concluded that the supernatural community poses no threats to the public. They share the same aspirations as our citizens and from now on, will be considered as such. It is with great humility and sincerity that we issue a sincere apology and announce a new era of inclusivity. 

Effective immediately, supernatural individuals will be granted the same rights and protection as any citizen of Luxta. Marking this historic shift, we introduce the Veil Treaty, our way of committing to equal treatment under the law, regardless of nature. 

Furthermore, a supernatural sanctuary has been established in order to welcome all supernatural beings. It is run by Song Yuqi who runs the establishment personally: Dusk and Dawn. 

Best regards,

Governor Lee

It’s been four days since the announcement of The Veil Treaty, and concerns were at an all time high. “So what now?” Sunno asks, placing his phone beside him on the bench. 

“Jungwon spoke with the governor following the announcement,” Yuqi says, sitting beside Sunoo. “Scanners are discontinued now, as well as nightly patrols. Additionally, the Veil is receiving government funding now, and the enforcement division has been transformed into a supernatural support division.”

“You mean the same people that hunted us down for years are now going to support us?” Jungwon baffles, looking at Yuqi incredulously. 

“No, the original workers were arrested and each position was replaced.” 

Niki shifts uncomfortably with his hands in his lap, fidgeting against each other. You glance over at him and notice the dark circles under his eyes and frown. It was evident on his face that he has faced many sleepless nights since the letter was published. 

“Niki, is everything alright?” 

The boy glances at you and you notice the shine in his eyes is absent, a dark shadow looming over his pupils in its steed.“What if the public reacts poorly? What if we’re still ostracized?”

Yuqi jumps in quickly and places a comforting hand on his back. “Legally, they can��t.” Her voice is unwavering yet it does little to alleviate the anchor on Niki’s heart. “The federal directive ensures that we are entitled to the same treatment as humans are. Any discrimination is punishable by law. While there’s surely going to be some overexaggerated articles released, that’s to be expected with anything. For now, let’s breathe. We can finally walk in the daylight without the fear of being arrested.”

“Things will be okay, Niki.” You make a lame attempt at comforting the youngest, but the words feel terribly hollow. You don’t know if they can sense it, they probably can, but your body trembles with uncertainty. There is a new spotlight on the supernatural community, one that would scrutinize every little detail you do, waiting for you to mess up. The freedom was nice, but it was juxtaposed to the restrictions you now had to set for yourself. 

You drop your gaze from Niki’s and stare at the pattern of the gym tiles beneath you. Your carefully crafted composure breaks at the seams as you think of how hard the next few days will be. Tears brim your eyes but you refuse to let them fall, you refuse to let the boys see the worries that are quickly wasting away in your body. What’s done is done, and if you had to offer them false reassurance to keep them afloat, then so be it. 

Around you, the others stand scattered near the gyms. All but Jake is present. You hadn’t seen him since the day you went into the governor’s office, but even then with his uncharacteristic quietness, he might as well have not been there. Worry tugs at the delicate strings in your heart and you question whether you should check on him. You hate to admit it, but it wasn’t until today that you really noticed his absence, too busy with everything else to worry about him. 

Jay, who was sitting beside Niki but at a fair distance, slides down the bench and pulls Niki into his shoulder, an instinct he’s done since forever ago. But the younger freezes in his hold, quickly murmuring a strained apology, but it seemed genuine, like he was desperate for any kind of comfort. “It’s fine, Jay. Just startled.” He says, closing his eyes before leaning into the older’s body. 

You feel yourself grimace at the interaction, disliking the dynamic between them. Niki was always such a sucker for physical touch, and to see him so apprehensive before Jay had your heart plummeting. 

From the little details that Minnie and Yuqi had shared with you, you were well enough aware of the situation between Jay and Jungwon. You knew he made some questionable decisions back then, but it felt wrong to treat him any differently, you didn’t see it as fair until you could hear his explanation. He had that right. 

Niki, on the other hand, as well as the other maknaes, shelled up around him, like they were worried Jay would do something as untrustworthy as killing Jungwon’s prospective parents all those years ago. They were young and inexperienced, so maybe it made sense for them to be apprehensive, but it still hurt to see Jay pretend like he wasn’t upset by it. The others, Jake, Heeseung, and Sunghoon, were too busy caught up in their own heads to treat each other differently.

But ultimately, you knew something needed to be done. The group wouldn’t last if there was so much tension in the air. 

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“Sunghoon!” Your face lights up upon seeing the familiar raven haired boy standing at your door, but it immediately slumps when you see the solemn expression on his face. “What are you doing here?” You ask, stepping aside to let him in. He doesn’t normally come over at night, especially not alone. You saw him yesterday at the gym, but it feels like forever for some reason. 

Your eyes trail after his back, watching as he walks in. His movements are slow and laden with an emotion that has your chest tightening. As he sits down on your couch, you notice his hair is slightly tousled and glistens under your lights, indicative of the thunderstorm going on outside. The imperfection of his messy hair gives him a raw, soft vulnerability, making him look so… normal. “I just wanted to see you,” he tells you, leaning back on your couch. 

“Would you like some water?” You ask, already moving into your kitchen. 

“No,” he replies to your question quickly, “Actually, I came here because I wanted to talk to you.” His voice is thick with uncertainty and you feel your body tense as you pour a glass of water anyways. You weren’t a stranger to his closed off demeanor, but hearing him speak without his usual flare of coldness has you worried. It’s not something you normally see in Sunghoon, a boy who you have grown to be so close to in recent weeks. Taking a deep breath, you walk back out into the living room and set the water on your coffee table, sitting in the spot next to him. 

“What’s going on?” you ask quietly, resting a comforting hand on his knee. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sunghoon hangs on to the thread of your touch as if it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. With a sigh, he turns to glance at you and you can already see a misty gloss icing over his gaze. “You once asked me why I pushed people away so much, why I chose to isolate myself. I had told you that things were safer that way.” 

You nod, recalling the conversation you had in the training room on your first week. His response puzzled you, but it didn’t feel like it was in your right to ask him about it. 

“If I didn’t let anyone in, then that’d mean it’d hurt much less if I accidentally killed them. I wouldn’t have this string of attachment keeping me from moving on if it happened. I could just kill them and go on with my day. But my night terrors, every night I dream about the same thing: killing them.” His voice cracks with the weight of his guilt, but he forces himself to continue. “I sleep walk during my night terrors, breaking everything around me. Every night, I barricade the door to my apartment because I’m terrified that if I don’t, I’ll find them.” 

Your hand, which was placed on Sunghoon’s knee eventually finds its way into his hands, grasping them tightly. “I’m listening, Sunghoon. Don’t push yourself, I hear everything you’re saying.” 

A rare, pearlescent tear falls from his blue eyes and you watch as it leaves a trail of opaque white down his face. “K told everyone that I was psychotic, messed up in the head. He told them that it was only a matter of time before I slaughter them, he even told Niki to kill me before I got to them first.” 

The realization of Sunghoon’s true shame  dawns upon you. Sunghoon isn’t just struggling with the fact that he has night terrors- it goes much deeper than that. He fears the moment his loved ones start to see him as a monster, someone unworthy of their worries. It made him feel alienated, vilified, but Sunghoon could endure the torment of his mind by himself, burning it under the confines of his icy exterior. But he couldn’t handle having his vulnerabilities exposed like this- he just couldn’t stomach it. 

“Everyone thinks that I hate him,” his voice cracks under the weight of his fear, a tremble that betrays his pride. “But that’s so far from the truth, Y/n. I love those boys like they’re my brothers, but I just can’t let them get close to me. Not when I’m like this.” 

He raises a hand up to his nose, wiping at the snot that’s begun trickling down. His shoulders sag under the shame that hangs heavily in the air, and it reaches you too. 

“In the Elf Kingdom, blood paints the snow more than the fresh falling snowflakes. I’ve never known more than the Veil, but it’s like my mind and soul have already existed in a place of murder and wrath. There are history books in the communal library and I would spend my time reading about the Elf Kingdom, but it felt so much like deja vu that I had to stop.”

The vulnerability of his voice ignites a part of your heart that longs to comfort him, to hold him. Listening to your heart, you reach a hand up to his cheek and let your warmth dissipate from your palm in hopes of it reaching Sunghoon’s core. “Sunghoon,” you murmur, using your thumb to caress his cheek. “You’re more than your kingdom. And you’re nothing like your kind.” 

You watch as a single, pearlescent tear escapes from his eyes, slipping down to meet the edge of your hand. It leaves an opaque white trail in its wake, a physical manifestation of the rawness of his heart. “Y/n…” he whispers, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch. “You’re warm. I- I never thought I could feel more than frost.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart aching at the sight of him baring his deepest vulnerabilities to you. “You should feel proud of yourself for being so strong. You are so loved- and I know that deep within their hesitation is a love so deep that it hurts. It will just take them some time to understand, don’t let yourself go in the process.” 

He swallows down a cry of despair, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down harshly. “I don’t want to be strong anymore, I’m so tired. Tired of these night terrors keeping me up every time I try to sleep. Tired of bolting my door shut and shoving under the handle. I’m tired of being afraid of myself.”

“I can be strong for us both,” you tell him, scooting closer. “I will always be strong for you.”

Your words seem to shift the demeanor in his gaze- something that feels oddly familiar to you but you can’t quite pinpoint what it is. His eyes go from a dark haze to a clear blue that stands out even under the dim lighting of your lamps. Before you can decipher the look on his face, he surges forward, connecting his lips with yours. The feeling of his lips against yours feels desperate, hungry, every one of his vulnerabilities bleeding into your touch and acting as a reflection of the storm that stirs in Sunghoon’s heart.

He whimpers into your mouth, a cathartic emotion he so desperately needed to release through your touch. The world fades away into an afterthought and he deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into your mouth.

The feeling of his tongue fighting against your own has you moaning, grabbing at anything and everything. Your hands fly up to his hair and you pull on it desperately, wanting the kiss to last a lifetime. He moves his lips against yours with equal desperation, finding a comfortable rhythm against your mouth. As the connection between you deepens, Sunghoon pulls you into his lap, letting his icy hands fall to your hips. There’s a desperation in his touch that acts as a tangible desire full of pain and longing. He desperately yearns to feel something more than the suffocating numbness that he’s grown so used to. 

Breathless, he pulls away and moves his head down to your neck, lapping long strokes against your skin. The wet feeling of his tongue lights you on fire, a pool of arousal seeping into your panties and leaving no question about the effects he has on you. His soft pink lips move against your neck, sucking marks down to your collarbone. “It feels so right having you in my hands,” he tells you, emphasizing his comment by firming up his grip on your hips. 

The feeling of his hands on your skin feels like fire despite the sub zero temperature of his body. It feels like an ice burn, searing and tingling. In this charged moment, the only thing that exists is Sunghoon, ice in his veins and fire in his eyes. With his hands controlling your hips, he moves you back and forth across his clothed member, swallowing every moan of yours like he’s getting drunk off it. “Take these off,” he says, pulling at the waistband of your PJs. 

He helps you off his lap and pulls down your shorts, as well as your panties. When the cold air hits your heat, he pulls you back onto him immediately, grinding your hips against his clothed member. His tip rubs up against your clit and you bury your head into his neck, already feeling overstimulated by the rough material of his pants. You shake with every movement, the stimulation of it all barely allowing you to keep up with the speed of his kisses. “Fuck- I, I’m close,” you whimper, moving your hips even faster. 

Suddenly, Sunghoon moves you to his thigh and you let out a desperate whine. Your slick stains the fabric of his pants and you blush a furious red, whimpering when he speaks again, “You’re doing so good, let me hear you. Tell me how desperate you are to cum on my thigh.” He coos into your ear, tucking a strand of your hair back all while using his other hand to guide you along his leg. 

His voice is erotic, dripping with seduction that sends shivers coursing through your spine. It wraps around you like a spiral, pulling you deeper and deeper into this heat induced haze. The sound of your name escaping his thick lips, the rasp of his voice as he grows more and more desperate to see you unravel in front of him- it only has you stuttering about in his lap, letting the fabric of his pants catch against your clit deliciously. 

You try to move faster, to match him in his movements but it seems like your body is working against you. The high that you so deliciously crave is just out of reach and keeps you working over the edge, refusing to unravel. The lack of a release maddens you and drives you to a point that tears prick your eyes. Frustrated, you let out a broken whimper. 

Sunghoon notices your frustration and pulls back to look into your misty eyes. “Don’t cry baby, you can do it.” He says, rubbing soothing circles onto the curve of your ass. “I’ll guide you, don’t worry.” 

Sunghoon moves under you and lifts his leg up abruptly, flexing the muscle. You cry out, both in surprise and pleasure as the friction becomes more intense. “So good, Y/n. So pretty riding my thigh.” 

He continues to whisper praises into your ear as he gently bounces you on his thigh. “Cum for me, Y/n.”

His words seem to act as a trigger, finally sending you over the edge. Arousal spills through you like a wave and your tears finally fall out of relief. Your movements grow irregular as you stutter against his leg, stimulating your high as far as it can go. “That’s my pretty girl. Good job, baby.” 

Finally stilling, your chest heaves up and down as you recover from your orgasm. Sunghoon looks into you longingly, gently humming as he caresses your back. When your breathing seems to reach a steady rhythm, he pulls you back in for a kiss, “Sit on my face.” he pants into your mouth. 

Hesitation rushes through you and you almost shake your head, too shy to move, but something in his voice has you moving automatically, driven by lust. He guides you to his face and lays back on your couch, asking for you to face in the direction of his legs. The position gives you a perfect view of his erection and you’re ashamed to admit that the sight of his hard member has you gushing out more slick. 

With your bare heat hovering over his face, Sunghoon sticks his tongue out and gives your pussy a tentative kitten lick. It’s wet and hot, prodding at your entrance and you bite your lip. Broken moans leave your mouth and he takes that as encouragement to begin mouthing at your cunt. His tongue flicks at your folds and he massages your breasts with his free hands, melding the tissue into the shape of his large hands. 

A gasp rips from your throat when something cold slides through your folds. You look down to see Sunghoon’s hand brought up to your core, moving back and forth. “Fuck, Y/n- you’re melting the ice right off my hands.” His lips trail around your inner thighs as he rubs his frosted fingers across your pussy. The melting of the ice as it dances along your most vulnerable bits leaves a  trickle of water in its wake, dribbling down your thighs as if it was your own essence. When the sensation fades away, it leaves you hyper-aware of what’s to come, your skin scorching with chills. “Relax for me, baby.” 

The pads of his fingers tease at your entrance for a few minutes longer, just rubbing around with newly formed frost on his fingers to get you used to the temperature. When you feel yourself relaxing, a sudden intrusion to your entrance breaks you from your haze and you let out a sharp gasp. His fingers slide to the end of your cervix with punishing greed, no amount of prep beforehand acting as enough warning. He pumps his fingers in and out at a steady rhythm, his thumb reaching around to play with your clit as he fucks you with his digits. “Beg for more, Y/n, I want to hear you.” 

“More- fuck me more, Sunghoon.” you moan, your hips taking liberty and grinding against him. 

You wrap around his fingers like a vice and cry out when the tip of his slender fingers reach the spongy spot in your cervix. Smiling, he carefully adds in a second finger, scissoring you open until you’re begging him to stop. “F-fuck, Hoonie! I’m cumming” you cry out, feeling the pit in your stomach stir with pleasure. He relieves you with a particular strong thrust of his hand and you fall forward, catching yourself in his shins. 

You catch your breath while Sunghoon takes his fingers out and you hear the sound of sucking. Leaning back up, you look down to see Sunghoon licking his fingers clean. Your mouth falls open in surprise, stunned with pleasure from the sight of his fingers shining with your essence. Before you can comment on his erotic act of display, he moves a hand down to his lap and sneaks it under his briefs. You watch as he fists his cock, seeing the outline of his knuckles past the fabric of his pants. As his hand moves up and down, he latches his teeth onto your sensitive bud. “Hoon!” You gasp out, feeling his teeth nibble on your bundle of nerves. You turn your head to the side and look down at him, ignoring the slight discomfort in your neck as you look down at him. 

His pupils seem to swallow the blue of his eyes as he looks up at you with nothing but love and desire in his eyes. “You’re so sweet- taste so good, baby.” He says while lapping at your sopping cunt. Sunghoon desperately savors the spiced honey taste of your arousal leaking onto his tongue while moaning a melody of pleasurable curses. 

Seconds pass and another moan of pleasure falls from your parted lips when his mouth attaches to your folds, licking vicariously between them. 

“God, you’re dripping on my mouth, princess.” He groans, snaking a hand back up to your breasts as you ride his mouth. “Make a mess on my face, fuck.” He squeezes the fat of your breast, drawing out yet another lengthy moan that drips with intensity. 

Sunghoon slips himself out of his pants somehow and your eyes go wide at seeing the shape of his cock beneath his briefs, straining with neglect. Your mind practically spins when you see him pull his cock  out, twisting his hand up and down the girth of his shaft while he eats you out. A sheen of precum wraps around the length of his cock as he pumps himself to the edge. 

You hear a low growl come from under you and press yourself down harder, relishing in the way his tongue warms you in ways you could never do yourself. He fists himself a few times before letting out a sound of annoyance, finally getting rid of his briefs. You gasp. 

His cock is beautiful, a pretty pink cock with a girth that easily trumps the other boys. It’s long and veiny and you practically salivate at the thought of having him in your mouth. 

Another few grunts leave Sunghoon’s mouth as he simultaneously jerks himself off while eating your pussy. Without warning, he whimpers into your heat and strings of cum shoot out of his cock, parts of it hitting your lower abdomen and the rest spurting onto his stomach. You can feel the vibrations of his moaning work through your core and you’re embarrassed to admit you’re reaching the edge again. 

Sunghoon gently taps your ass and you clumsily lift one of your legs off his face. He watches with an amused smile as your legs shake beneath you, completely spent from holding yourself up while you were wracked with orgasms. “Let me fuck you now.” He whispers, tracing patterns over your skin. “Get on your back, you must be so tired, princess.”

Your cheeks warm at the sentiment and you let out a quiet squeal of happiness. Eager to have him fill you up, you quickly get onto your back and let him fill the space between your legs. He throws his shirt off and it lands on your table lamp, obscuring the light. “Sunghoon!” You whine, slapping his arm. 

“Shush,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss you. 

The sight of him hovering above you is ethereal, you almost don’t believe your eyes. You can see the bead of sweat resting on his forehead and the way his muscles tense as he holds himself up. He is absolutely gorgeous, otherworldly. “You’re so beautiful, Sunghoon.” You say, running your hand up and down his bare chest. 

“Not as beautiful as you, Y/n. You light a fire within me that no one else can manage.” His tip rubs against your entrance, a mixture of his cum and your arousal acting as lubricant. “Relax for me,” he says before pushing the tip in. 

The intrusion is intense and you feel your hole widening in order to accommodate the stretch. You hold onto his arms with a tight grip and close your eyes as he slowly rocks out and back in, a bit deeper this time. “Good girl, just keep doing that.” He praises, sinking deeper into you. 

When his cock hits the hilt of your cervix, the two of you sigh in unison. Sunghoon feels impossibly close to you with his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear, and yet he still craves for more. “Be mine, forever.” His breath is hot against your ear and you feel yourself growing flustered by the intimacy. 

You want to say yes- yes a thousand times again. You desperately want to tell him that you’ve fallen for him. But you hesitate, caught up in the web of your own history with the rest of the boys. You realize now, with himself sheathed inside of you, that you’ve fallen for Jay, Jake, and Heeseung as well. Your body has memorized the bites of Heeseungs, the sound of Jake’s inhales, and the caress of Jay’s touch. You don’t regret it in the slightest, but it certainly complicates your feelings for Sunghoon. 

“If you’re mine, that means you’re theirs by default.” A flick of knowingness flashes across his gaze and you feel yourself flush before him. He knew. The truth of the situation lays bare between you and you feel your heart rate quicken. Of course he knew. Jake’s oversharing tendencies, Jay’s competitive spirit, and Heeseung’s blatant willingness to share you with Jake, you suddenly don’t feel surprised that Sunghoon has become privy to the fact that you’ve been with them too. 

Sunghoon, impatiently waiting now, snaps his hips forward again, each thrust pushing his cock further and further into you. He is steadfast on his decision. He wants you, no, needs you. He needs the whole of you, raw and vulnerable before him. “Y-yes, Sunghoon!” you cry in between thrusts. 

He flashes a sharp grin at you before burying his face into the crook of your neck as he continues to thrust into you. His cock drags against every fiber of your muscles and you fight to not cry out in pleasure.  “These boys didn’t do a good enough job opening you up,” he snaps forward, “Too tight,” another snap, “Too tiny.” 

His grunts send vibrations through your skin and you claw at his back, longing for anything to keep you grounded. “You’re so pretty, so little underneath me.” Sunghoon says, leaning up on his hands, trapping you between them. “I could bend you every which way if I wanted,” As if proving his point, he lifts your hips up and presses your legs to your chest, allowing him to enter you even deeper. 

The new position has you crying with pleasure and you feel a fast approaching orgasm make its way through you. It shoots through you without much warning and  you ride the highs of your pleasure, gasping when a cold gust of air hits your neck. Goosebumps quickly decorate your skin and you pull back to look at Sunghoon. “Sunghoon…!” You exclaim, the feeling of his frost somehow overstimulating your arousal and bringing you to your next high stupidly quick. 

“You like it when I use my powers on you, right?” He says with a cocky grin, licking at the frosted over skin of your neck. “Your skin looks so pretty with my ice on it.” His fingers trace the patch of ice that  spirals down your neck and lands on the little divot on your throat. He presses his thumb into the space and you feel delirious with the pressure. 

“Can you cum for me one last time, baby?” Despite the chills emanating from his touch, both you and him shine under the dim lighting of your living room, slick with sweat from exerting yourselves. “Do you have one more in you? I’m so close…”

You nod at him quickly, yearning for him to reach his high quickly or else you think you might go crazy. There’s an unfamiliar heat budding within your core and you squirm about, trying your best to hold it in. Sunghoon continues to pound into you relentlessly, practically using your hole like a toy for his pleasure. You can see through the darkness of his lust that he’s blinded by pleasure and is no longer focused on your enjoyment, but you don’t care. You’d please him however you could. 

His cock slides through your walls perfectly and after a particularly harsh thrust that pulses against your g-spot, your cunt pushes him out of you with overwhelming force. “Nngh, Hoon!”

A gush of clear liquid shoots out from your cunt with unrelenting force and sprays his torso. The sight of you coming apart and squirting onto him unravels Sunghoon completely. Working his way through his own orgasm, he quickly places a hand over his cock and generously pumps the length of it. Within seconds, he cums on your torso while the velocity of your essence slowly dies down. 

You spend the next few minutes riding out the shockwaves of your orgasm as Sunghoon drapes himself over you, flinching slightly when his softening dick rubs against your swollen entrance. 

The two of you are a mess of sweat, body’s heaving against each other as you catch your breath. Eventually, your breathing soon matches with his and you feel sleep start to consume you. “Don’t sleep yet, baby.” Sunghoon coos, gently stroking your cheek. “We gotta clean up and then you need to pee.” 

“So tired…” you croak out, letting your head fall to the side. 

He only laughs and you barely register the feeling of him lifting you up bridal style. Sunghoon walks to your bathroom and gently sets you down on your toilet. “Ok, go.” He says, shuffling through your cabinets for an extra washcloth. 

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Tonight, none of the boys’ had won their respective matches and it left a sour taste in your mouth. Jungwon, Niki, Heeseung and Jay were bruised and battered, beaten to a pulp. And now, with the four of them sitting in the gym's medical rooms, the tang of blood mingled in the air as you tended to their injuries, blending with the thick tension and wrapping around it like a snake. No one says anything, but for once, you’re ok with letting the silence speak for you. 

Jay pulls back from you when the alcohol on your cotton swab presses into the raw tissue of Jay’s cheek, a jagged cut made by a griffin. You feel the sting of the alcohol burn away the nerves in his face as if it were your own and you cringe. It was Yuqi who had told you not to use your powers to speed up the healing tonight, claiming it’d be too fatiguing, but you couldn’t stand the pain ghosting on Jay’s face as he grimaced through every touch of the clean up. 

You cup his cheek in your hand tenderly, both an act of submission and to help him. Despite the boys’ efforts to normalize the transition back to the gym after the government’s attack, there was still a lingering air of sadness that clouded your judgement. They had told you time and time again how sorry they were for letting you down, that the Veil Treaty was an opportunity for them to turn a new leaf over. Still, you found yourself run down with the burden of accepting their countless apologies and the unresolved tension that entangled the boys together. 

It’s been five weeks since the Treaty was announced, and yet the dynamics among the group have yet to return to what it once was. In place of the usual light hearted banter was now avoidant eye contact and murmured apologies towards the smallest inconveniences. The hyungs were acting as if the floor was covered in egg shells, and the maknaes did little to hide their discomfort around the elders. In front of you, they tried to act like everything was fine, but you could see through their carefully crafted fronts. You’d have to be an idiot not to see how much the atmosphere has changed. You can feel the weight of their unresolved tension, but somehow, you feel like you’re in the middle of their storm.

Shaking your head, you shake your shoulders and let a scorching warmth pass through your hand and seep into the red of Jay’s exposed cheek. You watch as his flesh reconnects over the wound, leaving no traces of the earlier match. When it heals, you move your hand down to his chest, the blooming purple that was spreading on his front beginning to fade back to its original flesh tone. Jay’s eyes are fluttered shut as the grimace on his face softens, each wound of his healed by your molten touch. 

Moving to his shoulder, you watch the glow of light travel into his skin and relieve the dislocation of his joint. Your knees buckle when it heals, a surge of energy leaving you when his bone pops back in place, but you’d go till the brink of passing out if it meant you could make Jay feel better. There were only a few more wounds left, and you really weren’t sure you’d have the energy to get through them. Still, you work your way through each of them quickly, travelling his body in silence as you use up the last of your energy to bring him back to 100%. 

Silence in the gym was becoming a new normal now. You thought things would get better after K was gone and the public knew of your existence, but it only seemed to act as a bandaid over a bullet wound. Funny, because you were actually shot. It was clear that there was still residual distaste left in some of the boys’ mouths, planted by K himself on the night of the attack. 

Yuqi and Sunghoon had only briefly filled you in on the gist of what he had said that night, and you hoped that in the weeks that went by since the attack, they would’ve found a time to talk it out amongst each other. But it seems that was just wishful thinking as they only interacted when need be. 

“-Y/n? Y/n!” Jungwon calls, ripping you out of your spiral. “Will you heal me now?” He sounded irritated almost, like he was annoyed by the attention you were giving Jay. His face tells you that Jungwon thinks Jay isn’t worthy of your affection.

Reluctantly nodding, you tell Jay he can go and he leaves the room, leaving only Heeseung and the maknaes. Heeseung stays in the corner with his head hung low as he waits his turn, still iced out by the group for reasons you wish you could fix. 

You walk over to Jungwon slowly, fatigued by the excessive  use of your powers, and begin assessing his own injuries, spreading your warmth here and there. “You should talk to him.” You say quietly, bringing a wet rag up to his lip. “You can’t keep sleeping over at Niki’s apartment.” 

He turns his head away from you in irritation. “Don’t. Jay had 12 years to tell me the truth about everything, yet he didn’t. Not until a man we thought could be trusted drops the truth on us like a bomb.” 

You frown at the boy, unfamiliar with the snap in his voice. He was rarely ever this serious, the only other times he held himself with this level of maturity being that time he acted like Jaehyuk.

“You know, Jay makes your favorite dinner every night in hopes you’ll come home. You have no idea how many curry’s I’ve had to give the boys because Jay gives it to me when you don’t come home.” You brush his bangs out of his face as you mindlessly retell Jungwon what his hyung has been up to since Jungwon’s impromptu vacancy. “It’s like every night that he drops off the curry, I learn about you and his relationship. He falls into this trance almost as he talks about you.” You wipe a warm finger over the cut on Jungwon’s eyebrow, grimacing when the energy in your body depletes further. “He told me why he did what he did, and while I can understand why you feel so upset by this, I can also understand where Jay is coming from.” 

Jungwon doesn’t speak, but he does give you a low grunt in response. It’s not much of a response, but you cling to the small glimmer of hope that suddenly buds inside of you when your gaze passes over his eyes which no longer looked hollow.  “And I suggest the three of you boys talk to Sunghoon, Heeseung and Jake. You can’t keep ignoring them.” you glance over to where Heeseung sits on the one exam table in your gym, fiddling with his fingers instead of conversing with Niki like he used to. 

“Whatever,” he quips, standing up from where he sat and hastily grabbing his things before leaving. 

Disappointed, you turn your attention towards Niki. His injuries were less severe, but they were extensive nonetheless. You knew you could only do so much for him with the amount of energy that was draining from you. To your surprise, you find respite in his silence. It was a small gesture that you knew was unintentional, but it meant you could focus your energy on his recovery rather than on words. 

When you finally finish, you can barely hold yourself. Fatigue melts into your every bone and you feel dizzy from standing, but the rejuvenated look on Niki’s face makes it worth it. Without saying a think, Niki moves to gather his things and leaves just like Jungwon, likely chasing after him to go home together. The moment he’s gone, Heeseung finally speaks. 

The long stretched silence snaps and Heeseung wiggles his fingers. “Come here,” he says gently, bringing his arms out. 

Forcing a small smile, you step toward him and stand between his legs. Your hand naturally comes up to cradle his face, but he stops you. “Don’t,” 

“Heeseung-”

“You’re about to pass out, baby. Just sleep for a bit.” He jumps from the exam bed and pats the cushion, gesturing for you to lay down. “Don’t disobey me, I’ll be right here the entire time.”

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you reluctantly climb onto the table, stumbling onto the bed. Heeseung braces your shaky body and guides your head down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His hand brushes against your skin and you feel yourself fall victim to the safety of his touch. You fall asleep almost immediately, relief flooding your body immediately. 

When you wake up, you don’t open your eyes, but the sound of hushed whispers reaches you. 

“We need to get out shit together,” a voice says. Was that Sunghoon?

“They can’t even stand to be in the same room as us, Sunghoon. How are we going to talk to all of them?” That had to be Heeseung, his voice was coming directly at your head. You grimace at the sound of frustration evident in his tone. You didn’t need to see his face to know his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched. 

“We’ll have them meet at Y/n’s place.” Jay rests a hand on your thigh, gently kneading the fat as he speaks. “They won’t know we’re there until it’s too late.”

A pregnant silence follows and for a second, you wonder if you fell back asleep, but a soft hand on the side of your neck tells you otherwise. 

“Will they forgive us?” Jake’s voice breaks the silence and you realize it’s his hand on your face. He always had a habit of tracing his hand down your neck, saying your scent was the strongest there. 

Heeseung lets out a long sign of resignation, “We can only hope.” He pauses, “So, Sunghoon.”

The first voice cuts in sharper, louder this time. “Y/n told me she’d be ours, but it feels like we’ve lost her again.”

His words sound tight and you push yourself to keep your eyes closed and your ears open. This was the most amount of communication you’ve heard between the boys in a long time, and you weren’t sure you’d get to be hidden in the audience again any time soon. Maybe you were afraid of meeting their grief stricken eyes as well. “It’s cuz we’re all fighting.” Jay says, stepping back to lean against the wall. 

“We can only fix that once we talk to them. We have to tell them what really happened to us.”

“Ok, then we’ll have a ‘gathering’ at Y/n’s place and when they arrive, we’ll crash the party.”

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“You’re not going anywhere.” You say with a glare sharp enough you can convey the words: sit down, in silence. Jungwon comes back to slump against your couch, forcing himself onto the couch with Sunoo and Niki rather than share a space with the other boys. “Talk. Speak. Do something!” You gesture to the older boys and they grunt in unison. 

An awkward silence falls upon you and the boys and so you nudge Heeseung in the side, silently asking him to break the stalemate. He gives you an annoyed look but bites his tongue, blowing the strand of hair off his forehead before standing. “So, things have been a bit rocky since…” he lets out a strained sigh, “-since K died.”

The looks around the room are enough to tell you that this was a sensitive subject, for all of them. Yuqi and Minnie, who are standing behind the couch, stiffen while the rest of the boys look down at the ground. You give Heeseung an encouraging nod and he reluctantly continues. “K had said some horrible things about me, Sunghoon, Jake and Jay. I- I can’t speak for them, but I want to apologize to you all for hiding behind a lie. Contrary to what K said, my adoptive parents were business tycoons who thrived on illegal business to get where they wanted. I was sent out against my will to eliminate their competition. They made me kill innocent lives.” 

The older boy looks up to the ceiling and tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. He can’t cry, not now. Not in front of them. But his strained whimpers that bubble up his throat are loud enough to be heard in the silence of the room holding its breath. “I didn’t know any better. At the time, I thought I was making them happy. I just wanted to see them smile at me.”

Minnie’s face falls as she listens to Heeseung retell his past like it’s a painful reminder of her own. She was never close to Heeseung, much more to the younger ones, and hearing this has her heart clenched and her eyes misty. Minnie rests a hand on Sunoo’s shoulders and rubs them, both an act of comforting Sunno and herself. 

“One night, I came home. I hadn’t finished the mission, not completely. There was still one guy left that had gotten away. I had to come home though, it was nearing the morning.” Heeseung takes a breath and thinks back to that night. He could almost see the rage in his parent’s faces when he told them that there was still someone out there. They looked about ready to kill him, dispose of him like useless garbage. That night, Heeseung learned there was more to killing innocent people and pleasing his so-called parents. “They screamed at me for hours, calling me every name in the book. In a fit of rage, I killed them…”

Gasps ripple across the room like a fast dripping faucet. Even you, who know the gist of his story, gasps. Heeseung’s hands clench into fists and his crimson eyes begin to glow. “I locked myself away for months after that. I was a monster. I had to change, so I vowed to myself never to hurt another soul unless absolutely necessary. But it wasn’t fair for me to live this lie of peace and serenity around you guys when I know it was anything but that.” Heeseung puts his hands up to his face, but not before you see the first few crimson tears fall from his sunken eyes. You’ve never seen him cry, so to see red streaming from his face stunned you. What made it worse was the fact that it was so obvious that Heeseung hadn’t been sleeping much. Even before today, you could see the weight of his guilt spilling into nights of restless sleep for him. “I’m sorry you had to hear this from K.”

The room falls into a suffocating silence that seems to stretch on for several minutes, but eventually, Niki speaks. “You don’t need to apologize, hyung. I think- maybe we were all a bit unreasonable to think we had the right to judge you like that. We don’t think you’re a monster, not at all.” 

Beside him, Jungwon and Sunoo nod their heads in agreement. Seeing that, Heeseung’s shaky composure shatters and he collapses to the ground, full on sobbing into Niki’s lap.

“Hyung!” Niki yelps, attempting to push Heeseung’s heavy head off his thigh. “These were brand new!” When Heeseung picks his tear stricken face off of the boy’s leg, he gasps when he sees red stain the white fabric of Niki’s sweats. 

The tension in the room briefly dissipates to make room for the soft laughter that breaks out, albeit awkward in a way. Everyone but Jake seems to lighten up. A few feet away from where you sit, Jake occupies your arm chair with his hands fiddling about in his lap. “I’d like to say something, too.” 

You experience whiplash from the way the room falls silent again almost immediately. All eyes turn to Jake and he clears his throat. “I’m sorry for kind of disappearing on you all.” 

His voice seems foreign to you, not having heard it in so long if you didn’t count that other day when you were pretending to be asleep. Jake had been becoming increasingly more absent from you and the gym’s life since the day K passed. The only time he showed his face was at matches and when you, Niki, and Jungwon went to the government.

“Jake-” Minnie interrupts, but Jake cuts her off with a sad smile. 

“No- I need to finish, I was ashamed, I hid away again after K revealed to you all about what happened with my packmates. It felt like I was reliving that night all over again. I was just a kid when it happened, when I had to watch my family bleed out in front of me. I was frozen with fear, I didn’t know what to do, I couldn’t save them.” Jake hangs his head in shame. “I was scared, and I’m still scared.”

For Jake, the past few weeks have felt like he was driving on autopilot. He felt like a monotonous robot with overly tight screws. Day and night, he traced the same footsteps as the day prior, too scared to stray away from his normal. It was like he was reliving the following year after his family’s attack. The same thing everyday, same amount of eggs for breakfast, two twists of his pepper shaker in his pasta for lunch, and a plain sandwich with six pretzels on the side, because a seventh reminded him too much of the number of people that should’ve made up the group. 

Sunoo shifts uncomfortably in his seat before softly responding, “Jake, nobody blames you for being afraid.”

“I know, but I blame myself. I could barely live with myself at the time knowing that I was the only one to survive the attack. And then when K brought it up again, I felt like I was back behind that wall, watching in horror as everyone around me died. I couldn’t face myself.” 

Jungwon leans forward and rests his shoulders on his knees. “Jake, we’re a family. You should’ve trusted us to give you unconditional support and listen to what you have to say.”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, Jungwon.” Minie interjects, narrowing her eyes at the younger boy and crossing her arms. 

Everyone freezes. Minnie had always been so gentle, too soft to really discipline the boys. So hearing her confront Jungwon like this had everyone experiencing a double-take. “You tell Jake you would’ve listened to him no matter what, but what about Jay?” Minnie presses Jungwon into a corner, “You run away from him every time he enters the room. So either you’re lying to Jake or you’re lying to yourself.”

“Minnie-” Yuqi interrupts, grabbing the girl’s arm. 

“No,” she shakes her off. “This isn't fair to Jay, Jungwon. You guys are best friends, you can’t just leave him in the dust like that all because you don’t have the full story!”

Jungwon’s face pales. His mouth opens and closes but he can’t manage to find the words to respond. 

Jay, who had been quiet until now, finally speaks. “No, he has every right to be like that.” You look at Jay who was now shifting about in his spot on the couch. “Jungwon, I didn’t kill those people to keep you from leaving the Veil. I did it because I knew that the second you leave, you’d never escape. I’ve seen what happens to those that are adopted; they get locked away and turned into something unrecognizable. Who knows what could’ve happened to you? Hell, you could’ve been treated just like Heeseung’s parents treated him.” 

Heeseung stiffens beside you but he shakes it off. He knew Jay needed to use him as an example. 

“Look, I’m sorry for what I did, but I don’t regret it.” 

For a brief moment, nobody moves, not even you. Then, to your surprise and everyone else's, Jungwon stands up and pulls Jay up from the couch. When he stands, Jungwon pushes himself into Jay’s chest and wraps his arms around him. “I’m sorry- I shouldn't have ignored you.” His voice is muffled in the fabric of Jay’s hoodie, but it's loud enough for Jay to understand. “I didn’t understand what was happening, I didn’t want to understand. I just wanted to feel anger and run away from my problems. I thought I was better off not knowing the truth behind your actions and just assuming it was all done in anger, but I was wrong. I missed you…”

Jungwon’s tears seep into Jay’s hoodie but he doesn’t care. He just holds the boy closer to him while the others watch on in silence. “We’re sorry too,” Niki says, standing up to join the hug. “It was wrong of us to treat you like that.” 

Jay waves him off and pulls him by wrapping his hand around the back of Sunoo’s head. Eventually, the rest of you join one by one until you’re pressed against each other in a messy group hug. All but Sunghoon.

You notice him standing off to the side with his jaw clenched. “Sunghoon?” you call out, extending a hand to him. 

“I guess it’s my turn to apologize,” he starts, clearing his throat. “As you probably know, K mentioned that I have night terrors.”

The rest of the group breaks apart from the hug and they look at Sunghoon with expectant gazes. “I’ve had these night terrors for as long as I can remember. I can’t really explain what they were about when I was younger, just a lot of darkness and screaming. But when I met you all, the dreams became more vivid, more violent. I was forced into this world of nightmares where every night, I would kill you all.” Sunghoon physically winces when he says that out loud, embarrassed that he even has to say it. “I told myself not to get close with any of you because if I hurt any of you, I would never forgive myself. You may all think I’m this rude, apathetic prick with the ego of an elephant, but I did that on purpose. I was rude and arrogant for a reason, and yet it didn’t even work. I care about you all in a way I have never felt, and that terrifies me.”

You reach for his hand and caress the back of it with your thumb. With a shaky breath, Sunghoon continues. “Every night, I would set up my apartment so that no one can get in, and no one can get out. My windows were locked, my doors were barricaded, it honestly looked like a tornado hit my apartment. But I did all of that because I didn’t trust myself. “

Again, the room is silent. Sunghoon feels like a monster for having these thoughts, but he wasn’t sure they’d ever go away until he told them. Eventually, Sunoo steps forward and pulls Sunghoon into a tight embrace. “You’re not a monster. None of us are.” 

Sunoo doesn’t need to say much to let Sunghoon know that he’s been forgiven. The foreign skinship between them is enough of an answer. 

“Are we gonna be okay?” Sunghoon asks no one in particular, breaking apart from the hug. 

“We’ll be okay,” you tell him, placing a delicate kiss on his lips. 

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁

Today, the word monsters, was trending on X.

It was an awkward shift from the usual hashtag involving famous soccer players or the latest viral recipes. The word sat at the top of the trends like a sore thumb. 

Monster was not a word that was uttered anymore, not since the exposure of the supernatural community. It had been years since the word monster trended on X, but that was when the Veil Treaty was created. Now, there was no reason for that word to be trending again. 

When the public had become aware of the fact that they were living among the supernatural, fear gripped the city. “Monster” was headlining every article, every news station, and was the topic of many whispered conversations. For a long time, the public was hesitant on accepting the new community, but slowly as they were integrated into the real world, people either became accepting of the supernatural or simply forgot about them. They were just like every other citizen in Luxta. Slowly but surely, people learned to coexist with the other side. 

But now, years later, the same word reappears at the top of the timeline. 

Staring at the hashtag for a moment, she hesitates to click on it, skeptical of what’s to come. But curiosity trumps her skepticism and the girl presses on the hashtag. Immediately, a 23-second clip pops up. This is the same video that’s been circulating the internet for a few days, only a few blurry figures in the background were showing on the thumbnail, not enough to pique her interest until now. The sheer volume of comments and shares speaks volumes and drives her to click play.

When the video starts, her eyes widen. There’s a shakiness in the video that suggests that it was filmed inconspicuously, and  first, the only thing she can make out is the movement of two pairs of legs. They were in a ring of some sort- no, it was definitely a boxing ring. 

Noticing the lack of audio, the girl increases the volume. Suddenly, she can hear the sound of roaring spectators surge in the background as the video zooms out to show that the two men were in fact in a boxing ring. This didn’t look like the ring from WWE. 

She watches through her phone as the two men lunge at each other with an unnatural speed that makes her breath catch in her throat. They moved too fast to be considered human, just a blur of movement. When they pull apart, she finally sees the red scales on one of the man’s shoulders glinting under the light. 

The scene was horribly mesmerizing, unable to tear her eyes away from the video. Flames roared in the air and danced along the other man’s body as he moved around the ring. Suddenly, the one on fire jumps high into the air before forcing himself onto the scaled man. A pattern of punches make contact with the man’s face and the camera zooms in to focus on his bloody features. The scene continues on like that for a second before the video ends abruptly, freezing on a sickening frame of the scaled man slumped to the ground, gasping for air as black shadows invade his body.

Stunned, she clicks out of the video and looks at the comment section. It was almost as messy as the video above it. 

that’s obvsly CGI Are those the “supernatural” ?? MONSTERS LOL this is so fake #exposed didn’t governor lee say they were harmless? Tf is this IS THAT A DRAGON?

im sorry i didn't expand much on the hyung line relationship with yn. also, there will NOT be a next part. be honest, do you guys hate me for the ending LOL

Taglist: @heesimp, @kyunlov, @quill-ink, @lunaritex, @jiryunn, @jakeswifez, @fancypeacepersona, @nshmrarki, @ikaw-at-ikaw, @wilonevys, @strxwbloody, @capri-cuntz, @riribelle, @machambrx, @vousty, @rebeccakan, @wonnienyang, @koizekomi, @heeweenie, @skyearby, @rxlxvr, @missychief1404, @doveblackboat, @prkhoonielvrss, @skyearby

Permanent taglist: @kittys00, @ikaw-at-ikaw, @17ericas, @tunafishyfishylike, @bbyhee

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Found Pt. 4 | Poly!141 & Reader

Summary: You, Simon, and Price go shopping, while the two work out their problems, and you get new clothes and delicious Thai chicken.

Word Count: ~3.2k

Warnings: arguing, yelling, cursing, but it gets resolved, cuddles

A/N: reader is starting to come out of her shell a bit, which will certainly make things more interesting…hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Johnny hadn’t come out to the Jeep yet, and for the past five minutes Simon had been about to drive away, one hand on the wheel, index finger tapping away impatiently as he scowled in the direction of the house. They both seemed almost attached at the hip more often than not. You wondered what was holding the werewolf up.

The front door swung open, but instead of Johnny and his ever-wagging tail coming out, it was Price who lumbered out. The little brown fuzzy’s barely visible on his head, which you assumed were ears, twitched as he approached the car, opened the passenger door, and hauled his body in.

The car shook ever so slightly when he pulled the door shut, slamming it loudly in a gesture that made you jump a bit.

“Where’s Johnny?”

Simon asked, his tone calm but the hint of annoyance creeping in. He raised a brow at Price, who huffed with a hint of a growl that had the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

“Said I’m gonna pull my back out choppin’ wood, told me to come with you.”

John sounded more than annoyed, huffing, his sentence trailing off with his voice growing a bit more than brusque as usual, Simon sighing out through his nostrils.

“Not like he’s wrong.”

He mumbled, putting the keys in, turning them, and starting the ignition, before Price growled deep and low. Your breath caught in your throat, muscles tensing as you scooted more away from the middle of the backseat to the right side, body curling up as you tried to focus on the moving scenery outside the tinted window, the car pulling out of the driveway and bumbling along the bumpy roads. Trees blurred into brown and orange masses as Simon sped up a bit, his and John’s conversation speeding up as well.

“Leave it, Price.”

If you were a hybrid, you might’ve been able to smell the souring of John’s scent or the hint of bitter anger that tinted it.

“You’re hardly younger than me, but those muppets don’t blink twice when you’re doing work, do they?”

A pause from Simon.

“It’s..different, Price. We’re different.”

“Yeah, how’re we different? You saying you’re better than me.”

The atmosphere thickened. You didn’t like how angry he sounded, how Simon’s knuckles were white around the wheel, how John was bordering on a growl every word. He seemed pent up. Angry about more than just what had happened today, as if this had been building for a while, longer than you’d been around to see.

Simon didn’t deny it.

“You muppets, always thinkin’ I’m getting too old for this, well I’m not. I’m not too fuckin’ old to chop wood—“

He snarled out, and your hands went to cover your ears, tears pricking your eyes. You didn’t like angry, cussing men. They brought back bad memories, things you didn’t want to think about again, not right now, if ever. Your knees curled up into your chest, and your blurry vision focused on the window.

The trees had turned into walls of rock, with a few darker spots where water was steadily dripping down, and grass crusted over with frost. The little trees that were on the top had lost all of their leaves by now, the cold chill getting to them.

It was cold in the car, too.

They didn’t have the AC on, which made sense, considering the amount of hair on John meant he didn't need much heat, and Simon’s large body produced enough on its own. Or at least you assumed.

Their argument grew a bit more heated, a few words slipping into your ears despite the hands covering them until they were both yelling at each other, and you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stop it!”

You finally yelled, hands still covering your ears, eyes fearful and scared. John’s mouth was still open from something he’d been about to say before they both turned to glance at you and knew they’d fucked up.

Simon took one look at you through the rearview mirror and internally winced. You witnessed the entire thing, an argument that he and John had been having for years now. The old man was too stubborn to let anyone else try and take care of him, shouldering more and more, trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, and getting angry when anyone tried to help him if he stumbled.

John’s anger was gone in a second, replaced with the full internal instinct to fix. His cub was upset because of him. It was his fault. He had to fix it.

Your body language alone was screaming “stay away from me, I will bite your hand off”, as was your scent, but he couldn’t just let you sit all terrified in the backseat, so he tried to calm you down just a bit.

“‘M sorry, cub. Didn’t mean to scare you,”

His voice turned from angry to soft and cooing so quickly it almost gave you whiplash, but it still worked a bit on softening the anxiety churning in your gut. Not enough for you to accept the large hand he was offering, though.

Simon looked at the rearview mirror once again, both behind the car, and then at you once more, and was hit with a sudden realization.

You were afraid, fearful, but he didn’t see any hint of surprise in your expression. You’d been in foster care so long, you’d probably seen all sorts of relationships, maybe even experienced a few, if your earlier request to visit a ‘friend’ was anything to go off of, but you probably hadn’t seen what a healthy relationship was before.

And what he and John had just showed you? That wasn’t healthy, not at all.

So he tried to think of what Gaz would do, ever the virtuous young man, always trying to mend relationships and crossing bridges before burning them completely. He’d seen it just a day ago between him and Soap. Kyle was always thinking about what the other person was thinking and feeling, what they might be going through, putting himself in someone else’s shoes.

Simon might’ve not been the best with emotions, but he could recognize the signs of a minor breakdown. Price hadn’t slept well much this week, before you’d come he’d been worried about getting the room done on time, and since then he’d been worried about you getting comfortable. His short temper made sense. And with such a small, new kid in their home, slowly becoming a member of the pack, it made sense for his protective instincts to be on overdrive, making him shoulder more responsibilities as the leader of the pack.

In fact, he hadn’t seen John this worked up in years, not even with their past fosters.

Simon could have some empathy for the man, and after growing up through his childhood with no good father figure, only his dad abusing his mother and being drunk all the time. You deserved better than what he’d had to see and much better than what he and Price were showing you.

“John.”

He interrupted the man’s cooed words, and John at the lack of nickname and the sheer tone that Simon was using. It wasn’t an unkind tone, it was soft and quiet, much less intimidating than the usual monotone and bland voice he adorned.

It caught your attention too, he could tell. His eyes remained on the road, but he could scent the subtle shift in your emotions, from the fear and worry, a bitter scent, to the shift to a calmer, softer scent. Almost like freshly done laundry, and how soft and warm it is coming out of the dryer.

“Yes?”

He was trying to stay angry, Simon could tell, but it wasn’t working.

Simon took a deep breath, trying to push down the embarrassment he already felt for what he was about to say. It felt strange to acknowledge emotions so clearly, but it was necessary, and if he had to push himself out of his comfort zone to make you comfortable, he would. He’d done better for worse people.

“I...understand that you’re stressed, and feel like we’re undermining you, but we’re just worried that you’re pushing yourself too hard, and not trusting us enough to let us help you. It’s not that any of us are better than you, we just don’t want you taking everything on your shoulders.”

He heaved a shaky breath out, eyes on the road as he pulled into the parking lot of the mall, eyes scanning for a parking spot that wasn’t taken up.

“I’m sorry,”

John finally spoke up, voice rough, but not with anger, only thick with emotion.

“I’ve just been stressed, and trying to keep myself busy. I didn’t mean to…”

His sentence trailed off as he leaned into Simon, and Simon leaned his head against him as he finally found a spot, and pulled into it.

As you sat in the back, watching, John finally pulled away from Simon a minute later, giving a little apologetic smile to you as he opened his door, moving to open yours.

“Sorry for scaring ya, cub. Let’s make it up and go get some clothes, yeah?

He offered a hand, and you found that you took it, despite having to lift your arm a bit for your hand to meet his large, calloused one. He was warm.

Simon came around after you heard him pull the keys out, lock the car, and shut his door. He took your other hand, leaving you sandwiched between the two giant men as you all approached the entrance to the mall, which was a lot of sliding glass doors marked with “Exit” and “Entrance”.

As soon as you entered, your senses were assaulted with the smells and musks of other people and perfume, not to mention delicious food and drinks, as well as bright lights from stores and flashing lights from stands selling kids’ toys. It was loud, people talking unabashedly on the phone, to their friends as they laughed and tripped over their own feet, or to their partners as they walked hand in hand. A few other children your age were there, but no humans.

It didn’t necessarily surprise you.

Simon noticed how overwhelmed you were, and he couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected it. Malls were large spaces packed full of people looking to sell things, and others rushing to buy things. Especially with how most people tended to easily be taller than you, or tower over you, he could imagine you’d be easily intimidated by that, let alone all the options of where to go.

Giving your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, he spoke.

“We can get clothes first, then decide from there.”

John met his eye, and nodded, silently agreeing with him. You mumbled a little “okay”, before being led along by the both of them to a nearby area in the mall that was a large clothing store, one of the bigger shopping areas than the hallways full of different, smaller stores.

“Let’s focus on winter clothes first, so jackets, scarves, gloves, pants, those sorts of things. Then we can move on to lighter wear.”

You all navigated the store, meandering around before John spotted the “Children’s clothing” sign, and you finally found the girl’s section. From there, you had to narrow that down to the human section among all sorts of hybrids.

That was the one thing you didn’t envy about hybrids, was how hard it must be to find clothing that properly fit their various parts like wings, tails, etc. There was a reason that seamstresses and embroiderers had become much more popular after hybrids really began rapidly spreading and taking over the population. The business was booming.

“What about this one?”

John asked, gesturing to a striped sweater. You could tell from a few glances that the quality wasn’t the greatest, and that it wasn’t made of real wool or fiber, probably just the type of polyester that rubbed against your skin badly. You reached a hand out, disconnecting from Simon, and rubbing against the fabric only to confirm your assumption. You shook your head.

“Itchy.”

You said simply. They tried pointing out clothes and jackets you might like to no avail, probably not understanding the concept of needing fabric to stay warm, considering most hybrids had fur to keep them warm, if not their bodies practically being furnaces.

Finally, you found the absolute perfect jacket. A hoodie that wasn’t tight around the bottom, but baggy enough to where it went down to your mid-thigh, the sleeves weren’t tight, and the hood was loose and wasn’t so heavy that it weighed the hoodie down or strangled you. The inside felt like a cloud, and it was stretchy but also firm enough to keep heat insulated.

When you finally stopped feening over the hoodie, you flipped the price tag over and winced, putting it back. It might’ve been perfect, but it was a ridiculous amount of money for a hoodie. Too much money for a hoodie.

Simon and Price exchanged a look behind your back as you went on to find other clothes, returning twenty minutes later with, as John requested, a scarf, gloves, some sweatpants, and socks. Simon scoped it all out of your arms and put it in their cart, following behind as John began looking for the clothes for lighter seasons, finding it and letting you choose your pick.

Having spent almost two hours in the one place by now, with you trying on various clothes, John said he wanted to make sure they fit right before buying them, and your mild indecisiveness as well. When it was all said and done, you had plenty of clothes for outfits throughout the year, and they checked out.

It was only after everything had been checked out that you saw it.

The hoodie.

Simon held it carefully, scanning it, before ripping the tag off with ease and handing it to you. You opened your mouth in protest at first, a bit embarrassed, but decided against saying anything as you slid it on. It fit perfectly.

It wouldn’t be very easy for either of them to hold the bags and your hand at the same time, so Simon leaned down, getting on one knee, and gesturing to his shoulders, gently picked you up by the armpit, and lifted you until you were sitting on his shoulders.

You blinked in surprise for a moment or two, but eventually, the shock wore off. The internal cringing after seeing a couple go “awwww” at the sight of you, or a group of women giggling to themselves, seeing Simon carrying you, didn’t though.

John noticed, a little smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t mind anyone noticing what good parents they were to the newest member of their pack, it actually made his chest swell with pride.

“You hungry?”

Simon asked, tilting his head a bit to the side to catch a glimpse of you, just so he knew you had heard him. You gave a little nod, being absolutely starving by now, and he chuckled.

“Me too, kid. Let’s see how much we can convince Price to spend on food.”

You’d both convinced him to spend quite a lot on food, apparently, as you both sat down, eating Thai chicken that tasted scrumptious. You devoured it, eating faster than even Simon, and Price was steadily laughing as he watched you somehow shove more food down your throat.

“Save some for the rest of us,”

Price chuckled, watching as you swallowed more chicken, looking up at him with a look more feral than any hybrid he’d seen, before pouting in what he assumed was a joking way.

“I’m just a girl.”

You said, and Simon’s deep, raspy laughs started up at that. He apparently found it funny. You continued devouring your food, filling your stomach until you were all full, something you weren’t used to from your past foster parents.

Price was enjoying his food as well as you all sat at the Food Court, in a little booth table. The lady working the shop had given extra-large servings after taking one look at Simon and Price, knowing big men like them would need plenty of food. She probably hadn’t known how starved you’d been, and by now, you were too hungry to care about eating nicely in front of them.

There was sauce on your lips and your fingers, but you didn’t care, Price wiping some from his beard, Simon using a napkin to wipe some of it from his mouth, before folding that napkin over, and wiping it off your face. You looked at him, a smile tugging at your lips. He tried to conceal his smirk but failed as you burst into giggles. Price laughed again.

After finally finishing off all of the chicken, both you and Simon were in a food coma by now, Price had to drag both of you out of the mall and into the car, climbing into the driver’s seat. You and Simon lagged behind a little bit, before you broke out into a run to the car, yelling a message for Simon.

“I call shotgun!”

“You can’t just—“

He sputtered, racing after you, but too late as you yanked the passenger door open, collapsing into the seat as you shut the door and locked it manually. He raised a brow, but you buckled up, securing your seat with a badly suppressed smile.

He opened the back door, climbed in, and stretched out on all three of the seats in the back, yawning as he didn’t even bother to buckle up.

You and John both looked back at him, you giggling quietly as Simon’s lips twitched, John just shaking his head in fond exasperation.

The drive home was quiet, other than the low-volume music playing in the background as you curled up in the large seat, watching the window, eyelids heavy, but you resisted the siren's call of sleep for most of the car ride, other than a little five-minute nap, or maybe a little bit longer than five minutes.

Or maybe you fell asleep almost the entire car ride, only waking up when you heard Johnny’s excited voice, followed by hushing, and you shifted around, only to find yourself cradled in John’s arms.

“Quiet, she’s sleeping.”

Kyle murmured, and Johnny whined, the sound almost piercing to your ears.

“No, she ain’t—“

And then you slowly blinked awake, finding yourself being shifted from John’s arms to Johnny’s, warm muscle gently caging you in as soft fur rubbed gently against your skin, tickling a bit. His chest rumbled with a deep purr, one that even had you melting further into him, despite not being the same species. It somehow still affected you.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud down the hall, until your bedroom door creaked open, and the soft blankets in your bed surrounded you now instead of him.

You shifted around a bit, finding a comfortable angle and spot, listening to his quiet breathing and loud purring as he kissed you on the forehead, murmuring something so low that you couldn’t hear it, before leaving the room, leaving you to fall asleep.

Tags:

@theartgremlin

@roastyyytoastyyy

@simonrileysown

@thriving-n-jiving

@angeldemon28

@purple-moonbeam

@d-oo-t

@epochal-oracle

@picklehat3r

@starandcloud

[agathasfamiliar]

you better make me better (pt. 4)

agatha harkness x fem!reader (+ rio is here now)

A strange woman, who clearly shares a sorted history with Agatha, interrupts your moment together. Agatha asks for your help to deal with Death, and you're more than happy to oblige.

other parts: 1 2 3 4

word count: ~4800

warnings: 18+ MDNI, dehumanization/objectification, exhibitionism/voyeurism, fingering, "good girl" and "pet", tiny bit of degradation and praise, jealousy, mention of death, brief description of a corpse, smut

author's note: it has been a bit! sorry for the delay but i hope you enjoy this part and let me know if you'd like more. also thank you for all your help, you know who you are.

tag list: @lanfear-is-my-darkmistress

You’re still catching your breath, Agatha’s eyes making a meal of your every coy adjustment, when a sudden strident sound overwhelms your senses from all sides.

It’s akin to a ringing in your ears, but with a bassier root noise that vibrates your jaw in its sockets. The higher pitches seem to claw the inside of your brain causing every hair on your body that isn’t already at attention due to the chill in the air, to stand on end. Punishing blares somehow surround you while also feeling like they are coming from inside your skull, making it clear that this isn’t simply some terrible musical instrument foreign to your ears, but rather something of an otherworldly origin.

Confirmation that you’re not alone in this strange experience comes with Agatha’s head whipping to face the clearing behind her. Her long curls sting your cheek with the force that they slap against your face in the proximity, but you don’t mind. The scent of her hair meets your nose fully in the process and you inhale the biting of a citrus peel that teeters on bitterness, but remains mouthwatering, mixed with something deep and earthy like black tea leaves with a hint of peppercorn.

Another rush of wind disrupts your analysis as it carries the overpowering smell of juniper into your nostrils that causes you to chase after the retreating scent of the woman before you. Juniper, you find odd, as you hadn’t observed any such trees in your trek through these woods.

“Shit!” Agatha swears, eyes scrunching up as if suddenly remembering, upon arriving home from the market, that she’d forgotten to buy the milk she needed.

“What is it?” You ask worriedly, trying to draw the woman’s attention back to you, to no avail.

Rather than a proper answer, you instead see the feminine silhouette of a figure clad in a long black bombazine mourning dress, trimmed in a deep green shade. She steps from the treeline opposite the two of you, a long torch in hand that roils with bright green flame, casting harsh shadows against the delicate features of her face. 

Some preternatural awareness tells you that the ringing in your ears, which has only minorly subsided, as well as the new scent added to the already woody air, has come from her. A pit settles in your stomach as you scan black hair and dark eyes from a rapidly closing distance. You can’t put your finger on what about this seemingly innocent woman, witch rather, if her colorful flame and entrance “music” was any indication to go by, is sending such bolts of doom into the core of you with a single glance. 

A glance from you, that is, as this woman, in all her approaching, has not spared a flicker of her vision for anything but the one that still brackets you against the tree.

Just as the awareness of Agatha’s maintaining hold crosses your mind, she is releasing you, instead turning to face the other witch head on, as she now only stands feet from you both. You glower to yourself at the loss of contact for a split second before Agatha’s hand comes up to hold your left hip in place, as if making sure you stay behind her. The small gesture of protectiveness sends a thrill through you as well as worry at the prospect of what could possibly cause Agatha Harkness to show any measure of fear.

“Agatha,” the green clad woman speaks her name like a blessing and a curse.

“Fancy seeing you here. Not like you to stick around at the scene of the crime…anymore, that is.” The black haired woman says like the two are sharing a secret you are definitely not privy to. 

Though you can’t see Agatha’s face, you can feel the slight twitch of her fingers against your hip at the final phrase before she speaks back.

“Seems I lost track of time, you know how that is.” She returns in a ridiculing tone you’d watched her use with your coven, though now with a more personal intent that stabs the words into the air.

The woman holding the torch nearly pouts at the response, completely nonplussed by whatever secret message is being communicated.

“Shame, here I was thinking you wanted to have a bit of fun.” The stranger replies teasingly, such that you feel both a twinge of jealousy in your gut and utter fascination at the history between the two witches.

“Ha! Actually, we’ve already had quite a lot of fun.” Agatha retorts with a laugh, the hand not holding you gesturing playfully over her shoulder to where you stand. You flush with pride at what borders close enough to praise, as well as the thought of her using you as some sort of brag to this woman she clearly has some significant past with.

Your mouth runs dry as you move your eyes from where they have been fixed at Agatha’s back to gaze at the woman whose name you still haven’t caught up close. She’s looking over you like she truly hadn’t even noticed there was a third living person in the general vicinity, though you find that hard to believe.

Her eyes case you in an instant, running over every visible inch and lingering for a moment over what you know is an already forming bruise that sits in the dip of your right collarbone from Agatha’s earlier exploration. The spot almost burns at the attention and you wonder if it’s just in your head or truly some magical product of the other woman’s glare. In all her searching though, deep brown pools never lock to yours. Not in a shy or anxious way, but rather in the way one might not think to look into the eyes of an animal, feeling no need to address it as conscious. 

With every near pass of her gaze to yours, your heart pumps faster in your chest and you’re not entirely sure why. Part of you wants desperately for this woman you don’t even know, to acknowledge your personhood, while another loathes the potential loss of the tension forming around her continued neglect. 

“What is this?” The woman asks, clearly referring to you, but looking to Agatha as she starts to further close the already small distance. Her eyes, which you haven’t been able to look away from, blaze slightly and nostrils flare in resentment as she does. 

“Not of your concern. She’s alive.” Agatha fires back pointedly and the statement causes you to internally quirk an eyebrow, trying to deduce the exact implication in it. She gives a half step to her left in order to guard you more fully from the other woman’s advance. 

This doesn’t seem to deter the darkly dressed witch at all as she steps up to Agatha and peers over the shorter woman’s shoulder to get a better look at you, her face now only inches from yours. A tickle spreads along your hairline and cheek where she scans your features, though she does not touch you. One hand remains at her side while the other extends behind her to keep the flamed torch at bay.

“Hm,” she starts thoughtfully, “it’s pretty.” The sweet word takes the shape of an insult in her mouth.

“Don’t you have a job you’re supposed to be doing?” Agatha asks accusatory, once again causing your mind to run wild chasing after its meaning.

“Can’t shirk your duties now.” She continues, the words being spit out like poison in her mouth.

The final word is heavy as lead and files itself away in your head as a possible piece in the boundless puzzle that is the dynamic between these two women. Two dark eyebrows lace together for a split second in what looks like a hurt expression on the stranger's face before she schools her features back to that of contempt and shifts to her heels to meet Agatha’s gaze again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Especially after you’ve left such a gracious offering.” She replies with a wink and a wicked smile that you feel causes Agatha to tense even more in response to.

An offering, you wonder to yourself, images of altar gifts and tithe collections spring to your mind along with the memory from minutes ago of that purple halo surrounding Agatha’s head. You’re unsure how long you’re lost in thought, but before you know it the odd woman is stepping away from the two of you and approaching the splayed, grey-ish corpse of your coven leader at a casual stroll.

“What’s she-” Your question is cut off by Agatha’s interjection and another squeeze to your hip, still not having turned from her position facing away from you.

“Quiet, pet. You’ll see.” She responds in a tone that is half harsh and half very far away, gaze following the black-haired woman’s movements as she stoops down to the face of your former superior and traces the sharp, black nails of her free hand along the side of her hollow cheek, lazily.

From this angle, you can no longer see the faces of your coven leader or the one who leans down to touch her, but your breath seizes in your throat as a stirring starts to come from the body that has been lying still and lifeless for some time now.

Her crooked limbs twitch and spring to life as though waking from a fitful dream; it’s all you can do not to let out a yelp of fear at the apparent resurrection. Agatha’s nails digging into your hip are no longer enough to ground you to the situation, and before you can decide otherwise you are wrapping your arms around her waist from behind and burying your face into her left shoulder blade to shield you from the horrible sight.

A grateful calm washes over you when the witch doesn’t push you away and even relaxes marginally into your embrace, especially after her previous chiding. The irony isn’t lost on you that this image is somehow more frightening than that of all the bodies of those you’d known most of your life dropping motionless to the grass not too long prior. 

It isn’t until the previously diminished oppressive sound creeps back into your senses that you’re able to tear your eyes back open and peer over Agatha’s shoulder at the view before you again. The reverberating noise that rattles your skull and presses on your eardrums blocks out the details of the conversation that is clearly being had between the two witches who now stand several yards away. Even from this distance you can see your coven leader’s face has been returned to its former health and fullness. She doesn’t seem to notice you, despite you standing in her direct eyeline. 

All of this feels suddenly surreal again, as if you’re moments from waking from a dream due to your realizing its falsehood. That is until your eyes travel down the bodies of the pair to the ground below, where you see the clear image of your coven leader’s form still drained and stiff in the same position you’d remembered her in.

Your breath starts to come quicker as your eyes flick rapidly between the version talking to the darkly dressed woman and the one with sallow, sunken features unmoving in its permanent rest. Panic starts to well up within you and stinging tears brim at your eyes in your confusion, that growing sound turning from a droning to a screeching in your ears that you would claw at if you thought it might help. The burn you feel growing across your brain might very well be your neurons firing in succession to try to make sense of what it is you are looking at.

The answer doesn’t snap into place until a darkened doorway appears between two trees at the wave of the strange woman’s hand, spilling fog the color of jade onto the ground in front of it. She sends one last glance over to Agatha before stepping through it after the retreating lively version of the inexplicably dead woman who once led you and your fellow witches. 

Your panicked breaths cease completely at the reveal of the sudden change in her visage as she turns. What was just moments ago the elegant, if slightly languished features of a woman have now been replaced by a shadowy and vacant skeletal structure; bone white brow and cheekbones protrude over exposed teeth and a jaw that fixes her expression into an unrelenting mockery of a grin that strikes the identity of the formerly nameless woman into your heart.

The ringing in your ears reaches a fervor that seems will not let up until you admit what it is you now know to be true. The words leave you without your express permission, but as if breathing and releasing them are cosmically tied actions.

“She is Death.”

“Yes, very good.” Agatha responds, louder now that Death and the ghostly figure have vanished into the summoned portal, or perhaps it just seems that way with the sudden pause in the ambient noises that seem to follow the primordial being. 

The way she draws out the vowel on the confirmation brings a condescending tone to the perceived praise at your deduction skills, as if she’d been waiting impatiently for you to put two and two together. This interaction feels completely divorced from before, when she’d lit up at your realization of what she wanted, your pleading. It takes the wind out of your sails momentarily as you cast your eyes down to the dirt in shame.

“Oh, come on, don’t pout. It doesn’t look good on you.” She twists in your grasp before placing a hand on either side of your cheeks to roughly raise your face back to look at hers. You reluctantly meet her eyes and find them still slightly put-upon, but more satisfied with your following of instructions. They search you with a consideration, as if weighing her options. 

“You want to help me with something?” She asks, almost patronizingly in the way she clearly already knows the answer. You would feel shame if it weren’t overridden by just how much you do want to be useful to her. You nod, measured and desperate, and the smile she gives you melts away your fears and is well worth whatever it is she’s going to demand.

“Good girl.” She admires, hands supporting the weight of you melting into them at the title. Maybe, you think, you can endure the bite of her admonishments for how much sweeter they make the taste of her following commendations.

Her hands release your head once you’ve gained your composure back enough to return to an upright posture. Luckily, there’s not even enough time for you to mourn the loss before they have grazed down your sides and are maneuvering you around by the waist.

Agatha silently walks you the few paces back over to the center of the clearing where you had shared your first kiss such a short time ago. The determination on her face is fascinating but you think better than to ask her too many questions, especially after her response to the latest one. 

You stand with your arms awkwardly at your sides, letting her shift you a step to the left or right, a glance over your shoulder allowing you to deduce that she’s trying to find the perfect angle directly in view of the still-swirling doorway that Death has left behind. The witch hums in delight when she’s found the perfect spot for you; you bite your tongue in favor of mentioning that you’re almost certain this is the spot you started in. 

“Perfect!” She declares, clapping once to seemingly applaud her own curious work. 

“Now, lay down.” 

“What?” Your mouth asks before your brain can remember to nix any questions. 

Jumping into action before she can answer, or more likely scold you for the inquiry, you drop to the soft grass and fan your skirt around you to cover your legs from the chill of the blades swiping along them. You try to maneuver your hair to do the same, but the poking sod snakes its way along your neck and face and you already feel somewhat itchy. You push the need to fidget away and focus every thought on being still, being good.

Agatha watches you get comfortable with a smug sort of grin and you can tell the pieces of whatever plan she has brewed up are coming together.

You admire her for a moment from your worm's-eye view. The contrasting light cast by the starry night and sickly green magical fog strikingly paint her already stunning features and that fear you’d noticed at Death’s arrival has somewhat quelled with the giddiness in her at this mysterious plan. You’re happy for it, even if you have no idea what to expect next. 

She must catch your trailing stare that now dances shamelessly along the taut column of her neck, because the toe of her right shoe starts to playfully ghosts along your ankle to shift your legs further apart and ride up the hem of your dress just slightly. It’s an innocent enough action, but so soon after the previous events of the evening makes it enough to send shockwaves through your core in anticipation. It does little to tamp down the improper thoughts that the image of her long, exposed neck have already started brewing as well.

Your eyes drag up to Agatha’s face in delighted curiosity, only to find her staring off into the portal. It’s almost as if she hasn’t even noticed her own toying movement against your leg. 

She looks like she’s waiting for something, and you’re about to ask her what it is when your train of thought is cut off by action behind and in front of you. 

Having thought her request for help would involve some sort of ritual or spell, you’d been silently mourning the more pleasant section of the evening that seemingly came to an end with the arrival of the lady of Death. However, when said umbra-clad woman finally steps back into view through the magical vessel just ten feet from your head and Agatha drops to her knees between your spread legs at the arrival, you know it has only just begun. 

The facial expression upon the returning woman’s face, whether it’s surprised or even there at all, is lost to you as your gaze is locked on the one kneeling between your legs and the way that the cloth covering you ripples as her cool, searching hands crawl up your body from beneath it. The chill of her fingers causes you to inhale sharply through gritted teeth, your lower half still damp with sweat and furnace-hot from your earlier activities. Your eyes flick between Agatha’s face and her moving hands in delighted confusion, whatever she is doing now at least taking the shape of something you desire. 

Perhaps, you think, you do hear the faintest intake of breath from behind you at the obvious bulge in the fabric as Agatha’s left hand briefly hovers just over where you want her most, and it’s the only sign of this display having any effect on your newfound company until she speaks. It won’t dawn on you until much later that Death herself taking a breath is probably about as shocked of a reaction as they come. 

“Agatha.” Death uses her name now as a warning, as if cautioning a child from playing a cruel trick. 

Does that make you the trick? 

The thought of it should, you know, breed a certain amount of indignity in your heart. The way Agatha’s looking at you, however, like you’re just the suit she needed to pull in a high-stakes game of cards, causes any humiliation you’d have about the scenario to evaporate. While she may be using you, she's using you.

“Rio…” Agatha’s mocking return of the woman’s name trails off, so pointedly not looking at your only other living company, if you can call her that. Instead, her eyes rake over your body as your muscles tense and roll against both her hands that finally settle to grip your bare hips beneath your clothing. Her strong fingers work to still the slight rocking against nothing that you hadn’t even realized you’d started doing.

Rio, you think. At learning what you assume is the more human name used by the entity, you can’t help but turn over your shoulder to finally take her in once again with your new knowledge in mind. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief at the confirmation that you’re not being met with exposed bone, but a very human face looking on to the scene before her in intrigue mixed with simmering fury. 

The fact that she still actively avoids meeting your eye as you lay before her makes you run both hot and cold at once. She surveys you like one might regard a piece of furniture in a room and her gaze only reaches as far as your exposed, flushed neck before making a path right back down your supine form. It’s a level of supposed disinterest that can only be achieved through truthfully great curiosity.

“You don’t w-” You hear the beginning of Rio’s continued attempts at reasoning but they are lost to the sound of your own loud gasp that tears from you unexpectedly. 

Before you know it, there are two fingers buried in your wet heat for the second time tonight, the remnants of your first orgasm still enough to allow little resistance for Agatha’s reentry. You hadn’t even noticed her left hand leave your hip in your contemplation over the spectator in your midst, giving you no time to brace for the intrusion or try to stifle the loud noise that came of it. 

Her fingers don’t let up as they set a slow, but deep, curling pace that has you making a concerted effort not to instantly start writhing on the ground beneath you. A hot blush fills your cheeks when you find Agatha grinning at you as her hands work you over, your brows knit up and teeth sink into your bottom lip in your effort to keep some semblance of your composure. 

Of course you’d realized some aspect of Agatha’s intentions moments ago, but the actual experience of having her buried up to the last knuckle inside you as a near perfect stranger watched on, was something else entirely. Especially when that stranger was Death herself. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Agatha cheerily asks Rio, finally turning to meet her eyes as if she is simply knitting a sweater and not dragging you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy with every thrust of her hand. 

“Couldn’t hear you over the…” The casual chuckle in her voice and the way she raises her eyebrows once in emphasis as if to say ‘you know’ almost makes you want to laugh right along with her in your delirious state, having gone from quiet contemplation to whimpering mess in mere moments.

“Oh, my mistake! Should I talk louder!?” Rio replies, much louder now and with a naked anger in her voice.

Agatha’s pace quickens right along with the volume of the other woman’s exclamation, slamming that spot inside you in such rapid succession that you can’t help but let out another loud moan that trails on longer than you intend. This only seems to delight the woman fucking you all the more.

“That was a bit too much, honey!” Agatha fires back amusedly, matching Rio’s theatrical shouting. For a moment you think she’s referring to your moans and you flush with embarrassment before realizing her true intent.

Something about watching the two of them argue, both with focus locked on the other so intently that Agatha’s ministrations between your legs are the only indication that either of them even know you’re there, has somehow brought you hurtling towards climax much faster than before. She isn’t even touching your clit, but that doesn’t seem to matter at the moment. A little bit more of this and you’ll be gone.

The thought of coming apart around Agatha’s fingers like this, while she might not even notice it’s happening, somehow strikes both a feeling of dread and carnality through every inch of you. 

“Oh, you think?” The woman standing just a few yards behind you questions with irritation that now meets your ears with an undeniable elation laced within it. This is thrilling Death. 

You rock your hips even harder at the thought, partially involuntarily and partially to try to signal to the otherwise engrossed women that you’re moments from release. You’re torn at the concept of interrupting the display, canines digging so deeply into your lip to stifle your moans that you taste iron on your tongue. 

Agatha’s earlier teaching also springs to the front of your mind, but you can’t muster any “please”s at the moment. In fact, you’d rather drag this out longer than beg for more. The dark haired witch driving into you clearly has other plans, though, ones that involve her yanking you down even harder onto her fingers by your right hip all while she continues looking past you and maintaining her conversation. 

Your eyes roll and your head drops back at the somehow redoubled pleasure coursing through you. You can’t even moan now, mouth open in a silent scream. If this isn’t Agatha giving you the signal of her permission then you’re not sure of anything anymore.

“Yeah, I do.” She says with a sarcastic pitying tone and nod of the head.

The way she drags in and out of you, her rhythm and angle never faltering in her performed passivity, feels almost too good. The growing pressure below your belly is going to snap at any second. As much as you want to hold onto this deliciously sinful feeling for a while longer, with Agatha’s permission granted and your body screaming at you for its much needed release, you give yourself over to its whims.

“Better than not enough.” Rio bites back in a way that you know is meant to strike you, despite your back being to the woman. 

And it does, a spike of shame lances your heart in the exact same moment that you utterly come undone. If your first orgasm crashed over you, this one tears out of you. You can do nothing else but let the warm liquid gush from you to coat Agatha’s waiting hand as you release a string of guttural groans and high pitched gasps of pleasure, as well as embarrassment, that mingle in your brain to create an intoxicating concoction. 

Agatha’s fingers don’t cease for several more seconds, aftershocks causing your hips to jump and force her even further into you for a moment. You start squirming at the overwhelming sensation, words failing you as you bat her hand weakly. She stops her movements, but leaves the digits within you for the time being as you come down.

This is not an out of body experience like before, but a thoroughly grounded one. You feel the heaviness of satiation in every limb like gravity has suddenly become stronger around you and you figure if you weren’t already laying down you would’ve collapsed by now in pure fulfillment.

“See, it’s done already. Shame.” Death tuts dismissively down at you, eyes floating somewhere around your middle.

“Don’t worry, Agatha. I’ll just get finished up here and we can have some real fun.” She continues.

Agatha laughs darkly at that, but even you can hear the thread of longing within that threatens to rear its head.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You go ahead and do your “work”, we’ll manage just fine.” Agatha starts, releasing your hip to make air quotes with her right hand while the other remains inside you.

At Rio’s assumption of your inadequacy and Agatha’s signal for more, you find a renewed vigor throughout your body and push up on your elbows into a more upright position.

“Please.” You plead in the most desperate voice you can muster, and you know from the look on Agatha’s face that you’ve done the right thing. 

Just out of the corner of your eye you can see Rio, who must’ve taken a few paces forward in the time you were otherwise occupied with your waves of euphoria, as her eyes flare at your word and Agatha’s gleeful reaction to it. She turns pointedly away and starts towards one of the other five bodies. 

It sends a chill down your spine that, in this moment, Death is jealous of you.

[janeyseymour]

Save Me Before I Lose Myself- part 4

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

Summary: Millie is exhausted. Melissa thinks she understands. Carrie is... different.

WC: ~2.55k

When you show up to work (on time for the second day in a row), you immediately hate the fact that you sit at a cubicle for most of the day. You end up standing almost the entire shift, and your feet hate you by the end of it.

At Abbott, Millie continues to stay quiet, resigned. It’s a far cry from the usually upbeat and happy-go-lucky kid that Melissa usually sees. The redhead swears she almost sees bags under the seven year old’s eyes. She looks exhausted- truly and utterly exhausted.

“Millie?” the teacher calls for your little girl during their snack time. “Can you come here for a second?”

Your little girl obeys, and she practically drags herself to the teacher’s desk. “Yes, Miss Schemmenti?”

“I’ve just noticed that you’re a kinda acting different today,” Melissa notes quietly. “I wanted to make sure everything is alright, and that you’re okay.”

Millie just nods quietly. 

“If you have anything you’d like to talk with me about, you know Miss Schemmenti is always here to lend an ear.”

Your daughter nods silently again. Then, in perhaps the quietest voice, she admits, “Sleepy.”

“Did you not get good sleep last night?”

Millie shakes her head, and her blue eyes sparkle as tears begin to cloud them. “I’m so tired,” she whines.

“Oh, hun.” The more maternal side of the childless redheaded teacher comes out, and she wraps her arms gently around her student. “I’m sorry.”

The seven year old clings to her teacher much like she clings to you, looking for any warmth and comfort anybody can provide. Her tears hit leather with soft thuds.

“Why don’t you just go lay your head down for a few minutes?” Melissa offers. “Close your eyes and relax?”

Your daughter bites her lip nervously. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to say. “But we’re at school.”

“An’ I can’t have a sleepy Mills, now can I?” the teacher teases softly. “C’mon, it’ll be okay. You won’t be in any trouble.”

The little blonde searches for any hints of ingenuity from her educator. Then, she gives the tiniest nod and slinks back to her desk. Before her head even hits the desk, it’s like she’s asleep, exhaustion finally taking over.

Melissa is in the middle of her math lesson when it hits her. She stops in her tracks, marker halfway raised to the board to write the answer to one of the problems on the whiteboard. 

What you said makes full sense to her. Please stop helping me, because it’s only hurting me. While she thought she was helping by slipping you that note to show her support, it was actually a hindrance to you. It made your life so much harder, knowing that she knew exactly what was going on. She had acknowledged what you have been so clearly trying to ignore- put aside for the well-being of your daughter. It makes all of it real for you, and in that instant, she wishes she could take it all back. If she had known that it was only going to hurt your heart, she would have simply dropped the matter of the subject and simply supported you in silence. Or at least, that’s what she thinks you meant- she has no idea the pain her sticky note caused you.

When lunch time comes, the second grade class lines up to make their way down to the cafeteria- all except for one child: Millie, who is still sound asleep at her desk.

Melissa stands at her door as she waits for Janine to begin filing her own class down the hall.

“Pipsqueak,” the redhead calls to her coworker. “Can my class just tag on at the end of your line? I got a student still in the room, an’ I can’t leave ‘er by herself.”

Janine looks slightly confused, but nods with a bright smile. “Of course! The more, the merrier!”

“Yeah, kid. Would ya mind havin’ Barb stop down here with my lunch too? I don’t think I’m gettin’ away from this one any time soon.”

Brows furrow, and there’s the silent question of if everything is okay. Melissa can only nod before the shorter teacher nods again. “Sure thing.”

It’s a few minutes later that Barbara appears in the doorframe of the second grade teacher’s classroom, two lunches in hand. Her eyes immediately set on Millie asleep at her desk. Her brows raise in concern.

“Asleep since snack,” Melissa says quietly. She’s sitting at her desk staring straight ahead. Her eyes don’t even meet Barbara’s.

“And you let her sleep? You never let students sleep in your class.”

“What was I supposed to do, Barb? The poor girl came in silently today, which you and I both know is not normal for her. She told me the other day she hears her mothers up late at night, and she was so tired she started crying,” the redhead sighs. She puts her head in her hands. “God, Barb. This is awful. That poor little girl should not be living like this. And neither should her mother.”

“No,” the kindergarten teacher says softly as she makes her way into the classroom. She sets Melissa’s lunch on her desk. “But you and I both know that Y/N does everything she can to keep Millie safe- she’s well-fed, clean, and loved by at least Y/N. So, we can’t step in.”

“I didn’t,” the redhead mutters. “All I did was slip her a note yesterday telling her I was here for her when she’s ready, and this morning she came in limping and begged me to stop trying to help her.”

“So you stop.”

“I- I don’t know if I can,” Melissa admits. “I- How am I supposed to stop trying to help her when I know what it’s like to be in her situation, albeit mine was not nearly as severe?”

“I know it’s hard, but you have to respect her-”

“She told me that my trying to help her only hurts her,” the second grade teacher mutters. “I- I caused her hurt, when all I was trying to do was help.”

“Melissa, I think you need to take a step back from all of this. Yes, what’s so clearly happening to her is a terrible thing that no human should ever have to endure, but she very deliberately asked you to stop. So, you need to stop and just take care of Millie to the best of your abilities while she’s in your care at school.”

Melissa takes a deep breath and lifts her head from her hands. “You’re right.”

“When are you going to realize I always am?” Barbara teases her. “Eat, Melissa. I’ll bring down a lunch for Millie for when she wakes up too.”

“Thank you.”

Millie ends up sleeping through the entire day, and even when Melissa knows she should wake her, she can’t find it in her to. She has Janine take her kids out for dismissal with the instruction that if you’re outside to come down to your classroom if possible. 

You’re standing there, and you see some of your daughter’s classmates running towards their own parents, but there is no Melissa, and certainly no Millie. You internally begin to panic. What had Millie told her teacher that has the both of them not out here?

Miss Teagues makes her way over to you. “Hey. Melissa told me to have you head down to her classroom if I saw you.”

“Is my daughter okay?” you ask quickly, already limping your way to the front door. You don’t even wait for a response before you’re in the door. You make your way in as quickly as you possibly can- your body still aches. It takes you far too long to get down to the classroom.

“Miss Schemmenti?”

“Hey,” the redhead sighs softly. She points over at your daughter.

“She’s sleeping?” you raise a brow as you lean against the doorframe gently.

Melissa nods. “Has been since snack at ten.”

“Thank you for letting her get the rest she needs,” you say quietly. “Last night was… rough.”

The teacher nods. You can see that she wants to pry. She wants to question your statement. But she doesn’t.

You slowly make your way over to your daughter and squat down in front of her. Shaking her shoulder gently, you press a soft kiss to the cheek that isn’t laying against her arms. “Baby.”

She stays asleep. And on another day, you’re sure you would just carry her home despite the fact that your arms would be sore, and she’s getting too big for you to hold for long amounts of time. But today, you know it’s not even a plausible thought.

“Honey,” you shake her a bit more. “Sweet girl, it’s the end of the school day.”

“I don’t wanna go home, Miss Schemmenti,” Millie grumbles, eyes not even opening. “I wanna stay here.”

You frown, as does the redhead sitting at her desk. “Sweetheart, it’s Momma. Wake up for me please.”

She cracks one eye open. “Momma?”

“Yeah, baby. It’s Momma.”

“Carry me?”

“You know I would, but I can’t today,” you sigh. “Not after…” you trail off. You know Melissa is listening intently.

“Okay,” your daughter sighs softly as she picks her head up from her desk. She rubs her eyes sleepily.

“Have a good night,” the teacher tells the two of you softly as you make for the door.

You give her what you hope is a smile. “You too, Miss Schemmenti.”

Millie just waves sleepily.

When you get home, you expect your wife to be sitting in her place at the table like she always is. You expect her to be typically quickly and with fervor, as she usually does. But she isn’t. She’s actually standing by the door with a smile soon her face.

“Hey, baby,” Carrie says sweetly. She pulls you in for a kiss that isn’t too dissimilar from the way she used to kiss you when you were dating and newlyweds.

“Hi, hun,” you sigh softly.

“How was your day?”

“It was alright,” you lie. Your body is exhausted, your mind is exhausted, and you really don’t feel like doing anything today. “I’ll start on dinner now.”

“There’s no need to do that,” your wife tells you. She bends down and opens her arms to Millie.

“Hi,” Millie yawns out, but she doesn’t make a move for the woman she looks so much like.

“Sleepy today, little girl?” Carrie asks as she takes matters into her own hands and wraps her arms around your daughter.

“Mhmm.” She allows her mother to hold her for a few seconds before detaching herself from the woman. It’s quite clear to you that your daughter is not comfortable with this. She immediately clings to you again.

You head for the kitchen, but you see that dinner is already in the oven upon walking into the room.

“You’re making dinner?” you furrow your brow.

She nods and gives a shy smile. Carrie reaches for something on the dry sink and hands you a beautiful bouquet of flowers. “These are for you, love.”

You take them gently and look at them in awe. They truly are beautiful. And they smell absolutely delightful.

“Why don’t you go take a load off and relax with Millie on the couch while I finish dinner and set the table?”

“R-really?” you squeak out. The last time that she had done this, it was before everything had really gotten bad. The last time she had done this, she hadn’t hit you yet, but the fight that had taken place the night before had gotten out of hand. “Yeah, hun,” Carrie kisses you again sweetly. She bends down and ruffles Millie’s now lopsided pigtails and kisses her hairline.

Dinner is splendid- absolutely delicious. And when you expect your wife to head up the steps to change to go out for dinner, she doesn’t. She actually stays in the dining room to clean up, does the dishes, and sits next to you on the couch as Millie curls up in your lap. Her long fingers trace patterns on your thigh like she used to- and not in a sexual way, just a way of letting you know she’s there.

When it’s time to put your daughter to bed, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Carrie so maternal. She reads the bedtime story with you, making sure to use silly voices and sing when it calls for it. She tucks your daughter in, kisses her forehead, and promises her that she’ll get great sleep tonight. Millie looks nervous, but not as nervous as she was walking into the house this afternoon.

When you’re alone with your wife, fear begins to seep into your bones. She was nothing short of a dream this afternoon and this evening, but that was in front of your little girl. Now, everything is being closed doors again.

But tonight, there is no hurt. There’s just short, sweet kisses. No hands roam where they aren’t wanted. Soft affirmations of love are whispered into the crook of your neck. She even apologizes for her actions last night. She promises you that she’ll back off on the drinking, she’ll be around more often for Millie, and that nothing like what took place last night will happen again.

You forgive her. Of course you do. You always forgive her. A small part of you believes her- she genuinely seems like she’s feeling remorseful for her words and actions. But another part of you wonders if and when it’ll happen again. A part of you hopes that it won’t ever happen- the more naive side of you. 

But the other part of you- the jaded side that has grown used to this woman knows it won’t be long until she’s back to her habits. Because this has happened before. She’s done things like this before, and yes, this is the worst it’s been, but it never changes. 

It gets better for a week, two at most, before it turns back to what you’ve grown accustomed to. For a short span of time, Carrie will shower you with love and affection, soft touches and gentle eyes. She’ll lull you into a false sense of security like she always does. And when things begin to go south, and you speak up, she’ll turn. She’ll tell you that you’re ungrateful for the life you have, that she’s been nothing but the perfect housewife and you’re taking her for granted. She’ll tell you that she never should’ve married you, threaten you with divorce- promise you that if you were to separate, she would be just fine but nobody would ever be able to love a pathetic, broken woman like you. Carrie is a manipulative, egotistical narcissist. She’ll never change. You know this, and you wish you could just run away. But you have Millie to worry about, and she will always come first. As long as Millie is safe, there isn’t a chance in hell you’ll leave- even if things go back to how they usually are, and you know they will. It’s just a matter of time.

But for now, you bask in the change of pace. Your body is grateful for the healing time that you’ll get. You’ll take what you can get.

Tags (and let me know if you want to be included!): @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @sweetcheeksschemmenti @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie @temilyrights @emilynissangtr @squinnchy @dopenightmaretyphoon @emeraldoceansstuff

[stevesgother]

Take It Off - S.H

Pairing - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC - 2.4k

Warnings - THIS CHAPTER IS 18+ MDNI, ONE use of Y/N (pls give me a break it was essential to the plot), swearing, drinking, angst

AN - the 3rd and final part to the Dress mini series! I’ve never written anything smutty or remotely spicy so I hope this doesn’t read as awkward as it felt to write. i appreciate all the support on my first fics i’ve ever written. love , emma <3

Now

New Years Eve

1987

The Harrington residence had always been the go-to for ragers in high school. Devoid of parents, unlocked liquor cabinets and plenty of unoccupied bedrooms for steamy teenage rendezvous’; but this party would be different. Smaller and more intimate.

Nancy was helping you unload the groceries you had bought for the party tonight when she noticed a shift in your demeanor, you seemed on edge. It took her an entire year to stop staring daggers at you in public, making group settings tense. Nancy knew that Steve had the hots for you. As a matter of fact, it seemed like everyone knew, everyone except you. It was in his lingering touches and the longing glances. She had always known.

Now, the tension between you had withered and snapped like nothing more than a frayed rope pulled too taut. She wasn’t your best friend, and you weren’t hers; but there was a mutual respect. There was civility. She had Jonathan now, and they were happy.

“Do you think it’ll be awkward?” you ask, scared to know her answer.

Then

December 1987

The sun was shining through the windows in thick, golden beams that highlighted the slope of Steve’s cheekbones and the moles that dotted down his neck and disappeared below the collar of his t-shirt. Little specks of dust float through the air, illuminated by the light seeping through the curtains.

You take a moment to admire how ethereal he looks like this. You’re a tangle of limbs when you look down; even in your subconscious you long to be close to him. A sudden melancholy washes over you as you realize this would likely be the last time you ever wake in this position. Nose to nose, his arm strewn haphazardly across your middle.

He must sense your staring because slowly, he starts to peel open his eyes. It takes him exactly 4 seconds to realize he is in fact, not dreaming, and has accidentally enveloped you in his sleep. 

“Oh--” he startles groggily as he hurriedly pushes himself away from your side of the bed. “I’m sorry, I- I must’ve-” you want to protest at the lack of warmth his absence brings.

“No, you’re okay! I didn’t notice. Honest.” he looks skeptical; afraid that he might’ve crossed a line he can’t uncross. You reach a hand toward him, “Steve, it’s alright. You kept me warm actually,” you chuckle, “it’s freezing in here.”

He nods, clumsily stumbling out of bed and the tangle of sheets you two had found yourselves in. Too late, he realizes his rather compromising position. More specifically, the state of his dick directly after waking up.

“Oh my God!” you shout, moving quickly to cover your eyes and turning your entire upper body away from him. You already knew Steve was…well endowed. Girls love to talk, and those tight, light wash Levi’s don’t leave a lot up to the imagination; but now, with it literally staring you in the face, there’s not a doubt in your mind that that your best friend is absolutely hung.

“Ah! Jesus-” he grabs one of the sheets off the bed to cover his lower half. You realize just how hot you feel in contrast to the chilly air of the cabin. 

“Okay you can uh,” he trails off, “turn around.”

When you face him, Steve’s tomato red with a blush that reaches all the way from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. Still not daring to make eye contact with him, “Jeez, Harrington. You got a permit for that thing?” A poor, ill-timed attempt at a joke, but he chuckles nonetheless.

“Sorry I- uh forgot I went to bed without pants on,” he smiles sheepishly, “I’m gonna hop in the shower before we leave.” You reply with a two-finger salute, finding the loose threads of the sheets suddenly very interesting as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

The drive home was awkward to say the least. Eddie, Robin and Vickie all sensing the tension, but knowing better than to bring it up in front of you. When you arrive back in Hawkins, Steve drops everyone off at their respective homes, saving you for last.

“Thanks again for offering to drive,” you move to open the door but are interrupted by Steve, “Here, let me help with your bags. I’ll walk you to the door.”

You don’t fight him as he takes every bag from you, not even allowing you to carry your own purse. He stands on your porch with you, clammy hands shoved tightly into his pockets, for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“I’d better…you know, get going,” you nod in the direction of your house. “Yeah, yeah okay,” he pulls you into a warm bear hug; his specialty. The gesture feels different. An air of bashfulness radiating from both of you. When you pull away, he has an indistinguishable look in his eyes as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His gaze flits quickly from your eyes, to your lips, and back again.

You fear that he might kiss you. That he might change everything. That you might let him.

Clearing your throat abruptly, it seems to snap him out of whatever trance he’s in and he looks just as startled as you do, taking a step back.

“Alright! Bye Steve! Love you!” you rush out as you practically shove your bags inside your foyer and slam the door. As you lean against it, you hear a muttered ‘shit’ as he makes his way back to his car.

Now

New Years Eve

1987

Despite the party being relatively small, just your friend group and a few friends of friends, the house was lively with music and laughter. On the television inside Steve’s entertainment center was the CBS broadcast of the New Years Eve ball drop in New York City.

A game of ‘spin the bottle’ was being played on the floor of the living room. “For old time’s sake!’ Eddie had claimed. You were skeptical, but a boy in the group whose name might have been James, had caught your eye earlier in the night. You thought maybe this could be it. After years of pointless or just downright awful dates, maybe this would be the ‘meet-cute’ you’d been waiting for.

‘Little Lies’ by Fleetwood Mac was playing distantly from the speakers in the kitchen, and then it was finally your turn to spin. You glance up at James before you take your turn, watching him throw a smirk in your direction. What you can’t see, is Steve in your peripheral glaring daggers at him. He’d watched him flirt with you all night, whether you’d realized it or not. It had completely soured his mood, and edged him to pick a fight even if he knew it wouldn’t be fair.

You give the empty coke bottle on the carpet a tentative spin, making it clear who you're aiming for; and when it lands on James, no one’s surprised. Slowly, you rise onto your knees and crawl forward with your hands, just far enough for you to reach out to him. The vodka in your stomach makes you brave as you reach for his face with both hands, and kiss him deeply. He tastes like cigarettes and spearmint gum when he licks into your mouth, earning the two of you wolf whistles and hollers from your surrounding circle of friends.

When the adolescent game is abandoned, your friends opting for one that gets them drunk faster, you decide to sit out for a round. Steve had been muddling around the kitchen for the past 30 minutes, pretending to clean up nonexistent solo cups and dishes.

‘Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies’

“Hey,” you say lightheartedly as you sit down on one of the stools surrounding the island. If Steve heard you, he didn’t acknowledge your presence.

“So, are you two together?” he still doesn’t bother turning to look at you when he asks.

“What?”

He finally looks at you, expression is unreadable, “You and fuckin’ Bruce Springsteen over there. Are you together?”

What? Dude no-- I barely know him,”

“Sure looked like you knew him with his damn tongue down your throat.” he spits, turning back to the nearly empty garbage bag he had been pretending to throw things in to busy his hands.

He could count on one hand the amount of times you two had genuinely argued, and the heat crawling the back of his neck was starting to feel an awful lot like guilt.

“I’m sorry, what the hell is your problem?” you spit back at him, getting defensive now.

He glares at you, long and hard, “Nothing just-- nevermind. Forget it,”

What's that saying? ‘Loose lips sink ships’? You think what might sink this ship is you, and too much alcohol.

“No. You do not get to do that,” your words slur together ever so slightly, alcohol churning in your stomach, “that’s not fair.” Tears prick the corners of your eye, your voice wobbling at the end of your sentence. It practically tears him in two.

Before he can get a word in edgewise, you’re vomiting a drunken confession. One you swore you’d never make, on the basis that it could change everything you and Steve worked so hard to build.

“God forbid I get to be happy right? That after years! Fucking years, Steve, of pining after you, that someone might like me! That someone might give me the goddamn time of day. That I might love someone who isn’t you!”

“What?” The sincerity and the slight quiver in his tone is almost enough to completely extinguish your anger. If you were fire, Steve was water. He was your Achilles Heel.

The realization of what you just confessed hits you a second too late, and even though you’re practically shouting, you have no one's attention except for Steve’s. Swiping your drink off the granite countertop you storm through the sliding glass door that leads to the Harringtons’ spacious backyard, deciding you need some air. Need to be anywhere except in that stifling kitchen with Steve.

“Wait no– please,” you hear Steve call after you. You don’t stop, you don’t turn around. Beelining for the gate that leads to the driveway, and then to the road. The January air was frigid; it gnawed and bit harshly at your exposed skin but you didn’t care. You just needed to be home.

You could hear Steve’s heavy footfall not far behind you, he was jogging to keep up. Not a chance that he was letting you walk home alone. Someday the world will end, and it will feel just like this does. You spin around to face him, cheeks stained with black streaks of mascara and nose bright red from the cold.

“Y/N!” He sounded desperate calling after you. He felt desperate. Standing there in the middle of his empty, suburban street – Steve felt terribly, consumingly desperate.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Steve strides towards you with a determination you’ve never seen in him. Before you can blink, his warm hands are grasping both sides of your face and his lips are crashing into yours with a passion that only comes from longing. A fervor that only comes from pining and anticipation.

When he pulls away he looks frightened; like he had come to his senses. Before he can start to ramble apologies, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss him back with the same ferocity he met you with moments ago.

He stumbles back with you, only separating for measly gasps of air between kisses and suddenly you feel the cool metal of his BMW against your exposed back. Strong arms cage you in as he fumbles with the door to the backseat. You don’t hesitate to climb in after him when he finally manages it open.

Straddling him on soft leather, your thighs bracketed each of his. His lips move south as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of your neck, to just below your ear, to your collarbones.

His hands travel slowly up your thighs, and just before breaching the hem on your dress he pants, “Is this okay?” You relish in how wrecked he sounds already, barely having touched you yet. You respond with a breathy ‘yes’.

His nimble fingers find the zipper of your dress in a blissful sense of deja vu. This time though, there’s an eagerness in his touch. A need to map every inch of your skin like he’s committing it to memory.

He slows for a moment, like you both remembered the situation you’ve found yourselves in. His usual hazel eyes have darkened to a deep brown that sucks you in; their very own gravitational pull. He pulls the sleeves of your dress slowly down your shoulders and glances up in a silent ask before letting the fabric fall the rest of the way; exposing your breasts. Just as his eyes are raking over your newly exposed skin – as if he has a sixth sense for being cockblocked – he reverses his action; making an effort to cover you before you hear a ‘tap tap tap’ on the fogged window. 

Behind the glass is a blurry picture of Robin and Eddie. To say they look smug is an understatement.

“Fucking finally,” Eddie says, exasperated. You try to hide from your embarrassment in the crook of Steve’s neck, like a kid having been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Robin sends you a poorly concealed wink as she elbows Eddie’s ribs – even more poorly concealed.

“C’mon. You owe me ten bucks,” you hear her mumble as the pair saunter away from the BMW, leaving you and Steve back to your ‘nefarious activities’ as Robin would say.

You try to protest at Steve rezipping your dress but he cuts you off before your complaints, “I’m not having sex with you for the first time in my car,” he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“If you insist,” teasing him a little, you poke his chest, “Bruce Springsteen,”

“Not funny,” he tries to deadpan, but the smirk permanently on his lips gives him away, “You know I'm way more of a Tom Cruise.”

[gutsby]

Honor Among Thieves

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying Brooklyn’s most dangerous man was easy. Divorcing him proves to be a bit harder—particularly when you’re pregnant with his child.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Breeding kink. Hurt/Comfort/We-Almost-Just-Died-Sex. Morning sickness. Manslaughter. Brief coerced kissing. Beefy, mob boss Bucky is a possessive expectant father who just wants to make sure he knocked you up properly

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky’s words reverberated like a shotgun’s report, skimming across two dozen feet of marble, glass, and stainless steel before reaching your ears on the opposite end of the room. He was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, and your back was turned to him. Lucky thing, too, or else he would’ve seen the smile threatening to tug at both ends of your lips—effectively blowing your cover.

“Really, I don’t have the slightest idea, Barnes,” you told him, and it took everything in you not to laugh. Having just narrowly preserved your composure, you continued, “You keep me locked in this prison all day and expect me not to find ways to entertain myself? Well, this is all it is.”

Like hell it was, you could already hear in Bucky’s head. Feeling him eye you up and down from the archway, take his first steps into the room, loosen his tie, most likely.

“Prison?” You registered a low scoff, and his voice was already so much closer than it’d been five seconds ago.

Your husband was striding as quickly as his smooth, dark, tailored suit would allow, and he was undressing as he walked. You could hear the clothes coming off but pretended not to notice. Instead staring more intently at the crab bisque simmering on the stove before you, you licked the spoon you were holding and hummed a little.

“Yes,” you answered, simply, “Prison.”

Bucky was by your side in no time at all. Up close, he smelled like rosemary, oakmoss, and gunpowder.

“Well, this is news to me,” he said. He dragged out the middle syllables of his words longer than was necessary, likely to make his move sidling up closer to you. The last sound had scarcely died in his throat more than a second or two before you felt an arm loop around your back. A hand coming to rest on your hip, then his voice, again:

“See, I never knew they built ‘prisons’ up in first-class penthouse apartments in Brooklyn. Must be pretty nice.”

Bucky stepped behind you, and you were half-certain the black suit jacket he’d come home wearing was fully removed. Again, you pretended not to see, or care.

“It’s a metaphor, James.” But your voice wavered.

“A metaphor?” Bucky’s head sank into the soft groove between your neck and your shoulder, and he kissed it.

“Yes.”

Your mouth made a sound more akin to a breath than a real, enunciated word, and you knew Bucky felt it too. He sensed this headstrong, no-bullshit façade of yours was sure to come crumbling apart any second, and each new brush of his hands and lips would be making it happen. Knowing this, he wasn’t in a rush to get the rest of his clothes off. He did, however, start to toy with yours.

“Tell me more. Am I really holding you hostage, doll?”

You took a ladle and started to stir, trying to stay cool. Meanwhile, your husband tugged gently on your dress.

“Hostage, housewife, same thing,” you muttered, low.

For once, it was Bucky’s turn to break character, as he laughed. It was short-lived and sweet, and he pressed another kiss to the skin of your neck, as if in apology.

“Right, right. I forgot. You were forced to marry me.”

“Right,” you shook your head, just slightly emboldened by the way you’d made him crack, if only for a moment, “I’m forced to marry you, move into this horrific little shanty in Brooklyn”—gesturing to the multi-million dollar apartment surrounding you both—“and then you leave me here, all by myself, with nothing to do while you go play Godfather with your mobster friends. It’s not fair.”

By the tail end of that last sentence, you and Bucky both were already grinning a little, coming to terms with just how ridiculous it sounded when you phrased it like that. Still, your husband seemed game to keep the bit going.

“Now that’s just not true,” he said, tone all faux offense.

You felt the soft snap of a ribbon coming undone, and in a second realized it was the satin bow holding the back of your dress together. The fabric loosened, and Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, over your front—of course.

“I didn’t leave you ‘by yourself’ at all, doll,” he said, and suddenly, his palms were fanning out, over something, “Gave you this baby to keep you company, didn’t I?”

The ‘something’ he was touching now was your belly. All soft and smooth and protruding out in a perfect little globe beneath your dress, no bigger than when he’d left for work that morning. Bucky treated the bump like it was a novelty all the same—like he was seeing it for the first time and couldn’t believe he was actually the one responsible for making it get like that. It had gotten to be a hobby of his, nearly, just how much he loved watching it grow. He had his fingers splayed out across your tummy virtually every chance he could get, and that didn’t stop whether you were out in public or sharing a moment in the comfort of home; he couldn’t get enough.

Which was why Bucky was right when he’d said you knew exactly what you were doing when he came home that day. You knew just the kind of effect that wearing a tight, white dress while cooking dinner would have on him, and you hoped it would rile him up just like this: with his hands roaming over every inch of your body, making soft, sweet circles along the swell of your belly, and kissing your neck again and again. Biting some, too. Getting so worked up he was all but gnawing at the skin as he drank in your scent and got lost to pure instinct.

If it wasn’t clear that Bucky had had a breeding kink before, you saw it written plain as day across his face every morning and night since he’d first learned you were pregnant. Like all the life force within him was just a byproduct of the knowledge that you were his—and this baby, growing bigger each day, was a mix of you both.

You hated to say it, but fatherhood suited your assassin-trained, mob-heading, bloodlusting husband better than anyone could have predicted in a million years or more.

Presently, Bucky flipped you around and sank to his knees. He slid you over to the counterspace area, away from the stove, and made sure to flip each knob to ‘off’ to make sure there wasn’t a chance you’d get burned. You cast one last look at the crab bisque and knew at once your hard work would have to be put on the back burner for now, because Bucky wasn’t hungry for that.

Still, you kicked a foot in soft, muted protest when you felt him slide his hands up your legs, under your dress, and start to reach for your panties. You let out a breath.

“I spent two hours perfecting the seasoning on that, Barnes,” you chided him, gently and without much admonition in your voice as you pointed to the soup, “You say you want a good little housewife but won’t even leave me un-fucked long enough to try any food I make!”

“And I’m very sorry about that, Mrs. Barnes,” Bucky replied, head disappearing beneath your skirt so he could take your underwear off with his teeth instead.

But, much like your reproach, your husband’s strained apology held less than half of its professed sincerity. Your blue cotton panties were discarded in a second, your hips pushed back against the cool white marble behind it, and Bucky, almost too cheekily, brought his head back up from underneath your dress just to steal a quick look at your belly, then up at you. He was smiling.

“Anything you make tastes amazing, honey. Daddy just needs to eat a little something beforehand, that okay?”

He already knew what you’d say. The sweet, shit-eating grin hovering over your lower half knew all that and more. Bucky just loved to tease, taking the hem of your dress between his index and thumb, and rubbing all the more tenderly, murmuring again, ‘That alright with you, pretty girl?’ and ‘My wife likes getting tonguefucked in the kitchen, doesn’t she?’ while his breaths spread over you.

You nodded that you did. Momentarily forgetting the three-course meal you’d had planned for him since early that morning, you let your knees fall limply apart from one another, and Bucky’s broad form filled the space in between. The fabric of your dress was snug, especially so over your belly. Your husband pushed the material up your hips and let it rest just high enough to expose your warmth to him. Angling your hips back the slightest bit, trailing his fingers up your thighs and inside them, gently, Bucky let out a low groan against your body, and you could feel the vibrations of it travel up your spine.

“I really am mean for keeping you here all day, aren’t I?” he teased, sliding the tips of his fingers between your glistening folds and watching you jolt in response.

“So— so mean. Bucky, please.”

Your voice was far more hoarse than circumstances would seem to beget; your husband had just eaten you out that morning. Nevertheless, your hand was trembling as it reached for his head. Your pull was taut and dire. While your fingers threaded in through his hair and your body opened itself more and more for him, you could feel that kind smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Frankly, the swelling of eight-and-a-half months made it difficult to see much of anything below the waist, but Bucky made sure to let you know he was there. By holding your hand, skimming his lips against your skin, starting, just then, to sink his fingers in toward the heat of your body, and softly pulling his face away so he could look up at you.

“Baby?” he breathed.

Your eyes locked with his as he slid two fingers inside you. The stretch alone was enough to put your brain on the fritz, but, fighting the first shockwaves of pleasure:

“Y-Yeah?”

He withdrew. Pressed them back in and let out a grunt.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You couldn’t fathom what that might be, but you nodded anyway. ‘Anything’ was what you managed to choke out.

“And you might not like it, doll.”

Your eyes widened some.

“O— O-Okay, what?”

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, and a short, sharp streak of dizzying pleasure pulsed through your body. Your knees felt weak, and your mind even worse, but with what little resolve you had left, you were able to keep your eyes entirely open and fastened to his. A look that struck you as almost bittersweet crossed your husband’s features, and you saw his gaze soften again.

“I need you to wake up,” he said, calmly.

“What?”

Your toes curled tight underneath you, and the warmth between your legs leapt up to over a thousand degrees.

“Melaya, I need you to wake up.”

At the same time, your blood ran cold in your veins. Surely, you couldn’t be hearing him right if the voice he used was so gruff and low—and laden with a Russian lilt.

“Bucky? What— What do you mean?”

But you knew. Or suspected something of it anyway.

Now the sound from your own throat was hardly one that you recognized as yours, so shrill and high and strange—what could he mean by that? Why was he watching you in that way? Your husband wasn’t smiling so brightly anymore, and the once-gratifying conflagration between your legs had grown to an almost scorching degree, no longer nice, generous, or pleasurable in the slightest.

“We need you to wake up now, honey. Right now.”

His tone, too, was distorted. Grating.

“Bucky, I-I don’t underst—”

“WAKE UP!”

“WAKE UP!”

Natasha shook you hard, and it hurt.

She didn’t mean for it to. She just needed you up and out of bed, and you’d been asleep for almost fourteen hours.

You started at the fifth or sixth shake, nearly punching yourself in the face when you tried yanking a set of covers up and over your head and discovered, shortly, that there was none. You were splayed out on a bed in an as-yet unfamiliar home—Steve’s new place—and, while you slept, you’d kicked all of the blankets you’d been given the night before off your body and onto the floor.

Your eyes were wide as saucers as they darted to Nat’s.

There was no need to say what had happened—she knew these dreams were getting worse by the day.

It’d been a week since you fled your Brooklyn apartment in an all-out terror. A week since a senseless, short-sighted idea on your part had led to the discovery that your husband was once part of a HYDRA sleeper cell whose activation phrase turned him into an agent of total destruction at will. A week since you’d seen a half dozen bodies litter your living room floor, more still being bludgeoned by the so-called ‘Winter Soldier,’ as Bucky had formerly been known. A week since you’d sobbed in Natasha’s arms and begged her not to let you go back. A week since you’d been obliged to hide out in Steve Rogers’ new bachelor pad upstate, because, frankly, there was nowhere else you could safely live until this whole ordeal with Bucky was settled—if it ever would be.

A full week since you’d learned you were pregnant, too.

As far as you knew, your husband was wholly unaware of this fact, and of Steve’s most recent real estate purchase up in Buffalo, and you’d been existing in a semi-serene and largely dissociated state for the past seven days.

Your gaze adjusted to the light, and you blinked up at Nat, feeling damp in just about every place on your body. You looked down and found yourself drenched in sweat.

“Hydrate. Please.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a standing order: Nat holding out a glass of water and instructing you to drink. Though your first instinct was to make a face and shake your head—you’d found that any new fluids in your body this early in the morning would only get thrown back up when you made your first frantic trip to the toilet—you accepted it anyway. You drank three big gulps to appease the woman standing next to the bed, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled

“I’m gonna go puke now,” you said.

“Aim for inside the toilet bowl if you can,” Steve called out from the doorway. By the look on his face, you’d been doing a pretty shit job of aiming vomit lately.

“My bad, Rogers.”

You had a hand on your stomach, slowly easing back up into a seated position, when you heard something being flung across the room, followed by a ‘HEY!’ and a crash.

“Your aim sucks, too, Romanoff,” Steve griped, loudly, “And I was kidding. She can puke wherever she wants.”

By the door, a hefty hardcover book lay open on the floor. Apparently Nat’s options for projectiles had been limited.

“All good, Rogers,” you offered anyway. Fighting a smirk.

You were starting to stand, and your head felt as if you’d just taken your first steps off a rocking boat. Your other hand jumped to your mouth, and you muttered, ‘Fuck’ before brushing past Nat and her outstretched arms.

She held your hair while Steve retrieved the glass of water, as well as a towel. The unsightly first trimester ritual proceeded as it had for all of the last week, with Nat rubbing circles in your back and Steve making well-meaning but completely useless live commentary like, ‘Babies are a real pain in the ass, aren’t they?’ At the conclusion of each new stupid remark, Natasha would shoot a dirty look his way, but you never let her shoo him away. Through no conscious choice of your own, Steve had become something of a comfort blanket over the course of the past chaotic days. At the very least, you two were no longer at each other’s throats flinging accusations and exorbitantly-priced tumblers in the other’s direction, which was a marked improvement from where you were the day after you and Bucky’s wedding.

At length, you lifted your head from the toilet, and he daubed at your cheek with the towel—mostly just trying to wipe off spit and your own queasy-looking expression. He succeeded in clearing away just the former, but you forced a smile all the same, then shared it with Natasha.

Nat couldn’t smile back. In fact, the grimace on her face only etched even deeper, and her forehead creased.

“This is a horrible time to be asking you this, I know—”

“Nat, please.” Steve groaned.

Nat, what? There wasn’t a lot more that could catch you off guard after all the shit you’d come to see that week. Still, Nat’s breaths were both measured and slow, and you could see she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase her words. This, coming from one of the most astute legal minds this side of the Hudson River, gave you pause.

“Ask anything. I’m pretty numb, if you haven’t noticed.” You rapped on the side of your head for comedic effect, but neither Natasha nor Steve laughed or cracked a grin.

“How do you feel about filing for divorce tomorrow?”

At the sound of Nat’s words, you felt the bile jump back up your throat. You knew there wasn’t enough food or fluid to make much of anything now, but all the same, you craned your neck back over the toilet and retched. When nothing came out, as expected, you turned back.

“What?”

Natasha looked a little ill herself, but still, she continued.

“How do you feel about just…fast-tracking a divorce from him and taking off new? We’ll talk assets later.”

Assets? Fast-track? Divorce? What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Nat?” you repeated as much out loud.

It normally wasn’t your thing to be so blunt with her, but the inquiry certainly seemed to invite some extra candor. You swiped at your mouth for any excess spit that might’ve trickled out, crudely, and in a second, Steve was handing you the towel. Then helping you to your feet, holding your arm and lower back in a grip you could feel was secure. You were unsteady on your legs, so he and Natasha guided you over to the sink, where you could regain your bearings and freshen up a bit. Sneaking a look at your reflection in the mirror was a bad idea; your face was sallow, and the rest of your body had every appearance of being horribly weak, for lack of a better word. You caught a glimpse of a gash sitting just above your left temple and immediately looked away. Stupidly, you hoped Steve and Nat hadn’t seen it.

“He did that to you,” Nat said without missing a beat.

You winced, and you washed your hands, not looking up.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him. Soldat, you told me.” And for a second, your eyes flickered to Steve, whose expression was a touch more sympathetic, if not visibly discomfited now. Like he didn’t want to speak for once.

He did, anyway: “Doesn’t matter if it was Winter or him, really. Point is he hurt you while trying to protect y—”

“And yet, you asked me to forgive him just last week for killing my dad in the same type of rage,” you replied, and instantly regretted the accusatory tone you’d taken on.

Your anger was misdirected at Steve. It wasn’t his fault for sharing the truth about your husband’s—his best friend’s—past when you’d asked him. These were queries you’d made, helping to form justifications for your own decision to stay after what had happened in Madripoor. Obviously, Steve would be biased to help support his friend in a time of need. But now things were different; Bucky had never been activated as soldat and ended up hurting someone he’d loved before. Steve was free to change his mind after seeing that happen and urge you to leave, or at least reconsider, your marriage to Bucky.

The second look you gave him attempted to convey as much, a bit more apologetic as he and Natasha led the way out of the bathroom. Steve smiled and held your arm again, though you probably didn’t need it. You walked downstairs to the kitchen together. Over by the toaster, Sam was inspecting a charred bagel with a scowl

“Rogers, you really need to ditch this shit,” he said, gesturing to the rusted metal contraption that appeared to be from 1918, and had just burnt two bagels to a crisp.

“It was a gift from a friend, piss off,” Steve replied, grinning a little. Reaching for the blackened bread roll and even going so far as to take a bite, crunching loudly.

“Did your friend happen to fight in World War II?” Nat asked. She lent one look to the archaic machine but said nothing further, opting instead to take a seat at the kitchen table, where a sea of papers was strewn about.

Then, to you, “Come. Sit.”

Somewhere in your tentative stroll from where you stood to where she sat, and in the middle of the men’s toaster bickering, Sam called out that he’d have bacon and eggs ready in a second. Steve offered up his singed sesame bagel in the interim, and you told him no thanks. With a still slightly throbbing skull and a nauseous gait, you took the chair next to Nat’s and looked down at her papers.

Honestly, you thought your present condition might warrant some leeway when it came to holding off on the heavy-hitting topics first thing, but, to your surprise, Natasha slid a crisp white packet over almost instantly.

“Nat, what the fuck?” you groaned for the second time.

“Read it. Give it a second to digest, then we can—”

“No!” you cut in, pushing the packet back to her with a little more force than you’d meant, “I-I can’t. Not now.”

On the very first page, in bold and capitalized typeface, there was printed a brief string of words you’d never wanted—or thought you would ever need—to see:

‘VERIFIED COMPLAINT: ACTION FOR DIVORCE’

“It’s just the petition. No harm in taking a look,” Nat said.

You could hear a faintly gentler tone in her voice, even as you shook your head and looked away from the papers.

“I don’t want to. I can’t do this right now.” You kept shaking your head for a couple seconds after, turning your gaze instead to the bay window of Steve’s kitchen.

A nice, sprawling yard stretched as far as you could see. In the distance, a fuzzy white horizon was punctuated the slightest bit by the outline of a wood fence, but apart from that, the land was empty. The lot was secluded. Happy and effervescent in a nearly cloudless sky, the midmorning sun cast its rays without so much as the threat of a storm’s hinderance. You fixed your eyes on the clear expanse above and silently wished it would rain.

Before more than a minute or two had passed like that, Sam was approaching the table with two platters. Steve balanced four more by himself, watching the sway of one plate of scrambled eggs in his arms with a wary look before setting each one of the dishes on the table.

“Bon appétit,” Steve said, butchering his French just about as badly as Sam had the bagels. You and Nat thanked them both anyway and started clearing off the table, pushing papers away in favor of steaming plates. Sam and Steve sat down, and all of you began to eat.

While you dutifully piled on each scoop of eggs, bacon, sausage links, biscuits, gravy, and grits—far more than you knew you could feasibly consume—you wished again for a rainstorm, and maybe a quiet breakfast. One that wasn’t marred by talks of legal separation and lengthy battles in court, if you could help it at all. To this end, and perhaps against your body’s best interest, you shoveled two supersized spoonfuls of egg in your mouth, so that if Nat tried reviving those subjects again, you could put off the conversation by simply continuing to chew. You felt your stomach turn inside you but, stubbornly, ate more.

You had just swallowed it all, about to make way for a warm, flaky buttermilk biscuit, when a sound cut in, and your belly flipped again. Your teeth had barely sunk into the bread a second when Nat set her own food aside, then used two fingers to push something toward you.

“Just skim it. Let me explain what the process can be,” she said, tapping her index on the first line and meeting your eyes as if to plead. She had to have known she’d be met with resistance—from you, of course, but also Steve. She raised a defensive hand to him before he even cut in:

“Come the fuck on, Nat. Will you give her a break?”

“I’m saying this for her sake! I’m doing it for her.”

“And throwing divorce papers in her face over breakfast is really the best way of going about it? Is that for her?”

Sam swallowed whatever he’d been chewing on, glanced down at the top paper, and seemed to brace himself.

“Guys, is now really the right time—” he started.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Steve barked over him.

Natasha ignored the plainly disdainful look from the latter, lifted her hand off the paperwork and instead trained her gaze solely on you. Just like she had in Zurich. Focusing intently on your face, ignoring whatever Steve or Sam were saying in the moment, she turned to you and found your expression was stale. Unmoving. Frankly, half of what was running through your mind right then was how badly you wanted to puke again. As if the eggs had turned rotten in your gut the second they reached their destination in your GI tract, you felt a heavy, oppressive fog of nausea taking shape between your ears, and you just wanted everyone to stop talking.

Sam and Steve continued on without a hitch, agreeing vaguely but also appearing to bicker over other things, like when was the most appropriate time to have this conversation. Natasha was leaning in, reaching for your hand this time, and you knew she meant well. You would bet any large sum of money there wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and she was doing this for your benefit. All the same, you were grateful when the front door swung back on its hinges, and a new person walked in. Nat, Sam, and Steve all suspended their conversations.

“Hey, wh—” the blissfully unaware, semi-stranger began.

“Sharon!” Steve cried, “Would you tell Romanoff she’s being a goddamn pest with no sense of boundaries?”

Sharon halted at the threshold of the house, skating a look between Nat and Steve at first, then Steve and Sam, then just at you. The look didn’t linger for long, and before you knew it, she was setting down a fistful of grocery bags and twisting her mouth into a frown.

“Will you shut up, Steve?” was her only response.

Sam rose from his chair and pointed as if to say, ‘Yeah, that’ before joining her in the foyer to help carry in the Wegmans bags. Natasha leaned back in her chair with a vaguely pleased look, and Steve just rolled his eyes. He slapped his palm overtop the stack of divorce papers still laying before you and, seemingly undeterred, continued,

“Do you think it’s fair for her to force divorce papers on this poor soul—” pointing to you, the poor soul, apparently, “—when it’s been a week since she left?”

Sharon started handing off the frozen stuff first, sliding a box of Stouffer’s across the counter to Sam, who then deposited it in the freezer. These exchanges took place in relatively quick succession, with Sharon only chancing a look toward the kitchen table once or twice as they did.

“I think she should do whatever the hell she wants,” she said, “And I think their divorce is none of our business.”

Fair enough take. One that you could respect, at the very least, even if you weren’t certain she particularly cared for you at all. You reckoned she had no reason to, and on the whole, appeared to be a pretty reserved person.

You wanted to add a word in her defense, reiterate to Steve that he didn’t have to go to bat for you, the poor, defenseless soul, right now. Instead of being able to speak, though, you felt an upsurge of something heavy in your throat. You clamped a hand to your mouth again, cheeks flushing with the heady sensation and also out of embarrassment, then pushed your chair back and stood.

“I— gotta—” you stammered, just audible to the table, through the wall your fingers had made over your lips.

You sprinted up the stairs without another word.

The first trimester ritual repeated, and ten minutes later, you re-emerged from the bathroom feeling two big spoonfuls of scrambled eggs lighter and still none the happier, healthier, or wiser. You took a peek in the full-length mirror at the other end of the room and discerned from a distance of ten feet that you looked like dogshit.

You flopped down on the bed face-first, heedless of the pool of sweat that still encompassed roughly half of it, and let out a weak, muffled breath into the sheets. Someone had been gracious enough to replace all the blankets and pillows you’d kicked off last night. When you heard a knock on the door, it sounded a lot like Nat’s.

You rolled to the side, eyes screwed shut in frustration.

“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is a fucking dumpsterfire, I agree completely, Natasha. I’m dumb.”

A little huff of a half-laugh sounded from the doorway. You opened your eyes and saw Sharon standing there.

Up close, she looked a little paler than you’d remembered seeing her last in Switzerland. Soft beads of perspiration dotted her neckline from what had likely been a hot and arduous journey walking up the driveway with all the food, and presently, she seemed tired. She wore a simple gingham blouse that had her eyes shining with vibrance, though, and both hands, you noticed, were full—she had a mug in one and a spoon in the other. She smiled kindly.

“The mob tends to have that effect,” she said, strolling in. Setting the mug on the nightstand and easing the spoon into it, stirring, “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

You had no idea what all she knew about your marriage. You weren’t so sure you could extricate yourself from all the blame of having the thing go up in flames in four short weeks. Nevertheless, you smiled back and offered up something good-humored in return, like, well, I’m not exactly winning wife of the fucking year anytime soon.

Again, Sharon chuckled. It was small. She leaned back against the nearest armchair and, pointing to the cup she’d left to rest on the nightstand, said in a soft voice,

“Give that a minute. It’s hot.”

You glanced over and saw a little string that you guessed was attached to a teabag sitting at the bottom of the mug. The drink smelled like chamomile, maybe. You sat up, readjusted your pyjama top, then slid your socked feet underneath you so you could scoot closer to the edge of the bed. On a deeper inhale, you decided the tea was definitely chamomile. And too hot, as Sharon said.

“Thank you,” you told her.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” she replied. Letting out that funny little chuckle of hers—one too low to be considered a full laugh, but very close—and then, seeming to realize what she said might’ve sounded off, “Like— I heard what happened with Schröder. Him trying to drug you after the wedding and all…that. I— I’m sorry.”

Bad time to be making jokes, she appeared to chastise herself, but you just nodded along with the faintest grin.

“It’s OK. I’d pay money to be knocked the fuck out now.”

You grinned bigger, and she smiled too.

“It should make you sleepier, if you wanted to nap.”

You replied that you would, in fact, love to be unconscious right now if it meant not having to put up with all this bullshit morning sickness, and you slowly reached for the mug. Sharon stood up, and while you took your first sips, she fluffed the pillows behind you.

She was right. The tea felt like a hug. You settled under the covers and brought the cup to your lips once more, taking two big draughts before setting the drink aside. Yeah, that shit’ll put you right out, no drugs needed. You sank even further under the sheets and watched Sharon hover between the bed and the doorway, looking around as if trying to find something to do—some way to make herself feel more useful, if you had to guess from the pensive look in her eyes. Finally, she settled closer to the door and gave you one, fairly sanguine look. The warmth of your drink had already begun to nestle inside your weary bones, and your eyelids felt heavier. Still, you tried to return the sunny look before getting fully settled.

“Thanks again, Sharon. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She started to leave. In fact, she’d already made it three-fourths out of the room when something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to you, and you looked up.

“This…probably doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but—whatever you decide to do with Bucky…is okay. We’ll support you, whether you choose to raise this baby with him or do…whatever it is you want to do. Don’t let Nat or Steve or Sam or anybody tell you differently. It’s your choice, y’know, whether you wanna stay married…”

Sharon trailed off, and somewhere inside, you could tell she meant to finish with words like, ‘…even if you didn’t get to make the choice to get married in the first place.’ You appreciated it. You beamed with just your head poking out from over the covers and thanked her again.

And, before she left, for the second time, she stopped. She walked over to the nightstand and bent slightly at the waist, just enough to set something small down. You turned to the side and saw a vial—a minuscule tube—on the surface. Your eyes widened, realizing what it was.

“Sam picked it up in Madripoor. He said Steve had given this to you…to, uh, give to Schröder, and I thought you should have it back,” she said, pausing, “Just in case.”

You eyed the little vial of poison on the nightstand and nodded, still not completely understanding. Your head throbbed, your stomach was still turning, churning. Your brain was about ten blinks away from logging off entirely and drifting to sleep. All you could do, then, was repeat what Sharon had said as you exchanged one final look.

“Just in case.”

Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep very soon after.

You couldn’t have been out for more than an hour; you were sure of it. However, the next time you glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, you saw it read 11:04.

P.M.

Shit.

SHIT.

That chamomille tea was no fucking joke.

Just as your thoughts drifted back to Sharon, the conversation you’d shared, the drink she’d given you, the poison she’d left behind for you to keep, you heard her voice all over again—and now, not just in your own head.

Presently, she was standing over your bed again, though the room was much darker this time around. She pressed a finger to her lips, hey, please, please, be quiet, alright? At first you wanted to make a sharp and strangled sound. A cry for help? You weren’t sure. Didn’t know. Couldn’t see very much of the woman at all, except for the outline of her face from the moonlight streaming in through the window. She stared and ‘shh’ed’ some more.

And you were contemplating yelling out a loud obscenity in response to it when next she cut in, markedly gentler:

“Keep it quick. Nat and the guys will be back in thirty.”

You blinked hard into the darkness and waited for your vision, or else your still-missing voice, to return. It didn’t. You just stared back, eyelids going up and down and up and down like a goddamn idiot gone sluggish off one too many Quaaludes, and it was several seconds more before she gestured behind her, into the shadows.

You tensed under the covers, chock-full of terror. You squinted, and shrank, and might’ve nearly pissed yourself were it not for the intervening force of a face.

A familiar face.

Bucky’s face.

You leapt up from the bed, displacing each one of Sharon’s cool and careful warnings from your mind all at once. You didn’t mean to, and as soon as she’d shushed you again, you shut your mouth. Fell still. Sharon slipped out of the room, reminding you both, again, that you had to be quiet, and you had to be quick. Then it was just you and Bucky. Silence and slightly less than five feet of space between you two. Then, shortly, no space to spare at all, as you ran to meet each for a hug a second later.

Your head struck his chest, and it was hard. That, alongside the python’s squeeze he wrapped around your body, hugging you to him in the tightest embrace imaginable, had your mind reeling, skull pulsing just a bit. You pulled back and stood smiling up at Bucky, whose eyes were wide, drinking the sight of you in.

‘Are you hurt?’ were his first words.

You shook your head that you weren’t, still unable to talk.

“Why are you— Who— who brought you— I didn’t—”

It seemed Bucky was equally hard-pressed to form a sentence himself, while his eyes were roaming wildly, all over you. Looking for bumps or bruises or cuts, whatever the wound might have been. He stumbled to the lamp and flicked it on. You tilted your head left, reflexively.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said. Sudden and swift, “I’m good.”

But you didn’t move your head too far to the right, either, for fear he might see the cut above your temple—the one soldat had caused when he’d pushed you to the floor, trying to protect you from a threat he couldn’t see.

As it was, your husband seemed to be too much in shock to see anything else apart from what stood immediately in front of him. He hugged you again. He kissed the crown of your head. He constricted your body so tight in his arms you felt a pressure start to build behind your eyes, and suddenly you weren’t so much pulling away as you were wrenching your body from him. When you met Bucky’s gaze again, the sweet blue irises were glossy.

“Nat wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe and needed to be…be alone for a while, but I—” He stopped, and it was as if he couldn’t even finish with the words, because his breath was stuck in his throat and his eyes were stinging too much. He looked down, briefly.

You wanted to reach for his hand but hesitated. He took yours a second later, holding extra tight as he continued:

“I thought I’d— thought you might’ve…left. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and then she— Sharon, she called me tonight, said you were here, so— so—”

You felt a pang of guilt holding his gaze, seeing how all the hurt that had come to accumulate behind those eyes over the last week went spilling, at length, into emotions he was either too overcome or sleep-deprived to express. The weight of this suffocated him, made him extra quick to speak his mind but slow to make sense of just about anything that was coming out of his mouth. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then pinched your hand in his, and you didn’t know what to do. You had no idea what to say.

“I was scared, Bucky.”

It sounded pathetic coming out of your mouth. Your husband nodded as though you’d just said the most profound thing in the world. His knuckles went white from just how hard he was gripping your hand, his head bobbed along in agreement, and for a moment, you winced to think that he might hug you again. Instead, the fingers tangled between yours just made a tighter knot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You scared me,” you added, voice wavering.

Your left hand was going numb. You didn’t want to give him pause—possibly hurt his feelings—by freeing your touch from his, but that grip was brutal. Deathly rigid and unforgiving. Thoughts of Brooklyn and Madripoor came flooding back; Bucky was so much stronger than he realized. His tone, in contrast, was dulcet and soft.

“I didn’t know I’d get like that. I should’ve told you, doll.”

“I shouldn’t have tried the activation in the first place.”

You shouldn’t have tried digging into Bucky’s past all. When all there seemed to be at every turn was a brand new way for him to hurt you, or the people you loved, maybe there came a time when you had to stop asking questions altogether. Maybe that was what his mother and all the women who’d gone before her had known to do, what you had been too stupid to see all along. There was no knowing these men at all, only taking them as they were and learning to cope with what they became.

Bucky shook his head.

“No, doll, it’s not on you,” he murmured low. Still forceful

Thankfully, he released your hand to cup your cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. You felt your pulse in your palm, throbbing from where he’d held it. When he let go the second time, his expression was considerably softer.

“Listen, I’ll take you home, we can talk things over. As long as I know you’re safe, it doesn’t have to— to—”

Hey. He was already halfway toward the door before he realized you weren’t following him. He turned and gestured forward. He beckoned you, brows drawing in.

“Baby? C’mon.”

You didn’t budge.

Your feet were rooted in place, as though cemented to the floor. No matter how much you wanted to appease him, go along with whatever he asked, you couldn’t. You shook your head, and Bucky tilted his own, confused.

“Baby?”

“I’m leaving, Bucky.”

You couldn’t hear your own words slipping out between your teeth, only the blood rushing through your ears. Bucky stopped and turned to face you completely.

“What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What— what do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I want a divorce.”

That part you did hear yourself. You wished you hadn’t.

You wished you hadn’t seen the light break off from Bucky’s eyes, expression going limp the instant your words registered with him. You nearly wished you hadn’t said them at all, seeing just how far his face fell and how hurt he looked by them—but quietly, from somewhere more rational-headed inside yourself, there was a voice reminding the rest of you that it needed to be done. You couldn’t keep pretending like this wasn’t what had had to come next. What you’d been skirting with Nat all day and hadn’t been able to bring yourself to admit before now.

Your husband still didn’t seem to be computing it fully. He walked closer to you, and his gait was unsteady.

“Divorce?”

Your vision was bleary; you hadn’t even realized tears had begun to brim at your waterline as you watched him.

“It’s what we need, Bucky,” you could barely get it out.

“I don’t,” he shot back, not missing a beat, “I don’t.”

“It’s what I need.”

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice was hoarse, face shifting from lax incredulity to one of a wince—screwed up in a way that said he felt ill. You shook your head but couldn’t look away from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated.

“It’s what I want,” you pressed on, just as sick yourself.

“You said what you wanted was me.” Again, Bucky’s voice splintered, and you could feel the pain in it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.”

Gritting your teeth, unsure where else to fix your stare on his face but those eyes—while your own betrayed their feelings too easily, fraught with wet, rolling tears—you shouldn’t have been surprised when his went wider.

“What are you talking about?”

The question was short, sharp, and biting, spoken with such haste as might be mistaken for anger, but the eyes softened his look at once. The anguish painting them now as he stared back at you were a proof, beyond a doubt, that it was betrayal, not rage, which steered him. He turned, and it was as if he couldn’t see a thing but you; his elbow clipped the lamp and knocked it over, but still, he just stared. In turn, the ceramic appliance rolled onto its side, toppled the mug and the vial beside it, and all three went crashing to the floor. Bucky didn’t blink.

“Wh—” he started again, but you didn’t hear the rest.

You remembered Sharon. Heard a flash of her last admonition in your head—be quiet, be quick—and without thinking, you fell to your knees. You tried retrieving what pieces of chipped lamp and shattered mug you could, quickly. You spotted the small vial on the floor and shoved it in a pocket. Your hands swept over the broken pieces without any real idea of what you were doing—all except needing to clean Bucky’s mess—and then swiftly, stupidly, you tried picking it up by yourself.

Of course, a shard cut you. The little slit that was left in its wake could have been no wider than a fraction of an inch, but still, it bled. You looked down at the cut, just then starting to sprout red from left to right along the side of your palm, when a new sight crossed your vision. It was fast, too. All but thoughtless in the way it broke in, gripping your hand in his, and yanking you to your feet. Bucky hadn’t seen that you’d cut yourself, it seemed, and, out of instinct, had grabbed your hand to help you up. As before, his grasp was like a vice, and his thumb pressed right inside the lacerated flesh, sending a whole new maelstrom of pain shooting up your wrist and arm. Now, as then, he was heedless of his strength and his sheer, brute force, that he didn’t even see the effect of his grip. He just held on, held you, tighter, tighter, and—

“STOP!” you shrieked.

You shoved him off. Pried his touch off your palm and gripped your forearm in your other hand and pored over the sight, seeing the gash almost doubled in size from just where Bucky’s finger had sunk into the fresh wound. You let out a sharp, muffled cry through lips that tried to stay closed—remembering Sharon again. You shook your head, clenched your jaw, and tore off the other direction.

And when your husband reached out, eyes wide with their own shock and apologies, ‘Baby, fuck, I’m so sorr—’ you threw him off again. With your non-bleeding palm, you thrust your hand against his chest and pushed hard:

“Don’t touch me!”

When he reached for you again, as if by force of habit, you held up a defensive arm and sobbed out, ‘Stop!’

‘Don’t touch me, don’t—don’t—don’t fucking touch me.’

You screamed it. You didn’t mean to. Thinking only vaguely of the need to be quiet, and almost entirely on the stabbing pain in your hand, the imprint of Bucky’s touch on your body, and the blood trickling down your forearm, you darted into the bathroom and threw the door closed behind you. You locked it. You meant to.

Twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years in Bucky Barnes’ mind. In a moment like this, following yet another supreme fuck up on his part, he felt powerless. He had had to fight the instinct to barge into the next room over with every fiber of his being, and, making fists by his sides and pacing the floor and hating himself was all that seemed capable of occupying his mind just then.

He’d knocked on the bathroom door at least ten times. He’d been ignored each time, no matter the duration.

He still had your blood on his thumb, and it made him ill.

You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.

While he uncurled his hand from a fist just long enough to stare at the streaks of red stretched over his finger, he heard those words replay over and over again in his head. He’d said it—swore it—himself, and still your blood was turning a cool, dark, dry shade of crimson on his thumb.

This wasn’t how he’d meant for any of this to go. Still, notwithstanding his best intentions, none of it mattered. He’d seen a sincere look of fear in your eyes looking up at him, and nothing in the world would change what he’d done, or who he was. He’d caused you pain tonight, last week—though his memory of that was still so hazy and dark he hardly knew what else had happened, even now—and above all, he’d failed you as a husband, a protector.

You were likely curled up in a ball by the bathroom sink, cowering in fear because of him. The thought sent another tidal wave of nausea thrumming through his skull, a lump in his throat growing larger alongside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was striding back to the bathroom door. He banged his fist against it.

“Honey?”

No answer.

“Baby, please open the door.”

More silence.

The moment brought to mind a memory from the night you two had been married. How you’d fled to the en-suite bathroom and locked yourself in it; how Bucky had rattled the whole doorframe with the force of his knocks, demanding you come out. He’d hardly known you then. You hardly knew him now. The realization of this made the weight in his throat all the more excruciating as he stood, and, wincing with pain, Bucky kept knocking.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Pleading now. His voice was hoarse all over again.

Had he been the slightest bit more desperate and reckless, he might’ve been tempted to muscle through, kick the door in with his boot. But Bucky knew better. He could already guess how much that action would terrify you now, while tending to an injury that he himself had inadvertently made worse. Barreling inside would be neither romantic nor sweet, just sinking what may then be a lethal dose of salt in the deeper, metaphorical wound. He refrained. Instead of continuing to knock, he dropped his forehead to the door and closed his eyes.

“Please believe me, baby,” he tried again.

He’d said it so quietly he feared you might not hear it. Then, a little bit louder, ‘Please, please believe me.’

No sound to be heard inside but running water.

“You mean everything to me, doll.”

By now, his voice was clogged with pain, teetering on the brink of agony as he rested his hands on the door, and willed you to open it. Say something to him. Anything.

“I’d never mean to hurt you. Not in a million years.”

For a moment, he heard nothing more. Just how desperately he needed to hear a voice in reply could not be overstated. Craving a new sound worse than oxygen in his lungs. At first, when he heard something other than himself nearby, it nearly knocked him back with joy.

A voice right next to his ear, “But you did, didn’t you?”

The joy lasted less than a second.

The voice beside him was low. And close. Not coming from the other side of the bathroom door, as he might’ve reasonably expected from you, and not even in the tone of a female’s voice, as he might’ve seen, were Sharon to have appeared by his side. This new voice was deep, and masculine, and in his ear now, chuckling some as a gloved hand pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

Bucky didn’t blink.

You stepped outside not wanting to see him.

The bleeding had long since stopped, thanks to the aid of a cool, damp washcloth and a few minutes’ pressure, but even once it ceased, your legs were reluctant to carry you back. You dreaded the thought of having to resume your conversation with Bucky—of having to look him in the eye and tell him all over again that it wasn’t safe for you to be married to him. But you didn’t have much of a choice now, either. This wasn’t your honeymoon, where you could stay locked in the bathroom, try climbing out a window, and hope for the best like you’d done before. You had the man’s child inside you, for fuck’s sake.

That uncomfortable subject and at least a dozen more were already swarming your brain as you made your way out of the bathroom. You’d taken a few extra squares of toilet paper to press into the cut, were looking down at it with a tense, uncertain gaze as you ventured out, when you were obliged to stop just a few steps into the room.

“Hi, honey.”

It wasn’t Bucky.

Your eyes snapped up to the source of the voice in an instant, and, on seeing you were right—that it wasn’t Bucky but a gaunt, grinning blond with a gun to your husband’s head—you almost screamed at the sight.

You’d wanted to scream, anyway. It would’ve been the sane thing to do, and one that nobody could’ve blamed you for in the moment, you reckoned, but strangely the sound never came. You just stared at the two, eyes wide and jaw slightly more lax as your lips made an ‘o’. Bile jumped up in your throat. You wished it would choke you.

‘Please. Don’t.’ was all you could get out.

Johann Schröder’s smile stretched wider.

“Don’t what?”

The question was clearly meant to be derisive, rhetorical. Still, with your fingers trembling, you tried answering:

“Don’t hurt h—”

“Why?”

You watched the gun sink deeper against your husband’s face, and he flinched. Your stomach clenched inside you.

“Why shouldn’t I hurt him, hon? Seems like he’s gotten pretty damn good at doing it to you,” Schröder sneered.

His words stung. The grin didn’t flinch. And, as if to punctuate his sentence, or else remind your husband that he was tied to a chair and entirely at his mercy now, Schröder struck Bucky in the face with the butt of his gun. If an onlooker hadn’t known better, they might’ve mistaken you for the one who’d been hit, though—at last, you unleashed that scream, and you reached out for Bucky, hands open and pathetic and desperate to help.

“Think it hurt as bad as your hand?” Schröder hummed.

Your feet were stumbling forward, “He didn’t mean—”

Another resounding thud against Bucky’s skull, this time hard enough to split his lip in half. If he’d grimaced in the slightest, you would’ve seen the teeth smeared with blood. But, true to form, James Barnes didn’t wince. He hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the blow as it landed. Just stared at you and, with eyes as hollow and deadened and faintly pleading as you’d ever seen them before, manifested their silent apology to yours—again.

“Bet he didn’t mean to hurt anyone as the Winter Soldier, either. Still couldn’t have felt too good for all the folks he butchered, though.” At that, Schröder’s sick amusement morphed into a laugh, and he was taking Bucky’s collar in his other hand. Shaking him lightly while he spoke.

“Couldn’t have felt all that great for your dad, I bet.”

The diversion turned to you, all toothy smiles and mocking eyes. He didn’t care. He let you stagger another step toward the two of them, even try to get your hands close to Bucky. But when you’d drawn too close, he stopped you cold. Not thinking much else in the moment, you made a move to push Schröder’s arm away, hard, and were shortly rewarded with a shove of your own. He knocked you sideways onto the bed, and you landed on the hand you’d hurt. Before you could let out so much as a sound yourself, Bucky’s voice tore in:

“Schröder.”

Schröder turned. He raised his Ruger to your husband’s head again, as casually as if he’d asked him for the time.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch her.”

Schröder turned to you. Though he didn’t move the Ruger again, he did point his finger at your form, haplessly curled into itself amidst the covers and pillows.

“Why? Saving all the rough stuff for later, are we?”

You cowered as his free hand reached for you, and just as your husband’s eyes went wide and a vein nearly tore through his skin from how hard it protruded, you cried,

“What do you want?!”

Schröder stopped. He brought his hand to a halt just south of your thigh—and then he dropped his weight on the bed beside you. He gestured indistinctly, almost disbelievingly, toward Bucky. The latter appeared near-apoplectic, nails raking down either arm of the chair.

“What do I want?” Schröder quipped, incredulous, “What do you want, doll? To stay married to him?”

And you knew he’d intended the question to be hurtful; you knew it by the glint in his eye, the goading tone of voice and the look he’d flitted to Bucky—nondescript and yet saying a world more than words could ever convey. He knew what had gone on between you, had likely heard your last conversation in its entirety, and was now using it against you. Mostly to taunt, then to injure your husband with truths he hadn’t yet uncovered himself.

Schröder’s eyes were shining with sadistic delight as he took your hand in his. He didn’t waste another second.

“No, no, that isn’t what you want at all, is it?”

Ignoring the screech of Bucky’s restraints as he tried to lunge out of his chair. Hearing him curse when he failed.

“—you said you’re leaving him, right?”

Schröder slid the thin, glistening ring off the hand he’d been holding before you could even think to stop him.

“—said you want a divorce, is that it?”

Then his grin got so big and conceited and enlivened by the sight of pain working its way onto Bucky’s face that any good sense you’d had left inside you was abandoned in a blink. You didn’t hesitate, or else try and make a pass to retrieve your ring—you just hit the man in the face.

Your fist was small, and his chin was hard. You knew before you ever threw the punch that it’d probably hurt you more than him, but you did it anyway. It succeeded, at the very least, in catching Schröder by surprise and swiftly pissing him off. Seeing this and feeling a bit bolder, you were somehow able to dodge his hands when he lurched for you again. Inside, your own anger flared.

“Why the fuck do you care?” you spat.

You found momentary respite in the corner of the bed, sliding back against a wall that would only protect you for so long. As soon as Schröder regained his bearings, he had you back in his sights and his grasp just as quick.

He dragged you back. He pulled you up. He dug the tips of his fingers so hard into your side that you thought the flesh might tear in two across your ribs. But it didn’t. Crescent-like indentations did leave their mark in a grisly set of five, though. You felt the sting of it as Schröder loosened his grip, then sucked his next breath through his teeth as if calming himself. Your gaze only hardened.

“I care,” he said, once he’d completed this slow inhale. He replaced his touch by pinching your face in one hand and bringing it up to his, expression more like a snarl. Then, raising the gun to your face in his other hand, “because I made a deal with your father. Remember?”

You did. Your head jerked back by force of instinct, but he held it. From every direction, then, you had nothing to hear but the sound of your own pulse thrumming a fast, panicked tempo in your skull. You tasted blood in your mouth without a drop on your tongue. And, had that deafening fear and revulsion been anything less, you likely would’ve heard something else beneath it all.

Would’ve felt it, if you weren’t already so numb: Schröder’s hand sliding its way down your body, diamond ring still stuck to the tip of his index finger. You sensed it as though seeing yourself from another perspective—watching his hand trail lower, lower, lower until something in Bucky split in two and he bellowed:

“SCHRÖDER—”

He said something more after that; you were sure of it. You just couldn’t hear him, or see him, or discern much of anything else but your own racing heart as the man who’d just beat your husband twice and lifted a gun to your head proceeded to press his touch to your belly. Almost conscientious and gentle as he lowered it.

“Was this part of the deal, too, doll?”

Your eyes widened. Realizing—then feeling fear seize you completely. Forgetting the metal at your temple and shaking your head with a force, but slow enough that your husband wouldn’t see it. Meanwhile, across from you both, Bucky seemed more than sufficiently occupied by his own blinding rage—he spit a glob of blood to the floor and, with his teeth bared again, swore he’d kill him.

Over and over and over again, oaths of taking Schröder’s life and making it gruesome and painful and slow filled your ears, but none of it stuck, for either you or Schröder. Instead, your maniacal captor just smiled, leaning in.

“I said, was this part of the deal, Mrs. Barnes?”

The heel of his palm sank into your stomach, and as the shock of his first words began to fade, a pain replaced it. His hand made an impressive demonstration of flattening and forcing itself so hard against the skin that a flurry of stars cropped up in your eyes, and you cried:

“Stop! I-It wasn’t— just— just stop. Stop.”

“Stop? Was it part of the deal or not?”

Schröder bore down even harder.

“It just happened!” you keened. Unsure why you felt compelled to answer for what had gone on at all—addressing the baby in this awful, oblique way—though reckoning it had something to do with the pressure he was applying to your stomach. You tried to squirm back.

But your stuttering pulse and your pleading gaze and the ache in your stomach proved to be all too much for any real progress to be made. You’d scarcely moved off an inch before he drove his palm deeper, and with the agony of a body about to rupture beneath it, a shriek clawed out of your throat. Your mouth fell open, and for once, you couldn’t curtail the pain, or fear. Schröder’s hand had just forced the noise from your mouth, along with some mindless, broken pleas to stop pushing, it hurts, please, please, when the face above yours only brightened. Schröder’s cruel, snide mouth flashed a smile above you, and before you could whine again—

He kissed you.

It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second.

Still, the moment seemed to stretch indefinitely. And felt perverse. So deeply nauseating and unsettling to every last nerve, muscle, tendon, and bone in your body that the response it evoked could be nothing less than visceral. You didn’t need to think at all to shove him off. Whatever might’ve given you pause with a loaded gun to your head was forgotten in a second, and soon enough, you weren’t alone in letting your reproach be known.

It started off with a crack, then a harsh, crude splintering of wood. A violent rift, from what you could hear of it, and when you turned your head, your suspicions were confirmed: Bucky had snapped half the arm of his chair away from the seat, and his right hand was almost freed.

Whatever barrier he faced in being bound more than four times over with rope seemed immaterial to him now. He could strain as hard as he pleased—feel the coarse synthetic fibers dig into his flesh and leave streaks of red, if not break the skin itself—and any pain, as before, hardly appeared to register with your husband at all. He just muscled through it, thrusting his wrist even harder. The whole force of this movement rocked the chair on its legs, and just when you sensed it might collapse beneath his weight, you felt Schröder stand up. The man didn’t need to move too far or do much else other than drop his hold on you and flip his gun to point it at Bucky instead.

Even when he had, though, Bucky didn’t flinch. His hands were in fists and his drive was like a machine’s—he tried forcing his way out of the right hand’s restraints, and the second the wood gave way, he was shoving it off.

Blind to the firearm Schröder was holding, or his words:

“Stay where you are, Barnes.”

Bucky was just then shaking off the rope that had been loosened by the break in the wood, jaw still tight as ever.

“You’ve got three other limbs to free, my friend, just—”

Schröder was still speaking when you saw his finger slip to the trigger, and it seemed to you it was itching to pull.

“James, stop!”

That plea came from you. More of a strangled cry, really—no more pleasant for either man to hear than it was for your throat to shriek. It did, however, stop Bucky cold. Your husband paused just long enough to meet your gaze. And in it, you saw, at least, that he was all there, if not enraged. But not soldat, or anyone else but himself.

You sighed in relief, despite what seeing two red rivers seeping out of Bucky’s mouth might otherwise provoke.

It was him. You might’ve smiled if another hadn’t cut in.

Schröder seized Bucky’s wrist. With it, you saw his hand just as mangled and bloodied as his lips. Knuckles cracked, slit, and soon to be littered with bruises of every shade, he shocked you again by how calmly he took it. Even when Schröder sank a thumb inside a big, gaping crater of a flesh wound he’d found on the back of his hand, your husband didn’t blink; he just looked at you.

‘I’m sorry.’

When the barrel of the gun returned to his head—this time, at the rear, as Schröder had circled back around the half-broken chair and was leaning over him—you could see the apology lodged in his eyes on full display.

“For safekeeping.” The man wielding the gun seemed almost pleased as he dropped your ring inside the breast pocket of your husband’s shirt, before patting it gently:

“Now where were we?”

A beat. Bucky’s right hand twitched beside him, but evidently, he knew better than to move in that moment.

“Right, right—” Schröder pretended to be remembering, tapping steel to Bucky’s skull, “She’s leaving, isn’t she?”

More silence.

You wanted to speak, beg Schröder for mercy, anything.

“Do you know why that is, Bucky?”

But before you could utter even a word of protest, the voice pressed on. Schröder was leaning in his ear.

“—what you did to her?”

The baby. Brooklyn. All the bloodshed that had ensued last week, leaving your husband completely in the dark. Of course, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been himself, and was scarcely more able to control his actions as the Winter Soldier than he could in a dream.

To your horror, Schröder reached down for Bucky’s hand, and, still holding the gun to him with the other, lifted it.

Pointed it.

Pushed it closer to you.

“C’mon, Buck. You don’t want me touching her, right? Why don’t you feel for yourself what she’s been hiding?”

Your blood turned to ice. You’d never felt so immobile—paralyzed—in your life, but seeing the hands drift closer and closer and feeling defenseless to their course, your body went numb. Your limbs grew heavier than lead.

And when you felt the smug, smiling blond guide your husband’s touch toward your head, you understood it all.

You were perched at the edge of the bed a foot away. Schröder was nudging Bucky forward in his chair, urging him to reach out and tilt her chin a little, go on, that’s it. And neither one of you had a choice, so he touched you. His fingers, directed by someone else, were obliged to brush the skin of your chin, your jaw, your cheek, and your brow, before finally settling above your left temple.

Your husband felt the cut—touched the stitches.

You winced, but not from any physical pain. It was Bucky’s face as the tips of his fingers skimmed the wound. The look of chagrin that crossed his eyes. Then bewilderment. Fear, as plain as anyone could see it— was he the cause of that? Had the hurt been from him?

You couldn’t bear to answer him, so you looked away. It was Schröder, again, who had all the power to speak.

“Can’t remember pushing her down?” he said, tone dark, “Making her split her head open on the bedside table because soldat didn’t know his own strength—only that he had to keep her safe—and sensed a threat outside?”

Bucky shook his head. His face was grave.

Schröder kept making him prod the skin.

“It’s bruised here, too. You feel it?”

Your husband did, and you thought it might break him. So tender and forlorn were the eyes, raking over every spot where a touch, his touch, had left you hurt before.

If nothing else could bring you back to your senses, the wounded look in Bucky’s gaze was sure to get it done.

You hardly thought again, just croaked: ‘It’s not his fault.’

Schröder’s hand then descended your neck, your torso.

As if he hadn’t heard you at all—

“You already saw what happened to her hand.”

—and forcing Bucky’s touch lower still.

“But what about here?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt your husband’s hand come to rest on your stomach.

It was like a fire had ignited in your lower half, and nothing close to the soft, pleasurable kind. Not the flutter felt in anticipation of a touch from your husband, not the desirous sort. In fact, you dreaded it now; seeing Schröder over his shoulder, urging him closer, making him flatten his big, broad, scorching palm over your belly.

What should’ve been the ecstatic scene you’d conjured in your mind at least a hundred times since marrying him—the picture of domestic bliss as you said it, smiling, I’m pregnant—was now nothing short of torture. Choice all but stripped from you here, forced to emerge inside this terrible place, you found yourself needing to shrink back, shake your head, look to Schröder’s stubborn, unyielding gaze and beg him not to make you do this now. Not now.

Not here, with Bucky’s skin a shade of glacial white and his eyes going wide, taking on a look you’d never seen.

“What do you—”

He stared hard at the hand on your belly, but it didn’t last for long. As if realization were trying to seep in, he couldn’t meet it. His eyes flitted back to your face.

“Baby, what’s—” he tried again, stammering.

“—right, that’s it, Mr. Barnes.” That was Schröder.

Satisfied in the suspense of the moment keeping your husband still, he lifted his hand from Bucky’s and snapped, that’s it, and clapped him over the shoulder.

Congratulating him before the truth had even sunk in.

“A baby, that’s right! You’re going to be a father, Buck.”

And how far was the look on Bucky’s face from the one you’d dreamed before. The lips you’d envisioned in a smile now twisting bleakly, parting slightly, and the eyes you’d once hoped to be bright and elated only staring back with rings of red enveloping the irises. Whatever tears formed at his waterline were decidedly not of joy.

Only guilt.

“You did it.”

Desperation.

More moisture in his eyes as his hand started to tremble across your stomach, voice hoarse and soft, “Is it true?”

You didn’t need to nod. You just watched him, let your own eyes fill with the worst, stinging tears you had felt in your life, and from the silence that followed, Bucky knew.

As if the life beneath his palm were something dear, but still too much for him to comprehend, he shook his head. He stroked his thumb over the cotton of your pyjamas and tried inching closer, as much as his restraints would allow him. Then, with words that were audibly strained, but always gentle, he lowered his voice—as if to keep the communication between you two, despite your position:

“I love you.”

His hand was still on your belly as he said it. He reached up to cup your face. Even lower than before, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

That much was evident from every look he’d given you tonight. Every move he made a de facto apology, all actions in the vein of atonement, it couldn’t possibly escape your mind or his that he knew he’d done wrong. It was only a matter of accepting this—maybe coming to terms with the fact that your life wasn’t safe in his hands—for the guilt plaguing Bucky to multiply. Paralyze him.

There was no better time for Schröder to strike. Just as the anguish had flooded Bucky’s face completely, and his hand had had to lower itself from want of strength, a sound split the air. Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that it didn’t even register at first, but the impact was real, and it was harsh: Schröder punched him squarely in the jaw. The next, swift snap was his nasal bone taking a blow, and breaking beneath it. Blood breezed down and into his mouth. Feeling warm, his lips and chin doused in a second, he sensed nothing else. He might’ve groaned.

He caught another swift right hook, and his mind went blank. Nothing of substance threatened to materialize between his ears, save for the rush of blood through and from his skull and the dim recognition of something ugly.

Something horrific.

He couldn’t protect you.

His body was as much an idle waste as it was a danger. Useless now, as he was tied to this chair, and a risk to your well-being even if he weren’t. The hazard was him.

Schröder hit him again, and Bucky realized that the ringing he’d heard in his ears was your screaming.

“I’m doing her a favor,” Schröder spat before shoving him back in the chair, almost knocking it sideways.

The blond advanced with ease. His knuckles were drenched in blood; none of it was his. When he reached for Bucky again, the resistance was slight, and a simple, firm grip on the collar was all that was needed to drag his frame to sit straight. Bucky was barely upright for a second before the next—and worst—blow struck his face. His whole head rang with it, reeling, but still, he could make out the words as they were spoken to him.

“She’ll never be safe with you, Barnes. Never—” and at the last, Schröder lowered his gun. Started to loosen the rope from Bucky’s left arm, “—I could free you now, and you still wouldn’t get within an inch of what you want.”

He nudged the rope away and let it fall to the floor. Bucky lifted his hand, but the effort was in vain. No sooner had a finger of his stirred than Schröder was delivering a kick to the chair and letting it splinter. Topple. Skitter a half-foot across the hardwood floor with Bucky’s ankles still bound to it, before finally, gracelessly, breaking apart.

Bucky was on the floor, blinking through a stream of blood and a sea of muddied thoughts when Schröder kicked the chair again. The rope slackened some more.

“Her own father knew as much, so he made me a deal to take her off of your hands. Settle his debts the way he should’ve done the first time around,” Schröder said, and now his tone was lower. Lethal as it ever was, and stern.

“I know how much you hate to lose your playthings, Buck, but this one’s better off with me, I promise.”

And, as if to emphasize his point, Schröder turned and reached for you. Bucky’s own hands were slow, fumbling in fits and bursts to get the rope unwound from his ankles, but they were determined. He just couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, the ringing to subside, or his brain, in its concussed state, to let him move with a little more agility. He’d been hit too many times. He could barely lift his head off his shoulders and hold it straight, so he was forced to stay where he was, keep at his task, and listen.

“You’re weak when you’re not soldat.”

Using his knuckles, Schröder brushed the blood that was evidently all Bucky’s across your cheek, and you flinched.

“When you make the switch, still…you’re inhuman.”

Then he tilted your head, making you show them both the mutilated, stitched-up flesh above your temple. Again, you tried to slink away, but his touch was firm.

“Don’t you think your bride deserves better than that? Your child? Forced to live in fear of that thing you are?”

Blood coursed down Bucky’s face, and his lips were curled apart in a grimace, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His eyes fixed their look on you. The rope was undone.

He’d just started to try and stand when the edge of his vision blurred. He felt the lacerations in his face pulse as one, and with it, half his sight went skewed to the left. Schröder couldn’t help but crack a smile seeing him stumble, pitch back, and barely catch himself on the bedside table. When he stood, he was mostly hunched.

“Look at you, Buck. You can’t try and save her like this,” Schröder taunted, drawing you closer, “So stop trying.”

The man’s hand was like ice holding your face. The grip grew tighter when he saw your husband limping your way, and before either one of you could move, the index of Schröder’s other hand had slid down to the trigger. He didn’t wait to give another warning before he did it—just pointed the gun and fired one shot over Bucky’s head.

His aim was good. The bullet missed your husband by less than an inch. The gun had gone off by your ear, and immediately, you seized the side of your head as a sharp, searing pain cropped up. Your skull was still ringing when you heard the thing discharge again, and you realized it had been aimed at Bucky’s neck. He’d ventured another step, and Schröder had fired a second round to graze the top of his shoulder. Crimson bloomed through his shirt.

Bucky should’ve stumbled again. He might’ve staggered back with a grunt of pain, lifted a quick, reflexive hand to feel the wound, but the sense of it all was slow to reach him. The moments that passed him were delayed just the same, as if the world around him were distorted—the fibers of time tugged and stretched before his eyes—and he could hardly keep himself straight. When he got another look down the barrel of the gun, he didn’t blink. Couldn’t see, really. It was all misshapen sights and sounds and a dim recognition that his mind was in a fog.

Somewhere from within that mist, he heard, faintly:

“I’ll go— I’ll go— I’ll go with you, I’ll go— just stop.”

Schröder turned to you, and the smile that he wore was cruel, but Bucky wasn’t able to make out the expression.

All he could see then, to the faintest extent, was you—your face, gripped hard in another man’s hand, eyes pleading and wet with tears, and a slightly slack jaw.

“Leave him for me?” Schröder repeated, sneering.

You nodded. Blinked. Rolled your tongue along the inside of your cheek before pulling it back and biting down once. There was a hint of a wince in your eyes, but, from what Bucky could tell, it vanished just as fast as it came.

Your lips parted again. Your eyes widened a little.

“So the girl has some fucking sense.” That was Schröder.

He’d had his weapon re-holstered and your face firmly seized in both of his hands in no more than a second.

What came next surprised no one, though the sensations of disgust and rage were as quick to turn a stomach as the shock would have done. Schröder bent down and, having pulled your face closer to his, kissed you again.

Schröder’s mouth was glistening with a grin and Bucky’s own blood—smeared all over your face from how hard he’d been holding you—when he looked up and turned.

“Sensible and sweet, isn’t she? Tastes like it, too.”

Bucky saw nothing but red. It wasn’t just blood crowding his vision now but violence and rancor and outright hatred, stirring his limbs to start moving again when the rest of his body was plainly too battered to venture an inch in that condition. He staggered again, watched you again, and had made it almost halfway across the room when another sight slowed him, if only for a moment.

Schröder’s lips were back on yours, as if to mock him, but what startled him, really, was the way you’d opened your mouth. You couldn’t mean it. Clearly. Schröder was gripping your jaw, forcing it open—it had to be—and he was coaxing your tongue out from inside and weaving it with his. Once more, time moved like molasses, and that was all your husband had had to see: you kissing him back, gripping his arm through the thick, black tactical gear, and still parting your lips more and more for him. Like you needed a touch, or something, worse than ever.

That stalled Bucky, though he was nowhere close to stopping now. Briefly preoccupied, and seemingly shocked as well that you’d accepted the kiss so eagerly this time, Schröder didn’t see the approach. If he had, he likely would’ve turned and made a move for his Ruger, but as it was, he had only to blink—and there was Bucky.

He hit him with a force that was blinding, directly to the side of his head so hard that he’d had no choice but to separate from you. Schröder was stunned one second and on the floor in the next. Bucky threw him there, kicked him down, and, wavering for only a moment to cock back the shoulder that’d been shot, he ignored the pain and punched the man again. And again. And again.

There was a callousness, an indolence, and an ease with which he was able to inflict the pain, that much was evident. What didn’t seem so natural, at least in Bucky’s mind, was the weight that was in his hands: Schröder’s body felt limp before he’d even landed the second blow.

The pressure grew heavier and heavier in his hands the harder, and more frequently, he delivered each hit, but for now, he didn’t care. Bucky kept on punching until the face beneath him was gnarled and bloody, and his own fist, too, slashed every which way with more cuts than he was able to count. He would’ve kept going—could’ve ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder for as long as it would take to ensure the man was dead—but as it was, he refused to ignore the voice he heard. It was yours.

Muffled now, as your body was bent to the side and your head drooped lower still. Your voice was soft but clear:

“Bucky, please, stop.”

He did.

He dropped the man’s collar from his hands as soon as he’d heard you say it, and he turned away as if nothing had transpired behind him at all. His focus was on you.

“Baby—”

To his surprise, he watched you spit on the floor.

Your face was grim and almost sick, and you spit again.

The look grew even worse, and afterward, you didn’t waste a second more; you stood and left the room.

Bucky was stunned at first, and his instinct had been to follow. Then he heard a rattling sound beside him. He glanced down and paled, seeing Schröder there.

His face had turned blue much sooner than Bucky had expected—and not from any bruising but a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He was choking, foaming slightly at the mouth while he gasped for air. Surely, it hadn’t been the hits that caused it. The whites of Schröder’s eyes were as conspicuous as he’d ever seen them. Desperate.

Bucky swiftly got the sense that the life of his former captor was lost, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to watch him die. He left what remained of Schröder’s form to continue writhing on the floor, choking and sputtering for a breath that would never come, and went after you.

Downstairs, he found you hunched over the kitchen sink—spitting, retching, and trembling, too, but breathing.

You let the water from the faucet fill your mouth, and you rinsed again. You winced as something stuck your cheek.

Bucky drew closer, quickly, and when he was right by your side, he saw you spit a shard of glass into the sink. He looked over to the counter, and he spotted three more

They were minuscule, really. Nothing quite the size to leave a wound too deep, but sharp enough to cut your lips, your tongue, or the insides of your cheeks. When Bucky leaned in, he saw droplets of red joining the flow of the water beneath it. You coughed over and over again

“Don’t,” you croaked, seeing Bucky reach for the glass.

Before he could reply: “It’s the poison. From Madripoor.”

Your husband’s blood went cold in his veins. He didn’t touch the glass, but he did press closer to you, feeling his insides churn as the cogs started to turn in his head.

The vial of poison you’d been given to slip in Schröder’s drink at the Foxy Den—how the hell had you gotten it back? Why would you think you needed it, if he— but no, that couldn’t be the case. There wasn’t a shot you just—

“—put it in your mouth?” Bucky couldn’t curb the fear in his voice. He reached for you and spun you to face him.

“Did it kill him?”

Your eyes were wide for entirely different reasons. Bucky couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his mouth was dry.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” you went on, voice shaking a little, “I didn’t— I just— I couldn’t get him the poison any other way. I knew he’d kiss me again, and when he did—”

“I know,” Bucky said. He smoothed the hair from your face, shaking his head. Feeling his stomach clench with fear and dread as he hurried to get a look in your mouth.

You’d snuck the vial inside your cheek, then crushed it between your teeth before Schröder had kissed you. You’d all but forced him to swallow the poison, shoving your tongue down his throat, but what of the stuff that remained? The rough, trembling fingers of Bucky’s hand were trying to pry your lips apart as gently as they could, ensure all the serum was out, but at present, you wouldn’t let him. You pushed back gently, though not too far to prevent your own touch from roaming his shoulder.

“The bullet—” you started.

“Barely nicked me,” Bucky cut in, “Baby, I need to see—”

That you’re safe. That you won’t be hurt in any way. He couldn’t finish the thought himself, having seen what the poison did to Schröder. Instead, he just held you closer and fought the lump that was starting to form in his throat. Adrenaline had worked well enough to clear his mind of the haze, but the rest of him was all high-strung.

Your clothes clung to you both, wet with blood and sweat. Your breaths were fast. Your expressions were feral, eyes no calmer as they scanned over the other’s form and soaked in every trace of what had happened. Bucky in his formalwear and you in something close to a chemise—like your honeymoon night all over again—you each got a glimpse of the gore ornamenting yourselves and let the room fall quiet, if only for a minute or two.

Your husband was the one to break the silence, at length, with cracked and grisly hands sliding down to your hips.

“You’re okay?”

His touch shifted you back in place to sit on the counter.

“I’m alright.”

You wanted to say more; assure him, in a voice as sedate as you could manage, that this wasn’t his fault. Whether he would believe a word of what you said was a separate question, but, at any rate, it didn’t matter. The next thing you knew, Bucky was slotting himself in the space between your legs and pulling you into his arms.

In spite of himself and all the wounds, he held you tight.

“You’re alright,” he repeated.

His face sank into the crook of your neck, and you felt his muscles contract again—pulling you closer—as he drew a shaky breath against your skin. You hugged him back.

“Are you?” Your voice was small.

In a blink, Bucky resurfaced. He lifted his head from your neck and, still holding you, hadn’t seemed to have heard.

“The baby,” he said quickly.

He stepped back. Lowered his gaze and his hands to trail over your hips and near your stomach, and he stared, as if trying to make sense of something dire. His blue eyes were wide, and they assumed such a look of panic that you feared a blood vessel might actually burst in one.

After all the great lengths he’d gone to, ensuring you were safe and taking extra precautions, on the off-chance you might be pregnant, here you were.

And there he went, sliding his touch lower and lower again until his hand was pressed into your belly, and the gaze you’d once thought soft before had all but melted into tenderness—delicacy. Complete, loving unreserve.

When his eyes met yours a second time, they were shiny.

Wet with the only kind of tears you’d want to see in them.

“You’re really…” he started, just to taper off, blinking.

And then his cheeks were dotted with the tiny, round droplets, and he’d finally ventured a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you couldn’t keep from reaching for him. The second you’d lifted your arms you were back in his, lips and nose smushed against the front of his stained white button-up and breathing deep.

Or trying to, anyway. Bucky had you squeezed so tight to his chest you had nothing but his shirt to inhale at first. You didn’t mind, and when he pulled away a moment later, you realized that your eyes, too, were filling up quick. You had to steel yourself against a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to emerge—the aftermath of a half-dozen traumas laid bare over the last hour—but the longer you were here, and the more your husband stared at you like that, the quicker your courage was depleted. In the span of five seconds, your senses were shot to hell. All you could think was what you could feel, and all you felt was Bucky: his arms and his hands and the raw, blistering heat between your bodies. The rest was noise.

It surprised you both when you kissed him. Physically, your mouth and his were hardly up to do it, injured as they were, but the impulse was strong, and it flowed between you. As soon as your lips latched onto his, Bucky was holding your face, molding his body to yours without so much as a second thought, and the mouth you met was sturdy. Hungry in the way it kissed back.

A string of words from Schröder flashed in your mind—‘Never be safe’—and you grit your teeth together, snagging the cusp of Bucky’s lower lip as you did it. He groaned. Before you could even try to apologize, though, he was gripping your face harder in his hands and coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. His front was still flush with yours, and your legs were starting to wind around his hips. Your husband nudged you back against the cabinets, and from the force of that push, you felt it.

Felt him.

Surely, it had had to take two very fucked up individuals to get all hot and bothered from a bloodbath that had just taken place; but, again, here you were—together.

And there you went, grinding your lower half with his.

“Doll?” Bucky broke out, word slurred just a little.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop you. Your eyes scanned his, and you were already planning to apologize for being so horny, it must just be the—

“You know I love you, right?” he breathed.

You blinked. You were about to nod, when you felt the bulge in his slacks start to rub against your barely-clothed heat, and something akin to a shockwave coursed through your frame. It couldn’t be helped. A monsoon of hyper-sensitized pleasure trembled over the skin in a way you’d never felt it before, and suddenly you were letting out a moan: a muffled cry of, ‘Yes, I-I know.’

Your husband swallowed and stared, slightly taken aback by the reaction his erection had produced. He’d never felt that either. At least from what he could remember.

The truth was that he’d never had a pregnant wife before—someone whose body was now extraordinarily responsive to his touch, nearly aching for him.

When you scooted your butt to the edge of the counter and dug your heels in the backs of his legs, humping him, almost, he got the idea. Bucky swallowed again.

“I love you too, I— I—” you started, already out of breath, “I just really need you to fuck me. Can you— please—”

Bucky didn’t need to be asked once, much less twice. He already had his belt, button, and zip undone before you could even look down, and then your own pyjama shorts were sliding off too. The counter was cool against your skin, but your husband’s warmth was more than enough to compensate for the loss. You smiled again, sheepish.

“It’s just…hormones,” you said, quieter toward the end.

You weren’t sure why you felt so ashamed to simply say, ‘James, I’ve been damn near insane with desire ever since you put a baby in me. Can you give me five more?’ But you did. You felt your cheeks start to heat as your lower half was left exposed to the air, and Bucky slipped his hand down between your legs, practically groaning:

“Honey, you’re soaked.”

There wasn’t one iota of shame in his tone.

He was more than happy to find you drenched beneath his touch. He had a smile on his face and a warmth bleeding from every fingertip as he caressed that soft, tender spot. You didn’t need to tell him what was on your mind, either. He sensed something was making you shy, and rather than have you say it aloud, he just touched you gentler, stroked the skin more affectionately, and tilted his head so only you could hear him, quiet as ever:

“That’s my girl. Feeling good for me?”

You felt your heartbeat between your thighs.

“My baby,” Bucky went on, voice dulcet and slow.

Your body was trembling at the edge, waiting. Impatient.

“My wife,” he said that with a smile, into your neck.

He lowered you onto his length, and you whined.

“Mother of my child.” The smile got bigger.

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Feeling him slide inside the most precious, wet, pliable part of you, stretching you out, you couldn’t help the sounds you made. You felt full in a whole new way; the groan Bucky let out when you were impaled down to the base of his cock said he shared the feeling. He throbbed inside you.

“You’re—fuck.” Bucky’s words broke off at the sensation.

Your walls were as slick as ever, your body delicate, rolling your hips to the first gentle thrusts that his shaft carved inside. Neither one of you could last long like this.

Still, at the threat of sublime pleasure, you felt fear, briefly: Schröder’s implacable stare—and the thousands more like him in HYDRA. You couldn’t help but grip Bucky tighter, willing these thoughts away with the rhythm of your body over his. Feeling him fill you up, fuck you with quick, deliberate thrusts and hold you, ‘That’s it, take what you need, sweet girl, you’re okay.’

You wished you were. You wanted to be. With every stab of Bucky’s hips, you hoped this would be the last night you ever feared for you or your child’s life, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. This was everything your husband’s varied ‘enterprises’ entailed, and a life with him meant never knowing a day without it—fear.

The head of Bucky’s cock grazed an especially sensitive ridge in your walls, and you whimpered into his shoulder.

You smelled blood.

He pushed you back against the counter and pounded harder, breaths heavy and labored and gruff as he spoke:

“You’re okay, baby, it’s alright.”

Your mind tried clinging to that thought, nodding along as if to convince yourself. The pleasure grew stronger, and your body was hot. Everything was heightened. Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes or his lips or his rough, bloodied touch from roaming you wherever he could reach, and he kept rutting his hips, assuring you gently, again and again, that it was all okay. He was right here.

The pleasure from the depths of your body was beyond your control—you couldn’t help it when the band inside of you snapped. You held Bucky closer and you moaned, more desperate and needy and soaking for him, taking something from him, and knowing the bliss you felt would only steal the dark thoughts for a moment or two.

Bucky’s eyes said it just the same. He couldn’t keep stuffing you full, feeling his pleasure hit its peak, and finally painting your insides without sharing that look.

You were less than halfway down from your highs when you felt him go still, panting fast, then hold your face.

“I love you.”

It was desperate. Hoping for something.

“I love you, too,” you told him, and you meant it.

But there was more. Both of you knew there was more.

“I can’t be married to you, Bucky.”

You didn’t know why it had to come out now, but the emotions were there—his gaze had all but drawn it out.

Still sheathed inside you, your husband tensed. He looked as if he might try and shake his head, but the movement was stalled by his own momentary shock. He’d known the words were coming, but the sound of you saying them now wasn’t any less jarring to hear. Before he could reply, you found yourself cutting back in:

“Not now, at least. We need some…time. To think.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, just that your lips were moving and every new word was hurting him more.

“Even with Schröder gone, there are so many…dangers for both—or, all—of us, and I don’t know…I just can’t—”

—imagine bringing a child into a world like this. Like his.

You didn’t need to say it.

The pain in Bucky’s eyes already communicated as much, and the conviction in your own only convinced him that you’d meant it—and what you said was the truth. You couldn’t stay in a marriage that wasn’t safe.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something more, the man surprised you when he squeezed your hand.

Nodding, almost imperceptibly, in front of you.

“I can wait,” he said, “Whenever you’re ready, doll.”

His voice was hoarse, words strained from the lump in his throat as he spoke, but the message was sincere.

“Whenever you feel safe,” he added, softly.

You wanted to hold him again. Like before, your eyes began to well with something stinging and harsh, but the look you’d fixed on him was filled with nothing but love. You would’ve reached for him then, if he hadn’t moved his hand to his pocket. He felt around inside it, briefly.

Then Bucky retrieved your wedding ring.

Holding you up against him, pressed snugly into the counter with your legs still wrapped around his lower half, he pinched the silver band between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to you. It glistened in the light.

“The next time you wear it, I want it to be because you chose to marry me. Not for anything, or anyone, else.”

Nothing arranged, no game, no being forced to stay.

You nodded and had to blink through a layer of tears.

Bucky’s thumb traced the moisture, cupping your cheek in one of his hands. He’d had to keep blinking himself, and before you could reach for him, he kissed you.

“I really hope you marry me again one day, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled, having parted but still holding on.

“I think I would like that, too. One day.”

The next thing you heard was a sound at the front door: what sounded like a crash. Half a dozen sets of feet stumbling inside, crowding the foyer, making a loud, frantic clamor that you and Bucky knew only too well. The two of you scrambled to get your clothes back on as Steve, Nat, Sam, and Sharon all seemed to yell at once.

You had one hell of a story to tell them.

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[starlit-writer]

in sickness and in health, ch. 4 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

here is chapter four!!!! this chapter is shorter than normal, but i needed to get this done for you guys <3 i definitely am excited to continue this, and i hope you are too!!! as always, if you want to be added to the tag list to make sure you stay up-to-date, let me know in the replies! eat well, lovelies <3

if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

word count: 3,070 chapter three masterlist ao3 link

Your head was pounding as you stalked through the hallways of the base, away from the gym. You didn’t know your destination, your heavy, angry footsteps becoming a monotonous beat that kept you from falling over the edge. You were filled with so many confusing and conflicting emotions, which made it hard to think, let alone even begin to comprehend the miserable cocktail thrumming through your veins. Your omega side was so enamored with Simon’s behavior, whining to stay close and let him apologize, but your more logical side wouldn’t let you. What had he done to deserve your forgiveness? 

The short answer? Nothing. Sure, he stayed by you when you were sick, but he was the reason for it to begin with. Past then, it’s been nothing but fights and weirdness, and you hadn’t seen any glimpse of change or improvement. You felt lost and confused - the two sides of your being constantly at war with one another. 

You were so lost in your own internal conflict, you didn’t even notice the other person in the hallway until it was too late, and your face met the hard planes of their chest. The scent of wind-carried sea salt, fresh candied apples, and the dust of a demolition site invaded your senses, and your head whipped up in surprise to find Soap looking down at you. His signature smirk was playing on his lips, but his bright blue eyes shone with concern as his hands settled onto your hips to keep you in place before quickly slipping off. 

“Woah there, bonnie. Where ye headed with all that steam blowin’ out yer ears?” 

You stared up at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - an apt representation of how you felt at the moment. You tried to come up with something, anything to tell him, but no words would fall past your lips. The vitriol you felt towards Simon died in the back of your throat, your omega caught between wanting to defend your alpha and the reality of your situation. So you settled for placation. 

“I’m fine, Soap. Not a big deal.” 

It was a lie passed through gritted teeth, and Soap could tell, especially as you looked away to avoid his eyes. His gaze softened, and he brought a gentle finger to your cheek to force you to look at him. 

“It’s Ghost, yeah?”

You blew out a frustrated puff of air, unwelcomed tears welling in your lash line. You were angry - angry with Simon, with yourself, with your designation, with society as a whole, anything you could possibly blame to even attempt to make sense of all of your emotions. But even anger couldn’t completely mask the bone-deep grief that had settled over you like a lead-lined blanket. All you wanted was to feel normal again. Unfortunately for you, it seemed likely for that to never be the case again. You were bonded to an alpha who, up until a week and a half ago, refused to even acknowledge you outside of mission-related conversations, and now he had become some sort of overprotective, overbearing asshole. 

“I just… I don’t know what to do. I want to hate him. Gods, I want to hate him. But…”

“He’s your alpha.”

“Exactly.” You ran a hand down your face, trying to force the traitorous tears away. Soap sighed in resigned understanding, his hand settling on your shoulder. You couldn’t help but notice how his touch was angled strangely, his wrist turned out in an odd angle that just so happened to press the scent gland on his wrist right into your own scent gland right in the juncture between your neck and shoulder. You weren’t wearing your scent blockers, a medically necessary intervention to try and keep the bond sickness away. Why he wasn’t wearing his, you didn’t know, but it felt rude to point out or ask about. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself that it was just coincidence, a mistake, but the way he pressed his skin further into yours made it hard to believe. 

To confound the emotional turmoil even further, your omega was now not only at war with your logical, rational side, but also itself. Soap’s touch, his scent, felt good. Safe. More familiar to you than even your own alpha’s after the last few months. But that was just the problem, wasn’t it? Soap wasn’t your alpha. He was a part of your pack, sure, but he wasn’t your alpha. And right now? Right now all your omega wanted was your alpha, no matter how upset you were. But, you were far too prideful to actually admit that at the moment. 

Instead, you gently shrugged off Soap’s touch. As his hand slid off your shoulder, an almost sad smile appeared on his lips. “He cares about you, you know?” 

Your gaze snapped back to Soap’s, your lips parted in surprise. Your mind whirled, racing with conflicting thoughts, hopes, fears, and desires. Soap shook his head, that same sad smile accompanied by a small, sad laugh. “He does. He’s just shite at showin’ it. Just… give ‘im a chance, aye?” 

And with that, Soap walks away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his military-issued cargo pants, leaving you completely shocked and stunned. 

—

It was nearing midnight, if the time blinking in a bright red on your alarm clock was any indication, but sleep still stubbornly refused to take you. You were sprawled out uncomfortably on your military-issued bed, the result of tossing and turning nonstop since you had laid down. After your conversation with Soap, if you could even call it that, you picked up a shift at medbay, but even your work, something you had missed deeply in the worst throes of the bond sickness, couldn’t quell the pain and anger. But even worse than the pain and anger was the confusion. Why did Soap act the way he did? It felt like there was more than what he was saying, but maybe you were reading too far into it. And right now, as shit as it felt to say it, it was the least of your problems. 

It had only been a few hours since Simon had interrupted your sparring session, and the bond was stronger than it had been, even with your anger and resentment and the distance that you had created between the two of you. You still couldn’t feel his emotions very well, even when you tried to focus on it, but you just chalked that up to the fact that your own emotions were blocking him out, as strong and volatile as they were at the moment. It didn’t matter to your omega though. Your base instincts were prowling inside of you, your skin prickling with the need to be near your alpha. 

And that’s how Simon’s crumpled up sweatshirt that you had thrown into the corner ended up on your bed, tucked between your pillows as you laid in the dark room. Soap’s words echoed in your ears, his Scottish brogue repeating to just give Simon a chance. You were so tired. Tired of everything. The type of bone deep exhaustion that you knew a simple night’s sleep wouldn’t fix. And that type of fatigue only brings weakness, and weakness brings irrationality. Plus, Simon’s sweatshirt was losing its scent, leaving your omega side even more on edge. Even though you hadn’t touched it until tonight, it had been sitting in the corner for a week, and it barely held the residual scent of the harsher scents of Simon’s pheromones. You knew that already, as you had unabashedly buried your face into it a few minutes ago to try and subdue your omega side enough to find sleep. But instead of finding the smoked pine, wet gunpowder, and a freshly-lit cigarette smell you knew should be there, you found it all smelling stale and rotted, which only made your omega freak out more. 

You flopped onto your back, a groan of frustration leaving your lips. You picked up your phone for the umpteenth time that night, but this time your finger hovered over Simon’s contact. Soap’s words whispered in your mind again, but this time, you listened. 

Your fingers flew across the screen before your more rational side could stop them. 

Hey. Are you awake? We need to talk. 

You threw your phone down onto your bed, your hands flying up to cover your face as another groan of frustration pushed past your lips. You hated this. All of it. You wished you could go back in time and somehow stopped all of this from happening. But, it didn’t work like that. 

Simon wasn’t in any better of a state than you. He rarely slept as is, but he had found it especially hard since you had left his quarters. His thoughts were all consumed by self-deprecation and fear, and those thoughts became especially loud in the darkness of his quarters, where your sick, rotted scent still clung to his bedsheets from where you had laid for those three days. When he heard his phone buzz from where it lay face down on his bedside table, he had half a mind to ignore it, just as he had done with everything other than work the last week and a half. But something told him that it was important. He sighed, stretching his arm out to blindly grab at the device from where he was laying face down in his bed. He looked at the bright screen, his eyes adjusting to the light. As soon as he saw your name flashing across his screen, he flipped over and sat up. His heart raced as he read your text, so many worst-case scenarios flashing through his mind. 

He normally wasn’t the type to worry like this. To feel anything for anyone, as evidenced by the neglect he had put you through. But, after seeing you so close to death, and his conversations with Soap and Price, he had noticed it more and more. This all-consuming desire to protect you, to be what you need. But, he would still stand by what he told you that very first day, before you had passed out. If you still wanted to break the bond, he would. 

He just hoped that this wasn’t what this conversation was going to be about. 

Do you want me to come to yours or do you want to come here?

His response was short, succinct. The detached words completely betrayed the way his hands shook as he typed out the response carefully, trying to give you the space to make the decision without being too overbearing. 

Your response didn’t come on his phone. Instead, 10 minutes later, there was a soft knock on his door. He jumped out of bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants. As he opened the door with one hand, the other was deftly tying the strings of his pants. 

Your gaze fell down to the movement, your cheeks heating up in a flush of embarrassment before your gaze snapped up to Simon’s. Your tongue felt heavy, uncertain of itself. “Hi.”

Your scent hit Simon at full-force. You smelled better than you had the last time you were in his quarters. Your warm, caramelized vanilla, full of spice and the thinnest layer of medical antiseptic and gunpowder. It smelled much more like you, right, but there was still something off. You smelled… defeated, almost, like you had given up. And, maybe, you had. 

“Hey,” he whispered back in response. He felt uncertain, something he wasn’t familiar with. “You said we needed to talk?” 

You looked down at the floor, biting the corner of your lower lip. You knew what you needed, what your omega wanted, but your logical side was holding you back. You nodded slightly, keeping your gaze averted. “Can I come in?”

Simon nodded, even though you couldn’t see it, and stepped back. You stepped inside, letting the door fall closed behind you. You looked around the room, noticing how much it hadn’t changed. Simon’s sheets were mussed up, and it was clear that he had been tossing and turning just as much as you had been. You sighed softly, running a hand down your face. Your omega side was whining, begging to be wrapped up in Simon, but it had finally started to settle down being within Simon’s quarters. 

Simon stood awkwardly behind you - like a puppy afraid to be seen. You felt the emotions radiating off of him, smelled it in the air. His normal scent had soured slightly, but you could tell he was trying to hide it. You glanced over your shoulder at him, and, sure enough, his hand was clamped over one of his scent glands to try and dampen the scent. He stared back at you, his brown eyes filled with a sad warmth. A frown tugged at your own lips as you saw the sadness in his gaze, a strange feeling of guilt flaring in your chest. 

“What did you need to talk about?” He asked softly, his gaze unwavering from yours. 

Strangely, just hearing those words from him broke something in you. Maybe it was the fact that you were exhausted, your omega so wounded and confused, or that you were so tired of being enemies - whatever the reason, it truly didn’t matter. Tears started to well in your lash line, your eyes closing to try and fight against the unrelenting tide. In the brief watery moment, you saw Simon’s face morph into thinly-veiled panic, and right when your eyes closed, you felt his arms wrap around you. 

“Hey, hey, love, shhh…” Simon muttered softly as he shifted his body to press completely against yours. Your hands came up to rest on his bare chest as the tears started to flow freely. Your chest stuttered as you tried to force air into your lungs, but this was all too much and yet, not enough. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you.”

You shook your head, but you weren’t quite sure what you were denying as the tips of your omega claws dug slightly into the thick muscle of his pectoral. “I… I’m tired, Simon,” you whispered in response, your voice weak and shaky. “I’m so, so fucking tired.” 

He pressed you further into his chest, your head slotting perfectly under his chin. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Do you want to talk about it?” 

You shook your head again, not trusting yourself to speak. Not trusting yourself to keep the armor of spite and anger that you had carefully crafted over the last few months at bay. You knew what you needed. From both yourself and him. 

Vulnerability. 

“Tell me what you need, love. Please. You’ve done such a good job blocking me out, I can’t get a read on you. I need you to talk to me. I want to help you, but I can’t without words.” 

“I-I didn’t do it on purpose,” You sobbed out, pressing your face further into his skin, angling it to get as close as you can to the scent gland on the underside of his jaw. 

A small grumble shook in his chest as he pulled you impossibly closer, a huff rustling your hair. He placed his lips against the top of your skull gently, rocking the two of you slightly as you wept. “I know,” he muttered, his lips brushing your hair tenderly as he spoke. “It’s my fault. I pushed you away. I fucked up. And I ain’t gonna stand here and make excuses anymore. There was reasons for why I reacted the way I did, but… now’s not the time to go into them. Just know that… I’m here for you. I got you, love. In every and any way that you want me.” 

“I don’t know how to forgive you.” The words were small, little more than a breath of shaky, pain-filled air that brushed against the thin, delicate skin of his throat. 

And, fuck, if that didn’t stab him through the chest like a twisting blade. He knew he deserved it, gods, he knew it, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I know,” he whispered in response, but his voice lacked any real strength. He sounded hollow, like your whispered admission had completely shattered him. “I know.”

“I’m just so tired,” you repeated, your voice breaking on another sob. “I don’t know what to do, I’m so fucking… I’m torn, Simon. Every day the logical side of my brain and my omega have been at war with each other, and I’m so fucking tired of fighting it. I give up.”

“You… you give up?” Simon whispered, his voice coated in shock. 

You tilted your head up higher, moving away from him just enough to look up at him fully. Your cheeks were streaked with tears, the skin red and swollen. For the first time in a long time, you could feel his emotions through the bond. The shock, the self-hatred, the pain that ricocheted through his body felt almost like your own. Even through the onslaught of his emotions, you could feel your heart, which had been so cold and detached to his, warm slightly. He cares. You blinked, trying to will the tears away enough to look at Simon - really look at him for the first time, probably ever. 

“I give up on pretending I don’t need you.” 

Simon blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“What?” he mumbled, his voice still filled with shock. 

“At least for now. I’m tired of fighting it. All of it. And I might not know how to forgive you, how to trust you outside of a battlefield, but I’m tired of sleeping in an empty bed away from the man I’m mated to. I’m tired of avoiding each other like the plague. I’m tired of feeling like I’m incomplete. I’m just… tired.”

Tired. Simon could work with tired. The trust and the bond strengthening and all of that can come after. But, it’s a chance. And that’s all he needed. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” 

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. You knew you couldn’t run any longer. And you knew that this, even just for a night, would help soothe your omega. The actual conversation can wait until the morning.

tag list: @kerst666 @misscaller06 @letaliabane @sai-int @itsmeamysworld @massivescissorsthingperson @aeeliy @alkalineapparition @cringeycookies @trulovekay @luvlyleah276 @mundanenonsense @unclearblur 

[ct-multifandom]

Big day for annoying people (me)

The two new eps of ML were good? Like wow it’s been great so far except ep 3 was comparatively a flop imo. Werepapas was so, idk, enticing lore-wise but I don’t have much to say that other people haven’t except that they’re clearly NOT neglecting past plot points, making the tone too silly goofy all the time, nor retconning important stuff like some people worried they would. We have been FED. I’m sure Felix is involved in that ring bs somehow, but idk if his intentions are pure or not.

Warning for the only salty thing I’m gonna say on this post: I’m so tired of going into the fandom tag and seeing people whining about “bad writing” problems that literally never happened based entirely on their own incorrect predictions they made up to make themselves mad. Ugh anyway. This post is gonna be about small details I latched onto in Daddycop!

We got to see glimpses of Sabrina and Max’s rooms this ep! Max’s room looks like a Star Trek spaceship but the books on his bookshelf are kinda giving those reference books at the library of like, archived government documents or research papers iykwim whereas the books in Alya’s room look like manga. An interesting thing I noticed in Sabrina’s room is that she has a line of framed certificates on the wall, maybe academic awards or something similar

Did they ever say if Markov can see Kaalki or not? I’m sure they will eventually but idk which option I like better. It’d be cute if they were friends but it’d be pretty funny if he had to watch Max talk to the secret floating ghost who lives with them now and not question it

List of things Sabrina dumps in the trash: yellow nail polish, the brooch Chloe gifted to her/bribed her with in season 1, the cat ear headband from her Chat Noir cosplay when she and Chloe were roleplaying as him and Ladybug in season 3, a beret, maybe the one Chloe tried to bribe her with in s1, Chloe-style sunglasses, a Queen Bee doll, a photo of them together in the old animation, and a mug/tumbler? Maybe a gift from her as well idk maybe they’re selling Queen Bee-themed Stanley cups over there.

:((((( Aw Sabrina nooo I hate seeing her so sad and the way she lied to her dad so he would think she’s happy and has friends

I think this might be the first time the show referred to Fire Captain Hessenpy by name?

Marinette’s scooter has the T+S logo on it and a sticker that says Boulangerie Paris

Between eps 2 and 4 I’m getting the sense that Sabrina uses Miss Hound as an escape kinda like CN where she feels like she can become instantly likeable, trustworthy, helpful, and useful through the inherent credibility of being a superhero. She has anonymity, can sort of start over on a blank slate, and is automatically implied to be a good person since Ladybug entrusted her. I’m guessing we’re gonna see more of that blank slate idea with other characters and what they’ll do with it, but it’s telling that Sabrina decides to transform to resolve people’s minor inconveniences, especially when she’s feeling bad about herself. It’s like she’s proving a point to herself but also giving herself something productive to do.

The GIRLS Ahhhhh let’s go lesbians

Noticing a clear absence of Alix. Ik the special implied she has to keep hiding in the burrow from Lila but she’s all normal-looking in the intro and they can’t shelve her forever. I feel like something is gonna change to make her be able to return.

^^^ ALSO she’s the only hero with zero design updates and my theory is that the purpose of that is so she can do contrived time nonsense like going back to earlier seasons and going forward without contradicting anything or revealing which time period she’s actually from

I gotta say the side character writing has progressively been better and better throughout the show. Atp they really feel like actual people with their own opinions and motivations. In the early days they felt more like lovable NPCs who talked occasionally but now they’re real characters? With free will? I feel like I just watched Pinocchio get turned into a real boy

The pro-healthy eating censorship/propaganda/whatever in this show is so funny omg. Juleka: I brought fruit tea Mylene: wow that’s so much better than the sugary soda we had last time LMAO. To balance out Rose holding a bag of popcorn they gave Zoe two burlap sacks full of oranges which tbf I’d rather snack on those during a movie than popcorn but still. I saw a vid recently about gravity falls adding random bowls of fruit next to characters eating junk food because they were getting flagged as promoting unhealthy habits. I keep thinking about that moment in Ikari Gozen when Mari asks Kagami out for “juice” when any normal teen would’ve said “coffee” like nope no caffeine in my good Christian miraculous

Love Kagami being a pretentious film nerd go hang out with Nino

RED ALERT YOU GUYS Mylene has an inclusive pride flag pin on her overall strap. Like the rainbow flag with the trans triangle and the black stripe. It’s not subtle or anything it’s just right there wow. Damn

The pin above it reminds me of Timebreaker’s logo. I wonder what some of these pins mean

Ok last season they seem to have established that Sabrina became friends with Marc and Nathaniel who were both explicit Sabrina Supporters since their akuma episodes, so it feels sort of convenient that they were written out of the narrative for this ep. I do see the whole Girl Squad thing and how she feels excluded when all the girls in the group hang out together without her, doing traditional girl things like movie night sleepovers, so I do think it’s totally valid. Her having absolutely zero friends is hyperbolized though.

On that note I have to wonder if the school might have several lunch periods because none of the male characters expect Adrien and Nino were there. Or maybe they just stage the scene with whoever is convenient. They might have flexible lunch schedules and all the other characters are off somewhere else.

Rose mentioned a girl whose name I didn’t recognize and after rewinding i can’t tell what she said. Aglie? New character? Maybe she’s that black girl with pink hair who was sitting with Adrien, Nino, and Sublime at lunch

KAGAMI AND ONDINE ARE CANONICALLY FRIENDS this is like the Superbowl for me. I’m so excited for Sleeping/Princess Syren I need to see her.

God the girls were so messy in that scene where they didn’t want to invite Sabrina lol I kinda love it I can’t even be mad

Zoe, your lab safety is atrocious. Not only are you taking your goggles off while still in the lab, but then you *leave the room* and *touch someone* with your gloves still on?! Diabolical. What are they even doing, soldering computer chips?

Marinette when I catch you Marinette

Roger’s relationship with Sabrina is actually so cute even though he’s kinda misguided as a person GOD when he’s on his way to console his crying daughter and Lila enters his mind space and he’s cradling his arms like he’s clearly seeing her as his baby 🥺 nobody talk to me

Alexa play I bet on losing dogs by mitski. Myyyy baby my baby…

We got a glimpse of the baddest bitch in Paris Xavier Ramier I’m so happy

Sabrina shapeshifted her necklace into a brooch. Huh. I guess you can just do that

The power of believing in herself allowed her to yassify her own character design into a cuter and more fashionable superhero! This is basically just like real life if you think about it

Her ball has a doggy nose on it awww

Lila telling Roger to turn around so she could back him up and fire the anti akuma was badass okay

I’m not sold on the loud ass makeup they have a lot of the characters wearing so I’m glad we got to see the girls with clean faces at the end there. Wow they look so normal! I’m also loving the pajama designs. I had to pause and look at all of them.

Zoe had to stop and hit Sabrina with that rizz stare to make sure Sabrina wouldn’t be coming up with any platonic explanations for her behavior

I never thought I’d say these words, but I think a love triangle between Sabrina, Zoe, and Max would be fun. Imagine Zoe is into Sabrina, Sabrina isn’t exactly catching the hint and sees Zoe as a really nice friend, Sabrina kinda likes Max, and Max is like damn these bitches gay. Good for them.

The end card is so baby omg

I TOLD YOU GUYS Sabrina was gonna get a makeover and people were like uH No iTs JUsT An aNimATioN eRroR oF a ScRApPEd DeSiGn girl why the hell would they leave a scrapped design in the intro, and there’s no way they would accidentally not notice that much less repeat it

Mark my words white haired Caprikid is not an error either he’s real and he’s gonna collect all the chaos emeralds to get that way

A new diabolical twink has hit the scene. Ray’s pompous ass immediately reminded me of Preminger from Barbie. He looks like he rides horses. Like he tells people he’s into sports but then you find out the sport is just horse riding. Immediately invested. Who is this diva. I want him to get hit by a bus.

Ooooo Zoe was up to some Delinquent Shit in America this is so juicy. I looove when suspiciously perfect characters get revealed to be secretly fucked up that’s the best. I’ve always loved those types of headcanons, that she was expelled from her last school and moved to a different country all of a sudden for her mom’s PR. If you think about it, that’s exactly what happened to Chloe damn. Daughter commits PR disaster, do zero parenting about it, relocate daughter far away to start over with little consequence! I wanna see some parallels. I feel like she made it sound like she moved because she was getting bullied at her old school, but what if that was a lie, or at least a partial lie? You know shit’s serious when the exposition is in the post-post-endcard scene

The pacing of these episodes has been satisfying compared to previous seasons, especially 5. They aren’t trying to shove too much in, but there’s still a lot happening and fiiiinally a nice mix of plot and fighting. I was getting irritated by how rushed a lot of the fights were last season like might as well just not have them at all

Late edit: back to the pajamas because I forgot to analyze them, I have noticed that Juleka’s pants have bats on them :) frickin bats. They also have like… a crescent moon with something sitting on it? idk what that is. It’s like a pattern of cute spooky Halloween imagery. But the pants and her black lace tank top versus Rose’s sparkly pink unicorn onesie is adorb.

Zoe has a yellow tank and seems to be wearing her usual leggings under running shorts um? Outside clothes in bed? And her pink slides give the whole thing a sans undertale vibe. Oh what the fuck why do the feet of her tights have individual toes lmao. The horror. I hate it.

I can’t tell what Mylene is wearing except a black t-shirt that might have something white on it. OMG EDIT 2 ITS IVAN’S T-SHIRT FROM HIS OLD DESIGN YOU GUYS SHES WEARING HER BF’S OLD BAND TEE AS PAJAMAS. This is headline news myvan nation. She has maybe pink shorts and her slippers look like Uggs.

Kagami’s silk pjs look luxurious. I love how her clothes this season went from just preppy to being very obviously EXPENSIVE like she’s blending in with the gang but she’s still clearly rich af.

Sabrina’s pjs are a classic set with her usual argyle pattern on them. 10/10 would give her a warm glass of milk and read her a bedtime story. I wonder what she needs eye drops for because she told Roger she needs to pack them.

Excited to see more yay! I love the little details. It’s kinda a bummer that Sabrina spent most of her hero focus ep sobbing but we ball (see what I did there) and the end was so cutesy. So excited to probably watch episode 11 before episode 6

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

Starting a Yellowjackets tag!

I want to get my mind off of things so: If you want, answer any or all of the questions below and tag 10 people (or however many you want) who also might want to share! I would love to see what you guys have to say!

1. Are you team Rational or Supernatural?

2. Who is your favorite teen timeline character? Favorite adult timeline character?

3. What is your favorite needledrop?

4. What is your favorite ship?

5. What is your favorite episode?

6. Who do you want the Antler Queen to be?

7. What is your favorite scene in the entire series?

8. A theory or prediction you have about Season 3?

9. Which character do you relate to the most, and why?

10. What is the craziest thing you’ve done in the name of Yellowjackets?

Bonus:

11. What’s your most controversial Yellowjackets take?

—

Here’s mine!

1. I am mostly Team Rational because I love the way this show depicts trauma but I also love seeing the supernatural side of things through the survivors’ eyes if that makes sense.

2. Natalie in the teen timeline because I love her compassion and softness underneath the front she puts on. Lottie in the adult timeline because I love her internal battle with herself and how afraid she is of her own mind. Misty is a close second in the adult timeline!

3. “Cornflake Girl” playing while Nat sees the mossy tree for the first time, Callie seeing the Adam Martin driver’s license in the barbecue, and Shauna eating Jackie’s ear. It just goes so perfectly with everything that’s going on (especially the elevated piano while Nat and Travis are scaling the mountain and the lyrics while Shauna takes the bite!)

4. LottieNat is my favorite ship I can’t help it Nat and Lottie are my favorite characters so having them together is a dream (TaiVan, JackieShauna, and TravNat are up there, too).

5. 1x09 “Doomcoming” is just amazing and captures everything I love about Yellowjackets. I love when they let the girls go batshit crazy, hoping we get more Doomcoming vibes in S3.

6. I want the Antler Queen to be Natalie because that would show a true descent for her in the Wilderness from being the most morally grounded one to the leader of the group at their most unhinged and primal. But honestly I think that Shauna might be the AQ after all…

7. I think the Jackie-eating scene is the best in the entire show. The “Climbing Up the Walls” song choice, the bacchanal feast flashes as a way of coping with the horror of what they’re doing, seeing them go fully feral for the first time, it’s such a well crafted scene.

8. I know this probably won’t happen but I’m just going to throw it out there that Cabin Daughter is alive and she will be revealed to have been Javi’s “friend”!

9. I relate to Shauna the most because I also admittedly have a bit of an obsessive/intense personality and I, too, internalize my emotions to a very unhealthy degree sometimes. I also grew up being in love with my childhood best friend who is very, very much like Jackie (and now we have been dating for 7 years!)

10. Mine is a mix of going to a Yellowjackets panel and sitting like 5 feet from the showrunners, doing everything in my power to score early screening tickets to Heretic and Companion, and pretending I was sick so I could go home early from work the day that the S3 trailer came out.

11. The male characters on this show get too much hate🫢 I like Travis, Jeff, Kevyn, and Walter (even though his introduction and storyline are rushed and forced). I don’t like them more than the female characters, but I like them nevertheless and appreciate their contributions to the plot.

No pressure tags! (I’m tagging 15 bc I feel like it) @before-it-felt-like-a-sin @baked-potatoes-rule @jackiesnats @deerest-deer @whodoesnataliehave @stilllsage @fairytwles @glitterfairy-21225 @lesbianforlottie @tr4vnat @lauraleetaylor @cassioo @natsboygirlfriend @soapyjackets @pinkkkkat @natgf123 +literally anyone else who wants to!