#i thought it was something every body did...

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson four: tasting

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: finally, you're ready to learn the next lesson. this time, it's about your mouth—how to use it, what it means to give, and what it feels like when someone actually cares about what you need. but every flick of your tongue and every soft moan makes it harder to pretend it’s only practice.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ f recieving oral, m recieving oral, fingering, handjob, cum eating, praise kink, dirty talk, bucky talks you through it, body worship, sexual harrassment in the workplace (bucky to the rescue), blake is slimy as per usual, reader feels used, bucky not feeling good enough, unspoken feelings, high tensions for the penultimate chapter.

word count: 8.3k

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It had been a day and a half since you’d touched him. Since you’d touched each other.

And still—no text.

You checked your phone again, for the tenth time that hour. Nothing. You typed out three different versions of a message to Bucky, all of which you promptly deleted. One was casual: 

you: had fun the other night 

Another more honest: 

you: i can’t stop thinking about you

The last one was raw: 

you: i don’t want to do this with blake anymore. i want you.

But none of them made it past the blinking cursor. Your thumbs hovered, then dropped. You dropped the phone with them.

The apartment was too quiet. Even your annoying upstairs neighbours were unusually silent today—though the absence of their nightly headboard banging gave you space to think. Unfortunately.

Every time you closed your eyes, you remembered the way Bucky had looked at you. The weight of his gaze. The press of his palm. The way his lips had parted when you wrapped your hand around him, how he’d spilled across your fingers and moaned your name like it meant something.

And maybe that was the part you couldn’t figure out—did it mean something?

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and exhaled hard.

Down the block, at Capitol Hill, Bucky was having a similar crisis.

He was sitting in his office, head in his hands, ignoring two hours of emails and three missed calls from Valentina. His phone sat silent beside him, your name at the top of his pinned messages thread. Still no reply to his text from last night. Still no response to his call earlier in the day. He’d wanted to catch up with you for lunch, but he had no such luck when he called. So instead, he ate alone, some microwavable ramen that tasted like curried cardboard. 

He wanted to give you space. He knew you needed space. But God, he missed you. Not just the way you touched him, though that was seared into his skin—but the way you looked at him. Like he mattered. Like he was more than just some washed-up weapon trying to be useful again. Like he was more than just his past, or some Congressman trying to make amends.

He thought about the way your hands had trembled when you first touched him. About how soft your lips had looked when you whispered that you wanted to kiss him. And now he couldn’t stop remembering the sound of your voice when you came. He’d replayed it in his mind like a prayer.

He shifted in his chair and tried to focus on the report in front of him, but the words blurred. All he saw was you.

Meanwhile, you sat in your kitchen, a half-eaten piece of toast growing stale beside your elbow. You knew you should be getting ready. Blake was picking you up in a few hours. Dinner reservations. What happens on third dates was something you’d heard about in the movies, and you were well aware of the assumption. It was the kind of date you’d once been desperate for.

But now, you couldn’t even bring yourself to try on outfits.

Because the only person you wanted to look pretty for was avoiding you just as hard as you were avoiding him.

You wondered what would happen if you kissed Bucky again. If you asked him for more.

You wondered if he’d say yes.

You hoped he would.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky hadn’t meant to see it.

He was only down on the 12th floor because Valentina had requested a report from Legal, and since her assistant was nowhere to be found, the errand had fallen to him. He’d been grumbling the whole way—until he saw him.

Blake.

Leaning over a receptionist’s desk, grinning too wide.

Bucky paused in the hallway.

The man’s hand was on the desk, fingers curled possessively close to the young woman’s wrist. She laughed nervously, pulling her hand back toward her lap. Her posture tightened. She swiveled away slightly in her chair, but Blake leaned in closer.

“You know I could get you transferred upstairs if you wanted,” Blake said, low, slick. “Better office. Better view. Maybe I’d even give you my seat.” He patted at his thigh and Bucky felt himself recoil as he watched from a far.

The woman’s lips curled in a polite smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s not necessary, sir.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be shy now. I’ve seen you looking.”

“I haven’t been—”

Before she could finish, Bucky stepped forward in one big stride, voice like steel.

“Problem here?”

Both their heads snapped toward him. Blake’s mouth froze in a smug, half-open smile. The woman—Marianne, Bucky remembered—immediately sat straighter in her chair. Her relief was palpable.

Blake straightened like nothing was wrong, and brushed his suit down. “No problem at all. Just offering some professional advice, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Marianne gave a tight, uncomfortable smile.

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Why don’t you go take your lunch, Marianne?”

She hesitated, glancing between the two men. “But I—”

“I’ll let HR know you’re stepping out. Take your time.”

Marianne stood, gave Bucky a grateful look, and slipped out down the hall without saying another word.

Blake’s smile faltered. “Barnes. Something I can help you with?”

“You bothering her?” Bucky asked, calm and quiet.

Blake blinked. “Excuse me?”

He nodded toward Marianne’s retreating figure. “The intern. You bothering her?”

Blake let out a laugh, like it was all a joke. “She’s fine, man. Just a little friendly banter.”

“She didn’t look fine.”

Blake’s posture stiffened. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“No,” Bucky said, stepping in closer. “You’re not taking it seriously enough.”

For a moment, the office hallway fell silent. Phones rang behind closed doors. Footsteps passed. But here, in this space, the temperature dropped.

“You think that kind of behaviour flies just because you’re wearing a suit and a smile?” Bucky continued, his tone still calm, still measured. “You think she’s lucky to have your hands on her?”

“Alright, ease up,” Blake said, putting up both palms. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You were trying to touch her,” Bucky said, unmoved. “I saw it.”

Blake laughed, but it was more uncomfortable now. “You really gonna get all righteous on me, soldier?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh come on,” Blake scoffed. “Is this about her?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Blake smirked. “Thought so. You’re protective, I’ll give you that. But let’s be honest—she’s with me. Not you. You’re just the backup plan she keeps around for emotional support.”

Bucky took one step closer. No threats. No dramatics. Just that look. The one he used to wear before snapping a man’s wrist clean through.

“She ever tells me she wants to be with you?” he said, voice quiet and graveled. “Then fine. That’s her choice. But if I see you lay a hand on another woman like that again, I won’t be as nice.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “You threatening me?”

Bucky smiled—but it wasn’t kind.

“No. If I were threatening you, you wouldn’t still be standing.”

A pause.

Blake shifted in place, the false bravado starting to fray. “Jesus. At the end of the day, Bucky, you’re just another terrorist who got let off. You should be rotting in prison for the things you did. Hell, if it were up to me, you’d already be six feet under. You only got off because you were Captain America’s boyfriend. He was your leverage.”

That made Bucky laugh—sharp, humourless.

“You want to talk about leverage?” Bucky scoffed incredulously, metal fingers curling into a fist. “Yeah. Maybe I got off lucky, but at least I’m working on myself. I’ve paid my dues, trust me. But don’t act like your record is clean, too, Blake. Tax evasion, money laundering, sexual harassment, you’re a fucking villain and everyone here in Congress knows it. You just aren’t used to people standing up to you, but I promise, Blake, I am not afraid of men like you.”

Blake’s mouth snapped shut.

“I’m not the Winter Soldier anymore,” Bucky added. “But if you think I’m scared of someone who hides behind veneer smiles and weak handshakes, you’re even dumber than I thought.”

He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because the thing is, Blake, she’s not yours. She never was. And when she figures out what kind of man you really are?” A beat. “She won’t look back.”

Then Bucky turned on his heel and walked away, fists clenched, chest burning, your name like a war drum in his head.

The fury still simmered in his chest as Bucky stepped out of the elevator and into the building’s courtyard. The city buzzed beyond the iron gates, but in here, it was all manicured hedges and grey stone benches—polished, pristine, and sterile. He spotted Marianne sitting alone near the fountain, lunch tray untouched on her lap, fingers picking absently at the edge of her sandwich.

She looked up when he approached. Her shoulders tensed for a beat, then softened.

“Hey,” she said, voice small but steady.

Bucky offered a quiet nod, then sat down beside her—not close enough to crowd, but close enough to be there.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Marianne hesitated. “Yeah. I mean… I will be.”

He didn’t speak. Just gave her space.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” she added. “He’s just… persistent. And I didn’t want to be that intern, you know?”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You’re not that intern. You’re a person. And you get to feel safe at work.”

She glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I saw what he did,” Bucky continued. “That wasn’t friendly. That wasn’t harmless.”

Her eyes dropped to her tray. “It’s not the first time. I just thought I was imagining it before.”

“You weren’t.”

A long pause stretched between them. Bucky let it sit.

“If you want to report it,” he said eventually, “I’ll back you up. Whatever you need. Witness statement, going to HR with you. All of it.”

She blinked. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “No one should have to deal with that alone.”

Marianne smiled, soft and tentative. “Thanks, Congressman Barnes.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Bucky’s fine.”

Her smile widened slightly. “Thanks, Bucky.”

He stood after a moment, brushing off his hands.

“I meant what I said,” he told her. “If he does anything else—if you ever feel uncomfortable—you come find me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Marianne nodded, gratitude written across her face.

As Bucky walked back toward the building, he didn’t feel any better. The ache was still there, tight and low in his gut. Because all he could think about was you—laughing at Blake’s jokes, smiling politely while he ordered for you, unaware of the kind of man he really was.

And the worst part? Bucky wasn’t sure how to tell you.

But he had to.

Before you got hurt.

──── ୨୧ ────

Your bedroom was a mess.

Shoes scattered across the floor, dresses laid out like corpses across your bed. You stood in the center of the chaos, towel wrapped around your body, hair still damp and clinging to your shoulders. The steam from your shower still lingered in the air, curling around the perfume bottles and half-drunk glass of wine on your nightstand.

You’d tried on three different dresses already. Too bold. Too plain. Too tight. Nothing felt right.

And maybe that was because your mind wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

You reached for a fourth option—the little black slip dress you’d worn to Bucky’s birthday a few months ago. It was sleek, silky, and fell over your body like a whisper. You hadn’t thought much of it then, until you caught Bucky looking at you like you’d invented gravity.

He didn’t say anything that night. Just looked. But you remembered the way his throat bobbed when he saw you, how he reached for his glass just a little too fast, how he held the door open like he was afraid to touch you.

And now, somehow, this was the dress you pulled off the hanger.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric cool against your skin. Smoothed it over your hips, adjusted the neckline. Stared at your reflection.

God, what were you doing?

This was a date with Blake. You were supposed to be thinking about Blake.

But your thoughts kept drifting—back to Bucky’s hands on your waist, his breath hot against your ear, the sound of his voice when he told you how perfect you were doing.

Your eyes flicked toward your phone, half-buried beneath a pile of laundry.

4 missed calls. 2 new messages. bucky: Hey, can we talk? bucky: It’s important.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then you turned it over, face-down.

Not now.

The knock at the door came exactly on time.

Blake stood in the hallway, pressed white shirt and slacks crisp, cologne strong enough to reach you before he did. His smile was all charm, all polish.

“Wow,” he said, eyeing you from head to toe. “You really went all out for me tonight, huh?”

You offered a polite smile, stepping outside and locking the door behind you. His hand found the small of your back, then slid lower, fingers brushing a little too close to places he hadn’t earned access to.

You didn’t say anything. You just told yourself it was fine. It was normal. It was what people did on third dates.

So why, as you walked toward the elevator, did you feel like you’d just made a mistake?

Why did the back of your neck still burn with the memory of Bucky’s lips against your skin?

And why did the dress suddenly feel heavier, like it was stitched with guilt?

──── ୨୧ ────

The restaurant should’ve been romantic.

Soft candlelight danced across the cream coloured tablecloths. Jazz murmured from unseen speakers. The gentle clink of cutlery and hushed laughter filled the space, like it was curated for connection. It should’ve been perfect. But all you could think about was how wrong it felt to be here with him.

Blake sat across from you, wearing his most charming smile—the one he used at press events and campaign fundraisers. The one that seemed polished from too much use. He leaned back in the booth like he owned it, scrolling through something on his phone while you looked over the menu. You were starving. But when you said so, he didn’t look up.

“I’ll order for us,” he said, dismissive and distracted.

You blinked, lowering your menu. “Okay… but I am really hungry. So maybe the pasta—?”

“Mm,” he hummed noncommittally. “Salad will be lighter. And sexier,” he added with a wink that felt more performative than playful. “You don’t want to be full for what I have planned later.”

You swallowed down a grimace and managed a polite smile, one you’d perfected over the course of your time together. “Right. Sexy salad. Got it.”

He looked up at the waiter and gestured casually. “We’ll start with a bottle of that merlot. She’ll have the house salad, and I’ll take the steak, medium rare.”

You stared at him. He didn’t look back.

The waiter hesitated, glancing at you to confirm. You gave a small nod, biting the inside of your cheek. It wasn’t worth the scene. You were tired. You were already losing interest in pretending.

Blake finally set his phone aside and leaned in with his elbows on the table, hands clasped like he was about to give a press statement.

“So,” you started gently, “how was your day?”

He groaned dramatically, tossing his head back like the question physically pained him. “Fucking nightmare, honestly. Barnes is still being a goddamn nuisance.”

Your stomach tightened at the sound of Bucky’s name.

You blinked. “What happened?”

Blake waved a hand. “Nothing. He’s just—y’know, Bucky. Always acting like he’s some kind of superhero. Thinks he can question me. Challenge me. He doesn’t get how politics works.”

You blinked again, a little slower this time.

“Right,” you said quietly. “Sounds rough.”

“Exactly,” he nodded, totally missing your flat tone. “I’ve got enough to deal with without Barnes trying to play vigilante in the middle of a congressional office.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched the way he smirked when he talked about Bucky. Like he was proud of whatever had happened. Like he thought he’d won.

The wine came. You drank your first glass too quickly.

“God,” Blake sighed, sitting back and letting his fingers trail along the stem of his glass. “I don’t know what it is lately, but it’s like women are crawling out of the woodwork to flirt with me. At the gym, at the office, even the damn dry cleaner.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He chuckled, pleased with himself. “What can I say? It’s the suit. Drives ‘em wild.”

“But you have me,” you said softly, though you already felt yourself detaching.

He reached across the table, took your hand in his. His thumb brushed your knuckles without looking at them. “Exactly. And you’re the one I’m taking home tonight.”

Your stomach turned.

You pulled your hand back gently to take another sip of wine. He didn’t notice.

The salad arrived. It was small. A few greens, some shavings of parmesan, a faint drizzle of vinaigrette. The scent of his steak made your stomach growl, but you said nothing. You just stared at the sad excuse for a meal and tried to swallow your hunger.

The conversation was one-sided—him talking about campaign numbers and networking events and how the press was spinning stories about him. You nodded and smiled when appropriate, but your thoughts drifted more and more with each minute.

You thought about Bucky’s apartment. About how he always asked you what you wanted. How he never presumed to know better. How he listened—not just with his ears, but with his whole damn body. And how, when you touched him, he looked like he was feeling you, not just using you.

Here, with Blake, you felt like wallpaper. Like something nice to have on display.

“I’ve got a speech next week,” Blake said through a bite of steak. “Maybe you can help me go over it. You’ve got a nice voice. Be good practice.”

You blinked again. He still hadn’t asked how your day was. Or noticed that you were barely eating. Or that you kept glancing at your phone every time it lit up.

He didn’t know you hadn’t stopped thinking about Bucky since Wednesday night.

He didn’t see the way you checked your lipstick in the car mirror earlier, not for Blake—but because it was Bucky’s favourite shade.

And as you sat there, your heart heavy with the ache of pretending, you realised something:

This wasn’t a date.

It was a performance. One you weren’t sure you could keep up much longer.

──── ୨୧ ────

Blake's apartment was clean, sterile, and cold—like a showroom. Like no one really lived here.

No photos. No mess. No warmth.

You walked in ahead of him, your heels clicking against the polished floors, and tried to shake the unease from your shoulders. You could still taste the salad on your tongue. Your stomach was half-empty, your head spinning—not from wine, but from the heavy silence between your thoughts.

Blake shut the door behind you and stepped in close. Too close.

His hands found your hips like he had a right to them. Like you were already his.

“You look so fucking good in this dress,” he murmured against your ear, letting his mouth drag along your neck. “Bet you wore it just for me.”

You didn’t answer. You just smiled and let him lead you toward the couch, trying to summon the enthusiasm you’d been so sure of earlier.

He kissed you, just as sloppy as before. His lips moved too fast, like he was skipping steps, teeth clashing into yours. He didn’t cradle your face. Didn’t pause to check your pace. His tongue was already pushing past your lips.

You blinked, heart stuttering. But you let him.

This is fine, you told yourself. Just get through it. Put what Bucky taught you into practice. This is what you wanted, right?

Blake pulled you down onto the couch, already tugging at your dress. “Want this off,” he mumbled against your collarbone, one hand groping at your breast like it was a prop. “Been thinking about you all damn week.”

Your mouth felt dry. You let him undress you. You let your fingers go to his belt, undoing it with practiced movements—Bucky’s movements.

Blake watched, smug and self-satisfied, as you tugged him out of his pants. His cock was already hard, but something about it felt… clinical. He wasn’t trembling under your touch. His breath didn’t catch. He didn’t look like he was about to come undone just from the sight of you.

He leaned back with his arms behind his head. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he grinned. “Go ahead, baby. Show me what you got.”

You froze.

Something in you tensed. The nickname. The detachment. The assumption.

But you wrapped your hand around him anyway. You stroked him, slow at first, then faster. He grunted. Not the soft, desperate groans Bucky made—but flat, self-satisfied sounds. Like he was listening to himself.

He came before you could even think of trying more—quick and messy, all over his stomach and your hand. He groaned again, lazily.

“Goddamn. Knew you’d be good,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded.

You stared down at him. At the mess. At your hand. At how unspecial it all felt.

No build-up. No connection. No heat.

You waited—waited for him to reach for you. To ask if you were okay. If you wanted more.

Instead, he zipped himself up and stretched. “Shit. That hit the spot.”

You blinked. “I—” Your voice caught. “Can I use your bathroom?”

He nodded absently, already reaching for his phone. “Sure. Don’t be long. I’m ready for round two soon.”

Round two. As if you’d been satisfied. As if this had meant something.

You went into the bathroom and locked the door.

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Your lipstick was smeared. Your eyes looked glassy. The mark on your collarbone was starting to purple. But the worst part? You didn’t feel touched. You felt used. Like a body someone passed through on the way to their next high.

It wasn’t even the bad sex. It was the loneliness of it.

The loneliness of not being seen.

You wiped your hand, washed your face, and left without a word.

──── ୨୧ ────

You didn’t cry on the walk home.

You didn’t cry while you showered, scrubbing his touch off your skin like it was something you could erase.

But when you sat down on your bed in your oversized T-shirt—Bucky’s old one, the grey one with the faded Brooklyn print—you finally let yourself feel it.

The emptiness. The confusion. The ache of disappointment. The sharp, hollow realization that you’d done everything right, and still ended up feeling wrong.

You scrolled through your texts, thumb hovering over his name.

Five missed calls. Two messages.

bucky: Everything okay? I miss you. bucky: Just call me when you get this, alright?

You typed, then backspaced. Then typed again.

And then:

you: can i come over?

His reply came instantly.

bucky: Door’s open.

You didn’t knock.

You let yourself in and stepped into the apartment that always smelled like cedarwood and lemon and something warm.

Bucky looked up from the couch the moment he heard the door close.

His hair was damp from a shower, tied back in a loose knot. He was in a hoodie and sweatpants, barefoot, a blanket draped over his legs and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn in his lap. His expression softened the moment he saw your face.

“Oh,” he said, voice low. “Doll.”

You dropped your bag and crossed the room without a word. He moved the bowl just in time for you to collapse into his chest, curling your arms around his middle like he was home. Like you needed to hold on to something real.

His arms wrapped around you instantly. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there.

He held you like he meant it.

You buried your face in his hoodie and breathed him in.

“Bad night?” he murmured, his metal hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulders.

You nodded against his chest. “It was awful.”

He let you sit with it. With him. No pressure. No pushing.

Only when your breathing had evened out did he lean back to look at you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

You hesitated. Then nodded again.

You told him everything—quietly, like you were still trying to make sense of it. The rushed kisses. The way Blake touched you like a prize he’d already won. How fast it ended. How dirty it left you feeling.

You didn’t even mean to tell him so much. But the words tumbled out like you’d been holding them in all night.

“I thought it would feel good,” you whispered, cheeks hot. “I thought… all the things you taught me would make it better. But it was nothing like—”

You stopped yourself.

Bucky didn’t push. He didn’t ask what you were about to say.

Instead, he brushed your hair back from your face with the gentlest touch.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “You were generous with someone who didn’t deserve it. That’s not on you.”

You blinked fast. “I felt… like a prop.”

His eyes darkened. “I hate that he made you feel that way.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I just didn’t know where else to go. I just needed to be with my best friend.”

At that, his gaze softened again. “You’re always safe here.”

He nudged the popcorn back onto your lap. “C’mon. Pick something to watch. You’re not leaving here upset. We’re gonna fix that.”

You sniffled, managing a tiny laugh. “You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

“I try.”

You curled up beside him under the blanket, knees tucked to your chest, your body slowly relaxing into the cushions. You scrolled through Netflix together, debating over action movies, thrillers, even rom-coms—until you landed on something unexpected.

A dark, artsy erotic drama neither of you had heard of before.

You hesitated. Bucky glanced over at you with a tiny smirk.

“Curious?” he teased.

You shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

The opening credits rolled. The room dimmed.

You didn’t notice when your legs ended up in his lap. Or when his arm slid around your shoulders again. Or how the tension in your chest started to melt—just from being here. Just from him.

About thirty minutes in, during a particularly intense scene on screen, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“…you been thinking about lesson four?”

You turned to look at him. His gaze was steady. Warm. Not teasing.

You bit your lip. “A little.”

He nodded slowly, brushing his thumb along the outside of your knee. “Only if you’re ready. Only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long beat.

At his face—how calm it always made you feel. At his hand on your leg. At the tension in his jaw every time the man on screen did something rougher than Bucky ever would.

And then you whispered: “Will you show me how to taste you?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your temple, voice low and reverent.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.”

The room was quiet except for your breathing—yours and Bucky’s, both a little fast, a little shallow.  You’d started with kissing again, and his lips were beginning to feel like home. You were obsessed with the way his fingers traced little circles in your skin or how his tongue swiped across your lower lip, asking for entry, rather than forcing it the way Blake did. It was the little things that made you feel safe. That made you feel loved. 

Eventually, you pulled away, breathless, and sank down to your knees, shuffling between his legs. Bucky handed you a cushion from the sofa to kneel on, always thinking about your comfort first. He sat on the edge of the couch in those soft, gray sweatpants, legs spread, looking up at you like you held his fate in your hands. Your hands slid over his thighs first—solid and warm beneath the fabric. Then you reached up, took hold of the hoodie’s hem, and looked into his eyes.

He let you pull it off slowly, raising his arms without a word. But the moment he was bare, his jaw clenched and his eyes darted away.

Your breath caught.

You hadn’t seen him like this before. Not like this. He was all sculpted muscle, wide shoulders tapering to a trim waist, skin kissed in soft golden tones. But there were scars across his chest and ribs, puckered lines and deeper ridges of old wounds. The place where metal met flesh on his left side—just below the shoulder joint—was angry and red, imperfectly healed. He didn’t try to hide it, but he didn’t flaunt it either.

He sat still, jaw tight, like he was waiting for you to flinch.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you reached out, cupped his jaw in your hand, and leaned in.

“I’ve never wanted to touch anyone like this before,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re beautiful, Bucky.”

His eyes snapped back to yours—surprised, a little wrecked.

“I mean it,” you said, kissing along his jaw, down his neck. You licked the spot beneath his ear and felt him shudder.

“I know you see those scars,” he murmured.

“I do.” You kissed a long, thin line that curved beneath his collarbone. “And I love every one of them.”

His breath caught.

You took your time.

You licked slowly across his pecs, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth of him. Your lips found his nipple, and you sucked gently, teeth grazing the nub, and Bucky’s head dropped back with a groan.

“Oh, fuck…”

You kept going. You lavished attention across his chest, peppering it with soft kisses and warm licks, savouring him. He gave no instruction and just let you do whatever felt right, because to Bucky, all of this was perfect. No notes, no changes. Your hands ran over his stomach, fingers exploring every defined muscle, following the sculpted lines down, down…

You kissed his ribs.

You licked across his abs.

You dipped your tongue into the dip of his navel.

By the time you reached his V-line, Bucky was panting.

“You’re not wearing anything under these, are you?” you asked, voice husky, fingers brushing his waistband.

“No,” he rasped, watching you from under heavy lashes. “Didn’t expect company.”

Your gaze dropped to the thick shape straining beneath his sweatpants. The fabric clung to him, outlining everything—long and heavy, head already wet and darkening the cotton. He twitched beneath your stare.

You pressed your mouth to the waistband and kissed him through the fabric.

His whole body jolted.

“Shit—”

Your hands gripped his thighs again, just above the knees, grounding yourself as your mouth moved—slow, hungry kisses up and down the shape of him. You pressed your tongue against the wet spot and lapped at it through the fabric. His cock throbbed in response.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he hissed, jaw clenched, hand gripping the back of your neck.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips curling in a soft smile. “You taste good through your pants. What do you think I’ll do when I really get to taste you?”

His eyes fluttered shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You dragged your nails lightly up his thighs, feeling him shudder beneath you.

“Can I take these off?” you asked, voice low and reverent.

He met your eyes. “Only if you’re ready.”

“I’ve been ready since the moment I saw you tonight.”

He let out a shaking breath, wondering how much of this was the truth, and how much of it was the dirty talk you’d learned in lesson two. He didn’t think too long. Bucky lifted his hips slightly. You slipped your fingers into the waistband and dragged the sweatpants down slow—inch by inch.

And there he was.

Hard and flushed, his cock lay against his stomach—thick, curved slightly upward, precum glistening at the head. His balls were full and heavy, skin pulled taut. 

Of course, he looked the same as he did on Wednesday night, but tonight was different. Tonight, you wanted to devour him.

He watched you, chest rising and falling, long brown hair falling in his blue eyes. His metal fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You leaned forward again, kissing his hipbone. Then lower.

Then… even lower.

You licked up the inside of his thigh, tongue dragging along the sensitive skin there. He hissed through his teeth and his cock twitched against his stomach.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, eyes drinking him in. “Every part of you.”

Your mouth hovered just above the base of his cock, breath ghosting warm across his skin. You felt him twitch, heard the way his breath caught in his throat. He was watching you—always watching you—and something about the way his gaze dragged over your face made your chest tighten.

"You don't have to," he said quietly, voice thick. "You’ve already—"

"I want to." You looked up at him through your lashes, hands curling around his thighs again. “I want to learn everything.”

His jaw clenched. “Jesus…”

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the base of his cock—right where it met his body. His head tipped back with a groan.

"Okay," he breathed. "Go slow. Just… feel me."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You dragged your tongue up the length of him, tasting salt and skin, precum and heat. He was hot, flushed dark at the head, the vein running up the underside throbbing under your mouth.

Bucky choked on a moan. His flesh hand gripped the couch cushion, white-knuckled. “Fuck, sweetheart…”

You pulled back slightly, lips glistening. “Tell me what to do.”

He looked wrecked. Sweaty. Desperate.

"Use your hand," he rasped, voice low and raw. "Start there. Just—yeah. Like that."

You wrapped your fingers around him, stroking slowly, matching the rhythm you remembered from lesson three. His cock throbbed in your grip.

"Now your mouth," he said, eyes fixed on you. “Just the head. Let me feel that tongue.”

You obeyed—parting your lips and wrapping them around the crown of him. He groaned deep, the sound ripped from somewhere in his chest.

“Fuck, yes. Just like that—keep your lips soft. Yeah, baby, that’s it…”

You bobbed slowly, taking him a little deeper, then easing back. Your hand followed where your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting at the base with wet, practiced strokes. You could feel the way his thighs tensed under your touch, how his hips barely resisted the urge to move.

“God, your mouth,” he grunted, watching you like you were something unreal. “Feels so fuckin’ good. You’re doing perfect, angel. You like this?”

You moaned around him and he hissed at the vibration.

You loved the taste of him—loved the way his hips shifted, the way his chest heaved, the way he couldn’t look away. You loved the stutter in his breathing when you took him a little deeper. How his hand—metal now—came to rest gently at the back of your head, guiding but not pushing.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that,” he groaned.

You pulled off with a pop, hand still working him in slow, slick pumps.

You wanted to take more.

You pulled off just long enough to whisper, “Can I go deeper?”

His brows drew together, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—but then pride. Something primal and tender all at once.

“You sure?”

You nodded, cheeks already warm, lips slick and swollen.

His voice dropped a note lower. “Alright. Let me help you. Just breathe for me, okay?”

You nodded again, obedient, and his metal hand came to rest at the back of your head. His touch was light at first—more of a guide than anything else—as you took him in again. Inch by inch, you let him in deeper, pushing past the stretch, the pressure.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured, his voice a grounding tether. “Relax your throat, yeah, just like that—fuck.”

Your throat fluttered around him and he groaned deep, his hips jerking forward just slightly.

You choked.

Your eyes welled up immediately, tears burning as you pulled back with a gasp, coughing around the spit that coated your chin. But your hand never stopped moving, and you were already leaning in again before he could speak.

“Hey—wait,” Bucky said, voice tight, his hand catching your jaw. His eyes scanned your face. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes bright, lips parted. “I want to try again.”

He exhaled slowly, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You don’t have to prove anything, doll.”

“I want to. Please.”

His jaw flexed. And then, softly, he said, “Alright. I’ll take care of you.”

He guided you back to his cock—slow, steady. This time, his grip was firmer, anchoring you as you opened wide and let him slide in deep. The head of him brushed the back of your throat, and you fought the reflex to pull away, blinking past the tears that filled your eyes.

You felt his hand stroke your hair, gentle, grounding. “That’s it… such a good girl. Taking me so fucking deep.”

You moaned around him, and he nearly buckled.

The deeper you went, the more he trembled. His thighs shook. His free hand dug into the couch, metal fingers twitching where they rested against your skull.

“Just a little more, yeah?” he panted. “You can do it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

You pushed until your nose was pressed to the soft skin of his pelvis. You could smell him—salt, skin, sweat—and you swore you’d never forget the way he sounded when you swallowed around him.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. You kept stroking and sucking, your hand gliding tight and slick around the base of him while your mouth hollowed over the head, tongue dragging firmly across the most sensitive part.

His hips jerked—once, twice—and you felt it, the sudden tension coiling deep inside his body.

“Shit—baby, I—fuck, I’m coming—”

The words punched out of him as his cock twitched on your tongue, thick and hard and pulsing.

And then he spilled into your mouth.

Hot, salty ropes of cum flooded your throat, and you moaned softly at the weight of it. He came hard—deep, fast spurts—and your hands gripped tighter at his thighs as your cheeks hollowed to take every drop. He was panting, his chest heaving, abs contracting with every wave.

You could feel his entire body trembling. His metal fingers gripped your scalp—not too tight, but firm enough to ground himself as he fell apart in your mouth.

“Fuckfuckfuck— oh, God,” he groaned, the sound guttural and strained, almost pained with how good it felt.

He kept twitching, like he couldn’t stop. You eased off just a little, letting him slip past your lips with a wet pop, and took the last of it in your hand—watching, mesmerised, as a final lazy spurt coated your fingers. His cock throbbed, angry and flushed, as a pearlescent line dribbled from the tip to his stomach, catching on the hair trailing down his abdomen.

Your breath was heavy, lips slick and glistening, saliva and cum painting your chin. You blinked up at him, dazed and hot and hungry.

Bucky looked wrecked.

His head was tipped back, jaw tight, chest flushed. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his skin, highlighting the scars that scattered across his abdomen. His stomach rose and fell in sharp gasps, and his eyes fluttered open just in time to catch you staring.

At the mess. At the way it clung to your hand, sticky and warm and still dripping.

You licked your lips unconsciously.

He swallowed hard. “You okay?”

You looked up at him, eyes low and heavy, lashes clumped with tears. And then you smiled.

Wordless.

And brought your fingers to your mouth.

Bucky’s eyes widened as you licked the slick from your skin—slowly, deliberately—letting the taste settle on your tongue. God, you were addicted to him. He tasted like salt and skin and heat, and the low growl that rumbled from his chest nearly made you moan all over again.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your smile widened around your fingers as you sucked the last of it clean, letting your eyes lock with his the entire time.

“You’re my favourite taste.” you whispered.

He reached for you with both hands, flesh and metal, and pulled you straight into his lap—burying his face in your neck, his cock twitching against your thigh even as it softened. “You’re driving me insane, sweetheart.”

You giggled breathlessly, and his hands roamed your back, grounding himself in the curve of your body.

The moment he’d caught his breath—barely—Bucky cradled your jaw in his warm hand, drawing you forward into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He tasted himself on your tongue and groaned into it, like he wanted to drown in the way you tasted now. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you close until your thighs were straddling his, your soaked panties brushing against his bare skin.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered against your lips. “But you did. You took it so well. Fuck, sweetheart…”

Your breath hitched.

“I wanted to,” you whispered.

His eyes searched yours, something reverent in the way he held you like you were made of glass. “Now I want to do something for you.”

“Bucky…”

“Let me,” he said, more insistently this time. “Lie back for me. I wanna taste you. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

You blinked at him. Your stomach fluttered so hard it almost hurt.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, before guiding you gently down onto the couch. His hands followed—soft on your ribs, your hips, the curve of your waist—and then he knelt between your thighs like it was instinct. Like it was the only place he wanted to be.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. “Okay?”

You nodded, already breathless.

The underwear came off slowly, and Bucky didn’t take his eyes off you once. He dropped them to the floor without ceremony, then bent low to press his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

“God, you’re soaked,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “That all for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed higher—your thigh, then your hipbone, then the mound above your core. Feather-light, maddening kisses. You arched into him, desperate.

And then his tongue licked one long, slow stripe through your folds.

Your body jumped.

You gasped his name, your hips rising instinctively, and Bucky groaned like he hadn’t tasted anything that good in years. His hands pressed your thighs open wider, thumbs digging into your skin just enough to anchor you down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, licking again. “You taste so good. Sweet and messy. Like you need this.”

You could only moan in response.

He licked you again, deeper now—his tongue flattening against your clit, then circling it, slow and deliberate, like he was memorising the shape of your pleasure.

“You’ve been so patient,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “So good for me. Gonna make you come with my mouth, baby. Gonna show you what it feels like to be taken care of.”

You whimpered, grabbing at the couch cushions behind you. His tongue dragged through your folds again, and then he sucked your clit gently between his lips. You cried out, the sound shameful and wet and desperate, and Bucky didn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

He moaned against your pussy like he was drunk on you. Like the taste of you was better than any high he’d ever known.

And then his fingers joined the party.

He slipped one inside you, then two, curling them up slowly until he found that devastating spot that made your back arch and your breath shatter.

“Right there,” he said softly, lips still brushing your clit. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

You sobbed his name again, your thighs clamping around his head, and he loved it—loved the way you clung to him, trembled under his mouth.

His metal hand stroked along your belly, pressing gently to hold you down, while his flesh hand fucked into you perfectly, curling and thrusting in slow, rhythmic pulses. His tongue circled your clit faster, teasing and stroking in time with his fingers.

You were shaking. So close.

And he knew it.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it. Want you to fall apart for me, baby. You deserve it. Let go.”

Your body locked up, a sob catching in your throat—and then the wave hit.

You came hard, gushing around his fingers, hips rolling helplessly as Bucky moaned into your pussy and kept licking you through it. You gripped his hair, gasping his name over and over, your vision swimming as your orgasm ripped through you.

He didn’t stop until you begged him to.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, chin slick with you, and he looked—wrecked. Like he’d loved every second.

He kissed your thigh again. Then your belly. Then made his way slowly, reverently, up your body until he hovered over you on the couch, brushing your hair out of your face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded, utterly wrecked, and whispered, “That was… insane.”

He smiled softly. “Good.”

You blinked up at him. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

He smirked, lowering himself beside you, pulling you into his chest. “Guess I’ve had a little practice.”

You laughed, breathless, and curled into him as his arm wrapped around you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

You didn’t need to.

Bucky didn’t let go of you.

Even after your breathing slowed and the tremors in your thighs faded to a gentle hum, his arm remained snug around your waist, metal hand curled protectively over your ribs. He kissed the top of your head like it was instinct, like your body belonged nestled into the cradle of his chest.

You didn’t speak.

Neither of you needed to.

The soft flicker of the Netflix menu glowed faintly in the dim apartment light, casting shadows across his face—the sharp cut of his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, still bare. You traced the faint lines of his scars with your eyes, the soft pink trail over his pec, the metal glint of his shoulder. He caught you looking, but didn’t flinch this time.

“I meant it,” you said softly, fingers brushing over the curve of his collarbone. “You’re beautiful.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking to yours. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

His jaw flexed. “Because I don’t deserve—” He stopped and closed his eyes.

You watched the hesitation flicker across his face—the way vulnerability settled into the crease between his brows. He looked younger like this. Softer. Sadder.

You touched his cheek gently. “Maybe, for once, you deserve something that feels good.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t know how to accept it. But he didn’t pull away either. He leaned into your palm, lashes brushing your wrist.

“Stay,” he said suddenly, so low it almost didn’t reach your ears. “Just for a little while. You don’t have to talk. Just… stay.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

He exhaled softly, the sound brushing against your temple. His fingers traced up and down your arm in slow, soothing lines, and you let yourself melt into the warmth of his body—the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the safe, heavy weight of his arm around you.

The buzz of the city beyond the windows faded. The silence between you felt full instead of empty. A pause, not a distance.

Your eyes drifted shut before you could stop them.

And then there you were—your legs tangled over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, and Bucky holding you like he didn’t ever want to let you go.

He watched you for a long time.

Watched the little tremble in your lashes as you fell asleep, the faint parting of your lips, the way your hand stayed pressed flat against his skin like you needed the contact to stay grounded.

He didn’t sleep at first. He just lay there, heart thudding painfully slow, wondering how the hell he was going to survive the next lesson. The last one. The one that might break him.

Because pretending it didn’t mean anything?

That it was just practice?

Was starting to feel like the biggest lie either of you had ever told.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: in comments due to taglist limit

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!):

@sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa @moonlight-sonata99 @sflame15-blog @rapturousfrog @parkerslivia @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @wickedfun9 @daisynotquake @arosewithpower @buckysgirl27 @loki-licious-945ad @dearluuna @riot-sounds @ang0320 @solarperpetua @julesandgems @yes-ilovetowrite @redh00dsbf @alicetesser @loyaltyistoxic @sailorsenshiuranep @yessebastianstanus @poshpinklace @joaquinsgirl @thornsofvelvet @miss-chuchu @xamapolax @avivarougestan @justalittle47 @nutella-hitler @ifilwtmfc @loverofdrewstarkey @cxiiv0 @pivictorious @gummy-dummy @avatarobsessedgirly @buckybarneswife125 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @jadevoir @thisismy-usernamee @loganficsonly @justalittle47 @xamapolax @vroomvroommbtch @peanutbutt3rcup — taglist continued in comments due to limit reach<3

[thenanamis]

“DID YOU JUST…?”

— when you squirt for the first time, and they’re the reason why

i tried something.... don't know if it's up to the mark or not... enjoy if you can :p

KENTO NANAMI

He had you in his lap — full weight, cock deep, legs spread open over his thighs as he fucked up into you with slow, brutal control. One arm around your waist, the other gripping your chin to keep your eyes on him.

"No squirming. You take it like a big girl."

And you tried. You really did.

But the angle, the pressure, the growling in your ear — it built until your body snapped without warning, a slick, helpless burst gushing down his thighs as your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

He froze.

Then looked down. Then up.

And grinned.

"Oh… that’s new." His voice dropped lower. "Did I just make you squirt?"

You nodded, dazed. He pulled you down hard on his cock again.

"We’re not stopping until I feel that again. Twice. Maybe three."

SATORU GOJO

You were sobbing, face-down in the mattress, arms shaking, ass up, Satoru behind you — shirt still on, cock pounding mercilessly into your soaked cunt.

"That’s it, baby. Cry into the sheets. You wanted this rough, didn’t you?"

But you didn’t expect the wave of pressure building so deep it hurt — until you gasped, clenched, and suddenly—

You exploded.

Not a climax. Not just a moan.

A full-body release, soaking the bed, spraying across his abs and thighs as your legs buckled.

He stopped.

Stared.

Then broke into a full-on, breathless laugh.

"Holy shit—" He slapped your ass. "You squirted. From me? God, I’m a fuckin’ legend."

You whimpered, still twitching.

"C’mere. Let’s see how many more times we can get that messy little pussy to gush for me."

SUGURU GETO

He had you bent over the couch. Face down. Hair in his fist. His cock buried to the base, dragging that spot deep inside with every grinding thrust.

"One more, baby. Give me one more. I can feel it in the way you’re clenching."

You opened your mouth to tell him you couldn’t—

But it hit you like lightning.

A raw cry escaped your lips as your body jerked, and suddenly you were soaking the cushions, slick pouring down your thighs, walls spasming around him.

He froze.

Blinking. Breathing hard.

"You’ve never done that before."

It wasn’t a question.

He turned you around, stared down at the mess between your legs, then kissed you rough.

"I want to see that again. Right now. No excuses."

TOJI FUSHIGURO

He was ruining you.

One leg over his shoulder, one hand on your throat, his cock hammering into your soaked cunt like he was angry — deep, brutal, relentless.

"Fucked you dumb already, haven’t I? Thought you could handle it."

And then—something inside snapped.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. You just burst, hot slick gushing from your cunt like it had a mind of its own.

Toji stopped mid-thrust.

Looked down.

Then laughed darkly.

"Oh. You dirty fuckin’ girl." He grinned like a devil.

"No one else gets to see this. You hear me? This mess is mine."

CHOSO KAMO

It was supposed to be slow. Soft. He wanted to take care of you.

But the way your hips rolled? The way your thighs clenched?

He snapped.

Now he had you on your back, knees pushed to your chest, cock sliding deep and hard, forehead pressed to yours.

"Aughhhh.... can’t stop," he gasped. "Feels too good. Mmhhhh..."

You both cried out at the same time.

You clenched, twitched — and soaked him.

A messy, wet burst that covered his abs, his cock, the sheets beneath you.

Choso froze. Eyes wide.Breathing heavy.

"Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head, breathless.

His cheeks went red, and then his lips parted, completely awed.

"You squirted… for me?"

He kissed your forehead, then slowly slid back in, whispering, "Let me try again."

RYOMEN SUKUNA

He had you tied up. Ankles to the bedposts. Wrists above your head.

His cock? Already buried deep.

"I know you can take it woman."

And he fucked you hard. Fast. With every ounce of aggression he could muster. Your tears, your begging — they only spurred him on.

Then suddenly—

You screamed. And gushed.

A thick, hot spurt soaked the sheets under you.

He paused. For once, speechless.

Then— a grin. A growl.

"You desperate little thing."

He slapped your thigh and fucked back in hard, making it wetter, sloppier, filthier.

"That was mine. You’ll do it again, or I’ll fuck it out of you."

[lambkinstock]

confessions

the tale of one (fictional) woman's journey (through fiction). told to you by way of a (fictional) story, featuring (fictional) characters.

✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚✶⋆.˚

If you’re reading this, you’re probably a pervert.

Yeah. You read that right. You’re a sad, lonely little pervert, and we’re all talking about you.

Really, we are. You keep us up at night. All you do is stare at your screen, scrolling and typing and clicking and posting. You’ve probably got a whole queue of posts dedicated to this shit, right? Weirdo. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any friends?

Of course you don’t. You’re here! And if you’re reading this, it’s probably because you went looking for it.

That’s where our problem begins.

Joel clicks his fingers in front of your face. “Hey. Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” you ask, looking up from your phone. You’ve been talking to your only friend again; a gray floating head with shades on. You’re not sure what it is about them, this faceless figure: they just get you.

“Unbelievable,” Joel says. He shakes his head and struts off.

“I was listening,” you call, chasing after him. “I heard you.”

“What’d I say?”

“You said something about immorality. And therapy. About me needing therapy. Right?”

His jaw clenches, releasing some sort of disapproving grunt. He gauges the distance between you, making sure it’s a respectable, appropriate five feet before he responds. “That’s about it, yeah.”

“Yeah…” You scratch your head. “And what do I need therapy for again?”

Well, that sets him off.

His eyes widen in shock. He gestures between your body and his, gaping. “How about you trying to dream up some world where you and I are in a sexual relationship? I mean, my God, Fellow Legal Adult, it’s like you’re attracted to me or something.”

Fellow Legal Adult. This is his new thing, the nickname he’s been using since baby girl is too inappropriate in today’s climate. He calls his fictional daughters baby girl, and you’re wrong and sick and twisted for enjoying the sound of it in his waxy Texan accent.

“I just thought it might be some fun to imagine it,” you admit. “I don’t actually want to do it, I just want to play pretend and maybe write a story about doing it.”

“No,” Joel says. “Writing a story about something is the exact same as doing it. Every work of fiction ever is actually the writer’s endorsement of that thing. Shakespeare has been cancelled for years over Macbeth, or did you miss that Twitter thread?”

You pull at the skirt of your sundress. Shit – my bad, you’re not wearing a sundress. That’s overdone. Also kinda slutty. You’re only wearing it for easy access, right? Come on, now. This isn’t one of those fics from 2023, with zero plot and just sex. We’re better than that. We’re literates.

That’s why we’re on Tumblr.

You pull at the skirt of your frock. It’s now ankle-length and much more self-respecting. “I’m confused,” you reply. “So you’re saying no?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying yes?”

Joel sighs, taking another conservative step back. “No. We can’t. This would be wrong.”

“What’s so wrong with it?” you ask, impatient now. You’ve met all the required terms and conditions of pursuing a romantic relationship with a man who does not, never has, and never will exist outside of the confines of your imagination.

You’re not his best friend’s daughter, because – ew, right? Who the fuck wants to fantasize about a clandestine summer fling with a mature, intelligent man who only has eyes for you, against all odds and rules of society; a man who would put his closest friendship on the line because you are just that insatiable to him; a man who treats you with the respect, trust, and – my God, I’m about to say it – the love that no other boy ever has or ever could?

It’s not like you’re calling him daddy, either. What fucking twisted piece of shit would do that? Doesn’t Joel know about the decades of usage of that term, the sheer number of people who buy into such whimsy, the little fantasy one might like to indulge in while existing on this hellish lump of rock and partake in sex so immoral, so filthy, so – incestuous? And here you are, promising to refrain from such practice. Protecting him and yourself from the dreaded patriarchy, which solely oppresses fictional characters, as everybody knows.

Really, he should be grateful.

Jesus, what else? You dress in a frock and petticoat; your ankles are never on display. You don’t allow yourself the fun of pretty, girlish clothes which feed the patriarchy and may lure the untrained eye into thinking you are – oh, Christ, a child! In actual fact, you’re fifty-two – supremely middle-aged – just like Joel. Actually, you never were a teenager, nor a twenty-year-old, not a dreaded, unsightly, geriatric thirty-year-old at all. And if you ever were, you sure as shit wouldn’t write fiction about it, because it is uncouth, tasteless, and downright predatory to imagine yourself a day younger than you currently are.

No. You marched straight from your poor mother’s body, armed with a smartphone in one hand, X-formerly-Twitter pre-downloaded, with some hefty conservative views to punch into it as soon as you learned how to spell the four most important words: romanticize, fetishize, sexualize and normalize. You’ve spent your entire life hunched over the thing, foaming at the mouth and wiping thick globs of saliva with the back of your hand; screaming at people you don’t know, will never know, and reminding them what ugly, loathsome, untalented, worthless people they are.

What the fuck isn’t there to like about you?

Joel sighs. He shakes his head, then reaches around to his back pocket for his phone.

“I have to check what the people online would say about this,” he says. “You know, the ones with blogs dedicated to policing this kind of thing. They give their summers up for this, Fellow Legal Adult, they’re really brave and inspiring and I owe them a lot for keeping my reputation safe. With all the innocent survivors I’ve killed over the years – not to mention the entire hospital I shot up to save one little girl – I really don’t need a completely fictional relationship to turn me into some kind of bad guy.”

“But it’s just fantasy,” you say. “None of it is real. You’re not even real.”

His jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You scrape together an explanation.

“I just meant: nothing we do actually means anything. We’re just words on this person’s screen. Look at them, reading about us right now. We’re figments of their imagination! I wonder if I have brown or blue or green eyes; I wonder if you have a full beard or you’re the other guy with the curly hair. It wouldn’t matter either way, because neither of us exist! Right?”

“Not the point.” Joel shakes his head, logging in to his account. “It romanticizes unhealthy sex practices.”

“Joel,” you whisper, with love and patience, holding his little brain like it’s a smooth lump of damp clay. “We’re not actually having sex. Same as you didn’t actually blitz a hospital. And anyway, if I consent and you consent, and nobody gets hurt, what’s unhealthy about sex?”

“It normalizes kink and taboo, that’s what.” He nods, dignified, proud of the argument. It took him a whole hour to come up with. His brain grew one wrinkle in the process. For a little extra punch, he adds, “It’s propaganda I’m not falling for.”

“Using normalize and taboo in the same sentence feels a little contradictory, Joel. You’re starting to sound like one of those freaks with a stan account dedicated to Ellie or Tommy.”

He rolls his eyes and shoves his phone back into his pocket. They’re debating the ethics of reblogging other writers’ work right now, and he hasn’t the time to get into it. “You wouldn’t understand,” he grunts. “You’re fetishizing me, you’re glorifying your own abuse and manipulation, and you’re forcing everybody else to be on board with it too. It’s disgusting, Fellow Legal Adult, I’m actually disgusted.”

“Nobody has to be on board with anything they don’t want to,” you say. “That’s a pretty basic rule of thumb in anything, but especially sex. Are you sure you’ve had enough sex to understand the basic concept of consent? Maybe if you spent less time yelling in your tags, someone might want to…”

He laughs. “You’re just a girl who doesn’t know the ideologies she’s playing into.”

“Which ideologies are those?”

He hesitates. “Patriarchy,” he spits out, the word wobbling across his tongue. It sounds like a big word and it victimizes women, so it must be right. It seemed to come up a lot when he asked ChatGPT for an argument which both liberates and subjugates women. He has no idea what it actually means or how it ties into this discussion.

“So, let me get this straight. You think you’re punching a hole in the patriarchy by talking down to women and comparing them to real-life criminals, all for writing some stories on a fandom website?”

He hesitates. Again. He’s not used to having human interaction without his keyboard to hide behind.

Also: he hesitates because he’s not real. I can’t stress that enough. I’m making this dude do whatever the fuck I say. Look, now he’s on a pogo stick. He’s bouncing all over the fucking joint. Joel would never pogo, I hear you say. Too bad! Now he’s going no hands. Damn, this guy’s good.

“Why would women want to fantasize about some of the shit you write?” Joel asks.

Fuck. That’s a great question. I better make him put the pogo stick down.

“Sexuality is a complicated thing,” you reply. “It always has been. We’ve never really understood human desire; that’s kind of why it’s such a heavily-covered topic in media. It’s not supposed to be interpreted literally. The crazy thing is literature is full of metaphors and symbolism, but people only have a hard time understanding that shit when it comes to erotica.”

He scoffs, twisting the pogo stick into the ground. “So you want me to believe you don’t actually want to fuck the people you’re writing about?”

You purse your lips. “I feel like it says more about your intelligence level that you can’t wrap your head around the concept of a metaphor, than it does mine. Maybe you wanna read more books and less anonymous messages?”

“No, thank you,” he says, waving his hand. “I don’t like to be made to feel uncomfortable. By anything. Ever. I live in my bubble of legality and morality. We’re all good people here. That’s why we have an obligation to bully the living shit out of anyone we disagree with, and threaten their personal safety in the process.”

“Right.” You back up, dragging the heels of your sneakers – sorry, your Victorian boots, no ankles. Suddenly, the thought of sleeping with someone so stupid and immature doesn’t feel as fun anymore.

“Where are you going?” he asks, pogoing after you. His voice shudders as the stick makes contact with the earth.

“I think I’m gonna close this doc,” you mumble, gathering your frock as you jog. “I’ll just open a new one and write a version of you who’s normal and doesn’t talk out of his ass as much.”

“Good luck with that,” he replies. “That’s totally out of character for me.”

In one click, he pauses, glitches, pogo stick springing – before he plummets into the recycle bin on your screen. The silence is bliss.

You look around the room. Outside, birds sing and cars soar by on the street. You remember that the real world exists; with real rules and real codes of conduct which help to protect real people. With real patriarchy: not fictional girls in sundresses who like summers of sex, but instead an insidious rot which runs so deep through society, it threatens to permeate the fantastical.

Here on your screen, a blank page and cursor blinking, just waiting for the stories and silliness you might spill into it – none of that shit has to matter. You are safe within the realm of fiction to be whoever you like, do whatever you want. Even shit that makes other people uncomfortable. Think of it like an intellectual jungle gym for adults.

You can paint yourself brave, beautiful, funny, smart, sexy. You can chase your wildest dreams, accomplish the impossible, fraternize with your favorite characters and exist in faraway universes. You can be desired by everybody you ever wanted, or nobody at all. You can explore things that make you feel good, things that make you feel scared, and no harm can ever come from it.

Hell, you might even learn a thing or two about yourself in the process.

That’s the fucking point of fantasy, you incel pieces of shit. Read a fucking book.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗩𝗔𝗔𝗥𝗪𝗘𝗟 max verstappen x fiance! reader ( angst->fluff ) fic summary , you decide to pull a harmless prank on max one quiet morning, teasing the idea of leaving over the smallest things (0.9K)

( main master list | more of max verstappen ) ( requests )

You wake up in Max’s arms — as always.

The room is bathed in sleepy blue light, the blinds not yet open, the morning quiet enough to hear his heartbeat thump steadily beneath your cheek. His arm is heavy around your waist, legs tangled with yours under the linen sheets. He smells like sleep and Max: warm skin, leftover cologne, and a hint of last night’s body wash. You barely shift, and his grip instinctively tightens.

You love him like this. Safe. Close. Yours.

Which is exactly why your heart flutters mischievously with what you’re about to do.

You inhale shakily, masking your smirk as a sigh, and carefully untangle yourself from his hold. His brows twitch, lips part slightly — even unconscious, he doesn’t like it when you leave the bed.

You kneel by his side and gently nudge his shoulder.

“Max,” you whisper softly, as if you’re trying not to wake him but also needing to.

He hums, brows still furrowed. “Hmm?”

“I need to tell you something.” Your voice trembles, and it doesn’t have to be fake — the prank is already starting to hurt you more than you expected.

That gets his attention. His eyes blink open slowly, clouded with sleep, but they find you immediately, like they always do. Still hazy, still tender. “What?” he rasps, voice dry and gravelly.

You look down, pressing your lips together like you're trying not to cry. “I… I think I need to leave.”

He doesn’t react at first. Like the sentence doesn’t register.

And then his entire face shifts — barely a second passes, but it’s like the ground beneath him cracks open. “What do you mean leave?” His voice is hoarse. “Like… leave what?”

You stare at him, playing with the hem of your shirt. “Us.”

Max jerks upright like he’s been slapped. “Wait—what? What are you talking about?”

He’s fully awake now. His hand shoots out and rests on your arm, eyes scanning your face frantically, chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to breathe. “Yn, schatje—what are you saying? Did I do something? Is this because I forgot to do the thing yesterday? Or—what—what the fuck happened?”

You look away.

Silence.

His hand slides off you like it’s burned. “You can’t be serious,” he whispers, voice cracking. “You just said you loved me last night. We’re going to get married; you said yes.”

“I did,” you say, softly. “I do. But maybe love isn’t enough.”

Max stares. You’ve never seen him look this… gutted. Raw. His whole posture crumbles like someone’s cut his strings — he slumps forward, hands covering his face. You hear his breath hitch, and your chest tightens.

“No, no, no, you don’t get to say that and just go,” he says suddenly, voice shaking with too many emotions at once. “I’ve built my life around you, everything, every f—every part of me is wrapped up in you, do you even—how can you leave now?”

Your throat tightens. His voice is desperate now. Not angry. Not even loud. Just devastated.

“I can’t do this again, I can’t—” He pauses, swallowing hard. His eyes are red now, glossed over. “Not with you. Not you.”

You finally break.

“I’m kidding,” you say, quickly. “Max—I’m not going anywhere, I swear, baby, I swear—I was just messing with you.”

He freezes.

“You—” His voice catches in disbelief. “You what?”

“I was—fuck—Max, I thought it would be funny. Just a dumb prank. You always do dumb shit like waking me up with ice cubes or hiding my phone. I didn’t think you’d—Max, I didn’t think you’d believe it. I didn’t know you’d—I didn’t know it’d hurt you this much.”

You reach out, but he flinches slightly.

“Max…” You kneel back on the bed beside him, guilt crashing down on you like a wave. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t mean it. You’re the only person I want. You’re it for me.”

He’s still staring at you, wide-eyed, like he’s trying to process that you’re not actually leaving. His jaw works like he’s holding back words—or tears.

“Don’t—don’t ever say that again, even as a joke,” he whispers finally, and now you hear it. The real heartbreak. The fear that still lingers. “I thought I was losing you.”

You cup his face, both hands trembling. “You’re not. You’ll never lose me.”

Max pulls you into his arms so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His fingers dig into your back, his face buried in your neck. You feel the warmth of his breath, the tremble of his hands. He’s not crying. But he’s close.

You stroke his hair, pressing kisses to his temple. “I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

“I promise.”

“I don’t care what happens. Just—never leave like that. Never scare me like that again.”

You press your forehead to his. “Never again.”

A few minutes pass like that, quiet and close, until the adrenaline fades from his voice and the morning light starts to warm the edges of the room. He finally looks at you again, teary-eyed and tired, but breathing steadier now.

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me,” he says softly, lips twitching into a tiny smile despite everything.

“Oh?” You smile through your own guilt, brushing his cheek. “Breakfast in bed? Cuddles all day?”

“And no more stupid pranks.”

“Deal.”

He pulls you into bed and wraps himself around you, blanket and all, like a shield.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs against your hair.

“I scared me, too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Good. Then we’re even.”

[isufferfromyd]

A question I can’t answer

(I was inspired to write this after reading @jammatown919 ‘s bit on Mira being the black sheep of her family and how that might be handled, go check them out!)

The first time it happens, it’s so casual, a throwaway question tossed out almost absentmindedly. “Does your family listen to your music?”

Her body stiffens. It’s almost imperceptible, but she feels it. The tension coiling in her shoulders, the slight pause between breaths. The air feels thinner, her pulse louder. She’s learned to wear composure like a second skin, to glide through moments like this with ease. She’s ready, she tells herself. She’s been through this a thousand times. A practiced smile. A calm, composed answer.

A practised line on her tongue, ‘the genre isn’t their thing but they’re supportive’. Celine had warned Mira they will most likely ask and she should have something prepared.

Even if it is a lie.

They won’t know. They can’t know.

She breathes in, long and slow, letting it settle.

Then, Rumi’s hand—warm, reassuring—comes to rest on her thigh. A slight weight, a soft pressure, the gentle gesture of solidarity. Rumi leans in, the smile on her lips as effortless as it is disarming, and her voice like silk. “No, Celine hates pop.”

The interviewer laughs, as do they. A joke that lands, a shared moment of ease, the tension lifts.

The next time it happens, it feels different. She’s quicker, surer. Her mask is in place, her practiced grace already settling in the muscles of her face before the question even lands.

As Huntr/x’s fame grows, so do the interviews. They come like clockwork now, an unavoidable rhythm that pulses through their lives. When Bobby joins them, it’s like someone turned on the lights. Bobby is prepared. He’s always prepared, carrying a natural ease with him.

Every problem has a solution and no task is to great.

He makes sure they all know what to expect, just as Celine did. Makes sure Mira has a list of answers—safe ones, rehearsed ones. But he also gives the interviewers a list of questions that aren’t allowed. Some unspoken boundary, an invisible line that no one dares cross. Usually.

He lingers in the background, close enough to step in if it’s needed, a silent reminder that the team’s always ready to help. Mira feels safer with him there, like a blanket she can tug closer when things get cold.

At first, she breathes easier. Interviews become less of a performance, more of a dance. She answers with ease, with a knowingness that she’s not the only one holding the weight of it all. Rumi and Zoey are right there with her. Bobby has her back.

The question comes like a flicker in the dark, unexpected. Unwelcome.

"Was there ever jealousy from your brother when you started auditioning?"

Mira freezes. It’s like her body forgets how to move. She doesn’t know how long she stays still, but it’s long enough for everything to feel wrong. Too sharp. Too personal. Too much of everything she never wanted to share.

Her breath catches in her throat, too tight. Her thoughts scatter like glass shards—everything, everything, except a way out. She tries to hide behind her mask of composure, but she can’t. Not this time.

This isn’t a question she’s prepared for. There is no line to fall back on. No rehearsed answer that will cover the silence.

Her hands grip the edge of her seat, fingers digging into the fabric. Rumi’s eyes narrow, sharp and protective. Mira can feel the tension building in the room—the crackling electricity of a moment teetering on the edge. But before Rumi can speak, before the words even form, Bobby’s already in the room. He’s there like a presence she doesn’t see coming, but she’s never been so glad for someone’s interruption.

His arms cross, a quiet command that stills the room. He’s not angry, not yet. But it’s clear that this is not the moment for them to cross lines. It’s not a live recording. They can edit this out, and Bobby makes sure they do. The weight of the question slips away like a shadow caught in the wrong light.

Rumi stands beside him, her posture tense, a quiet agreement passing between them, a silent vow to make sure the moment disappears.

Zoey moves in beside Mira, her hand finding her shoulder, warm and steady. The touch is small, but it’s enough. Zoey’s smile is soft, an unspoken promise that everything will be okay. That she’s okay. Mira’s heart catches, that familiar ache of gratitude curling in her chest. But it’s fleeting, the weight of the moment not yet gone.

Mira meets Zoey’s eyes, flashing back a smile, but it’s tight, strained, not quite reaching her eyes. She wants to believe Zoey’s comfort, to trust that the moment has passed, that she’s safe. But she can’t.

She knows this isn’t the end of it. Not really.

There’s a deep, unspoken truth that runs through her, a quiet echo in her bones. This isn’t the last time someone will ask. Not the last time she’ll be forced to reckon with her past. The cracks are there, buried, but they’ve always been there. She can feel them waiting to split open, even if she pretends she doesn’t.

Bobby’s presence lingers in the background like a ghost, still watching. Rumi’s posture never softens, still on alert. Zoey’s hand is still warm, now on her back, a comfort, but also a weight, a reminder.

Mira takes a long, slow breath and shifts, feeling the hollow space between what she wants to say and what she can. The question lingers like an echo in the silence, far more pressing than it should be.

She knows this won’t be the end of it.

And she’s right.

Rumours spiral. The raw edges of moments from live tapings—slivers of conversation, half-heard comments—are taken out of context and put under the microscope, magnified until they’re nothing more than fractured pieces of something real. The world wants to know, to pick apart what they can’t have. They’re famous enough now that someone does the digging, and that’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Someone finds her family. The whispers spread.

They don’t talk. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long, long time.

Her family is private, well-off enough that they can secure their own discretion, but even that can’t protect them from the public. And the reaction? The fascination? That’s enough for the world to sink its teeth in.

Theories upon theories rise. Conspiracy after conspiracy. Each one more ludicrous than the last. Mira tries to ignore them, to shield herself from the endless noise, but she can’t look away. It’s like a train wreck she can’t stop staring at, even though it makes her sick.

She scrolls through her feed, already hunched over her dinner, eyes tired and unfocused from a long day of rehearsals. Her thumb pauses as she reads aloud, the words coming out sharp with the bitterness she can’t keep inside anymore.

“Someone said I stole all my family’s savings to pay for the auditioning expenses—” her voice falters on the last word, like the absurdity of it is too much to swallow.

“Mira,” Rumi says, soft and measured. She’s always careful when Mira’s like this, knowing how quickly she can snap when the world becomes too much. Knowing how volatile the subject is. “You know it’s just wild speculation. There’s no point—”

“As if I’m not sending them money back—” Mira interrupts, her voice rising despite herself. “As if they’re not paying someone to always drive them around—”

“Mira,” Rumi repeats, quieter this time. She reaches out, gently touching her arm. “It’s just nonsense, love. You can’t let it get to you.”

But Mira’s already moving on, her eyes scanning the next post. Her fingers hover over the screen before she bursts out again, this time with an incredulous laugh. “Someone said I ate my brother’s twin. What in the actual—”

Before she can go any further, Zoey’s there, like always, slipping in beside her with the quiet grace of someone who’s seen this a thousand times. She wraps her arms around Mira from behind, her soft hair brushing against Mira’s cheek as she presses in. The sudden closeness, the softness of Zoey’s voice, helps steady her racing pulse.

“Someone said I’m an American spy sent over to take over the K-Pop scene,” Zoey adds, her voice light with the ridiculousness of it all.

Mira’s jaw nearly hits the counter as the words hit her like a punchline she didn’t expect. She laughs—really laughs—for the first time in what feels like days. The absurdity of it all, the sheer randomness of Zoey’s statement, cracks through the tension like a floodgate opening.

Zoey laughs too, her easy, effortless joy contagious. The sound is warm, and Mira feels a little lighter, just from hearing it.

Rumi, too, can’t help herself, grinning as she watches the exchange unfold. “I’ve read that my mom is alive and hidden on a tropical island somewhere so I can have an ‘edgy’ backstory,” she says, moving her hands in air quotes. “Can you imagine?”

The three of them laugh, but it’s a different laugh now—lighter, freer. The tension in Mira’s shoulders slowly starts to dissipate.

Mira rolls her eyes at the attempts to distract her, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

“I think ‘American spy’ beats ‘fake dead parent’ any day,” Zoey says, her tone mock-serious, and Mira’s surprised enough by the deadpan delivery to snort.

Rumi’s jaw drops, her expression half-disbelief, half-amusement. “Excuse me? ‘Fake dead parent’ is personal and cruel.” She crosses her arms, putting on a mock pout, and Mira has to admit, it’s a little endearing.

“Mine’s... something-ist,” Zoey says with a shrug, her grin widening as she leans into Mira’s side.

Mira shakes her head, her thoughts a little clearer now, the heat of frustration starting to cool. “Cannibalism bests both, actually,” she says with a quiet, wry smile, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

The three of them fall into a back-and-forth, teasing but familiar, like a breath they didn’t know they were holding. The humour is so effortless, so easy, that Mira forgets for a moment why she was even upset in the first place. It’s not about the rumours anymore. It’s not even about the questions or the weight they carry. It’s about this—this little corner of the world they’ve made for themselves, where they can laugh through the chaos and pretend, for just a while longer, that it’s enough.

But Mira still can’t help herself.

On nights when sleep slips through her fingers, when the weight of everything presses down like a heavy blanket, she opens her phone. She reads. She reads, even though she knows it will make her blood boil, even though it only fans the flames of frustration. The more off the mark they are, the more they twist the story, the angrier it makes her. But it’s the one that feels real, the one that strikes too close to home, that really rattles her.

The one that makes her question everything she’s worked so hard to bury.

It’s the worst kind.

She finds one at half-past two in the morning, the blue light burning her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. A thread written in that flat, clinical tone, dissecting her life like it’s a case study. No wild theories. No mention of cannibalism or spy missions or secret island parents. Just quiet, pointed language. Cold logic.

It reads like someone who's been watching too closely.

She doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t have to.

She grits her teeth, the tightness in her jaw almost painful, and flings the phone into the covers like it’s burning her fingers. She can’t even look at it anymore.

She’s stomping towards the kitchen, barefoot and tense, a heat rising in her chest, the dull throb of anger still buzzing in her veins. Zoey’s a heavy sleeper, Rumi’s room is far enough down the hall that the sound of Mira’s footsteps probably won’t disturb her. At least that’s how Mira rationalises it. She doesn’t care. Not right now.

The kitchen is cold and quiet. Mira doesn’t even register the figure by the counter until she’s already halfway to the sink, muttering curses under her breath as she yanks the tap open. Water pours into the glass, but her hands are shaking just enough to make the motion more forceful than intended.

"Don’t jump," comes Zoey’s voice, quiet and unexpected behind her.

It’s enough to make Mira’s heart jolt in her chest. The glass wavers in her hand, and for a split second, she’s sure it’s about to slip, but she manages to catch it just in time. Still, water spills down her wrist, splashes over the edge, spilling onto the floor in a cascade. Mira curses again, low and frustrated, the words a little too sharp

“Sorry,” Zoey says, voice still gentle.

“Not your fault,” Mira says with a wave of her hand. The tiredness is thick in her throat. She sets the glass down and crouches to grab a towel from under the sink, but Zoey’s already kneeling beside her. “You don’t need to—“

“I want to,” Zoey replies, quiet but steady, with that soft, disarming smile that always makes Mira forget what she was mad about.

Mira pauses. Nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

They work in silence, mopping up the water. The tile is cold beneath Mira’s knees, the tension still wound tight in her chest. She steals a glance at Zoey, who hums softly to herself as she dabs at the floor. There’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet presence.

When it’s dry, Mira stands, refills her glass. She leans back against the sink, arms loosely folded, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Zoey watches her for a beat.

“Why are you awake?” Mira asks, voice quieter now.

Zoey stretches her arms overhead, then lets them fall. “Heard Rumi. She had a nightmare.”

Mira’s expression shifts, the edges of her anger softening. Her mouth forms a silent ‘oh’.

“She’s alright,” Zoey adds quickly. “Just shaken up. She went back to sleep a few minutes ago. I was gonna grab a drink before crawling back in bed.”

Mira nods slowly. Her fingers tap against the side of the glass. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Zoey says gently. “You’ve had enough on your plate.”

Mira flinches at that, but says nothing. She sips her water, lets the silence stretch a little too long.

Zoey tilts her head. “And you? Why are you up?”

Mira hesitates. Looks away. “Couldn’t sleep.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

Zoey hears it in her tone, but she doesn’t press. She just nods, like that’s enough.

“I’ve got one more cuddle session in me,” she says lightly, voice lifting into something warmer, “if you’re interested.”

Mira looks at her, really looks—at the soft curve of Zoey’s tired smile, the mess of sleep-mussed hair, the gentle tilt of her head—and her chest tightens in a way that’s not entirely painful.

“Only if it won’t wear you out too much,” she murmurs.

Zoey flexes dramatically, pretending to show off her biceps. “I’ve got this.”

Mira laughs—quiet, reluctant, but real.

They retreat back to Mira’s room, the apartment quiet again. The sheets are still warm from before. Zoey crawls in first, curling against the far side of the bed and opening her arms without a word. Mira slides in after her, fitting herself into the space like it’s always belonged to her.

Close. Familiar. Safe.

Zoey’s fingers trace soft patterns against Mira’s arm, barely there. Mira lets her eyes fall shut, lets herself lean in, lets herself be. Just for tonight.

Sleep comes easier than it has in days.

It’s fine for a while. They’re fine. The chaos of their lives has become a routine, a kind of rhythm. They’re busy—exhausted, sure—but it’s the good kind. The kind that comes with growth, with momentum. With something real, something they’ve worked for.

It’s fine. It’s good.

“Would you describe yourself as the black sheep of your family?”

Mira’s eye twitches. Just a flicker. Just enough to show she’s heard it. But her smile doesn’t fade. She knows the drill. She knows how to roll with it. To spin it into something light, something safe.

“Yeah, I mean, they’re all in academics, and here I am.”

The crowd laughs, appreciative. It’s harmless. It’s easy.

Rumi’s lips press into a thin smile—too thin. Zoey picks up the slack, her voice light and playful as always. “Would you? Or do you come from a long line of game show hosts?”

The audience laughs again, the tension in the air gone for a moment.

The interviewer chuckles, awkward, pulling at his collar as he adjusts under the weight of the banter.

“No, I suppose I would also be one,” he says, a nervous laugh escaping.

Rumi, steers them back into safer waters. “This album, too, is... in a way, quite different. We were definitely more experimental with the music.”

And they go back to it. The music. The familiar. The safe. For about twenty minutes, it’s just about that. Just about the work they’ve poured themselves into.

But then it happens again.

“Your brother recently graduated. Do you—”

The rest of it disappears in a haze. Mira doesn’t hear the words, doesn’t register the context. It’s like the sound has been muted, and all she can feel is the way her heart lurches. He graduated?

She didn’t know. Hasn’t heard from him. Hasn’t spoken to him—them—in years. It really shouldn’t surprise her. She shouldn’t care.

But it still twists inside her. A quiet, jagged little thing carving its way through her. Uncoiling. It rips something open, something that had been so neatly tucked away before. Her chest tightens, her breath catches in the sudden weight of it. Her smile falters before she can catch it.

“Now, why would you ask her that?” Rumi’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp, protective. Stripped of its usual warmth, replaced with something colder. There’s no room for charm in it. Only steel.

The interviewer blinks, clearly taken aback, stammering something about moving on.

Mira barely hears it.

Zoey’s gaze flicks to Mira, and for a moment, Mira doesn’t know if the pity in her eyes is real. Doesn’t know if Zoey means it—if it’s there at all. Her skin prickles anyway, heat rushing to her ears, her throat.

The shape of it. That faint crinkle at the corner of Zoey’s mouth that makes Mira’s heart race and her skin burn.

And something inside Mira snaps.

The way she feels the weight of it—Zoey’s gaze, Rumi’s words, the entire room holding its breath—makes Mira want to scream.

She blinks once, twice. She straightens in her seat, turns toward the man with a look that’s far too calm for how loud her thoughts are. “There a reason you’re so interested in my family?” The words are light. Even. Measured. But there's a blade under each syllable. Her expression doesn’t crack.

The man blinks, startled, fumbling for composure.

“I don’t see them sitting here with awards under their belts. And speaking of which—” She stands. Smooth. Controlled. “—I don’t see us either.”

She gets up then. The crowd doesn’t quite know what to do with itself. She flashes the audience a sharp smile and walks off set without waiting to be excused.

Behind her, she hears Rumi’s voice—low, clipped—but the words don’t land. She pushes past their team outside the stage, brushes off Bobby’s outstretched hand, and ducks into the dressing room.

The moment the door shuts, her body folds. She collapses into the small couch like the strings have been cut, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

Fuck.

The door creaks open too soon.

Zoey reaches her first, “are you o—”

“Zoey.” Mira lifts one hand without looking up. “If you ask me if I’m okay I will break something.”

A beat.

“Okay,” Zoey says. Just that. No apology in it. No awkward pause. Just the word, and the sound of her settling nearby.

Rumi storms in next, all adrenaline and fury, and slams the door behind her. “Mira, are you okay?”

Zoey snorts. Mira groans. And that’s when she feels it: not the guilt, not the humiliation, but the absurd edge of something like laughter pushing its way through.

It was unprofessional. She knows that. Provoked or not, she should’ve held her tongue. She walked out. Embarrassed them. The network won’t have them back. Maybe no one will.

She opens her mouth. “I’m s—”

“Mira.” Zoey’s voice is sharp, sudden. Firm.

It startles Mira enough to look up. Even Rumi blinks at her in surprise.

Zoey’s eyes, though—Zoey’s eyes are steady. Bright with something unreadable, something stubborn. “If you say you’re sorry I will break something.”

And Mira—

She snorts. Involuntarily. The sound just escapes her, half-laugh, half-choke, and immediately she wants to bite it back. But the way Rumi’s mouth twitches, the way Zoey’s gaze softens—

She can’t.

They’re looking at her like she hasn’t just lit a match to their whole PR strategy. Like she hasn’t just undone months of media training in ten seconds flat. They’re looking at her like they love her.

She doesn’t deserve it.

Rumi reaches over and flicks her ear.

“Ow—what the hell?”

“You were wallowing,” Rumi says simply, arms folded. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I wasn’t wallowing.”

“You so were,” Zoey says, crossing the short distance to Mira and folding herself into her space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mira sighs as Zoey tucks herself around her, arms warm and grounding.

Mira leans into her, just a little.

Zoey presses a kiss to her temple. “Bobby will handle it.”

Rumi sits down on the armrest beside them. “He always does.”

And he will. Mira knows that. Knows she’s not really the storm anymore—not with them here to catch the fallout. But right now, she’s still in it. The shame. The ache. The stupid, stupid twist in her chest from a name that hadn’t crossed her lips in years.

She exhales, long and slow, into Zoey’s collarbone.

They sit like that, tangled up on the dressing room couch, too tired to move and too wired to be alone. The silence stretches, but it’s not tense anymore. It’s held. Steady. Safe.

“Still,” Mira murmurs, the weight not quite gone. “I wish I hadn’t said it.”

Rumi shrugs. “He deserved worse.”

Zoey hums her agreement, cheek pressed to Mira’s hair. “He was lucky you walked out. Rumi was about to bite his head off. And I was about to let her,” she adds, tone playful but edged with sincerity.

The notion of Zoey ‘letting’ Rumi do anything pulls a surprised huff of a laugh from Mira. Rumi laughs too, warm and knowing, and Mira catches the way Zoey’s eyes narrow—not hurt, exactly. Offended, maybe. Dramatically so.

“I can take Rumi,” Zoey insists, entirely unconvincing.

“Uh huh.” Rumi arches a brow, that lazy, dangerous smirk slipping into place. “Sure, babe.”

“I can totally take you,” Zoey says, puffing up, throwing up both fists like she’s about to start something.

Mira, still curled into her side, barely lifts a hand and pokes her in the ribs.

Zoey yelps.

And glares.

“I said I could take Rumi, not both of you.”

Rumi snorts. “Strategic retreat, huh?”

Zoey huffs. Mira grins.

The air has lightened again, but not in the hollow way that sometimes follows tension. It’s real. Easy. Mira finds herself sinking into it, warmth spreading slow through her chest.

The weight’s still there, tucked somewhere behind her ribs—but it doesn’t press as hard. Not when Zoey is still wrapped around her, and Rumi’s still within reach, arms crossed, smirking like she owns the world.

They’re fine. Not untouched. But together. And for now, that’s enough.

[maddamoiselle]

What Doesn't Kill Me, Watches Me.

Pairing; SerialKiller!Zayne x NonMc!Reader

Synopsis: You were supposed to die quietly. Sick since birth, you’ve spent your life in a hospital bed, surrounded by white walls and kind hands. And then there’s Dr. Zayne—the one who never looks at you for too long.

Until you see him with a corpse. Until he sees you.

He doesn’t kill you. He tells you he will—just not yet. You’re already dying, after all.

You are no longer a patient. You’re a specimen. And Zayne is still deciding what to do with you.

Tags; psychological horror, death, body gore, body abuse, mental abuse, dark romance (hopefully), medical horror, obsessive behavior, sadistic male lead, slow descent into madness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, toxic dynamics, AN; It been such a long time since I wanted to write back horror with dark romance. I don't know if a lot of you enjoy this, I hope you will. I don't know if a second part will be written, I'm not sure yet.

Chapter I : White Walls, Red Hands

The hospital always smelled like cold metal and paper masks.

Even the flowers brought by visitors—when there were visitors—smelled like plastic.

Your room was on the east side of the building, near the elevator that groaned every time it opened. The nurses said the sunrise was beautiful here. But most mornings, your body was too tired to open its eyes in time.

You had grown used to it. The beep of machines. The soft whirr of the air system. The weight of wires taped against your skin like you were a broken machine still pretending to be human.

The illness had a name you stopped trying to remember. You had it. It had you. That was enough.

And then there was him.

Dr. Zayne.

He wasn’t your doctor—not really. He didn’t handle your charts or bring your meds.You only saw him when you were walking in the hospital’s walls. Silent. Gloved. Eyes sharp as glass.

You didn’t like the way he looked at people. Or rather, the way he didn’t.

He observed. Not like a person—but like something trying to understand what people were.

You had watched him once from behind a door while he was in an asleep patient’s room.

He had stood still, for far too long. Not checking their vitals. Not saying a word. Just… watching.

You told yourself he was probably tired. Or maybe he was just like that—quiet, serious, brilliant. The other nurses respected him. Your actual doctor,Dr. Greyson, the one with the warm smile and jokes about pudding, called Zayne “a machine wrapped in genius.”

But he said it fondly.

You didn’t laugh.

Still, you never thought much of it. You never really had to engage with him for anything. After all, you were already stuck in this hospital before he arrived.

You told yourself he was just intimidating. Cold, but professional. Someone who didn’t waste words or warmth. Someone you could respect… from a distance.

But sometimes—on the worst nights, when the halls went still and you could hear your heartbeat over the machines—

You thought:

He didn’t walk like a doctor. He walked like death, making rounds.

And you hated that your body believed it.

Knock knock.

The sound pulled you from your thoughts.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Dr. Greyson, all soft footsteps and easy smiles.

His white coat was wrinkled again—probably from sleeping at his desk—but his pale blue shirt was still tucked in, and his tie had tiny ducks on it. Again.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said, like he always did. “How’s the most patient patient on the floor today?”

You gave him a tired smile, the one that didn’t reach your eyes but always made him smile wider.

“Still breathing,” you murmured.

“Then we’re winning,” he said, pulling up a stool. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He always made you feel like the sickness wasn’t something inside you, but something you were both fighting together. Like you weren’t alone in it.

As he took your vitals, he asked about your sleep, your appetite, your pain—always with a tone that said he cared, not just needed to know.

He made jokes. Light ones. The kind that filled the silences without needing to force laughter.

For a few minutes, it was easy to forget how cold the room was. How long the days were. How slow dying could be.

But then—

From the corner of your eye, through the window in the door, you saw him.

Dr. Zayne.

Passing by.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t look in.

There was a woman walking beside him. She was talking, her voice too soft to hear through the door, but her expression was warm. Familiar.

She smiled at him like she’d known him forever. Like he was someone worth smiling at.

And maybe most surprising of all—

Dr. Zayne let her.

He didn’t look at her, not quite, but he didn’t walk away either. His pace matched hers. His posture wasn’t as stiff as usual.

He didn’t seem like death right then. He seemed… human.

You found yourself sitting up straighter. Watching.

The woman touched his arm lightly—barely a brush—but Zayne didn’t pull away.

Dr.Greyson chuckled at your curious gaze but didn’t give you any answers. He adjusted your IV, humming under his breath—something soft and familiar. You didn’t recognize the tune, but you liked that it didn’t sound like anything clinical.

“You didn’t eat much today,” he said, glancing at your chart.

“It tasted like cardboard.”

“Cardboard would sue for slander if it heard that,” he murmured with mock offense.

You laughed—a breathy little thing—but it made him glance up with that look.

The one that said: I’m glad you’re still trying.

And maybe you were. In your own quiet, stubborn way.

“How’s the pain?”

You shrugged. “It’s quieter today.”

“Then let’s not wake it up,” he said, scribbling something into the chart.

He didn’t hover, never made you feel like a problem to be solved. He simply existed with you, beside the slow drip of medication and the hum of sleep beginning to settle over your bones.

He stood to leave, reaching over to dim the overhead light.

“Try to rest, okay?” he said gently. “The halls aren’t as fun as you think at night.”

You smiled, eyes already fluttering closed. “They’re less white in the dark.”

He paused—maybe a little surprised. Then he gave a quiet chuckle.

“Fair enough. But still... don’t go running marathons in your socks.”

“No promises.”

He shook his head and whispered, almost to himself, “You’re trouble.”

You didn’t argue as he just sat there for a moment. Then he offered you something warmer than hope: a hand.

You took it.

He stayed like that until your eyelids grew heavy, and your breath evened out, and the world faded to soft beeping and soft white light.

You didn’t mean to wake up.

You never did. Sleep came in patches—thin and unreliable.

The room was dim now, bathed in shadows and blue glow from the machines. The halls beyond your door were quiet. No footsteps. No chatter. Just the sound of your IV dripping, like water in a deep cave.

You sat up slowly, joints stiff, blanket falling to your lap.

This place had been your world for so long.  The nurses knew you by name. Some of the younger ones had even grown up while you stayed the same, slowly fading into the sheets.

So you looked at the clock and you did what other patients weren’t supposed to:

You wandered.

The nurses didn’t mind. They knew you. You’d been here longer than some of the interns. As long as you didn’t pull out your IV or get lost near the elevators, no one stopped you.

You bare feet touched the floor. You pulled on your robe and then opened the door.

The hallway greeted you with a soft hum of silence—dim lights, pale tiles, the faint echo of distant machines.

It felt almost peaceful.

Like you were the only living thing left in the world.

Your bare feet made almost no sound on the cold tile.

You stayed close to the walls, just in case. Not that anyone would stop you—but there was something sacred about this time of night. Like the building itself was asleep, and you didn’t want to wake it.

You walked past the nurses' station. Empty. Past the staff kitchen. Dark.

Then you heard it.

A clang.

Then another. A metallic scrape.

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to make your heart skip but your lips sketched in a happy smile.

You knew every corner of this hospital.

Not from maps or staff permission, but from years of slow wandering—when your legs could hold you, when the nurses looked the other way.

The sub-basement wasn’t supposed to be for patients. But rules bent when you were more furniture than person.

Down here, the air smelled like old copper and dust. Warm from the boilers. Quiet in the way only forgotten places could be.

And best of all—no one ever bothered you.

That’s why she liked it too.

The cat.

You didn’t name her. Somehow, that made her feel more real. More yours. You just called her hey you or little monster in a whisper. She never minded. She’d rub against your calves like she owned you, her fur rough with dust.

She came to you when no one else did. Rubbed against your legs, purred like thunder in a tiny throat. She didn’t care about IV lines or hospital gowns. She just wanted food. And sometimes, warmth.

You fed her scraps. Bits of meat. Sometimes milk in a little paper cup.

No one knew about her, except maybe a janitor or two. But no one said anything.

Tonight, you had turkey wrapped in a napkin and a small container of cream tucked into your pocket. The elevator to B2 let out its usual groan, and the flickering lights danced across the brushed metal walls. You leaned against the side, heart beating in a familiar rhythm.

Down here, it was warm. Your joints didn’t ache as much. The air didn’t sting.

You knew the path by memory. Past the broken equipment. Past the dripping pipe that always leaked even when fixed. Past the pile of unopened supply boxes.

Your footsteps echoed. But it was a kind echo. Familiar.

“Little monster,” you called gently. “I brought your favorite.”

No answer yet. But that wasn’t unusual.

One day, she panicked – you didn’t know why– and she ran into a wall so hard, she bled from her head. You had to bandage her head but since then, she was clumsier. Her paws weren’t moving as smoothly as the first time you met her.

Since then, she has been way slower or sometimes she just enjoyed taking her time. Slept behind the rusted lockers or slinked under the old gurneys before showing up with a stretch and a yawn.

You reached the far corner—where the wall vent buzzed quietly with warm air—and knelt slowly, placing the food down.

“Come on, little monster,” you whispered, smiling softly.

You waited.

The silence pressed in. Not cold. Not threatening. Just still.

You didn’t notice at first that something was… off.

The silence was too perfect.

No cat. No shifting. No meow. No distant mechanical hum.

Just… nothing.

You stayed kneeling by the vent a little longer than usual.

Normally by now, she’d be here. A flick of a tail, a chirping meow, a sharp little nudge against your ankle. You pressed the napkin closer to the floor and opened the cream quietly, the familiar plastic snap echoing too loud in the stillness.

“Hey,” you whispered, frowning. “I know you hear me.”

Still nothing.

You glanced toward the shadows beyond the vent. The boiler rumbled softly like always. Nothing looked wrong. Just… still.

You almost stood to leave.

And that’s when you heard it.

A clink.

Not from the vent. Not from your tray.

Behind you.

You stilled.

Not out of fear.

Just… listening.

Maybe it was a pipe. Or the wheels of a cleaning cart on uneven tile. Or someone dropping a scalpel upstairs and the sound somehow carried through the walls.

Hospitals always made noise. You knew them all.

You turned your head slightly.

Silence again.

You slowly rose to your feet. The cream cup tipped and rolled, unnoticed.

The hallway behind you stretched longer in the dim amber light. The flickering overhead bulbs had gone still.

You took a step. Just one.

You didn’t mean to follow it.

You could’ve turned around. Could’ve called out, laughed it off, blamed it on the building like you always did.

But something about the quiet tonight didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like something holding its breath.

And now, so were you.

You stepped past the line of old supply crates, one hand brushing the dusty edge for balance. The tiles beneath your feet felt warmer here, like the heat from the boilers still clung to them.

Another step.

Another sound.

Drip.

A pause.

Drip.

It wasn’t a leak. You knew what leaking pipes sounded like. They hissed. They gurgled. They had rhythm.

This… was slower. Heavy. Wet.

Your eyes adjusted as you moved deeper into the sub-basement, where the hallway bent around the edge of the boiler chamber. The lights were weaker here. Yellowed.

Drip.

It echoed.

Not loudly—but it was the only sound.

You reached a doorway. Half open. A storage room, maybe. One of the ones that had never been used in your memory.

You pressed your palm lightly to the frame.

The air was warmer inside. Still. Almost humid.

You leaned forward—

Just enough to peer through the crack.

Your fingers barely registered the cool metal of the doorframe as you pushed it open, slow enough that it barely creaked, careful as if you were afraid of waking something, though you couldn’t have said what or why.

The room inside was warmer than the hallway had been—not welcoming, not gentle, but close and dense and humid in a way that made your lungs tighten a little with every breath, like the air had been sitting too long in someone else’s mouth.

One overhead light flickered, casting soft, intermittent shadows across the far wall where old boxes were stacked and folded linens had yellowed at the edges, and for a moment it looked no different than any other forgotten hospital space.

And then your eyes found the center of the room.

And the center of the room found you.

He was hanging—

Not slumped in a chair, not lying on the floor, but suspended, his feet barely grazing the ground, toes curled unnaturally inward like they had once tried to stand and then forgot how.

His arms dangled limp, his head hung low, chin nearly touching his bare chest, and you thought—almost idiotically—that maybe he was alive, that maybe he was unconscious, that maybe there was some medical explanation for this.

Until you saw his torso.

Split.

Opened like a textbook or an exhibit or something out of a nightmare made for people who had trusted hospitals their whole lives and suddenly didn’t know where the danger had been hiding all this time.

His skin had been peeled back, delicately, purposefully, like the person who had done it wanted to see everything inside and had taken their time doing it—his ribs spread, his chest hollow, his heart gone, and not in the way that left a mess, but in a way that felt almost reverent.

As if whoever had taken it hadn’t just wanted to remove it—

They had wanted to own it.

No ragged edges. No mess. Just the hollow curve of the organ’s absence, like a dish plucked neatly from its place.

His face was still intact. Still staring. The skin pale and waxy beneath dried blood.

A part of you wondered if he was alive when he was being cut open. But as your eyes traveled toward his face, you noticed his mouth.

Sewn shut.

A single black suture crisscrossed his lips, puckering the corners unnaturally. As if his last words had been stolen—silenced by hand.

A slow drop of blood slid from the edge of his open sternum, dripped onto the tile, and joined the dark pool beneath him.

Drip.

You didn’t scream.

Not because you didn’t want to, but because your voice had locked itself somewhere behind your ribs and your body was too busy deciding whether to flee or fall or simply forget how to exist.

Your hand reached behind you blindly, fingers searching for the doorframe, your legs preparing to bolt, to run without reason or direction—

And that’s when the air shifted behind you.

Not loudly.

Not even audibly.

Just… the sense of presence.

Like something had stepped into your space that didn’t belong to it.

Like cold had grown bones and breath and eyes, and was now standing just behind your shoulder, waiting.You turned, your body sluggish with something deeper than fear, slower than instinct, as though your blood had thickened and your bones had forgotten their purpose, and the room didn’t tilt but your world did, just enough to make you feel the gravity in your chest shift.

He was standing in the doorway.

Dr. Zayne.

Just as you’d seen him a hundred times before—white coat crisp and buttoned to the throat, gloves fitted to his hands like second skin, hair perfectly in place, not a speck of blood anywhere on him, not a wrinkle, not a breath out of sync.

He didn’t look like someone who belonged here, not in this heat, not in this blood, not in this moment.

He looked like someone who had stepped out of a sterile photograph.

And for the first time since you ever saw the man, you felt relieved. Someone, a doctor, was here. Maybe he would be able to save the man? 

Because how could someone look like that and belong to something this wrong?

“Dr. Zayne,” you breathed, the words breaking loose from your throat like cracked glass. “I… I didn’t—”

Your voice caught. Your feet wouldn’t move. You raised your hands instinctively, as if to show him you weren’t hiding anything, as if this were a crime scene and you were the one in trouble.

“I didn’t touch him,” you said, your voice trembling and too high. “I—I came down to feed the cat, I just—I found him like this.”

You looked back toward the hanging man, heart pounding so loudly it muffled your own voice.

“Can you—can you save him?” you asked, desperation thickening every syllable, pulling it down into your throat like it might drown there.

“I think he’s still—still breathing, maybe, if you’re fast—”

You didn’t notice that Zayne hadn’t moved.

Not forward. Not back. Not even to look at the man.

He was looking at you.

And his face was unreadable.

Not angry. Not surprised.

Just… observing.

Like you were part of the scene now.

“Please,” you said again, your voice cracking into something small and childlike, a version of yourself you hadn’t heard in years. “You can help him. Please—do something.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, the motion slow, mechanical, the way someone tilts a puzzle piece to see if it fits. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t check for a pulse. He didn’t even glance at the open, red cavity behind you.

He just stepped past you.

One step.

Two.

Two steps, and he stood beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the cold rising off of him—not from his body, not from the coat, but from something beneath his skin, something that had nothing to do with body temperature and everything to do with absence.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t ask what you were doing here. Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. Pulled it just slightly straighter. Neat. Controlled. As if the chaos around him hadn’t registered as chaos at all.

You watched him like he was the last stable thing in the room, like maybe he was assessing the scene, already forming a plan, already calculating how to help, how to fix this—

And then, finally, he looked at you.

His voice, when it came, was low. Even. Calm enough to make you flinch.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” he said.

Not cruel. Not accusatory. Just a statement. A quiet fact.

You nodded, too quickly. Your throat was raw. Your hands had started to shake. “I—I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t trying to sneak around, I just—I come down sometimes, I feed this cat, I didn’t mean to—”

Your words ran ahead of you, stumbling over each other like children late for class, trying to explain something too big with sentences too small.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whispered. “I swear I didn’t. I just walked in and he was—he was already—”

Zayne didn’t interrupt. He didn’t reach for you. He just listened. Or watched you try to explain yourself, try to make sense of something that wouldn’t bend to logic.

“Is he…” You swallowed hard. “Is he dead?”

Zayne turned his head slightly—not to look at the body, but to study you again, as if your reaction was more interesting than the answer to your question.

“Yes,” he said, after a pause. “He is.”

Something inside you crumpled. You could feel it—a delicate part of you folding in on itself like paper gone soft with water.

“I—I thought maybe if we were fast, if we—”

“You were too late,” he said, gently. “That’s all.”

And for a moment, it sounded like a comfort.

Like he was reassuring you.

Like nothing you did could have changed it.

“That’s all,” he repeated, as if death was a matter of timing, like arriving too late to a lecture or missing the last train home—not a man hanging open and empty from the ceiling of a hospital basement.

You nodded again, even though your mind hadn’t caught up with your body, even though nothing inside you agreed with him, but you were nodding because that’s what people do when they don’t know how else to stay alive—when agreement feels safer than silence.

“I didn’t know,” you said again, the words barely audible, your lips stiff and cold and dry. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

Zayne’s gaze drifted—not to the body, not to the blood, but to the thin trail of footprints behind you. Yours. Clean and small, like a child’s, perfectly stamped in the wetness that had spread from the center of the room.

His eyes returned to you, and there was something strange in them now—still quiet, still soft, but no longer neutral.

“You should be more careful,” he said, voice low, almost kind. “Things happen down here.”

You blinked.

Something in you cracked.

Not fully. Not loudly. Just a small, hairline fracture in the center of your understanding.

Because it was the first time he sounded like he wasn’t trying to explain something to you, but warn you.

“He… he didn’t fall,” you said slowly, your voice thin, fragile as a thread caught in a breeze. “He didn’t hurt himself.”

You didn’t want him to answer. You wanted him to tell you yes, to lie, to laugh, to call a nurse, to do anything that didn’t confirm what your body was already starting to scream from beneath your skin.

Zayne didn’t lie.

He just looked up at the body, then back at you, and said—

“No. He didn’t.”

Your breath hitched.

Something inside you had already started retreating, curling inward like a flower before frost, but his voice anchored you again—not by tone, not by warmth, but by familiarity.

Because Zayne was always calm. Always composed.

And this… this sounded like the version of him you knew. The version everyone talked about.

“What are you feeling right now?” he asked.

His voice didn’t rise or falter. It was quiet, steady, edged with the kind of concern doctors use when asking about pain levels—when trying to translate the chaos of your body into something measurable, something clean enough to record.

Your lips parted.

And before you could stop yourself, your body obeyed the rhythm it remembered.

“Tightness in my chest,” you whispered. “Hands are cold. Legs feel… like they aren’t mine. My breathing is short…My head feels like exploding…I think I’m—I think it’s fear.”

Zayne nodded slowly, almost encouragingly. He took one small step closer, the sound of his shoes barely registering over the hum of blood in your ears.

“Good,” he said. “That’s very clear. You’re self-aware.”

And you felt a flicker—something close to relief.

Because that’s how doctors always spoke to you. That calm attentiveness. That quiet voice. The way they listened. Measured. Cared.

“Fear,” he repeated. “Yes. That makes sense.”

He looked down at your hands, still trembling against your sides, then back at your face.

And then he said, almost thoughtfully—

“Interesting. I don’t feel anything.”

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even detached.

It was a statement. Like reporting the temperature. Like observing a side effect.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Because he didn’t mean he wasn’t upset.

He meant he never was.

Something in your stomach lurched—not sharp like a stab, but heavy, like something falling too fast through your insides, dragging pieces of you down with it.

You took a step back.

He didn’t move.

You took another. Your heel caught the edge of the tile where the floor changed level slightly, and your ankle twisted, just a little, just enough to break your balance for half a second.

Zayne tilted his head, but didn’t reach for you.

“Careful,” he said gently. “You’re already weak.”

The words didn’t sting.

They chilled.

You blinked fast, trying to clear the blur rising in your eyes, but your body was already betraying you—your breath too shallow, your skin prickling, your legs going soft at the knees.

“Please,” you said, your voice shaking so badly it didn’t even sound like yours anymore. “I won’t—I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t—”

“You saw everything,” he said.

Still no anger. Still no blame. Just the truth, laid bare in that same measured tone, like a diagnosis.

Your back hit the wall. Cold concrete pressed through the fabric of your gown. You couldn’t look at the body again. You couldn’t even look at Zayne now, not directly. 

But you felt his presence in every inch of air between you—clean, composed, unshaken.

“Why are you doing this?” you breathed, though you weren’t even sure what this meant anymore.

Zayne didn’t answer. Not right away. He took a step forward—calm, smooth, no faster than before.

Then, softly:

“To feel something.” His eyes met yours. Pale. Unmoving. “But I don’t.”

Your hand slapped to your chest, instinctively, trying to hold your heartbeat in place.

“How could you…”

The words barely left your lips, thin as a thread stretched between worlds, but they came anyway—shaking, broken, like your body was trying to build a wall with sticks in a storm.

“How could you do that to someone?”

Zayne’s head tilted again, just slightly, just enough to make you feel like he wasn’t adjusting for sound but for perspective, like he needed to see you from the right angle to understand the question.

“Do what?” he asked, voice soft, as if you were overreacting.

You gestured—wild, weak, helpless—toward the body without looking.

“That,” you said. “That man. You—you opened him. You… took things from him.”

Zayne stepped closer. Not much. Just enough that you could see the slight indentation of his gloves against his fingers, the way his sleeves were still crisp, unwrinkled.

“Would you like to understand?”

You blinked, confused. Terrified.

“What?”

“I could show you,” he said, voice gentle, almost soothing. “If you want to know how it’s done.”

You shook your head so fast it made your vision tilt, but he didn’t stop talking.

“It’s very clean,” he said. “When it’s done properly. Controlled. Thoughtful. You don’t have to be cruel to be curious.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Only air.

“Would you like to see inside someone?”

That was the moment your body gave up pretending.

The warmth bloomed beneath your hospital gown before you could stop it, a sudden wet heat that spread fast down your thighs, pooling quietly around your feet. Your hands went to your stomach like you could hold it in, like shame could protect you better than begging.

You didn’t sob. You just stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

You couldn’t speak.

Not with the warmth soaking your legs, not with your chest squeezed so tightly around your lungs that breathing felt like punishment.

Zayne didn’t comment on it. He only looked down, briefly, at the stain spreading across the floor—an involuntary reaction, a physical submission—and then back up, his expression unreadable.

You saw nothing in his eyes. No empathy. No cruelty. Just stillness.

“You’re frightened,” he said simply.

A fact. Like saying the floor is wet.

You nodded, because lying didn’t make sense anymore.

Zayne studied you for a moment longer. His hands, still gloved, hung at his sides—loose, relaxed. But the tension was in his shoulders now. In the subtle way he held himself.

As if he was deciding.

Not how to comfort you. Not how to protect you.

But whether it would be more efficient to kill you now or clean up after you later.

Your knees trembled. Your voice came out as a whisper, cracked and wet.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

You hadn’t planned to say it.

It just tore its way out, instinctive, like your body was trying to offer something up before it could be taken.

Zayne blinked slowly.

“You already have,” he said. “By being here.”

Your mouth opened, searching for a reply, some desperate counterargument that would make him see you as something other than a variable, a witness, a liability.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to see anything, I just—”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t change what you saw.”

The room felt smaller now. The walls closer. The light dimmer.

Zayne took one slow step toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, but your feet wouldn’t move.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

His eyes flicked over you—not with hunger, not with interest.

But with calculation.

Like a surgeon examining a problem. Like a butcher weighing whether to waste the meat.

“You’re already dying,” he said, as if he was reminding himself. “So maybe I don’t have to do anything at all.”

Your heart was moving too fast.

Not just pounding—but scrambling, like it didn’t know whether to run or stop, beating so hard against your ribs that the pain started to edge into something sharper, tighter, something you’d felt before in the worst nights when the machines beeped and the nurses rushed in.

Your legs gave out.

Not gracefully. Not like a faint in a dream. You dropped. Hard.

Your shoulder hit the floor first, then your hip. The impact vibrated through your chest, but none of it hurt as much as the inside did—your chest caving in on itself, your lungs clawing for air, your pulse screaming through your skull.

You couldn’t get enough oxygen. You couldn’t think.

All you could feel was the thundering chaos of your own body turning against you.

“Please,” you rasped, though you didn’t know what you were begging for anymore.

Above you, the fluorescent light flickered once, twice—then steadied.

A shape moved.

Then the sound of fabric—clean, crisp—rustling as someone knelt down in front of you.

Dr.Zayne.

His face lowered into view, upside down from your angle, pale and calm, the fluorescent glow turning the edges of his features ghostly.

He wasn’t frowning. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t reaching for a call button or checking your vitals.

He was watching.

Eyes sharp, mouth still, head tilted just slightly—not with concern, but with curiosity.

“Your heart’s failing,” he said, almost thoughtfully, like he was pointing out the weather.

You couldn’t respond. Your mouth was open, but your chest wouldn’t lift.

Zayne leaned in closer, one gloved hand hovering an inch above your wrist, not to hold it—just to feel the flicker of your pulse through the air.

“Is it the fear?” he murmured. “Or the condition?” His eyes followed the way your chest struggled to rise. “It’s difficult to tell.”

He smiled—not unkindly, not cruelly.

Almost like he was… grateful.

“You’re very… informative like this.”

The edges of your vision began to blur—slow at first, like fog creeping across glass, until the light above Zayne’s head began to pulse, dimming, brightening, dimming again, not because the bulb was flickering… but because you were.

You tried to lift your hand. It twitched against the floor. That was all.

Zayne’s gloved fingers drifted closer—not to help, not to steady, but to follow the motion.

He crouched lower, one elbow resting on his knee, and tilted his head to match the angle of yours, as if trying to see the world from the way your face was falling apart.

“Your pupils are dilating,” he said softly. “There’s a tremor in your fingertips.”

You gasped. A thin, wet sound that caught in your throat like thread through a needle.

“I wonder,” he continued, “what you’ll remember.”

His tone never changed. It wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t cruel.

Just curious.

He watched your jaw tighten. Your legs twitch. Your lungs beg for control they no longer had.

“I could help,” he murmured, almost absently. “But I’m not sure you’d learn anything from that.”

The room tilted again. You couldn’t tell if he was moving closer or if your vision was collapsing around him.

“This is what it looks like,” he whispered. “When the body thinks it’s dying.”

You whimpered, low and broken, as your eyes rolled back slightly.

Zayne leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently. “I’ll remember it for you.”

And then—

Darkness.

Light.

Not the flickering, sickly yellow of the basement, but soft, clean, familiar.

Your eyes snapped open like something had yanked them awake from beneath your skin, and for a moment, the ceiling above you didn’t look like a ceiling—it looked like a trapdoor you’d fallen through, back into a world you weren’t ready to return to.

“Hey—hey, you’re awake.”

A voice. His voice.

But not Zayne.

Dr. Greyson.

He leaned over the bed, eyes wide, colorless with fear. His tie was crooked. His coat was gone. His hair was a mess.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his hand brushing your wrist, checking your pulse with fingers that trembled just slightly. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked.

The machines beside you beeped steadily. The IV line tugged softly at your arm. The blanket was tucked around you—tight, secure, like someone had wrapped you up after.

“You had an attack last night,” he said, trying to sound calm, but failing. “Your heart rate spiked, then collapsed. You were barely breathing when the staff found you in the east corridor,” Dr. Greyson said gently, like he was afraid you might break if he raised his voice even a little.

“Close to the stairwell near Imaging. You must’ve passed out while walking. You weren’t hurt, but you weren’t breathing right. The nurses said you looked like you were… gone.”

You didn’t answer.

Because that wasn’t where you were.

That wasn’t even close.

The basement had no Imaging signs. No corridors with bright lights and polished floors.

You had collapsed on concrete, surrounded by blood and a body hanging from the ceiling, with Zayne kneeling in front of you, whispering truths like lullabies.

So why…

“You must’ve pushed yourself too hard,” Greyson continued, frowning at your vitals. “Or maybe you saw something that triggered the attack.”

You swallowed.

Did you?

“You don’t remember what happened, do you?” he asked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.And for just a moment—just long enough to wonder—you considered lying. Because if they found you in a clean hallway, nowhere near the sub-basement…

Then someone had moved you.

Or was everything a horrible nightmare..?

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“You have to check the sub-basement.”

Dr. Greyson froze in the middle of adjusting your IV.

“The what?”

“There’s a body,” you said, breath picking up, every word scraped raw. “There was—someone. Hanging. His chest was—open. His heart was gone.”

You didn’t care how it sounded. You didn’t care that your voice was cracking or that your hands were shaking. You just needed someone to believe you.

“You said I collapsed in a hallway,” you went on, voice rising, “but that’s not where I was. I was in the sub-basement. Near the boiler room. I went to feed the cat—please, Dr. Greyson, I’m not crazy.”

He blinked at you slowly.

Not annoyed. Not suspicious.

Just… confused.

“There’s no one authorized to be down there this week,” he said carefully. “That wing’s shut for… maintenance.” His eyes looked away for a second from you, like he was… trying to hide something from you?

“That doesn’t mean no one was there,” you shot back. “Please. Just look. Please.”

He stared at you for another beat. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Okay. Okay—breathe, alright? I’ll go take a look. Stay here. Don’t move.”

You didn’t.

Couldn’t.

You lay there in silence as the door clicked shut behind him, every second stretching like thread soaked in ice water.

The beeping of your heart monitor ticked out your panic in perfect rhythm.

You stared at the ceiling and imagined him finding it.

The body. The blood. The hook.

The proof that you weren’t insane.

That you weren’t making it up.

That Zayne had done something.

That he was real.

The door opened fifteen minutes later.

Dr. Greyson stepped inside. Slower now. Paler. But not in the way you expected. He sat down next to you, gently, like he thought you might fall apart if he moved too fast.

“I went down there,” he said. “I checked every room.”

You leaned forward, heart pounding.

“And?”

A pause.

“There’s nothing there,” he said quietly. “No body. No blood. No sign of anyone having been there at all.”

You didn’t speak for a long time after Greyson gave you his answer.

No blood. No body. No sign of anything.

You lay there with your eyes open, your arms tight around yourself beneath the blanket, and tried to pull your memories apart—one thread at a time—looking for the lie.

Maybe you had imagined the blood. Maybe the body wasn’t real.

Or maybe he’d moved everything. Cleaned it. Rewritten it.

Like a page he didn’t want you to read again.

“Your heart rate’s still high,” Dr. Greyson said softly, checking the monitor beside you. “You’re spiking again. You need to breathe, alright? Just—stay with me.”

You tried.

But your fingers were shaking again. Your chest wouldn’t rise evenly. The fear was coming back in waves, no longer sharp but slow, like something poisoning your veins from the inside. You couldn’t have imagined all of this. You weren’t turning crazy, right..? Being caged in the hospital would not be your doom, right? 

You wanted to live.

“Let me grab someone,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Dr. Zayne should still be on rotation tonight—he’s the best we have for cardiac stability. I’ll have him take a look at you.”

Your stomach turned.

“No.” It came out barely above a whisper. “No, I’m—I’m okay, I just need—”

But he was already waving down the hall. You heard the soft rhythm of footsteps before you saw him.

Zayne appeared in the doorway like he had never been anywhere else. White coat. Perfectly fitted gloves. Calm, unreadable eyes.

He stepped inside as Dr. Greyson called him over, the monitor still beeping too fast beside your bed, your breath catching like it had forgotten what safety ever felt like.

“Dr. Zayne—she had a cardiac event last night, and her rate’s still spiking,” Greyson said,his concern thick in his voice. “Mind taking a quick look?”

Zayne’s gaze shifted to you.

No recognition. No guilt. Just that same calm you remembered—not from the last time he saw you, but from every time before.

“Of course,” he said.

Zayne moved closer.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady—like the soft glide of something inevitable.

You wanted to pull your hand away. You wanted to scream but your fingers were locked around the blanket, your muscles coiled too tight, like even your own body didn’t trust you to move correctly.

“She’s still a bit tachycardic,” Greyson said, stepping aside. “Vitals are stable otherwise, but I figured you’d want to confirm.”

Zayne didn’t answer with words. He just reached for your arm—clean, practiced. His gloved fingers closed gently around your wrist.

And suddenly you were back there.

On the floor. Your lungs collapsing. His eyes watching you fall apart.

His fingers pressed against your pulse now—like they had then—and it took every shred of strength you had not to recoil.

“Still elevated,” he murmured, mostly for Greyson’s benefit. “Likely from residual anxiety.”

Then—

His thumb moved. Just slightly. Not in a diagnostic pattern. Not something any other doctor would notice. A slow, deliberate stroke against the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes snapped to his.

His gaze was calm. Direct. Empty.

And then he leaned in, just close enough that Greyson couldn’t hear, just close enough that his breath skimmed the edge of your cheek.

“You remember,” he whispered.

A shiver ran through you.

“That’s good.”

Your body seized up.

The fear didn’t just spike—it detonated.

Your chest pulled tight, tighter, then tighter still, until your ribs felt like they were being crushed from the inside. Your vision blurred. The lights fractured.

You gasped.

But there was no air.

No oxygen. No sound. Just the sharp, high-pitched scream of the monitor as your vitals plummeted. Greyson cursed somewhere behind the ringing in your ears, reaching for the call button. But Zayne didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush.

He watched.

Watched as your eyes rolled back, as your body went slack, as the machines lit up with panic.

And then—he smiled.

Just for a second.

Small.

Quiet.

Like something in you had just confirmed something in him.

“Clear the line,” he said smoothly, already reaching for the crash cart. “She’s fibrillating.”

His hands were fast. Precise.

He pushed Greyson aside without looking, already fitting the oxygen mask over your face, adjusting the IV drip, his voice calm and clipped as he issued commands.

“Sodium bicarbonate—ten cc’s. Push now.”

You were slipping.

But you could still feel it.

The pressure of his hands on you. The cold calm in his voice. He was saving you.

But only because he wanted you alive.

You woke to silence.

No voices. No footsteps in the hall. Just the gentle hum of machinery and the soft hiss of the IV beside you.

For a moment, you didn’t move. You lay still in the narrow hospital bed, the room lit only by the faint electronic glow of monitors—cold, blue-white halos that made everything feel half-real.

Your body ached in a way that told you you’d been unconscious again. Your limbs were heavy, your chest tight, and somewhere in the hollow beneath your ribs, fear still curled like smoke—but it was duller now. Not gone, just quieter.

You told yourself it was over.

That whatever had happened before—whatever had broken you open in the dark, whatever had made you collapse under the weight of your own heartbeat—was behind you now.

That you were safe.

You let the tears come slowly, without sound, tracking hot lines down your cheeks.

You didn’t sob. You didn’t scream.

You cried the way exhausted people cry—quietly, weakly, as if even the act of mourning had to be done gently now, in case your body couldn’t take it.

And as the tears slipped past your temples into your hair, you whispered apologies to no one.

To the man in the basement. To yourself. To the version of you who used to believe doctors were only here to help.

Your breathing steadied, even as your eyes blurred again.

You thought you were alone.

Until the silence blinked.

Not broke—blinked.

Like something in the room had moved without moving. Like the stillness had shifted just enough to pull your attention toward it. Your eyes, sluggish and red-rimmed, drifted toward the far corner of the room—

—and that’s when you saw him.

Sitting. Perfectly still. Half-shrouded in shadow, his white coat faintly illuminated by the blue glow of your monitors.

Dr. Zayne.

Not standing. Not speaking. Not making his presence known.

Just there.

His gloved hand rested lightly on the arm of the chair, the other on one knee. His legs were crossed neatly, his posture pristine—as if he hadn’t shifted once since you were brought back here.

And his eyes—

They weren’t soft. They weren’t cruel.

They were measuring.

Like he wasn’t watching a girl cry—

He was watching the aftershock of an experiment.

And when your breath caught in your throat, sharp and sudden, he didn’t blink. He simply said, in the same calm voice he’d used while pressing a scalpel into someone’s chest,

“You stabilized quicker this time.”

A pause.

Then, with that same clinical curiosity—

“That’s promising.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He didn’t ask how you were feeling.

He already knew.

“You were afraid,” he said, as if you hadn’t just spent the last several minutes trying to forget. “But the second event was shorter. Less severe.”

You said nothing.

Your body still hasn't caught up with your mind, and your mind… your mind was treading water in something dark and endless, struggling to stay afloat under the weight of his voice.

Zayne uncrossed his legs slowly. His coat shifted slightly.

“Tell me what you remember.”

It wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t even an order.

It was a line dropped into the silence—a net, cast to see what you would offer.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. You couldn’t make yourself speak. Not to him. Not like this.

“The man in the basement,” he said, as if reading the gaps in your breath. “Do you remember how he looked?”

Your lips trembled.

“Y-yes,” you whispered.

Zayne’s head tilted.

“Were you afraid of him?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Of me, then.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He smiled faintly. Not pleased. Not mocking. Just… confirming.

“The heart stops differently in each person,” he said, almost conversational. “The way it fights. The sounds. I’ve studied a many. In books or real life.” His voice softened, like he was speaking to himself now, remembering things you could never understand. “But yours,” he said slowly, “didn’t want to give up.”

He paused, just long enough for the silence to press in again.

“Was that because you didn’t want to die?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

But your eyes—wet, bloodshot, wide—told him everything.

Zayne leaned forward, just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded. His gloved thumbs pressed together in thought.

“Most people beg when they know,” he said. “You did, too. But that wasn’t what interested me.”

Your breath hitched.

He watched.

“It was the look on your face,” he continued quietly. “Not terror. Not even desperation.”

His eyes met yours.

“It was sorrow. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just afraid it would hurt.”

His words settled on your skin like ice.

And then—so softly you almost missed it—

“Did it?”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. He was asking if you felt yourself dying.

And for the first time… it didn’t sound like a warning.

It sounded like a test.

You couldn’t speak.

Your mouth was open, your lungs pulled tight, but no sound came out—not even a breath worth calling a word.

And for a moment, it was enough.

Zayne didn’t press. He just watched.

But then, without a single change in his expression, he stood.

Smooth. Quiet.

The chair gave a soft creak behind him as he turned, walking with steady, soundless steps to the small cart near your bedside—one used by every doctor, every nurse, filled with the usual assortment of tools and vials.

You knew that cart. You have seen it every day. And you’d never feared it before.

Until now.

Zayne’s fingers moved without hesitation, gloved and practiced, choosing something from the tray.

A small syringe.

Glass vial.

Clear liquid.

He held it to the light briefly, tapped it once with his finger, then pressed the plunger until a thin bead of fluid shimmered at the tip.

You choked out a breath—dry, broken, more panic than sound.

He turned back to you, expression unchanged.

“It’s not lethal,” he said flatly, as if discussing something mundane. “But it can be.”

You stared at the needle. Your heart pounded against your ribs. The machine at your side began beeping faster.

“A little too much, and your system will seize,” Zayne continued. “But just enough, and you’ll sleep without pain. No struggle. No fear.”

He took a step toward you.

“I’m giving you a choice.”

Your breath shook.

“Speak,” he said calmly. “Tell me what you’re feeling. Let me understand you.”

Another pause.

“Or I’ll take away the part of you that makes this interesting.”His voice never rose. “And end it quietly.”

The needle glinted under the monitor’s glow. And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t trying to scare you.

He was just explaining what came next.

The beeping beside you blurred into a high, thin rhythm—sharp and panicked.

Zayne didn’t acknowledge it. He stepped closer, unhurried, like a surgeon prepping for a routine procedure. His coat brushed the edge of the bed as he came to your side, syringe in hand, and reached for your arm with clinical ease.

You tried to pull away. But your muscles wouldn’t respond.

The exhaustion, the fear, the weight of everything you’d seen—it kept you rooted there, trembling, barely able to breathe.

He caught your wrist with one gloved hand, steadying it gently, and rolled your sleeve up just enough to find the vein.

Then he pressed the needle lightly to your skin.

Cold. Thin. So sharp you could already feel the sting before it broke the surface.

Zayne’s face hovered just above yours—close enough to see the shadow of your panic in his eyes.

“One last chance,” he said quietly.

Not threatening.

Not kind.

Just… final.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “what you were feeling.”

His finger shifted slightly on the plunger.

“Or I stop wondering what it felt like.”

The implication hung in the silence, colder than the steel tip on your skin. Your heart gave a jolt. And the breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally broke free—ragged, high-pitched, full of something primal.

Terror.

“I—I don’t want to die.”

The words tore out of you, cracked and high and soaked in the kind of panic that didn’t sound like language anymore.

“Please, please, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to see anything, I didn’t—I didn’t ask to—”

Your voice broke. You couldn’t stop crying now. The tears spilled too fast, the words tumbling after them in pieces.

“I was just feeding the cat—I didn’t know—you were just there and I—I didn’t mean—”

The needle still pressed against your arm, unmoving.

Zayne didn’t speak.

He just watched.

His eyes traced your face—flushed, wet, twisted in terror. Your mouth was trembling too hard to form full sentences. The panic trembling through your chest like your heart might leap out and fall apart at his feet.

Slowly, he pulled the syringe back. Just a few centimeters. Not gone. Not discarded. Just… paused.

“Good,” he said softly.

You didn’t know what he meant. But in that moment, you understood something else: He hadn’t decided to let you live. He’d decided to wait. And that was somehow worse.

“Do you still believe in right and wrong?”

His voice was quiet, almost idle, as though he were asking what you thought of the weather.

You blinked up at him, the tears still clinging to your lashes, your breath stuttering in uneven pulls.

He didn’t repeat the question. He didn’t need to.

“Y-yes,” you whispered, voice thin but trembling with something almost close to anger. Maybe you were so exhausted you didn’t care anymore. You were doomed to die, from your illness, you didn’t care anymore.. or did you? “And someone like you… someone like you is going to end up in prison.”

You regretted it immediately. Your heart stuttered. Your entire body locked up like you’d just thrown yourself off a ledge.

But Zayne…

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t threaten.

Instead, he looked at you—really looked—his head tilting just slightly to the side.

And then he smiled. Small. Barely there.

But unmistakably amused.

“Prison?” he said softly, as if testing the word. “You think this world is built to contain people like me?” He stepped back, finally releasing your wrist, the syringe disappearing silently into the pocket of his coat.

“No,” he continued. “People like me keep the system functioning.”

A beat.

“People like you just bleed for it.”

Then—quietly, with the same gentleness one might use to tuck in a patient—he reached for your shoulder.

His gloved hand settled against you, light but impossibly heavy, as if he were anchoring you to the bed.

“I’m not going to kill you tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, unhurried. “Too many rounds. Too many eyes. Timing matters.”

His thumb moved, just barely, against your collarbone—like a doctor taking your pulse.

“Next time,” he added. “I’ll be less busy.”

But he didn’t move away.

His hand stayed there, cool through the glove, resting against your skin as if he were gauging more than vitals. As if he were trying to feel the echo of your fear, the memory of your panic still trembling beneath the surface.

He leaned in slightly, his face unreadable, eyes roaming over yours—not like a man looking for answers, but like a scientist watching for cracks.

His hand lingered, gloved fingers cool against your skin, as if he were reading something far more complex than vitals. His gaze flicked over your face—not with care, not with empathy, but with calculation. Like you were a puzzle still unfolding in real time.

Your lips trembled. Your breath caught again.

He tilted his head slightly.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Still alive in there.”

Then, just for a moment, he looked away.

And you moved.

Your fingers, hidden beneath the blanket, reached toward the tray table—toward the pen, the scalpel, anything sharp. Your hand shook, but you moved with purpose.

You weren’t sure if you meant to defend yourself or die on your own terms.

But before your fingers could close around the metal—

“Careful.”

His voice stopped you cold.

You froze.

His eyes were back on you. Unblinking.

“I’d hate to misinterpret your intentions,” he said calmly. His voice had cut through the air like a scalpel. “Careful,” Zayne said again, stepping closer.

He reached down and took the sharp object from your fingers—not violently, not even with pressure—just a calm, quiet removal, as if you were a child who had picked up something dangerous without understanding it.

“I don’t think you meant to attack me,” he murmured. “If you had, you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

He opened a drawer at your bedside and took out a fresh syringe. The sight of it made your stomach turn.  You knew that shape. You knew that vial. You knew it wasn’t a sedative meant for sleep.

“Your body’s still weak,” Zayne said calmly, drawing the clear liquid with smooth, clinical precision. “Your heart hasn’t fully recovered. You’re disoriented. Slow.”

He glanced at you—not angry, not gloating.

Just… measuring.

“This dosage won’t kill you,” he said. “But you won’t be able to move. You’ll feel everything. Just… not be able to respond.”

He slipped the needle into your IV port like it was routine. And as the cold spread through your veins, he leaned closer.

“I want you to remember what this feels like,” he whispered.

Your body began to fail you one piece at a time.

Your fingers went first—numb, tingling, like you’d slept on them wrong. Then your arms. Then your legs. Your chest tightened, your eyelids felt heavy, but your mind—your terrified, spiraling mind—remained sharp.

“I’ve seen this in animals,” Zayne said, sitting beside your bed again. “The flickering between panic and stillness. The way they try to scream even when their throat won’t work.”

He leaned in.

“Let’s see what kind you are.”

Your eyes rolled toward him. It was all you could do.

And he smiled—small, satisfied.

“You should be grateful,” he murmured. “If I was cruel, I’d leave you like this until morning.” He reached forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of one finger. “But I have patients. Rounds.”

A pause.

“You’ll come back soon enough.” He stood, adjusted his coat, and looked down at you like a man admiring a painting still in progress. “And next time you try to grab something sharp—”

He touched the side of your throat, right where your pulse fluttered erratically beneath the skin.

“—I’ll cut deeper than your pride.”

Then he walked out.

Calm. Polished.

Like death passing politely through the hallway, smiling on his rounds.

[vxnillabxn]

hiiii, could i please have some lads men x mute!mc (separate, not poly)? thanks!

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x mute gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚thanks for requesting! i did what i could with the little knowledge i have, —and i did some research just to be sure!— because i only know deaf people and i know peruvian sign language, but other than that... i tried my very best ( ˶•ᴖ•) !! sorry for any inaccuracies! also, i had a completely mute reader in mind, hence why i didn't add any additional sounds on their part. hope this is okay! ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚ever since you two have had use of knowledge, he's always been next to you. that means you know him just as much as he knows you, and the way the two of you communicate has always gone beyond words.

﹙♡﹚he acts as your voice when you ask him to, but he never talks over you, and he makes sure people know exactly what you want to convey —nothing more, nothing less.

﹙♡﹚he definitely knows sign language, both the traditional one and the one you two created when you were kids. it includes lots of silly gestures, and it's easier for you to communicate rather than scribbling things down or using a text-to-speech app.

﹙♡﹚with that said, he definitely keeps all the letters, post-it notes and scribbles you've sent him. even if the notes just read “buy me snacks” or “i'm mad at you, u suck!!!” with bold, crayon letters from when you were a kid, he still treasures them.

﹙♡﹚he keeps them in little boxes or pasted on dozens of diary pages. maybe he'll never be able to recall your voice in his memories, but it doesn't matter to him. he'll always remember you this way, and he finds it even more endearing.

﹙♡﹚he loves your silent laughs. you use your entire body; eyes closed, sharp inhales, body shaking from a laughter that doesn't quite reach his ears…

﹙♡﹚and he loves your gestures, too. there are days you don't even need to sign, or you don't have to write anything down at all. you just look at him, he looks at you, you do a gesture with your brows or softly glance one way, and he'll know what you need.

﹙♡﹚he loves you so much, truly. the lengths this man will go to just for you to always feel heard or seen… gosh, he'll always make sure you feel comfortable expressing yourself however you want to. he'll also make sure people around you don't ever dare to make you feel bad.

﹙♡﹚they don't understand sign language? fine, he'll translate if you ask him to. they don't want to read your notes? they'd better do it, or he'll punch— …he'll make them reconsider.

﹙♡﹚because he wants everyone to know how precious and smart you are, how complex your mind is, and how you always have something to express. so when formerly mean and stupid people suddenly start taking you seriously overnight, it's possible you have a huge guy behind you, tilting his head with a menacing glare.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚ah, this man doesn't even notice you can't express yourself with words. why? because you are so expressive; always using your hands, your facial expressions, gesturing… or writing down your thoughts.

﹙♡﹚he absolutely loves looking at you. if you are signing, his eyes are focused on your pretty hands. if you are writing, he admires how you hold the pen or pencil. if you type on a text-to-speech app, he'll watch your face light up by the phone screen.

﹙♡﹚he'll still bicker with you. a lot. you two will go back and forth, with him whining and you furiously writing down or signing back to him. he'll definitely bite back with dramatic flair, so every argument ends up in creative chaos.

﹙♡﹚he once turned off the lights when you were teasing him with hand signs. you duct taped his mouth while he slept that same night. fair game.

﹙♡﹚he forgets to translate for you. when he takes you to grand events, he's so entranced by how you move, how you try to express yourself, that he forgets he actually has to explain to some of the people around you what it is that you're trying to convey.

﹙♡﹚he won't admit it, though, but he likes to keep your thoughts for himself —sometimes. he loves being able to understand you, being able to tell what you want, what you need… and he doesn't want other people to be able to read you the way he does.

﹙♡﹚either way, he'll make sure you feel understood as always, and if you ask him to speak for you, he will.

﹙♡﹚he'll sing for you. he notices you enjoy his voice and nuzzle against him when he hums, so he'll pull you closer, just so he can look at your peaceful face. those quiet moments and lovely gestures are more than enough for him to know you love being close to him as much as he loves being close to you.

﹙♡﹚he still messes up some signs. you tell him he doesn't need to use them, since you can hear him just fine, but he wants to. he wants to feel a different way of expressing himself. after all, he shows what he feels through his paintings, so he wants to feel how you do too, without verbal interaction.

﹙♡﹚he'll probably teach you how to paint too, just so you have yet another way to communicate your thoughts and feelings. and what better way than doing something he'll always be able to understand, and that will be forever portrayed on a canvas for him to admire?

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚i'm convinced he speaks lots of languages, and he knows some basic and specific sign language variations too.

﹙♡﹚he'll be your translator, but only if you explicitly allow him to. if you don't, and you'd rather write down or use a text-to-speech app to communicate by yourself, he'll let you have the spotlight. after all, he loves when you share your smart and pretty mind.

﹙♡﹚he's very protective. overly. if he sees an ounce of impatience or even a brief, patronizing, seemingly insignificant gesture from someone you're communicating with, his gaze will darken.

﹙♡﹚can't they see you're expressing yourself just like anyone else? though, you're not like any other person. you're his love, the most special gem in the entire world. they will understand you, and they must pay attention to you. or else.

﹙♡﹚he is always looking at you. no matter if you're close or far, if you're sleeping or turning your back on him. he's attentive, he's ready for you to address him, ready to interpret your signs, to read your notes, to notice your body language.

﹙♡﹚he makes everything easier for you, too. not because he thinks you can't solve things by yourself, but because he wants to spoil you. plus, it is convenient (he gifted you a bell you can ring whenever you want him near).

﹙♡﹚he always comes to you upon the bell's jingling. you might as well ask him to dress up as a butler, but don't test your luck. you might end up wearing the bell around your neck instead, like a cute kitten.

﹙♡﹚he'll also have mephisto follow you around. nothing new, really. he just wants to ensure you feel okay, that your day is going smoothly, that no one is being unnecessarily rude to you, and if you require his assistance for anything at all.

﹙♡﹚he'll whisper sweet nothings to you every night. he'll remind you how your silence doesn't make you small, how you should always express yourself if you feel like it, how he loves when you share your ideas with him.

﹙♡﹚if someone isn't able to appreciate you, they aren't worth your time. at all. he'll pepper your face with kisses until you fall asleep; each kiss for each day he promises to take care of you and make sure you feel more than enough. because you are.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚sweet baby takes his time learning sign language for you, because he sees how much better you express yourself rather than having to write or type it down.

﹙♡﹚he struggles at first, but he surprises you by signing “i love you.” he earns tons of kisses after that.

﹙♡﹚even when you can hear his voice, he still rather uses sign language. why? he's too lazy to speak.

﹙♡﹚...sike. in reality, he just loves the idea of sharing something with you, and he loves the way you sign his name, or when you sign cute things just to get him flustered. he thinks it's like a cute, secret way of communicating between you two.

﹙♡﹚he also finds it a bit funny how you leave post-it notes all around the house for him so he won't forget something you already told him, like buying a specific snack or going to the supermarket to bring you something.

﹙♡﹚that, or when you surprised him by using a text-to-speech app, setting a deep, funny voice to tell him “you're so hot haha," followed by a "would you still love me if i was a nuclear-bomb-shaped green, fuzzy worm?" sigh.

﹙♡﹚he buys you different sets of notebooks, each for a different purpose. the red one is for when you wish to complain. the pink one is for when you want to tell him something cute. the green one is for funny jokes you can't exactly sign, but still want them to be funny, so you write them down.

﹙♡﹚after all, there's only so much you can sign, and you know he'll understand words better, so his idea isn't useless. besides, he gets to keep them as treasures, even when you write nasty things when he messes up. he'll keep them in mind to improve, though.

﹙♡﹚sometimes, you feel exhausted, and he notices you don't even feel like writing down complex thoughts or trying to sign them, either. those days, he'll just silently hold you, reminding you that he's there, and he'll always be; whether you need him to step in, or you just need him to support you from the sidelines.

﹙♡﹚he is still getting used to all your different expressions and gestures, but he's thrilled every time he gets one right, even if it seems silly to you. he wants to be the bestest boyfriend on earth, so he'll quietly study you —while also admiring how effortlessly precious you are.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚he definitely knows sign language. at least three variations, if not more. he understands when you use them, and he'll either answer orally or by signing back to you.

﹙♡﹚his signs are always polished and clear, his slender fingers making it easier… you could literally just stare at him as he both signs and talks to you.

﹙♡﹚he's too perceptive. he'll notice your gestures, no matter if they are subtle or if you try to hide them. he'll notice how you feel, and he'll be able to tell if you feel discomfort, boredom, or anything else he can change or fix for you.

﹙♡﹚you two develop a secret code full of soft gestures, little taps, tender touches, or even some nuzzles here and there; each one with a different meaning. he knows it is hard to express exactly what you want, especially when you're in a public setting with people who might understand your signs or read your notes, so your secret code will always be a safe option.

﹙♡﹚and he absolutely loves those loving gestures, too. so he's more than happy to use them when words aren't needed.

﹙♡﹚he notices that you love when he talks, so he'll read for you at night, he'll hum softly in the privacy of your shared bedroom, and he'll quietly explain some medical texts just to soothe you.

﹙♡﹚feeling his voice echoing against his chest, and hearing his heartbeat, is an absolute bliss for you, and you'll make sure to let him know how thankful you are with loving gazes and traces on his arms.

﹙♡﹚he definitely makes his medical team take sign language classes. not only because of you —though you're the main focus— but because it is a must. in fact, everyone should learn at least the basics. even when you can hear, he wants people to understand you.

﹙♡﹚he also prepares sweet surprises for you. for instance, he took you to your favorite café and the already familiar employee greeted you in sign language. zayne made sure they knew how to, since it would put a smile on your face. and it did. it was sweeter than the desserts you shared that day.

﹙♡﹚he lets you express yourself freely. he waits until you finish rambling in whatever method you choose, and he'll pause everything he's doing just to pay attention to you. you're the most precious person in his life, so naturally, everything that comes out of you is extremely important and urgent.

[bbgsaja]

⳽ωɩtᥴᖾ ᥙρ (ᙖᥲᑲყ ᔑᥲʝᥲ x ᖴ!ᕼᥙᥒtᥱɾ!ᖇᥱᥲᑯᥱɾ) ρt 丨꧰

summary - Gwi-Ma is sealed away for good, you reassure Baby his claws are not evil, and now you can all relax. Your definition of that includes having the Saja Boys perform their 'Your Idol' song for you girls, since they never got to use it warnings - none a/n - im so sad this series is coming to an end and im actually not ready to say goodbye yet, so there's a poll at the end for you guys to help me decide what to do next 💙 part one • part two • part three • part four • part five • part six • part seven • part eight • part nine • part ten

"Stay there."

"But-"

"No."

A low growl made you freeze, and you sighed and slumped back against the pillows. Wincing when the movement put pressure on your wounded waist.

Baby's eye twitched.

"And you wanted to get up?"

"I'm not incapacitated!"

He brought your food to the bed, sitting down on the edge before holding it out to you. You reached forward to take it, only for him to pull it back out of your reach again.

"Baby!" You protested.

"See? Your reflexes are slower," he grinned, holding the food further away. "Come on, ask for help. Say please."

"You did that to prove a point?" You huffed, then sighed when he raised an eyebrow. "Okay, fine. Please feed me, my handsome and amazing boyfriend. You're so kind."

Baby's grin softened into a warm smile as he brought the food close again, setting it down between the two of you. He started to feed you slowly, with the utmost care and gentleness, and it made your heart skip a beat. He even wiped away the mess around your mouth affectionately, not making a face of disgust like you would have thought.

"Jinu said girls like this," he admitted quietly, and you almost didn't hear him.

You smiled.

When you finally had enough strength to get out of bed, he let you. But he didn't let go completely. He didn't grab you, didn't hold you, didn't guide you. He just hovered, tending silently to your every need and want. Making sure you were truly okay.

Days passed, and you were finally able to take off the bandages. Sleep came easier then, but one night you woke up to a strange feeling.

Baby was awake, and he was concentrating on something. He was in full demon form, eyeing your waist as he slowly reached out with a clawed hand. He hesitated just as he was about to touch your waist, pulling his hand back.

You didn't say anything.

His next attempt was closer. The tips of his claws grazed your skin, and just when you thought he made headway, he yanked his hand back like he'd been burned.

Still, you let him work through it at his own pace.

The third try was better. His hand fully rested on your waist, his claws tickling your skin. You shivered, and he started to pull away, but you grabbed his wrist.

"Don't," you whispered. "It feels nice."

His breath caught in his throat, "What?"

"I like it," you repeated, blinking away sleep. "I like the feeling of your hands on me, claws and all. It makes me feel...safe."

His jaw dropped slightly. Like he couldn't believe the words coming out of your mouth. But then he smiled, and reached out once more. Clawed hand closing around your waist, squeezing gently. And when you didn't flinch, when you just smiled even more, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

"You're not flinching."

You smiled, "No. Because those are my claws."

His throat constricted, "Your claws...?"

"Yeah, mine," you shifted your whole body, laying on your side so you were face-to-face. "Mine because they belong to the person I love the most in the world. The person who makes me feel safe, like I will never be hurt again."

Baby let out something like a whimper, blinking furiously.

You smiled softly, "Baby, I trust you. You'd never hurt me. Those claws will always be beautiful to me, and will never remind me of what happened because they're different. They're mine."

He leaned in and kissed you, clawed hand finding its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. He kissed you deeply, yet slowly and sweetly. It was passionate, but at the same soft and tender and gentle, making your heart race but also bringing back butterflies.

"I don't kiss you enough," you joked breathlessly, foreheads connected. "I'm a stupid, stupid girl."

"Yep," he agreed with a playful smile. "Stupid, indeed. I've been deprived, and now I'm starved."

You laughed and smacked his arm lightly, playfully.

In the morning, you met everyone else in the kitchen for breakfast when Rumi came running in holding a book high over her head. Jinu followed, arms outstretched.

"Guys, guys, look!" She grinned, "They wrote another song!"

"Wait, no!" Jinu's face went red. "Don't show them!"

"I already saw," you laughed, continuing to eat your breakfast as Baby nuzzled his face against the warm skin of your neck. Purring like a happy little kitten.

"What?" Jinu stopped chasing his girlfriend, looking at you.

"Yeah, you had it open on the coffee table last week," you shrugged. "It sounds good."

"Yes!" Rumi agreed, shoving the lyrics in Mira's and Zoey's faces.

Jinu sighed, burying his face in his hands.

"Woah, this is good!" Zoey exclaimed.

"Impressive," Mira agreed. "Very interesting lyrics. Hardcore."

Jinu groaned.

"Want a private performance?" Romance winked at her, leaning in.

She sprayed him with bottle, "Bad Romance. Behave!"

He hissed, covering his face, "Not like that! I meant the song!"

"I never know with you."

You laughed, wrapping your arm around your boyfriend. Carding your fingers through his teal hair earned you even more purring and a featherlight kiss to your shoulder.

"Actually, maybe they should perform it," you agreed. "I'd love to see it. In a non-soul-stealing way."

Baby's head shot up from your shoulder, and he grinned deviously, "You wanna hear it?" 

A few hours later, the boys came out of their rooms - yes, you'd finally given them rooms in the Huntrix building - in full demon forms. Depressing black robes and everything.

Your jaw dropped, "It took you guys so long to change into that??"

"Hey, we weren't exactly expecting to be doing an impromptu performance!"

"At this rate it's not impromptu," Mira deadpanned.

"Okay, okay, whatever," Rumi waved your comments off. "Let's see!"

You leaned back on the couch, eyebrow raised. Right up until the moment Abby started the song, and your jaw dropped. Not only were the words captivating from the start, but their movements were hypnotic.

"Keeping you in check, keeping you obsessed~"

"That was hotter than all of his 'look at my abs' moments," Mira's voice trembled slightly from beside you.

"I'll love you more when it all burns down~"

Zoey leaned forward in her seat as Mystery sang the next verse, entranced by both his words and how smoothly and effortlessly he moved.

"I'm the only one who'll love your sins~"

Rumi's face went red when she heard Jinu's words, biting her lip to keep from giggling like the cute fangirl she was.

And Baby...

"Oh. My. God." Was all you could manage.

"Thank you for the pain 'cause it got me going viral~"

You were floored.

And the way he ran his hand down his face...was the dizziness from the rush of the song or from the insanely attractive performance he was putting on?

"Living in your mind now, too late cause you're mine now~"

You leaned forward as well, mouth agape, eyes wide. Adoration, admiration, awe, and a twisted fascination filled you as they sung their most dangerous song yet.

Your eyes, and the other girls' eyes, all followed the boys' every movement. It was mesmerising, enchanting, and alluring in every way, every lyric striking a chord deep within you.

How would you have survived such a song if they stayed evil?

"So...what did you girls think?"

You blinked, seeing the Saja Boys grinning and smirking like they knew what you girls were thinking. Mira cleared her throat and mumbled something, Zoey squealed and hugged Mystery and gushed about his part, and Rumi stammered something about not knowing what to say.

"I need some water," you got up, eyes wide, turning to go.

"Liked it that much, hmm?" Baby's cocky voice filled your ears as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

You shivered, "I liked it way too much. You would have had my soul if you had went through with your original plan, and that scares me."

He chuckled, kissing your shoulder again, "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"I will pass out if you rap your part again, though."

"Is that a challenge?" He grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. He opened his mouth to start, but you slapped a hand over it.

"No!" Your face burned.

He laughed, a real and genuine laugh, before spinning you around and kissing you deeply.

tag list - @tenaciouskittenpuff @tiger-lilee-5 @seavnz @haru-reto @redkitsu03 @pearthesimp @arieslucy @matsugumisou @lonelyminh @justanindiangirl12 @anonymousewrites @nyanyanihao @snowy-violet @yumi-does-stuff @iluvshifting @minthoneynbasil @smileysunshinesworld @satansdaughter123

[thatonegrimm]

Im in the mood for some comfort fluff. Could we have the saja boys comforting the reader when they are having an anxiety/panic attack. Thank you

Thank you for the request! Hope you enjoy!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader – Comforting You Through an Anxiety Attack

You didn’t mean to spiral. It started with a short breath. Then a longer pause. Then your chest tightened like something invisible was sitting on you. The room got smaller. The sound got louder. Nothing felt real.

But someone noticed. And they didn’t let you go through it alone.

--------------------

🧿 Jinu 

You couldn’t feel your hands. Not really. Your fingers were curled into your shirt, chest rising too fast, lungs like paper—thin, crinkling, too small for the air you needed.

Jinu found you like that in the kitchen. The kettle was still whistling. The tea you meant to make was forgotten on the counter.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped softly into the room. Let you feel his presence without making you reach for it.

Then, gently— “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, barely.

His hands found yours, unfolding them slowly, carefully, like petals bruised at the edges. He pressed them to the counter—solid, cool, real.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice like warm fabric, “It’s okay if it doesn’t feel like it right now. Just stay with me here, alright?”

He guided your breath without rushing it. In… and out. Again. No judgment in his eyes. No panic in his posture. Just calm. Just Jinu.

And when your knees gave out, he was already there, sitting beside you on the floor, his sleeve against your cheek. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

--------------------

💪 Abby 

You didn’t remember how you ended up on the floor.

One moment you were brushing your teeth. The next, the sound of water, of your own heartbeat, of everything got too loud.

You were shaking. Trying not to cry. Or maybe you were already crying—everything was so fuzzy.

“Hey. Hey, babe.”

Abby’s voice was low. Not loud. Not sharp. But solid.

Then he was there. Dropping to his knees, wrapping you in the warmest, steadiest hug the universe had ever built.

He didn’t ask you what triggered it. Didn’t force you to speak. He just pulled you close, one big hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing circles into your back like he could trace the fear out of you.

“You’re okay,” he said gently. “I’ve got you. You’re here, and you’re safe, and you’re not going anywhere without me, alright?”

You clung to him like a lifeline.

And in that moment, that’s exactly what he was.

--------------------

📚 Mystery 

He noticed it before you even said a word.

The way your breath hitched. The way your eyes stopped focusing. The way you were hugging your knees on the edge of the bed, trying so hard to stay still.

Mystery didn’t say “what’s wrong?” He didn’t say “calm down.” He just sat beside you. Let the silence stretch. Let you feel that you weren’t being watched or judged or rushed.

Eventually, he pulled the edge of the blanket up over your shoulders and pressed the side of his leg against yours. Just enough weight to say I’m here.

When your breathing turned shaky, he slid a cold water bottle into your hand. When your eyes brimmed, he offered his sleeve.

And when your voice finally cracked with, “I’m sorry,” he shook his head.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said quietly. “Just let me stay.”

And you did.

Because sometimes the best comfort wasn’t fixing the storm. It was having someone who’d sit with you in it—without fear.

--------------------

💋 Romance 

You didn’t even realize how fast you were spiraling.

Your thoughts were running, overlapping, like a hundred tabs open in your head—every one screaming at you about things that could go wrong.

You were curled in a corner of the dressing room, hands clutched to your chest, trying not to sob too loud.

Romance found you mid-collapse.

“Oh, baby…” His voice dropped instantly—his whole body softened. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded. Barely.

He knelt beside you, hands cradling your face with the utmost care. “Listen to me, okay? You’re alright. I promise. I’ve got you.”

You shook your head. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

“You can. Just not all at once. And that’s okay.”

He took your hands. Pressed your palms to his chest. “Feel that? Breathe with me. In… good. Out… just like that.”

He kept talking. Soft praise. Gentle reminders. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Look at you. You’re stronger than the anxiety. You’re here, and you’re loved.”

He whispered every word like a prayer. Like a promise.

And eventually, you started to believe him.

--------------------

🔥 Baby 

It hit fast this time.

You were shaking, hyperventilating, and clawing at your sleeves before you even made it through the front door.

Baby opened it to find you on the steps, wide-eyed and trembling.

He didn’t hesitate. He pulled you inside, shut the door, and crouched in front of you like a guard dog protecting something precious.

“Okay,” he said. “Hey. Eyes on me.”

You blinked, barely able to focus.

“Name one thing that’s real right now. One.”

You whispered, “You.”

His brow furrowed. Gently, he cupped your face. “That’s right. I’m real. You’re real. This floor is real. You’re sitting on it. That anxiety? It feels big, but it’s not bigger than you.”

Your breath caught.

“Do you want me to hold you?”

You nodded.

Then he pulled you into his arms like it was the easiest thing in the world, holding you until your breathing slowed. Until your fists uncurled.

“Next time,” he murmured, chin resting on your head, “let it try me first.”

And somehow… the fear felt a little smaller.

--------------------

M-List

[emmanation]

things i manifested during my birthday trip in june (no preamble, we go now. success story because i know you all need a little bit of a push.)

ok so the first and loudest...... my mom bought me the louis vuitton murakami cherry blossom bag. not even as a birthday present. just. bought it. in daylight. in public. the same woman who gave her big speech on "maybe you'll get something for a thousand, max." ok. and now she's just swiping a card for the last physical murakami cherry blossom in paris as if it's a club penguin membership. no discussions, no drama, i assumed, we walked. we bought. meanwhile a year ago we were in financial cpr. actual insolvency. and this year.... twenty minutes into the city and i'm holding the bag that went off the grid online not even two days later. the saleswoman was blinking like "might not have it," "maybe not this location," "probably sold out" etc etc etc. and i said ok girl keep doing your npc lines while i wait for my bag. because obviously it's there. and then it was.

anyway. we got a room upgrade. bigger and comfier and accidental.

my mom was chill. giggling-chill, not yelling and no weird moral monologues about respect or whatever. she laughed at one of my jokes. imagine that.

we actually splurged. like not !!!yay one overpriced salad!! splurged. proper indulgence. like oh yea mom sure....let's go to balenciaga, why not?

i got cocktails everywhere, some of them were free. no idea why.

we went to so many museums. high risk times too. like showing up near closing. still got in. no passive aggressive ushers. no dramatic countdowns. just. entry.

and get this. NOTHING WAS CROWDED. i know that's boring to some people but no it's not. because last year, versailles was packed like a girl dinner tinned sardine set. i was body-checking toddlers by accident. but this year, people forgot to exist. lines moved like jazz.

and then. my mom. my MOM. who thinks smoking is a moral failure. BOUGHT ME SLIMS. for me. just handed them over like they were tic tacs. again: i'm seventeen. she's aries. she's not supposed to do that. but she did. okay..........

weather was behaving PROPERLY. rained.....??? only while we were inside. cleared? the minute we left. over and over. the atmosphere was syncing to me as if it was a bluetooth speaker. i was meteorologically girlbossing.

oh also shifted. just a little nothing.

we found a booth at cafes every single time, even the packed ones, even when we didn't call ahead. even when people were lurking like pigeons trying to poach tables. somehow, booth.

no tech issues.

no rude waiters.

no weird men.

no misplaced booking emails.

no fights.

no bickering.

just....... smooth. like the world was on xanax.

MY FEET DIDN'T HURT. mind you i walked 20 kilometres every day in the most not-meant-for-odyssean-walking shoes. but alas.

kept getting small discounts or weird upgrades. either official ones or those social-interaction-only ones where someone just likes your vibe and you skip the line or get extra.

we kept getting seated next to windows.......this is important. and the windows were clean. no bird trauma or crusty handprints.

and every time i thought we might be late for something, we weren't. the timing was always a minute off from bad but just in time for perfect. like the city bent a little so we didn’t have to.

^^^^^^ like when we were in giverny for monet's museum, and got back to the train ... and then the train was there a minute later. and the next one wouldn't have arrived for another 2 hours.

and also. i got the cutest most comfortable sweater ever in existence. which cost too much, and my mom kept on with her speech about big spending and i went okay:) but in my mind was like hmmmmmm. no. no, i have this, actually. like somehow, this thing is mine. yea. and then..........it is.

anyway. it was giving hyperstability under capitalism. it was giving predictive assumption. it was giving i assumed correctly and the universe matched pace.

sparkle sparkle.

[distuff]

HIIII i love your writing so much....

can you do (lowk all the boys but BABY IN PARTICULAR if u dont wanna) where their partner is like, I don't know how to descirbe it, bubbly I guess? or cute? like they're sleepy so they're kinda sluggish and pouty (if that makes sense...?) and they end up just falling asleep on another saja boy's shoulder cause they didn't wanna move, and the saja boy decides to not move just to cause its funny, and baby finds them and has a mini anuerusm but also doesn't want ot wake the reader and how he would sort it out and get his s/o back?

Answer: No worries readershi ! I get what ya mean by the reader however, I would like to remind ya that the ver of Baby you see in my stories is a bit... diff than what I realised many readers want him to be (￣▽￣*)ゞ I want to make ya happy, but at the same time I can't go against something that doesn't feel right. I can only hope the story delivered ! I'm honestly just usin' my readers prompts as a character study fufufu~ (Is it correct? I donno qwq)

📍Requests: Please check HERE

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Baby Saja: Reader Falling on Another's Shoulder

Featuring: Baby Saja Reader: Gender neutral

🍼 Feelings... Baby thought, were useless. He may not remember why he believed that, but his body did. Every time he feasted on a human soul, or his clawed fingers traced the honmoon waves—feeling scorching cool—it knew.

🍼 He didn’t need memories. His body told him all he needed to know, even if it did so without words.

🍼 Not that Baby had to worry about physical reactions the way humans did—their so-called "emotions." No soul meant no heart. No heart meant he couldn’t feel anything beyond the hollow in his chest, that deep, gnawing ache that screamed to be filled—though it never could be.

🍼 He couldn’t feel sadness, no matter how many salty tears fell from the humans' eyes in his grasp. That sorrow was replaced by hunger. He couldn’t feel joy, no matter how loud the laughter fell out of his lips. That thrill was replaced by void. And that tight squeeze in the chest—the kind that made people bite their bottom lip when they saw someone they felt safe with, someone they trusted—was just a mask. A façade.

🍼 Behind it: a grin. Sharp teeth. Saliva. The anticipation of a fulfilling meal.

Baby never imagined he’d sit with himself and think about what he once had as a human, and what little he could now feel as a demon. All because he agreed to Jinu’s ridiculous idea: these soul-collecting missions, crafted so the selfish bastard could try filling his own void with something only Gwi-ma had the knowledge to return. Still, Baby would give Jinu silent praise. No need to inflate his ego more than it already was.

And yet— Here he was. In a private van owned by the humans who worked for a slave house… or "production company," as Jinu insisted it be called.

He, Mystery, and Jinu were returning from yet another mind-numbing interview for the SAJA members—the ones "behind the music." The others had been lucky enough to stay back at the house, soaking in space untainted by human scent.

Baby wasn’t a picky demon when it came to souls. But lately, the taste of lust, admiration, and infatuation had started to grow stale on his tongue. He was fed them daily, and they no longer satisfied.

But then—there was your wave. The one that made him recoil from its warmth. It no longer burned, yet it slithered over his skin like blood: thick, sticky, clinging.

Baby bit his tongue, resting his head against the van door. His eyes were unfocused, gazing through the window as the scenery blurred past—fighting off the shiver crawling up his spine.

He hated that kind of warmth the most. It felt gentle, yet possessive. Like it wanted to hold him—yet demanded something in return. And Baby had nothing to give. Not physically. Not emotionally.

The humans had a name for it. Love. Connection. Bond. Romanticised nonsense masking what was, at its core, a parasitic exchange.

No one gave without expecting something in return. Even those who claimed to act out of kindness did so for a pleasure only they understood. Nothing was done without a reason. And Baby knew, deep down, that he was your means to an end. One neither of you could ever truly reach.

And yet… your soul. So enticing. It didn’t taste like the cloying sweetness of lust. Nor the intoxicating grip of obsession.

No—attachment tasted like thick, sweetened water. It never filled the hollow in his chest… but it gave the illusion of it. And that illusion made Baby’s teeth itch.

Would your soul be the one to finally fill that void?

Logically, no. Only his own soul could do that. But the demonic instinct inside him—Gwi-ma’s voice, cruel and amused—whispered:

“Y͟e͜s͢~ F͢e͟a̸s̕t̴.”

Ash filled his mouth. He bit into his tongue. A flicker of flame licked the back of his throat before the wound healed within seconds.

He didn’t even flinch. The van remained silent, its passengers drained from the endless, pointless interview meant to entertain the masses.

: : :

Neither of them spoke once they stepped out of the van and into the high-rise complex given to them by the company. They didn’t need to. Their auras said enough.

Baby could feel it clearly—his seniors just wanted to get to their shared apartment and retreat to their own rooms in peace.

As soon as they entered, Mystery made a beeline upstairs without a word. Jinu disappeared down the hall, probably heading to one of the rooms cluttered with books or games—whichever distraction his restless energy chose tonight.

Baby was ready to follow Mystery up to his own room, but he paused the moment he caught sight of the living room. Romance sat casually on the couch, painting his nails a soft iridescent pink, with you slumped gently against his shoulder. From the slow, steady movement of your wave, it was clear you’d fallen asleep.

Baby stood there silently, his expression unreadable, as his eyes scanned the room bathed in your red line. The crimson pulsed with lazy, satisfied warmth—so vivid it swallowed up the once-prominent blue hue that used to dominate from the Huntr/X fans who were now becoming attached them.

He could only spot one bright blue wave pulsing among the dullness and red, barely clinging on. But Baby’s attention didn’t linger there.

No—his gaze stayed fixed on the deep red wave coiling around you. Crimson with delicate whips of purple curling at the edges near your chest. So focused was he, he didn’t realise his canines had extended until—

"Atatata~" Romance’s sing-song voice cut through the silence.

Baby blinked, snapping out of his trance, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the older demon’s smirking face. Romance wiggled a finger at him playfully, the other hand still holding the brush.

“Not yet. Don’t forget—we need as much of these as possible.” He nodded toward the crimson wave, its slow movement matching your steady breathing.

Baby clicked his tongue and stepped forward, the low thud of his boots a warning. “Bullshit. You’re feeding off it bit by bit,” he accused, voice low and sharp. The purple flames on your wave weren't exactly subtle.

Romance chuckled, unfazed, and waved him off with a lazy flick of the wrist before turning back to his nails. “Not as much as you are. Poor lamb’s so pale,” he drawled. “You should take it easy on the soul.”

Baby’s eyes shifted to your face. Blank. Unreadable. Then a smirk stretched across his lips, slow and cutting, as he took another step closer—his shadow falling over your sleeping form.

“Why waste an opportunity served on a golden platter?” he murmured.

Romance snorted, dipping the brush into the bottle again. “You’re starting to sound like Jinu-ya,” he said with a sly grin. “Careful, Baby~ You don’t want to end up with forehead wrinkles like him.”

Baby let out a dry laugh, but the smile slipped off his face quickly. His eyes never left yours. You were smiling faintly in your sleep, breathing soft and even.

Having a nice dream? he wondered, then asked aloud, “What are they doing here?”

Romance didn’t skip a beat. “I got bored. Decided to use the rare spare time to its full potential.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Baby’s brows furrowed as he bit the air, sharp canines flashing. He turned toward Romance with a harsh whisper, “You just wanted an easy meal.”

He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake you. He was exhausted. The last thing he needed was a human clinging to him, draining what little energy he had left.

Ironic. He thought almost sarcastically.

Romance let out a low chuckle, careful not to jostle your sleeping form. “Can you blame me?”

“Yes. Yes, I can. Find your own human,” Baby snapped quietly, arms crossing as his energy flared slightly—just enough to send a warning.

Romance ignored it completely, casually getting the excess polish back into the bottle. “Last time I checked, all these humans are to be given to Gwi-ma~” he said cheekily.

Baby scoffed.

Romance continued, now more thoughtful, “Don’t play with your food too long, Baby. You don’t want to get attached, now do you?”

Baby’s eyes narrowed. “How the fuck can we get attached when we have nothing to attach with?” His tone was raspy, barely above a whisper.

Romance hummed in response. “Fair enough. Wrong term.” He paused, expression smoothing out. “Possessive. Don’t get overly possessive over something not meant to last.”

Baby’s eyes widened slightly. Possessive?

His gaze snapped to your sleeping face again.

Then he scoffed. Like I care about them. The only reason he was even annoyed was because Romance was feeding off something he worked on.

He was the one who turned your aura crimson. He was the one who got the pleased rumble from Gwi-ma for sweetening your soul.

It was his work. Not Romance’s.

You were his piece.

And you would be his offering on the day of the feast.

“Don’t consume all of it.” Baby’s voice was low and firm, his brows furrowed in a serious expression that made Romance glance up at him with a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Mmm~ Fair,” Romance hummed, clearly entertained. “But don’t think I won’t fight for such a savoury taste when the final day comes.”

Baby returned the smug grin, posture straightening as he released more of his demonic energy. Romance mirrored him, their shared pressure darkening the air between them. Both pairs of golden eyes flashed briefly—slitted pupils sharp and glinting—before the illusion washed back over their features like a tide pulling back.

“I’d love to see you try, you diva,” Baby taunted smoothly.

Romance’s aura began to flare again, the atmosphere almost crackling—until a heavier, far more suffocating presence swept into the room.

It felt like being shoved into a cloud of ash and smog. Both demons stilled immediately, expressions widening just slightly as they instinctively tried to breathe through it.

Mystery’s aura had settled over the entire living room. Tamed, cold, and unspoken—a warning. A very clear shut it.

Without another word, both demons let their chests fall, puffed bravado fading away in silent submission to the elder. The silence hung thick between them as they shared a side owilish glance.

Then they both turned toward you.

Romance felt you stir first—you were leaning against him, after all. Baby felt it second, through the ripple of your wave, the slow change in its frequency.

Shit. Baby cringed inwardly. No surprise, really. He and Romance had already washed the living room in their clashing auras, but Mystery’s aura must’ve really shaken your human soul.

Sure enough, within seconds, your eyelids fluttered open.

Your brows furrowed, your body shifting stiffly as though the pleasant dream you’d been trapped in had suddenly turned sour, decaying into a nightmare too quickly for your mind to process.

But then your gaze landed on him.

Baby went still. Please fall back asleep, he thought weakly. Just pass out again. Be a good little sheep and drift off.

Instead, your face lit up. You sat upright with childlike joy and immediately reached out to hug him, calling his name with far too much excitement for someone who had just escaped a nightmare.

He felt his chest tighten at the sound—his mind whispering for him to accept it, to draw you close and take what you were so easily giving away. A willing offering.

But his body moved on its own.

With a swift step back, he dodged your embrace, hand held up in a quiet refusal. Now wasn’t the time.

Ever, if possible, he thought, though he never said it aloud.

He was okay with physical attention—if he initiated it. There were moments when he craved your wave, when the hunger gnawed so deep that even your scraps of affection were enough to dull the ache.

But tonight, he was too drained. Too tired to talk, to act, to pretend in this human illusion. He just wanted solitude.

And yet… no matter how cold or dismissive he was, you never took it personally. You always endured it with grace.

Mystery once told him humans had a thing called “I can fix him.” idea. Baby had laughed so hard he nearly cried.

Fix him? How? By letting him consume your soul? That’d do absolutely nothing. Would you go against Gwi-ma for him? Try to retrieve his damned soul? If you did, Baby would be impressed by your stupidity—morbidly entertained, even.

But when those thoughts stirred in his head… all he could manage was a scoff.

He didn’t understand why it pissed him off so much—this idea of you giving yourself up so easily, throwing yourself into danger like a brainless creature blinded by some unreasonable devotion.

He didn’t want you to. He hoped you never would.

Because then he’d have to watch you die a completely useless death.

Baby could be cruel, teasing, distant, and cold. But you stayed.

You withstood it all like it meant nothing. He started calling you a masochist, and you just laughed.

Even when he dodged your affection, you’d smile at him—like you understood something he hadn’t even admitted to himself or you.

You’d argued, sure. Plenty of times. And sometimes, when you got truly upset, Baby would be forced to soothe you. He hated it—because your honmoon line would tense, your crimson wave would spike with defensive shards, and every instinct in his body would tell him to step back, to bare his teeth, to avoid getting cut.

You’d no longer taste sweet. Just bitter and clogged.

But you never stayed mad long.

And Baby still didn’t understand why you were so damn stubborn. Were you just nice? Did you think he was attractive enough to put up with everything he gave you? Did you see something worthwhile in him to cling to?

He didn’t get it. And he hated that.

All he wanted was for you to let him go. To walk away. To disappear into the crowd of blurry, faceless souls so he could forget the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him like he was worth the trouble.

So he wouldn't remember the way you once snuck a pat on his head, praising him for something stupid, while he stood there speechless—too stunned to do anything but freeze.

You don’t deserve it, Baby had once thought quietly as the two of you sat across from one another, lazily chatting and trading complaints like two overworked beings with nowhere better to be.

But that thought opened a dangerous door.

Which of these humans actually deserve to have their souls consumed?

That train of thought didn’t get far. It was slammed shut almost immediately as Gwi-ma’s furious voice screeched in his mind, sharp and unbearable—like claws dragging across a rock. The sound echoed inside his skull, a grating reminder of two things: his unrelenting hunger… and his contract with his Lord.

With you, Baby found himself craving something he’d never truly longed for before—his soul.

Not because he missed it. Not because of some romantic longing for what he used to be. But because he wanted to feel.

When he was with you, he didn’t feel much of anything on his own. He mainly felt what you did through your wave. The way your energy responded to him.

Still, sometimes… A voice—faint and nagging at the back of his mind—would whisper: What would I feel if I had it back?

Would he like you? Would he feel attachment? Annoyance at your dramatics? Amusement at your storytelling and exaggerated complaints?

Would he even feel anything at all for you? Or would you fade into just another face in the crowd, forgettable and dull, once the honmoon barrier no longer affected him and he became a fully formed human with his own thoughts and unclouded desires?

He didn’t know. He told himself he didn’t care.

Baby sat staring at you now, his gaze dulled. You were rising to your feet, offering him one of your small, familiar smiles. You’d already caught onto his fatigue—like you always did. You noticed everything about him, it seemed.

Romance, sitting nearby, lifted a brow at him but said nothing, already returning to painting his nails with a dramatic sigh.

“You had a hard day, huh?”

Your voice pulled Baby’s eyes to meet yours, tired and bored as they were. You looked up at him with that same soft concern that always gnawed at something deep inside him. Gently, your hand reached for his arm—easy, familiar, careful.

Baby’s body stiffened.

Your touch was warm to him—warm in the way fireplaces feel during a cold winter. A strange, scorching warmth bloomed where your hand rested, not soothing but intrusive, and every instinct screamed at him to flinch away. To step back.

But he held still.

Jinu had already scolded him recently—told him to act less detached when around you.

“You’re in a relationship,” Jinu had said dryly, like it was a contract Baby had signed. He had nearly scoffed out loud: Whose fault is that?

He didn’t get the chance to argue. Jinu’s attention had shifted just as Tiger stepped through the realm portal, Magpie sitting on its head, looking unamused like always. The trio had rushed upstairs, Jinu looking mildly guilty about something. That had immediately made Baby suspicious.

He hadn’t told anyone about what he thought was happening. Not yet. Not until he spoke to Jinu first. If it turned out to be something stupid, there was no need to alarm the others.

Still, some part of him—some quiet, stubborn part that still respected Jinu—resented the secrecy. He didn’t like being kept out. Not by Jinu. Not by someone he believes he can trust with anything.

Baby was pulled from his thoughts as you gently tugged at him. Somehow, during the seconds he’d been lost in his own head, you’d moved behind him, coaxing him with soft persistence.

When he refocused on you, you were smiling—brightly, as always. Your wave reached out to him, clinging to something invisible, something hopeful, and the joy radiating off you was so tangible that it pulled the corners of his lips upward despite himself.

You tugged again. “Come on, sleepyhead. You can rest once we get to your room,” you said with far too much confidence—as if being allowed into his bed was a given.

He should’ve kicked you out. Should’ve rolled his eyes and told you off like he always did.

Instead, his body betrayed him once more. He took a step forward.

Your touch still felt scorching, but his skin was slowly acclimating. And so, he let you guide him upstairs, watching you with a contemplative expression as you began rambling—talking about how Romance had invited you, what the two of you had been up to, the way you exaggerated every little detail with dramatic flair.

God, just shut up, he wanted to groan. But he didn’t.

His head was empty. Peacefully so.

For once, Gwi-ma’s voice wasn’t clawing through his skull. Either his Lord was too busy, or one of his brothers was bearing the brunt of his annoyance today.

Baby could breathe. Sort of.

The only downside was that Gwi-ma always seemed to hate your voice.

Somehow, it only made the demon lord more irritable. The headaches would spike, sharp and relentless. And when they did, Baby was too worn down to resist—too tired to stop you from touching him. Really touching him.

You’d run your hands gently through his hair, massaging his scalp, letting him rest his heavy head against you while his body, despite itself, clung to your presence for relief.

Even Baby knew this relationship wasn’t healthy—at least not by human standards.

And yet… here you were. Still here. Still reaching for him. Still offering something he had never wanted.

As you lowered your voice while opening the door to his room, Baby stared at your back. Your wave pressed against him gently—soothing, needy, unaware that with each rub, each pulse of affection, he was feeding off you again.

His energy returned bite by bite. And still, you smiled.

You can’t be that lonely, can you? Baby thought as he stepped fully into his room, the soft click of the door behind him signalling you’d followed and shut it.

He let out a low groan, flopping face-first onto the bed—not from exhaustion after the Interweaver, but from something heavier. Something stickier.

You took his suffering as comedy, as always, letting out a quiet chuckle before happily bouncing onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly under your weight, your grin wide and annoyingly bright as you looked at his clearly unamused expression. Far too happy. Far too warm.

Raising a brow, you reached out, gently, like always. "Baby? You know you can tell me when—ack!"

You barely got the words out before his hand shot up and caught your wrist in a firm grip. The contact was too much—your crimson wave spilling over him, blanketing him in warmth he didn’t ask for and couldn’t ignore.

You wanted to stay by his side? Let yourself be eaten slowly, piece by piece, like some willing sacrifice?

Then fine. Let it be. But Baby refused to linger in that heat longer than he had to. He craved fire—the kind he could endure. The kind that hurt. That pain was nothing compared to Gwi-ma’s flames.

With no effort at all, he flipped your position, pushing you back into the mattress with a force that made the springs creak beneath you. He straddled your legs, pinning them easily with his thighs. His gaze bore into yours for just a second before he leaned in, capturing your lips in a rough, unapologetic kiss.

His tongue swept against your lower lip before he nipped at it, smirking when your wave pulsed. Annoyance. Confusion. Desire. Good. These were the emotions he could handle. Emotions he was used to feeding on.

Unlike the other thing. The clogging thing that stuck to his throat and made him want to purge.

Love… Baby thought bitterly, dazed, as you let him in—returning the kiss, softening beneath him. Is so fucking disgusting.

[traumadumpwriter]

Nasty Secret

Bf! Rafe Cameron x Kook Reader 🍓

Based off this ask: “Do you think you could do an imagine where Rafe finds out that the reader has been SAd in her past and he gets mad about it?”

Trigger warning for: sexual assault, trauma, coercion, alcohol, explicit violence, blood

Next Part | Masterlist

Word Count: 4.9k

(Divider by @kodaswrld )

Part One:

Everything in your life had been so different since you'd become Rafe's girlfriend almost a year ago. He'd found you and pulled you from the depths of a depression that you'd never even been able to acknowledge - let alone understand - and he'd never forced you for answers.

His assumption had been that you were just... well, sad. Sad about the silly things that girls get sad about - their appearances, grades, relationships, friendships and such. It was clear to him that your self esteem was low for whichever reason, and so he did what he could to lift it - and it had worked.

He was a good boyfriend - a great boyfriend - and you felt beyond grateful to have him. He'd given you the confidence and clarity of mind to move on from the bad state that you'd been in - but you'd never given him the explicit details of the depths of that time, nor had you ever planned on it. As much as Rafe was doting, he was also volatile and judgemental. You didn't want to risk making yourself seem any more vulnerable than you'd surely already seemed, nor did you want him to see you as tainted.

But all of that had been forgotten anyway. Things had been perfect. You didn't need to tell him.

It was a standard summer day in Figure Eight when Rafe called you, the sun reflected in his upbeat tone - a pearly white grin audible.

"Come to the courts. I'm here with Top and some of the boys."

You couldn't help but grin also, although the thought of watching your boyfriend and his friends play basketball was not particularly exciting.

"How long are you gonna be playing for?"

"I'm not sure but some of their girls are here too - Georgia, Elle, Sasha, the ones you like."

"I like all of your friends girlfriends!" You protested which Rafe playfully scoffed at.

"Sure you do. Look babe I've gotta get back to the game. Come here - I wanna show you off."

"Okay, okay. I'll be there soon."

"Love you- Oh and bring a bikini or something if you wanna get in the pool, we're going Toppers after."

And then the line went dead.

You took a breath, excited and anxious for a moment, before heading to your wardrobe. Living in the Outer Banks meant that you had cupboards full of bikinis and different swimsuits, and you decided to go with an espresso coloured two piece, easy to wear under your t-shirt and shorts.

The walk to the basketball courts from your house was only fifteen minutes, it's perfectly flat gravel and polished fencing fitting perfectly into the white suburbia that surrounded it. With your earphones in and the sun beaming on you, the walk was nice and you were in a good mood. Which became a great mood instantly upon seeing the broad, statuesque shape of your boyfriend up ahead.

Topper was the first to notice you, standing and smiling for a short moment before shaking his head and speaking to Rafe. He'd obviously spoken your name because the taller man sharply turned around to face you, a curve pulling at his lips as he eyed you up and down, stepping towards the metal fence to greet you there.

Behind him there was a large group of lads playing basketball and a smaller group of girls stood chatting, both making a considerable amount of noise. Neither of them had even entered your peripheral yet though, your gaze so focused on the handsome body waiting to touch yours.

Rafe hugged you tightly, kissing the top of your head, and quickly squeezed one of your butt cheeks before pulling away, knowing you would jump and giggle at the touch as you did. The fact that he knew you in such an intimate way gave him a high, cemented in with every predicted action. You were his. He smirked and let his hand drop lazily to your waist.

"Busy day, princess?"

"Somewhat. Mostly gardening."

"You and those plants." He teased which you playfully scoffed at.

"You won't be laughing when you're eating my fresh, completely homemade cooking."

"Yeah you're right, I won't. God I need to wife you up." He mumbled that last part.

"What-"

"Nothing babe, come on let me introduce you to the boys. They're all tourons, some of them have summer houses here. You might've seen them around before."

You chuckled, still spinning from that last comment before suddenly having your concentration shift to the new matter at hand. Still your eyes didn't move from Rafe's.

"Are they like- touron tourons?"

"Maybe, but they're all chill. Now let me show you off." He grinned and you complied, stepping over to the group with your side pressed against Rafe's.

There were five lads, not including Topper and Kelce who were still dribbling the ball around behind the group as they paused the game to greet you. Your eyes briefly scanned over the their faces, smiling and introducing yourself with a casual hand shake one by one until you looked up at the last one and froze.

Your blood ran cold. For a second you were able to convince yourself that it wasn't who you thought it was, but then he grinned and your stomach did an uncomfortable flip, confirming that you were in fact looking up at Bryce Saunders; one of the many millionaire, frat boy douche bags that tended to frequent the island, and the guy who had forced himself onto you a year prior.

It was a night that you'd managed so well to forget, never returning to the house in which it had happened and never daring to tell anyone about it. Especially not your boyfriend.

Now it all came back to you in a sickening rush of memory, and you took a step back from the bulky lad, suddenly feeling like a shy, uncomfortable child under his satisfied gaze.

"How you doing Y/N? Long time no see." He held out his hand to shake and you flinched away, earning an unimpressed look from Rafe.

At that you quickly straightened up and took his hand, feeling sick at the touch but forcing a smile.

"You know each other?" Rafe questioned, his eyes darting between you both.

Bryce was seemingly unfazed by the accusatory tone, looking back at Rafe with an unaffected smile and a friendly chuckle.

"Barely. Met at a party last year, think we smoked a joint. She's a cool girl, man. Look after her."

Rafe returned the smile, his posture relaxing as he proudly agreed that you were a "cool girl" and confirmed that he did in fact "look after you very well" whilst you stood beside him in mortified silence. When you could finally step away you realised that you'd been holding your breath, and you took a deep inhale before making it to the group of girlfriends stood on the side of the court.

They greeted you excitedly as per and you did your best to play along, but you weren't able to make conversation as well as usual, your eyes continuously drifted back to Bryce, your heart rate increasing each time.

The night that it had happened, you could barely even remember - but you knew that it was real. You'd had bruises the next day to prove it. All you knew for sure was that you'd been drinking a lot at a party and Bryce had been the one supplying you drinks. One minute you were fine, the next you were trying to fight off a two hundred pound athlete in some bed that wasn't yours.

Looking at him, laughing and joking as he ran about with Rafe, you felt sick. Sick with an indescribable dread, like Bryce was somehow dirtying your boyfriend with his mere presence.

"Are you okay?" You turned to your right and saw that Georgia, Topper's current fling, was speaking to you.

The other women were engaged in some gossipy sounding conversation, and you realised that they'd drifted almost a foot from you whilst you'd not moved position since you'd first said hi. You blinked a couple of times and quickly collected your senses, straightening your back and forcing an awkward smile.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired."

She looked as if she was going to question you further so you quickly asked "Do you know when we're going to Toppers?" successfully distracting the girl with an excuse to look over at the man in question.

"Hmm, I don't know. They're pretty into their game." She sighed dreamily before turning back to you. "I can probably ask him for his key though, then us and the girls can go party in the pool instead of waiting around here."

You didn't even have to reply for Georgia to turn around and rush over to Topper, who quickly agreed and handed her his key before jumping back into the game. The walk to his was quick and soon you, Georgia and two other girls were sat in the pool, sipping on glasses of wine and laughing with each other.

You'd started to relax instantly as soon as you were no longer in Bryce's presence, though you still felt shaken up, and the Thornton's stocked wine fridge was a welcome treat. The chatter of the girls was a good distraction too, especially as you all gradually got more drunk and the conversations became more ridiculous. Elle, Kelce's girlfriend, was particularly hilarious, overly honest about their sex life to the point of being extremely crass, getting some deep belly laughs from the rest of you.

But then she paused, her eyes going wide and a dramatic gasp leaving her lips like she'd suddenly remembered an extremely juicy piece of gossip, and you all leaned in closer.

"Have you guys heard about that Bryce guy?" She asked, slurring as she spoke.

Your body went rigid under the shimmering water, your grip on your drink suddenly tightening and your breath getting caught in your chest.

"Heard what?" Sally, one of the touron's girlfriends, casually asked, sipping on her drink with an amused smile, completely oblivious to how still you'd become.

Elle's eyes went wide again and she lowered her voice, though was unable to hide the excitement in her face that she felt for the eager gazes upon her.

"Well, it's fucked up, I don't even know if it's true, I doubt it is-"

"Just spit it out." Georgia grinned.

"Okay- okay. But you can't tell anyone you heard it from me. And I'm serious when I say it's fucked up, like if it's true we're being bitches right now-"

"It can't be that bad." Sally muttered.

"Well apparently he- like, roofied this girl last summer. Some Pogue, I can't even remember her name."

The playful mood suddenly dropped and all four of you were quiet for a moment before Georgia asked "Who did you even hear this from? Surely it's not true, he's such a nice guy."

Such a nice guy. That's what you had thought too. Your lips felt glued shut and your tongue like a heavy iron, any sound you could've made impossible to escape.

"Heard it from Jennie, but she said that the girl is like, a massive slut and just fucking weird. So, who knows." Elle shrugged.

"Well surely if it was true he would be in jail. And it's definitely not. I know Bryce, he's the nicest guy ever. Whoever that girl is should get her ass beat for spreading shit like that. That can ruin a man's life." Sally interjected with sudden irritation.

"That's so true. I didn't even think about that." Georgia mused, twiddling with the tiny umbrella in her drink before taking a sip.

Elle snorted, amusement returning to her face.

"Those are meant for cocktails, not rosé."

"Don't act like you don't want one." Georgia returned with a chuckle, sparking a debate of whether cocktail accessories were acceptable for other drinks.

Between everyone but you that was.

You quietly excused yourself to go to the bathroom and then found yourself in the kitchen, pouring yourself a shot from the liquor cabinet. The liquid burned your throat but soothed the rising rate of the beating in your chest, giving you a chance to catch your breath that you didn't realise you were holding.

"Another girl he's done it to. I wonder if that was before or after me. If it was after me... I could've stopped it... I could've told someone... Should I tell someone now?" Your thoughts wandered in a few different directions, each road paved with shame.

Whatever the correct answer was, you decided to take another shot and try to force it all from your mind. You went to the bathroom, took a few more deep breaths and fixed your hair in the mirror, then made your way back to the pool.

As you walked through the pool house, the sound of deeper voices pricked your ears over the music and you realised that the boys had arrived. Topper's loud holler almost deafened you as you stepped back outside, chuckling at the sight of him having been chucked into the pool. Then your eyes leapt from him to the culprit - your grinning boyfriend, who's shirtless body was already glistening. His gaze quickly turned to you and his grin only widened, his arms opening and his feet naturally moving towards yours. Up and down his eyes ran across your form before he planted a hard kiss on your lips and squeezed your butt.

You squeaked into the kiss and could feel the pinkness forming on your face, even as you tried to play it cool and casually ask "So did you win?" like you weren't melting from his touch.

Rafe lifted his face away from you with an amused smile, his eyes boring into yours in the intense way that they always seemed to. A mix of adoration and ownership.

"Of course I did. You should've stayed and watched it." He gloated, quickly shooting a teasing glance in Topper's direction. "How about you? You girls been playing any competitive sports?"

"Totally. I just thrashed Elle at a game of ice hockey. And before that Georgia beat us all in extreme dodgeball."

"Anyone could thrash Elle at a game of anything, she's fucking wasted." Rafe remarked with a quiet smile, a gleam of trouble in his eyes. "I'm gonna make myself a drink, you want one?"

"A vodka coke would be great."

"Onto the hard stuff are we? Thought I could taste that. You trying to party hard tonight?"

You thought about it for a moment. Were you even really trying to party at all? Not really. But you couldn't say no to your boyfriend, especially not when he was so visibly excited, and so you returned his smile.

"Maybe I am."

Rafe's impeccably white teeth became visible again and he leant down to speak to you softly before heading swiftly into the pool house.

"Good girl. And good bikini choice. I like it, a lot."

You stood still for a moment after he'd departed, having to swallow and control the butterflies in your stomach before you returned to the pool. Topper, Kelce and Sally's boyfriend Monty we're all sat in the seats engraved into the shallow end with their girlfriends on their laps, and you joined them in one of the empty seats, beyond relieved that Bryce hadn't come with them.

Then there was a big splash, followed by shouting and then another splash and more shouting, and suddenly there were two more men in the pool. The men that they'd been playing basketball with. And one of them was Bryce.

Everyone laughed and welcomed them over, cracking jokes and making conversation, whilst you felt yourself again unable to move, almost feeling like a prey hiding from some big predator in the wild, hoping that if you stayed still enough he wouldn't be able to see you. It didn't work. After greeting everyone else, Bryce smiled and made his way over to you, sitting at the seat beside yours, his shoulder brushing against yours for a second. You almost gagged at the touch.

"So how have you been since I saw you?" He asked.

"Fine."

"Well that's good. I've been working with my father for his yacht company. Tiring work, I've definitely earned this holiday."

You didn't reply, crossing your arms and looking away from him at the other conversations happening around you, hoping that he would latch onto one of them instead and leave you alone. It didn't work.

"Okay, rude.” He scoffed with amusement. “Is there some kind of issue-”

Rafe's shout broke out from across the yard as he exited the pool house with a tray full of drinks in his hands.

"Come get 'em bitches!"

Everyone jumped out and grabbed a drink so after quickly grabbing yours, you took the opportunity to sit further away from Bryce, and felt extremely relieved when Rafe joined you and you were able to sit on his lap - where Bryce wouldn't dare to disturb you.

The evening continued on with an uncomfortable edge - for you at least - as despite how much you all drank, you couldn't shake Bryce's gaze from the back of your head. When everyone ended up drunkenly playing a variation of water polo in the pool - yourself and the other girlfriends balanced on the shoulders of your prospective boyfriends - it was fun at first. But then after everyone had thrown into the water a few times, Bryce's hand made it's way to your shoulder - taking a chance in amongst the chaos to grab your attention in a way that was quick, but also heavy and assertive.

"Hey- is there some kind of issue with us?" He asked with a casual grin, though his voice was quiet and his eyes flickered between you and Rafe - who was wrestling Kelce a few metres away.

You didn't answer. You hadn't expected him to actually have the nerve to try to speak with you again: Instead, you just thinned your eyes at him and turned away, climbing out of the pool and heading towards the pool house to make yourself another drink. You turned around to offer to make drinks for everyone else too, but decided that you weren't going to shout over the playful chaos or even try to get Rafe's attention when he was so gleefully beating up one of his best friends.

The air inside the pool house was cool against your exposed skin, outside still being humid and warm despite the now dark night sky. It was refreshing and you took a few deep breaths of the air conditioned coolness before opening the liquor cabinet, deciding that a gin and lemonade would be the right thing to soothe your nerves. Goosebumps raised across your arms and a shiver ran down your spine as you popped open the lid, then you heard the sound of someone entering the room from behind you.

"Is this about last summer? Because I was a bit rough that one time?" Bryce sounded annoyed, but almost amused as he once again placed his hand on your shoulder, causing you to sharply turn around.

You shoved his hand from you and hissed your reply, not expecting the words to come out with the force that they did.

"A bit rough? You fucking roofied me. I didn't want to have sex with you-"

"Roofied you?" He cut you off with a sharp scoff, the amusement in his tone increasing with the aggression in his eyes. "You said that you wanted to get fucked up and forget some stupid drama. I gave you what you wanted!"

You felt your teeth grit and your fists clench as you looked up into his unaffected eyes, remembering how you hadn't been able to scrub his touch from you for weeks after it had happened. Remembering how you'd secretly cried after sleeping with Rafe for the first couple of times, uncertain exactly of why but just knowing that your body felt wrong. Remembering how he'd entirely taken advantage of you in an already low state, and then completely violated you.

"Fuck you." You spat out, struggling to keep your composure. "Get out of here."

"Why? You scared you lover-boy's gonna find out you're not as innocent as he thinks you are?"

"Get out of here, Bryce." You repeated, refusing to back down despite the dampness that you could feel struggling to get past your waterline.

"Or what?" He grinned, though his tone was as hissing as yours.

Then he grabbed your wrists, easily squeezing them in one hand, like he knew that you were about to shove him away. Did he have some kind of sixth sense when it came to harassing women? The colour drained from your face, and although you logically knew that it would be near impossible for him to hurt you and get away with it, in that moment you found yourself considering what you would tell Rafe if he walked in. Like he would be catching you in the act of something awful, like it was your fault that Bryce had ever touched you in the first place. Your breath caught in your throat and you couldn't even think of what to respond to his taunt with.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

Your head turned sharply to see Georgia stumbling in with furrowed brows, her eyes darting between you both and quickly noticing your discomfort. You'd never felt so grateful to hear her ditsy, slurred voice in all your time of knowing her.

Bryce straightened up immediately, his eyes that had just seemed so black returning to their normal shade along with his signature relaxed grin. He cleared his throat and quickly removed his hand from you before stepping away.

"I think Y/N needs to drink some water. She's drank a bit too much." He said to Georgia with a smile and a nod, then walked back out to the pool.

A few moments passed, you hadn't realised how heavy you were breathing until the volume of your heartbeat in your ears finally lowered.

"What was that?" Georgia asked.

You didn't answer, still catching up with your senses, unsure of whether you were going to cry or not.

"Y/N? What was that? You looked terrified." She repeated, stumbling closer to you, eyes wide with concern.

"I-It was nothing." You replied quietly, looking to the floor.

"That was not nothing, you're literally shaking. Should I get Rafe?-"

At that your eyes darted back up to hers and you desperately cut her off.

"N-No... You can't tell anyone!"

"O-Okay. Of course not. Just tell me what's happening, Y/N. You're scaring me."

And you opened your mouth to answer - to quickly soothe her fear. But the words wouldn't come out, nor would they soothe anything. A heavy silence hung in the air and Georgia's previously worried expression turned into one of unfortunate understanding.

"That rumour about him. It’s true, isn’t it?" She said quietly, a shiver running down her spine.

You nodded and she was quick to pull you into a hug, and although you appreciated the sentiment, you didn't want it.

"Oh my God, Y/N. Why didn't you say? Oh come here. I'm so sorry he's even been around you. We've got to get him out of here. We need to make sure all women stay away from him, we've got to tell everyone-"

"No." You were quick to cut her off again, speaking in a tone of certainty. "Rafe cannot know! No one can know. I don't want anything to do with any of this. I just want him to stay far away from me and let me forget it."

Georgia's brows crossed lightly at that, as if she couldn't understand you at all.

"B-But he should go to prison. And if you're not going to do that... how else do we stop it from happening to anyone else?"

"Just let everyone know he's a perv- I don't know Georgia! Just leave my name out of it. You promise?"

With a deep sigh and a hesitant nod, she promised. Her eyes suddenly examining you with a new look of unsettlement.

"I'm gonna go home anyway, tell Rafe I drank too much." You mumbled, walking towards the door without looking back up at her.

"Okay, that's probably a good idea."

When you finally stepped back out into the garden it felt like it had been hours, though it had only realistically been less than ten minutes. You were quick to slide on your clothes over your wet bikini and tell Rafe that you needed to leave. Georgia backed you up by claiming that you'd been sick in the pool house toilet whilst she was in there - something that once again appreciated but also hated. It turned the slightly unimpressed expression on Rafe's face to one of amusement.

"Aww my poor angel, too sweet to handle the booze?" He teased, stretching out of the pool and shaking himself dry, stumbling slightly.

"Did you get it everywhere?" Taunted Elle with a giggle that you completely ignored.

You were distracted by the comfort of Rafe's arms around you, feeling so suddenly and profoundly safe that your waterline no longer needed to hold anything back. And when Rafe heard your sniffle, it was like his body sobered up entirely, suddenly stiffening and his voice going serious.

"Okay, okay. We're going babe. We'll go on my bike." He whispered.

And although you would've usually argued at the prospect of him driving so intoxicated, you were feeling a desperate anxiety unlike any you'd ever experienced in your time with Rafe, and the world felt like it was caving in on you. You were only able to breathe properly again once you were speeding down the road, your arms wrapped tightly around Rafe's waist and the wind feeling sharp against your skin. You pressed your face into his back and could feel his heartbeat, vibrating like the drum beat of a battle tune, and let more tears fall, though you weren't entirely sure why. You were with Rafe now, he would always protect you. Maybe you were just a bit shook up.

When the bike finally came to a stop and you both got off, Rafe pulled you into a tight hug before you could step towards the house. He placed a kiss on the top of your head and then gently wiped away a tear falling from your eye with his thumb, which felt so big next to your face.

"What's wrong baby?"

"I don't know, I- I drank too much." You stumbled on your words with a sniffle.

Rafe's brows furrowed slightly, examining the way that you couldn't keep your eyes locked onto his and the nervous fidgeting that you were doing with your hands.

"I've seen you drink a lot more. You've been acting weird all day." He pressed, his voice still soft but getting sterner. "Has something happened?"

He had given you the perfect opportunity to confess, his jaw stiff with the anxiety of waiting for your answer, and for a second you almost told him the truth, your lips quivering. But when they opened, it was just so much easier to let a lie out.

"No- I- I don't think I drank enough water. I really don't feel good. I hate being sick, C-Can we just go inside please? I r-really want a shower, and then cuddles."

The sweet tone of your question faded the clarity that rafe had started to see with, a little smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He knew that your favourite thing at the end of a stressful day was to take a long, hot shower and then curl up in bed next to him, watching a show or scrolling through your phone. It made him feel good inside to know that he could bring you that kind of comfort - that after a bad day, he would be the thing to make it better. And so he was quick to nod and lead you inside, keeping his arm around your waist until you parted ways at the bathroom door.

Whilst you scrubbed at your skin and silently cried under the pounding water, Rafe was none-the-wiser. He still didn't understand why you had been crying, and he had found your behaviour strange, but he didn't suspect that anything serious had occurred. Maybe one of the girls had made a mean comment and you were just drunkenly overreacting, or maybe being sick had just made you want to cry for some reason - that seemed most likely. Whatever the reason, he was quite intoxicated and soon became distracted with the task of making you some toast and bringing it upstairs on your favourite pink plate along with a glass of water and some paracetamol, then tidying the bed and finding something to watch.

When you finally came out of the bathroom, wrapped in one of his huge towels, you seemed tired and emotional - but nothing too out of the ordinary. Just the result of a day of drinking in the sun. Rafe switched on a nature documentary and let you cuddle up to his side, silently marvelling to himself at how sweet you looked in your linen nightdress as you mumbled things about the animals on screen. He chuckled and playfully argued with some of your remarks, like trying to convince you that he could single handedly take on a mountain lion, and you slowly fell asleep, feeling surprisingly peaceful.

"I love you." You'd whispered.

"I love you too." Rafe returned, lightly kissing your head before you fully drifted into the realm of unconsciousness.

Part 2 will be uploaded asap! I promise a few days max! I hope y’all enjoy this it took me ages to write lol.

[gf2bellamy]

I really love all your headcannons and fics.

But I ALSO love the idea of Spencer with a tomboy daughter who is smart, but the opposite of him.

Instead of memorizing pi, she learns cool facts about bugs and critters, with enough hands on experience to give Spence a heart attack.

I adore the idea of him bonding so much with her because they may be on total opposite ends of the genius spectrum, but they still love eachother dearly

cw: bugs and worms

while her interests couldn’t be more different from her father's, spencer is so deeply proud of how passionate she is.

he buys her every biology book, every illustrated guide to insects, even a small microscope on her birthday.

however, the moment she came running into the house, hands cupped around something wriggling, spencer’s entire body went rigid.

"honey, that’s—that’s great, but maybe put it back outside?" he stammered, already edging toward the nearest exit.

"but daddy, it’s a friendly worm! his name is greg!"

"greg is—greg is lovely, but i think greg misses his family. maybe we should—"

"no, he likes it here! look, he wants to say hi!" she thrust her hands toward him, and spencer nearly falls off the chair.

the moment you heard spencer’s panicked rambling ("did you know some worms can regenerate if cut in half? fascinating, really, but maybe we should—"), you swooped in.

"alright, bug expert," you said, kneeling beside your daughter. "let’s find greg a nice spot in the garden, okay?"

spencer shoots you a look of pure gratitude.

he tries to be brave for her, and he really does get better over time (especially when he sees how happy it makes her). but sometimes you can catch him hiding behind the kitchen counter if she walks in holding a new bug.

despite the differences, they’re completely inseparable. she’ll curl up beside him to watch documentaries or they read the books he'd gotten her together.

he listens carefully when she talks about her newest discovery, asking thoughtful questions even if the topic makes his skin crawl.

at some point, she’s fully aware of how much bugs freak him out and she loves teasing him about it.

"daddy, close your eyes, i have a surprise!"

"absolutely not."

"it’s not a bug this time, i promise!" (it’s always a bug.)

[ruinix]

smut. can you write something with Luke where the reader has a breeding kink and Luke is kind of surprised?

Hiiii, lovely. How are you? 😌 I hope you're ready for straight up smut 😌😌😌 You might want to kick me into my jail cell for this. I'm ready. Lock me up, i say while offering my hands. 🧎🏻‍♀️ Anyway, this is just a short one. Also, spy the new break I made. The leaves and flowers are totally evenly spaced (i'm coping).

Something New and More

18+. Whore Thoughts. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Breeding Kink (context in the fic: Luke always pulls out and well.... 😏)

Luke didn't hear you at first. He couldn't comprehend your words

His mind was focus on the feel of your hands rubbing and clenching on his arms, on the sight of your tits bouncing and pressing against his chest, on the tremble of your stomach, scent of you—your shampoo and conditioner, your body wash, your lotion or oil, basically everything—and especially the way your pussy clenching around his cock.

The slick sound of skin meeting skin, of your slickness squelching, of your breathy moans and groans, and your mutterings of his name was echoing in his ears and down his soul. Every time he fucked you, you rattled his very being.

And when your hand reached to cup his jaw, guiding him to look into your eyes, he felt like he was melting. Your thumb tracing over his bottom lip, slightly pressing downwards, had shivers ran down his spine. His blood was rushing to his cock and it ached. He want to come so badly. He needed to pull out, but he wanted...He wanted—

Then it clicked.

His hips slowed as he blinked at you. With a ragged voice, he asked, "What did you say?"

"I don't like it when you pull out. I—" your fingers tracing his jaw, then slipping to tug at his curls, "—need you to come inside. Please, Luke, inside. Need it inside my pussy."

He stilled, leaning his forehead against yours, because he felt himself leak. He panted, his heart thundering in his chest, his weight almost crushing you but he couldn't care. He needed the close proximity to keep himself from fraying. He grunted as your pussy squeezed once and fucking twice.

Your legs crossed tighter around his lower back, gripping him tightly. Your hips rolling, urging him to move, you continued, "I want you to cum in my pussy like you want to breed me. Fill me up, Luke. Please."

Luke almost came from your words alone, from your whiny and pleading voice. Honestly, he was shocked, because you'd never said that before. Not even the slightest hint. So, he was taken aback but fuck, he loved the sound of that.

He resumed his thrusts, smirking when you bit your lip, when your back arched as he angled his thrust to get deeper in your pussy.

"You want me to fuck you until it takes?" His lips ghosted yours, feeling the your soft and shaky breath. "You want me to fill you up with my cum and plug you with my cock?"

"Please, please, please," you begged again and again.

He snatched a pillow from the side. "Lift your hips," He whispered with kisses between each word.

You barely did because he was still on you, but he managed to slip the pillow underneath your ass. He lifted, his hands gripping your waist and hip.

He fucked you harder and harder. His sweet girl wanted him to come inside, so he would. But he needed you to come first. You first. Always.

He rolled his hips, slamming into you in deep and full strokes that pounded right against the spot that had you screaming his name in loud and breathy moans that drew his own. He grunted and groaned, loving the way he brings you pleasure. He would never get tired of this.

He didn't stop until your legs twitched and pussy was trembling and coming around his aching cock. He rode your orgasm, teasing your clit, gripping your hips so tightly that he knew he would leave fingerprint bruises.

A few more strokes and he came, releasing his hot cum as deep as he could. He gritted his teeth as your pussy gripped him like vice, convulsing and so fucking greedy for his cum.

"Fuck, it feels so good, Luke. I feel so full," you cried, your tears falling from the corners of your eyes. "Kiss me."

Luke wasted no time. He kissed you so tenderly while also roughly, panting into your lips as he spurted the last beads of his cum. It was clear that you enjoyed it. Luke did too. He knew he wouldn't pull out anymore. No fucking way. Not after he saw how happy you looked.

For minutes, with his half-hard cock plugging you, he kissed and whispered soft praises for taking him so well, his hands caressing your arms, your waist, and your already tender hips. He softly apologized for them while he teased that he would give you more.

Then, after a few more, when you were ready to go again, your hips rolling as your hand lightly pressed on his abdomen, he was too. His cock was still so sensitive, but he didn't let it stop him from starting again.

Because he must give you more.

Totally holding back from typing the whole LYHFML fron Shatter Me (bevause duh). Gosh i need to resume reading that series (i only read the first three). I miss Aaron Warner.

I need to sleep earlier...it's 3AM....umm good night!! 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

Lovelies @dancerbailey3 @loser-pretty-girl @tiredallthetimex @quinnintheabyss @r0wdymaize86 @macka @hughesmybaby @hockeygirlyyyy @siennaluvshcky @arty-anon @hodgepodge-musings

-> more thoughts? List. Want to be notified? Join my taglist!

[slvbum]

LOUD PRINCESS ♡ Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Rafe × Bimbo!Reader, annoyed neighbours, guilt, embarrassment, mentions of sex.

Last night had been… intense, to say the least, and her body ached in the best way—every muscle a reminder of their wild christening of the new place. She glanced at him, his bare chest rising and falling, and smirked to herself. No way she was cooking after that.

She threw on one of his oversized hoodies over her leggings, grabbed her phone, and ordered their usual: a caramel macchiato and a breakfast sandwich for her, black coffee and a bacon gouda for him. The app said it’d be ready downstairs in fifteen, so she shuffled to the elevator, barefoot and yawning, her hair a messy bun that screamed “just rolled out of bed.”

The elevator dinged open, and she stepped in, only to freeze when she saw an older woman already inside, probably in her seventies, all pearls and a crisp blouse, clutching a tiny dog under her arm.

The woman’s lips were pursed, her eyes narrowing as she gave her a once-over.

“Good morning,” she said stiffly, her tone dripping with judgment.

“Morning!” she chirped back, trying to sound chipper despite the awkward vibe.

The doors slid shut, and the silence stretched... until the old lady cleared her throat.

“I suppose you’re new here,” the woman said, her voice sharp. “Moved in yesterday, did you?”

“Uh, yeah,” she replied, shifting on her feet, clutching her phone a little tighter. “Just got settled.”

“Settled,” the woman huffed, adjusting her grip on the yapping little dog. “Well, I hope you’re aware this is a respectable building. Last night was intolerable. All that racket—like some kind of pornographic film shoot! Moaning and screaming and banging for hours. I couldn’t sleep a wink, and neither could poor Mr. Puffles here.” She gestured to the dog, who barked as if on cue.

Her face went hot, a flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks as the memory of Rafe bending her over the couch, the dining table, the bathroom sink flooded back, every damn surface. Her own voice echoed in her head, screaming “Rafey!” until her throat was raw.

She swallowed hard, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.

“Oh, uh… wow, that’s awful,” she stammered, her voice an octave too high. “Must’ve been, um… some wild neighbours. Maybe they were filming something? Like, a movie? Or… a prank?”

The old woman raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “A prank? It sounded like a woman being ravished nonstop. ‘Rafey, Rafey, oh my God!’—over and over. Disgraceful. I’ve half a mind to call management.”

She nearly choked, her blush deepening to a full-on tomato red as she stared at the elevator numbers ticking down, praying for the ground floor to swallow her whole.

“Yeah, uh, super rude of them,” she mumbled, scratching her neck. “I didn’t hear anything, though. Slept like a rock. New bed, you know?”

Liar, she thought, knowing damn well she’d been the one wailing like a banshee while Rafe pounded her into next week.

The elevator dinged, mercifully opening to the lobby, and she bolted out with a quick “Have a nice day!” over her shoulder, leaving the old lady muttering about “youth these days.”

She grabbed the bag from the delivery guy waiting by the desk, her hands shaking slightly as she hightailed it back upstairs, the embarrassment burning hotter with every step.

When she slipped back into the penthouse, Rafe was awake, lounging on the couch in nothing but his boxers, scrolling on his phone. He glanced up, smirking at the sight of her clutching the takeout like a lifeline.

“What’s with you, princess? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She dropped the bag on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch beside him, burying her face in his chest with a groan.

“Rafey, I just had the most embarrassing conversation ever,” she whined.

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around her, his fingers sliding into her hair. “Yeah? Spill it, baby. What happened?”

She peeked up at him, biting her lip, her cheeks still pink. “So, I went down to grab the delivery, right? And there was this old lady in the elevator—super fancy, with a little dog—and she started complaining about ‘porn noises’ last night. Said it was like a ‘woman being ravished’ for hours, moaning ‘Rafey’ over and over, and she couldn’t sleep!” Her voice pitched higher as she recounted it, her hands flailing. “I panicked, Rafe! I told her it must’ve been some weird neighbours filming a movie or something, but she knew. I was so red, I thought I was gonna die!”

Rafe threw his head back, laughing so hard the couch shook, his hand tightening in her hair.

“Oh, fuck, that’s gold,” he wheezed, pulling her closer. “You screamin’ my name all night got the granny squad riled up? Shit, baby, I’m proud of you.”

“Proud?!” she squeaked, swatting his chest, though she couldn’t help giggling too. “It was humiliating! She kept going on about how loud it was and I just stood there like an idiot, pretending it wasn’t us!”

He grinned, tilting her chin up to kiss her.

“Sounds like we gave her a show, huh? My noisy little princess.” He pulled back, smirking as he grabbed his coffee from the bag. “Guess we’ll have to keep it down next time. Or not. I kinda like knowin’ they hear how good I make you feel.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands, but he just laughed again, tugging her into his lap and handing her the macchiato.

“Drink up, baby,” he teased, kissing her forehead. “You earned it after that performance—downstairs and last night.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[gloryy-vs]

Your Sanctuary (MDNI 18+)

|| synopsis: abby x reader, you’re a decently popular idol, who was in a secret relationship with Abby of the Saja Boys. you adored him, loved every part of him, even the part you should’ve been running from. you let yourself indulge in sin, worshipping a man who was damned long ago.

tags: abby x reader, cunnilingus, head (f!recieving), fingering, demon sex, virginity taking, praising, p in v, rough & gentle sex, worshipping, hair pulling, manhandling

a/n: omg first fic, this is literally so long but i kept wanting to flesh out the backstory, but don’t worry the backstory to smut ratio is pretty equivalent! i haven’t written in so long and this isn’t proof read. so do ignore some typos teehee. i will be making more, let me know if you wanna be tagged, or if u have any requests/ideas! ||

Since meeting Abby about a month ago or so, you both were Idols, bonding over the struggles of meeting fans, having to keep good posture and facial expressions 24/7 as to avoid scandals from fans. Your first impression of him was that he was gentle, at least with you. Even though he was a bit conceited with his build and loved showing off to his fans for the squeals and screams, he had a charming voice, like you were being drawn to him by some unknown force.

Long story short, you two grew infatuated with each other, keeping a low profile relationship as well as you both could. Today, he was helping you out with a choreography. Even though he was a newer up and coming idol, he had such great coordination, reflexes and balance. He hit each move perfectly to your latest song after learning it the first time. It was like he wasn’t human. Each time you struggled or failed to hit a move on a certain beat he’d pause the song, going behind you to fix your pose.

“Keep your arms here, then the second beat, bring them up fast. Yeah?” He said, his hands moving your arms around to where they should be. His touch was hot, sending chills up your body.

He had an aura about him, like something darker was within him. His reflexes were quick, each time you’d be near him you’d feel a heat in your stomach like some sort of safety engulfed you. The way he looked at you too, his eyes fixated on yours without a glance anywhere else.

“You know, you’re really good at this, it’s like you’re not human.” You said, jokingly.

His arm draped over you, his lips just barely grazing your ear. “That’s cus I’m not, princess.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but his breath tickled your ear and made you jolt away from his face. You looked at him, his expression seeming serious as he pressed even closer to you. His eyes had a look, one that seemed dangerous but not harmful.

“You’re full of jokes aren’t you?” You chirped, taking a step back as he’d just take another forward.

You felt uneasy, like he needed to tell you something. Each step back that you took, he’d take another forwards. Eventually, he got tired of the games, pressing you up against the wall quickly.

“I think that’s enough practice for today, why don’t you come by our place. Sleep with me tonight.” Abby said, his hand gently placed on your waist, he acted like you were made of glass.

Your eyes went wide, face flushed from how close he had gotten to you. You never did anything sexual with him. Abby said no kisses, and never told you why. That demand alone led to no sex, or anything of the sort. So him inviting you over seemed like a big jump.

“S-sleep together? Are you serious? You don’t mean- do you mean?” You were baffled, and even embarrassed at the thought.

He let out a laugh before pressing his hand against the wall next to your head, “I dunno, do I mean it? Why? You want it that bad, I don’t know if it’ll even fi-���

You slid to the open side where you weren’t caged in, face red with embarrassment. “You’re too much!” You turned away from him, picking up your bag from the bench and your lulu shapewear jacket.

“So what? You don’t wanna?” Abby said loud, just as you were about to walk out.

“I’ll be there at 8!” You said, not looking at him and walking out the door quickly.

————————————

You got into the cab, wearing a hat and face mask to conceal your identity. You had asked Abby for the address, and he happily gave it. With the following message being, ‘you won’t miss it’. Whatever that means. It wasn’t too far from your own groups apartment penthouse. Only about ten minutes without traffic.

You were anxious, and even that was a light word to describe it. All that was running through your mind was being alone, vulnerable in a room with a man who was almost double your size and could pick three of you up. It’s not like you didn’t trust him, but for him to suddenly invite you over was uncharacteristic. Your thoughts went from worrying about what he’d do, to fantasizing about what he’d do. How big he was compared to you, his whole body above would cover you while you clawed at his back. You almost drooled at the thought before snapping back to your sense and scolding yourself.

“Bad! Quit it.” You whisper yelled to yourself, forgetting you were in a cab with a whole other person. Now you’re scared the driver can read minds.

“You’re here, hope you enjoyed the ride.” The driver said plainly. That fast?

You thanked him and gave him a tip, grabbing your purse and opening the door. He was right, you couldn’t miss it. A massive building, massive glass window panes. He said it was the top floor penthouse. Your jaw was almost to the floor, The buildings parameter was bigger than yours. I mean, you expected it. The Saja Boys made an instant internet sensation with just one song and over 50 million fans. Lord knows how much money they have. Which reminded you, the other boys would have to see you come in, and go straight to Abby’s room. You could only hope they’d keep their minds out of the gutter.

Walking inside, you checked in and made yourself known to the staff, and they allowed you inside. They knew someone was expecting you just by your name. You clicked the button to the top floor in the elevator, waiting for it to stop. You took off the hat and mask, shoving them in your purse now that you didn’t have to avoid any publicity this late at night.

You still couldn’t shake the nervous feeling, fidgeting with your rings and then moving to tug at the hem of your white skirt. Your heart was racing as soon as the elevator made a ‘ding’ to the top floor.

You walked down the short corridor to where their home was. You reapplied your lipgloss, and readjusted your hair since the hat had caused it to fluff up at the top. Once you felt content with your appearance, you knocked three times. You didn’t even realize you were hardly breathing from how nervous you were. Then, the door opened.

“Awww, someone’s little pet is here!” Romance sung out, stepping aside to let you in.

You made a cringed face at the name he used, stepping inside as he welcomed you in. “Hello to you too, Romance.” You said shyly, still trying to control the pace of your heart.

Eyeing the main room, it was an open floor plan. You could see Jinu in the kitchen, Romance joking him soon after closing the door behind you, while Mystery and Baby were sitting on the couch together, eating sushi and watching some horror movie with the most blood and gore you’ve seen in your life. You looked to the right, seeing a shoe rack littered for you to place your heels on.

While you were taking them off, placing them neatly to the side, you heard a familiar voice. “There she is, was worried you were gonna flake on me.”

Looking up you see Abby shirtless, hair damp, and grey sweatpants hanging deliciously by his v-line. You shook your head, still a bit weary of being in an unknown place with everyone being able to watch. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you up to give you a welcome hug. You mumbled, pushing away him shyly. Romance was peering at you two from the kitchen, and so was Jinu.

“She got all pretty for you, go easy on her tonight.” Romance sung teasingly, throwing a wink your way as if he knew something you didn’t.

“Put me down!” You said, smacking his arm.

He obliged, noting how embarrassed you were with his bandmates comment. “Shut your mouth, Rome. Don’t be mad cus even with your name you can’t find a girl to bang.”

You readjusted your top, noticing it rode up from being lifted against your will. Abby wrapped his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to him and he began to walk with you. “Let me show you my room, get away from these freaks.” He said, rubbing your shoulder after realizing how tense you were.

His room was close by, just down the hallway from the living room. He opened the door for you first. You were hit with the smell of cologne, and dear god did it smell heavenly. The room was dark, with a few lamps being turned on, red sheets and a massive mirror across from the bed.

You stepped in shyly, still feeling uneasy and wanting to be respectful being in his home, and his room. Abby shut the door behind him, taking your purse and overnight bag for you and placing them in the corner of the room.

“I called you over here for a reason. You trust me right?” Abby said from across the room, turning slowly towards you.

You looked over at him, nodding hesitantly. What did he mean? “I…do. Is it something about us?”

Your first thought was that he wanted to break up, or maybe he cheated? Or maybe he judged wanted to fuck. You were so desperately infatuated with this man, your feelings overwhelming you that the thought of him betraying you filled you with grief.

“It’s about me. What I really am.” Abby said cryptically. Your brow raised.

“Is this about the whole ‘not human’ thing, because that’s like beating a dead horse of a jok-“ He held up his hand.

“It is. I told you, I’m not a human. I’m not fragile like you, I don’t look the same as you. I’m stronger than you, faster than you, smarter than you. I could hurt you.” He said angrily, but you could tell it wasn’t towards you. It was because this was hard for him.

“You wouldn’t hurt me? I don’t understand—“ He stopped you again, his hands finding your waist, but keeping you at a distance.

“I’m a demon, we all are. This human appearance you’re seeing? It’s fake. It’s not who we really are.” Abby said, his eyes carefully watching your facial expressions for any trace of fear. He wouldn’t let you run, not now. He’d make you understand, make you stay. Even if that meant using force to keep you in his room for god knows how long.

Your lips parted, you still weren’t fully registering. It slowly started to make sense. The reflexes, barely eating, the odd behavior from some of the other boys. You were still unsure. Demon? Was he with you to eat your soul? Was he just keeping you around to kill you? Wouldn’t he have done that already? What did he mean by ‘he looks different’? Your hand held onto his forearm.

“I want to see it.” You mumbled, “I can’t believe it if I don’t see it. Are you messing with me?”

His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you in closer. “Promise you won’t run? You won’t scream and claw at me to get away?” He towered over you, eyes gazing into you like he could pounce on you at any second.

You nodded your head slowly, and that’s when you saw it. His eyes flickered gold, and his pupils morphed into slits. “This is just step one, and my patterns..”

You held back a terrified gasp, your fingers digging into his arm. As you did so, jagged line of glowing purple and blue lit across his skin, all over his arms and torso, all the way to his face. Your body felt light, your head spinning as you watch the man in front of you, morph into something not human, into something demonic. As you blinked rapidly, hoping this was a wild dream, his skin turned a soft purple. If it wasn’t for his hold on your waist, you’d have fallen to the floor in shock.

He noticed, pushing you the bed so you could sit. He brushed your hair away from your face, his hand resting on your cheek hesitantly. He was worried you’d rip away from his touch. He kept thinking the worst, that you’d run and he’d have to rip you away from the world to keep you locked away for himself. He grew attached to you, he could sense how timid but pure your soul was. Untainted, something he wanted for himself. Even if you thought he was a disgusting creature, he’d force you to love him. To take him as he is.

You on the other hand, were thinking quite the opposite. He looked powerful. His true form did scare you, but not dangerously, you craved it. He looked even more handsome, he grew even taller, his body mass increasing as well, just by a bit. His eyes, piercing into you with need and possession all over them. A part of you was unsure, but the other wanted to crawl into his lap and let him protect you. It was practically screaming inside of you.

“I like it.” You whispered. Your brought your hand shakily to his chest, finger tracing one of his patterns to his collarbone.

He dipped his head down to meet your eyes, scanning you up and down. His hands moved down to your thighs, slipping the tips of his fingers under your skirt. He looked delicious, his aura radiating a type of dominance you’d been craving. You found yourself admiring him, the unease you felt when you first arrived fading the more you looked at him. Maybe this feeling was just some demon manipulation, but you wanted him even more. Wanted his touch all over your body.

“The reason I didn’t want to kiss you, didn’t want to be intimate, I didn’t wanna lead my princess on. Just to tell you what I was afterwards.” Abby paused, standing up in front of you. His hand went to the top of your head, playing with your hair. “I doubt you’d want to sleep with a demon. Scared you might get your soul taken, yeah?” He said teasingly.

You looked up at him, still taking all of him in with need and admiration. Shaking your head, “I want to.” You said eagerly. His brow raised, questioning if you really did want your soul taken. “I mean—“ You realized what you had implied, your eyes going wide in worry.

“I— wouldn’t mind…doing it..with you. Is what I meant.” You clarified, taking your gaze downwards in embarrassment. You definitely realized you probably had some sort of kink for this. You were internally blaming him, convincing yourself your sudden increase in need for him, for his touch raking over you was some way demons entice their prey.

“Silly girl, could’ve swore you just said you want me to take your soul.” He gripped your chin, his claws grazing your skin as he lifted your head up to look at him. “But don’t worry, I’m sure I can be the best in bed you’ve ever had.”

“The only.” You said, pressing your thighs together as you longingly looked into his glowing eyes. His hand tensed.

He was shocked, but relieved. A virgin all to himself? He questioned the situation, only for a short moment. Taking a human girls virginity in his demon form. Abby already knew what the answer would be, he’d definitely take the opportunity to make you a sobbing, wet mess on his cock.

“How sweet of you, princess. You wanna give your innocence to me? Let me ruin you? Have you take me in every position? Show me how bad you want it.” He said, tightening his grip on your face before releasing you harshly.

You whimpered, the force breaking you out of a trance. You wanted to worship him, the hot feeling bubbling in your chest again. You slid off the bed, resting yourself on your knees while you looked up at him. His face made an amused expression, watching you kneel in front of him, your hands tracing his v-line, while your eyes yearned from him.

“You’re my sanctuary, I’ll always worship you.” You said, resting yourself face against the bulge in his pants.

He couldn’t get enough of this, his hand finding its way to your hair, wrapping it around his fingers. He pulled your head up harshly, “Come on, what’s my name?”

Your face grew hot, he pressed your cheek against his clothed cock, forcing you to look up at him by pulling on your hair. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, you were a newbie to this, afraid to say what you really wanted.

“Come on, be a good girl for me. I’ll give it to you all night. You’ll forget your own name once I’m done with you.” Abby said, his gentle expression now replaced with one of dominance and hunger.

“You’re my sanctuary, master. Please, I need you.” You whined, not being able to fight the wetness pooling in your undies, how hot your skin got from being this close to him. You yearned for him, still in a daze from everything leading up to now.

You lifted yourself up just barely, your eyes never leaving his as you planted small pecks all over his waist, before leading dangerously low, bringing his hemline down to tease him. He yanked your head back, his other hand parting your lips.

“You’re so good for me, you know that? Keep worshipping me. I’m all you’ll ever need, all you’ll ever want. You’d let me have your soul if I wanted to, yeah? Isn’t that right?” Abby said, guiding you up back onto the bed by your hair.

He didn’t pull hard, you instinctively followed his motion, leaning into him as you sheepishly nodded to all his questions. “I love you. I want to worship you, please. I need you, Abby. I want you so bad.” You kept on sputtering, begging and begging. Hoping it’d be enough so he could finally fuck you into the mattress.

Abby’s lips formed into a mischievous smirk, suddenly pushing you down to the center of the bed. “You want me to touch you? Where do you want it baby?”

You slowly moved your hands to the waistband of your skirt, tugging at it. You were still scared to take them off, scared in knowing he’d see you, fully bare and exposed to him. His hand went to your top first, pulling it up.

“Arms up, let me unwrap my gift.” He said, and you obliged. Your shirt was yanked off in an instant. He moved his hands down to your skirt, snapping the tight band against your skin.

“Wore something so short, I could feel how everyone was staring at you, you like their attention? You wanted them to look at what’s mine?” He growled, his eyes raking over your body before meeting your eyes.

You shook your head, “No, no. I promise. It was for you. I promise I would never—“ He raised his hand, lightly slapping you across the face.

“I don’t need anyone else looking at you, understand me? Wear something like this again around anyone but me and you won’t be walking for the next week.” He threatened, eyes dangerous before he pulled down your skirt, throwing it off to the side.

You nodded your head quickly, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths. He towered over you, and you could feel his eyes examining every part of your body. He let out a deep growl, letting his hand take your body from the top of your breast all the way to your soaked cunt.

“You wore all this for me baby? Look so pretty for me, it’s a shame.” He whispered, letting hands explore the curve of your waist, running them up and down to feel your breasts through the lace fabric of your bra.

Before you knew it, he ripped your bra in half, tearing the weak fabric off your body. “Don’t need these hiding from me.” He said, groping both your breasts.

His hands were strong. Abby kept squeezing them, pressing them together before he licked his lips and dove his head down. His mouth latched onto your right nipple, licking and nipping at it while his left hand kept massaging the other. Your head shot back, a moan escaping your lips.

“Such a pretty sound, keep going baby. You have no clue what it does to me.” He said between licks, his eyes glancing up at you, watching for facial expression contort into one of pleasure.

He kept going, letting his tongue roll over your nipple in a pattern, then going back to sucking roughly. You were too busy indulging, your hands gripping onto his shoulder as he teased you, your cunt dripping at the stimulation he was spoiling you with. You didn’t notice his free hand creeping towards your waist and resting on your hip before suddenly tearing your pink lace panties off in one motion. The cold air in the room hit your bare cunt, making you whimper.

“There we go, look at you. I’m gonna break you so good, you’ll be addicted to me.” He said, lifting himself away from your chest. He lifted your legs up, his head dipping between your thighs as he planted soft kisses, and occasional bites. Your face grew red, seeing him so close to your cunt.

“Abby—wait-“ His tongue already licked up the length of your slit, his eyes fluttering shut at the taste.

“Fuck baby, taste so good.” Abby hissed, the tension in his boxers growing as his mouth latched onto your clit, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud.

Your eyes rolled back and shut, mouth open with small whimpers escaping your lips. He was eating you like a starved man, you could feel his fangs dragging across your skin, his tongue teasingly diving into your hole. Every lick brought you closer, just below your tummy you could feel tension building. You were worried, all this has you nearly cumming. What about the actually fucking? You’d be done within seconds.

He kept lapping up your wetness, placing kisses on your cunt. You felt something firm teasing your entrance, before it plunged into you.

“Ah, fuck!” You whined, watching him finger you while his mouth never left your clit. He added a second finger, a smirk growing on his face.

“So tight, how’re you gonna be able to fit my cock baby?” He said, curling his fingers upwards.

He quickened his pace, letting his fingers fuck your cunt while he watched your pretty little face. That’s expression you were making, eyes brows furrowed, eyes needy, lips parted. He adored how he had you wrapped around his finger, literally and metaphorically.

“‘M gonna cum, don’t stop! Please, please let me cum.” You cried, gripping onto the sheets beneath you as you bucked against his fingers, back arched in pleasure. He was debating it, wanting to torture you. He chose against it, he wanted to watch you come undone on his fingers, have you leave a mess all over his hand.

“Go on, baby. Let it out, cmon, cum for me.” Abby said, his other hand caressing your thigh softly, rubbing reassuring circles to entice you.

You whimpered, the coil in your stomach finally snapping as you felt a white hot flash escape you. The sudden warmth leaking from you and the heat spreading from your cunt to the rest of your body felt heavenly. You rode out your high, grinding softly against his fingers until your heart quit racing.

“There we go, good girl.” He took his fingers out, a thick coat of your cum left behind on his fingers. You watched him lap it up, placing his fingers in his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours. Your face went red. You knew better than to say anything against it.

“I could eat you all day, but I think it’s time for me to indulge too. Don’t you agree baby?” He questioned, his head tilting ‘innocently’. Abby pulled his waistband down, finally releasing his rock hard cock.

He was big, thick, you were terrified of how it would even begin to fit inside of you. You gulped, and he was amused by your reaction. He pumped his cock, watching you lay vulnerable beneath him turned him on even more. He lifted your legs, placing his cock on top of your stomach, letting you see how deep it would reach inside you. You let out a shaky breath, it scared you, but you could only imagine how full you’d feel. It reached just below your belly button, he caressed up and down the back of you thighs to ease you.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go too hard. You let me know when you’re ready for me to move, okay baby? Just hold onto me.” He said, moving so he’d be right at your hole, his tip pressed against it.

You nodded, swallowing hard as you gripped onto his forearm that was placed on beside you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, slowly easing his way in. His tip barely pushed in, and the stretch was painful, but in a good way. Each inch he pushed in you gripped tight and tighter onto him, your other hand shooting up to grip onto his shoulder. You cried out, whining and whimpering, trying to keep yourself quiet through the pain. As he got further in, he let his hand fall to your head, petting your hair as he studied your face, making sure you didn’t look too in pain. You bit your lip, eyes closed tightly as he kept pushing inside.

“Almost there baby, just a little more. Hold on for me.” He whispered, littering your face with kisses before roughly pushing the last three inches in.

“Fuck! Abby!” You cried, your nails gripped into his skin, trying to adjust to his size. It hurt so good.

After a few still moments you nodded your head, letting him know he could move. He pulled out just a little, snapping back into you quickly. You moaned, leg wrapping around his waist as he kept the soft and slow thrusts. Each time he pressed inside of you felt so good, his cock hitting just the right spot each time before filling you to the brim. He grew impatient, hungry to fuck you. He sped up, the sound of skin hitting skin filled the room, your moans echoing through the almost bare walls. You were sure the other boys could hear you. Abby groaned each time you clenched around him, it only enticed him more.

“So fucking tight, holy shit. Just like that princess, suck me in. Feels good doesn’t it? You don’t want me to stop do you? Keep making those pretty noises. Let them hear who you belong to.” He demanded, his hand wrapping around your throat, his face inches from yours and he kept bucking into you, each time he went in he slammed into you.

You scratched at his back, crying out each time he thrusts into you. You left raw marks all over his back. His marks sparked, eyes glowing while he stared down at you, like he was proud for breaking you down into a teary eyed, whimpering mess. A smirk grew on his face again, watching you writhe under him, only being able to take him, not resisting him towering over you.

You couldn’t handle the overwhelming sensation and eye contact, you looked away, flustered with his eyes glaring into what seemed like your soul. He yanked your face back.

“Look at me, I wanna watch you come undone on my cock. All the cute faces you make keep me going. Look away again and you’re not cumming.” He was threatening, and you knew he meant it, he slammed into you; his thrusts slowing down while he admired you, watching your mouth open wider with each hit.

You were about to cum, your legs shaking from his cock drilling into you mercilessly. It only then hit you, a demon was inside of you. Making a mess of you, praising you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. Each thought had you slipping closer to climax, letting yourself be used by something so inherently evil, but you reeled into the idea, feeling guilty in pleasing yourself this way.

“I’m about to— oh fuck, oh abby, please, please don’t stop!” Your whines never ceased, and he just watched you, almost chuckling at your cries. Abby lowered his head, kissing you roughly, his lips ravaging yours while his tongue slipped inside your mouth. He went faster than before, the sound of squelching and skin filling the room again.

You clawed at his back, bringing him in closer with both your legs wrapped around him tight, pulling his waist closer. You saw stars, your legs tensing and twitching violently, back arching as you gasped, breaking from the rough kiss. Abby kissed all over your jaw, hissing as your pussy clenched around him while you came, bringing him closer to his own orgasm. He slammed into you one last time, his hand gripping into the soft skin on your hip as he came, his cum spurting into you as he filled you. You sighed, looking down at where he sunk into you, watching his back tense and his muscles twitch from his orgasm.

“Fuck, you’re mine.” He hissed, burying his face in your neck to take in your scent. Abby wasn’t wrong, you were marked as his now, he could smell it on you, his pheromones mixing with yours, coating your smell in his. His seed dripped out of you as he pulled out, huffing as he did so.

His hands grazed over your body one last time, admiring how flushed you looked, you were glowing with pleasure and relief. His hands pressed over your stomach, and your inner thighs.

“Marked you from the inside and out. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not baby. You’re not going anywhere.” He said, watching you get embarrassed. It was amusing to him.

You were in and out of sleep, your body practically taking a beating within a short time. You let yourself go limp, hands resting by your face while Abby got up, stretching his back muscles. You saw how scratched up his back was, littered with raw scars all over.

“You marked me up too pretty girl, kinda hot.” He said while making his way to the bathroom to get a bath started for you.

You propped yourself up, trying to shuffle to the edge of the bed. You snapped back to reality; you were sure the others heard you. Heard your screams and cries from the other side of the door from how loud you were. You covered your eyes with your hand, trying to think of a way to mentally recover and prepare for any knowing looks or teases from Romance specifically.

“Cmon pretty girl, time for round two.” Abby said, yanking you off the bed and into his arms before heading to the bathroom.

Your face went pale white before accepting your fate, you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t excited.