#it's because i was watching the Howling performances again

[snoos-tattoos]

so apparently I've been sitting on the draft for this post since January, and I just completely forgot to post it

[makeitworse]

BETTER GET YOURS!

「 day 27 ☆ bigbang april challenge 」

you’re surprised to learn that you’re being shipped with your labelmate, top. gd’s not thrilled— since he’s the one you’re really seeing in secret.

contains: 2ne1!reader x gdragon. yg family fluff. jealousy. smut (fingering). confession. 18+

notes: lowk mid but thanks for having me ♡ love u guys xx

the second concert of the yg family power tour had come to its close. backstage, you found yourself in the dressing room with the other 2ne1 girls— atmosphere warm with laughter and the buzz of post-show energy.

you sat cross-legged on the couch, dabbing off leftover stage make-up with a wipe. bom had her legs stretched out over your lap as she laid beside you while scrolling on her phone. in your peripheral, you catch her steal a glance at you and snicker to herself.

you turn your attention to her, narrowing your eyes. “what are you doing..?”

min-ji leaned over the arm rest to peek. “are you reading fan comments again?”

bom grins and turns her screen to you. “read this one: the way tabi was looking at her? he may as well just propose already!”

you blink. “wait— is that me??”

the caption accompanied a photo of your group joining bigbang on the stage. it was a closeup of you and seung-hyun sharing a microphone.

chae-lin smirks from the vanity. “haven’t you heard? our fans are saying you’re the newest power couple.”

your jaw’s slack in disbelief. “just because we shared a mic.”

yours had malfunctioned during the performance, and seung-hyun was the closest person to you. he jogged over and leaned in to share it for the last verse of the song. it was a light-hearted moment, nothing more.

bom pokes your arm. “well seung-hyun has that thing about people touching him. look at how close he was!”

min-ji draws out a hum in a teasing tone. you roll your eyes, try to laugh it off. you were just good friends with seung-hyun— the girls knew that. it was nothing more than a silly fan theory.

still, you can’t ignore the strange pang in your chest. it wasn’t about what they think— it’s about him.

because the only person you’ve been sneaking around with when the lights go down wasn’t seung-hyun at all. it was ji-yong.

no one knew, of course. with the tour in full swing, there hadn’t been a right moment to tell your bandmates— not when the stage was the priority.

but now, with speculation swirling of you with another guy before ji-yong even had the chance to break the news to anyone… you knew exactly how he’d take it.

not well.

that night, the afterparty is in full swing. the tour staff were all packed into a private suite. you were tucked onto a couch with your 2ne1 girls and members of your team scattered around the room.

a speaker pulsed gently with bass from the corner. half-empty champagne flutes littered the room, heels kicked off across the floor, and the lingering scent of hairspray and perfume.

chae-lin’s lounging back, glass in hand as sandara’s head rests on her shoulder. bom’s perched next to you at the arm of the couch with her arm linked around yours. you all watched min-ji on the floor with your stylist, teaching her a new move she picked up from a backup dancer.

laughter and chatter floated around the room, warm and relaxed from the bubbly.

bom turned to you with a mischievous grin. “oh, i told seung-hyun about the shipping thing”

your eyes widen. “bom!”

playfully, you go to pull your arm away, but she holds you in place with a laugh.

“i’m sorryyy! it’s too funny. he said he would mess with you only a little,”

before you can protest, a round of laughter explodes through the wall from the next room— the unmistakable chaos of the bigbang boys. you hear shot glasses clinking, someone yelling (probably daesung). another voice howling in response. you can recognise seung-hyun’s deep laugh.

somewhere in the mix, you know ji-yong’s there too. the day has only spared you both fleeting glances and quick exchanges. you missed him a little.

you take a sip of your drink just as seung-hyun saunters into the room like you’ve all been expecting him— his sunglasses from the show still on, a futile effort to hide how drunk he was.

“where have you been? your girl’s been missing you,” bom calls out to him with a grin. you swat her shoulder, muffling a reply mid-swallow.

“oh yeah,” he tilts his head, mouth curling in a smirk.

seung-hyun sashays over to you with exaggerated, provocative steps. you drop your head into your hands as the girls giggle.

seung-hyun plays into the act, throwing an arm around your shoulder and leaning in close. “you like?”

the room erupts. min-ji gasps with a chuckle. chae-lin whistles. you even hear a dramatic “oooh?” at the door as one of the boys walk in.

you duck your head to hide the smile creeping onto your face. seung-hyun starts making smooching noises at your ear, and you lightly shove him away.

“you guys look good together,” sandara coos with a knowing grin.

you shake your head, waving her off. your eyes flicker to the side briefly— noticing ji-yong now at the door with youngbae at his side. leaning against the frame, drink in hand. face unreadable.

he’s chuckling faintly along with the others, but his smile isn’t reaching his eyes.

after the moment passes and the conversation shifts subject, you forget to bring it up to him later.

the following day was a blur of sound checks, fittings, and half-eaten meals on the go. between your scattered errands, ji-yong shot you a text about an opening in his schedule— so you quickly arranged for a brief encounter.

you’d finally found a moment alone, except there was no time to go back to the hotel. you both settled with tucking away into a small, dim storage room of the venue.

there wasn’t much words before he pulled you in by the wrist— shutting the door to press you against it, mouth already on top of yours.

ji-yong’s hands are everywhere. impatient, demanding— like he’s been holding this in for far too long. and he has.

your neck cranes back from the force of his kisses. he’s pinning you to the door with his hips, hands holding your body tight like someone might steal you away.

he fumbles with your waistband, unceremoniously tugging your pants down just enough for him to get a hand in.

there’s no sweetness in the way he takes you.

ji-yong digs two fingers into you till the knuckle, drinking up your gasps onto his tongue as he curls his fingers relentlessly.

he turns his attention to your neck— sucking kisses onto the skin, dangerously close to the point of leaving a mark.

your head’s spinning, you almost don’t take notice of how he’s absentmindedly bucking into your leg as if he was fucking you.

ji-yong fingers you like he’s got a point to prove. he pulls his face back to watch your reaction as his thumb moves to swirl circles onto your clit— mouth parted with a pant as you stammer out his name.

“where, hah… is this c—”

he shushes you with a kiss to the lips, slipping another finger into your cunt. you’re seeing stars.

you’re not used to him being so fervent. for the few times you’d been intimate up to this point, he’d taken his time with you. drawn the moment out. but even now his haste was still getting the job done.

he smothered the cry of your orgasm with a kiss to your lips. for a moment, the only sound of the room was your muffled moans into ji-yong’s mouth and his hand rutting against you.

as your body went slack, ji-yong kept you propped against him, pressing sweet kisses into your hair while you caught your breath.

in your hazy, post-orgasm state: an image flickers across your mind. that look on ji-yong’s face last night as seung-hyun wrapped his arm around you.

only then, you realise: he’s jealous.

you straighten up, fumbling in your pocket for your phone— eager to steer your mind from flitting thoughts, wondering why ji-yong cared so much.

you shined your phone light on his shirt, smoothing out the creases, brushing through his tousled hair. tidy up the manhandling. ji-yong lets you, watching with a weighted gaze.

“what was that with seung-hyun last night?” he asks, tone too forced to be casual.

your fingers stalling at the back of his neck. “he wasn’t serious.”

he lifts a brow, clearly unamused. “really? and what about the girls?”

you look away, clicking your teeth. “it’s just this fan ship that they’re teasing me about. no one meant anything by it, okay?”

ji-yong scoffs. “so people think you’re dating seung-hyun, and they find that hilarious.”

“it’s not like they believe it, ji.” you say softly.

but he’s still looking at you with his jaw tense, like he’s barely restraining how he really feels at the idea of anyone else being seen with you in such a way. the way you and ji-yong actually were.

he steps closer, breath fanning your face. ���next time they want a joke, i’ll show them something real.”

you shift your weight— uneasy at his sudden intensity. “and what’s that?”

the corner of his lip curls. “like kissing you.”

you shake your head, gently pushing him back with a hand on his chest. “you don’t need to do that.”

you steer the conversation to where he’s headed after this, trying to keep the tone light-hearted. but, under your palm, you had felt how tense he was. he’s serious about what he said.

ji-yong pokes his head out of the door to check that the coast is clear before you both step out. he escorted you back to your team, daring to close his hand around yours in quiet hallways.

there’s a certain energy hanging in the air as you walk. you keep your gaze forward, focused— ignoring how you kept catching him steal glances at you in your peripheral.

the way he’s been looking at you; there’s something different about it.

you swallow thickly. you really didn’t think seung-hyun’s bit would leave such a bitter taste on ji-yong. it’s not like you had anything solid that seung-hyun could threaten, anyways. you’ve just been meeting up casually— scratching each other’s backs. that was all.

right?

you glance at him: catching a twitch of his jaw, and him taking his cheek between his teeth like he’s willing himself to stay silent.

maybe he’s questioning it all too.

as you neared the room, ji-yong slowed at your side, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before letting his hand glide from your back.

without a word, he slipped away, disappearing around the corner just as you stepped foot in the door. his touch lingered on your skin— the only evidence he was with you at all.

the hours leading up to the next concert drag on, thick with tension. everyone’s gliding from one station to the next, buzzing with the pre-show adrenaline— everyone except ji-yong.

he’d been noticeably quiet: short with his sentences, brushing past people with a tight jaw. every so often, his eyes would flick to you like he’s checking you’re still there, before his gaze shifts the next instant.

you try to suppress the way it bothers you— focusing on chatting with min-ji as you both waited for final touch-ups.

but when seung-hyun strolls over to you with a sly grin, it’s palpable how the energy of the room shifts.

“there’s ma girl,” he drawls in english, loud enough for heads from both groups to turn.

you hear bom giggling in the corner as seung-hyun teasingly twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. you swat his hand away.

“oppa, don’t mess up my hair.”

seung-hyun only chuckles, slinking an arm around yours. “stop being a tease! you know you like.”

you try to play along as the others laugh, but your eyes automatically lock with ji-yong’s. he’s standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. after a beat, he silently excuses himself from the room.

you clear your throat, gently slipping out from under seung-hyun’s arm. you mumble that you’re quickly ducking out to the bathroom.

you catch up with ji-yong just outside the dressing rooms, yanking him into a dim corner by the wrist.

“what is your deal?” you snap under your breath.

ji-yong tugs his arm back, but he doesn’t move away. “you.”

you blink, scoffing. “me?”

he runs a hand through his hair, looking like he’s two seconds from exploding. “you’re just letting him put his hands all over you in front of everyone, like you’re not already—”

“it’s meant to be funny, ji.” you cut in, voice pleading. “you don’t have to take it to heart.”

“yeah? well i’m not laughing.” ji-yong sneers, stepping closer. “you think i like seeing someone else act like that with you?”

for a moment, the silence is loud. you hold ji-yong’s stare as the words sink in. his eyes dart over your face, heated gaze softening. you sigh.

“why do you care so much anyways?” you murmur. you’re not sure you’re even prepared for his answer. “aren’t we just.. messing around?”

ji-yong stares at you— and you almost want to tell him nevermind, you don’t want to hash this out. but then he shakes his head, leaning in until his nose nudges yours.

“can i be selfish?” his voice is raw. “i can’t keep just ‘messing around’. i want more.”

you gasp quietly as his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“i need more.” his lips ghost over yours. “of you.”

he stills himself with a shaky exhale. your stunned silence leaves him uncertain, and ji-yong goes to pull away— afraid he’s overstepped.

but before either of you can even process you, you’re grabbing his face and crashing his mouth onto yours.

it’s messy and urgent, all teeth and desperation. you need him just as much. his hands come to find purchase on your waist, guiding you to the wall behind.

your hands thread through his hair, fucking up the hairspray, as well as the labour of your poor stylists.

ji-yong’s kissing you desperate and hard— every bit of frustration and longing channeled into the way his tongue swirls in your mouth. you’re left dizzy, pressing your body closer into his; eager to feel all of him.

and then a voice echoes from around the corner.

“hyung! gee eun’s asking for you!” daesung calls, impatient and completely oblivious.

you and ji-yong didn’t have time to make yourselves presentable before daesung rounded the corner, catching you both in a failing attempt to act normal.

ji-yong’s hair was a mess, your face was flushed— and you were both too short of breath to try and explain this to daesung.

his face splits into a smile, taking in the sight of you two caught off-guard.

well, since you and ji-yong had just established the grounds of something more serious… no time like the present to break the news to the others.

attie tags: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @pinkpunkdynamite @heartubeatusalon @breakmeoff

challenge tags: @loveesiren @bluesunss @berfgrimm @emmiesoverthemoon @eru-vande @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @infinetlyforgotten @petersasteria @currentloser @wcnderlnds @ldydeath

[boinday]

The God and The Devil

Just a little folk-gothic about loneliness, the countryside, and keeping a cat. For the spooky season! 1.8k words ^_^ (Copyright Bóín Day 2024)

---------

There's a fire in the garden. Again.

I step outside, careful to close the sliding glass door behind me so Cock Robin can't get out. He prowls the length of the glass with performative indifference, pretending he only follows so far to rub his whiskers against the doorframe. Pretending not to notice the orange flames spitting up into the blue-dark twilight sky.

I take the watering can, already full, from the patio and walk to the center of the garden, where the effigy burns. It is bigger than the last one. About as tall as my knee. I douse it before it catches in the dry summer grass.

Our cottage is in the middle of County Leitrim. In that typical part of Leitrim where nothing really is. I bought it because I could afford it, derelict and rotting as it was, surrounded by a sea of disused fields, twenty kilometers from the nearest shop. It still cost more than my parents' first home; a restored Victorian townhouse purchased in the eighties. I do what I can with the cottage. Funnel all my earnings into making it habitable. Close off the rooms that drive me into despair. I think I got Cock Robin because I was lonely. Or because he was lonely. I can't remember which.

I remember I found him quite endearing at the shelter, though. He is a peculiar shade of brown for a cat – almost chocolatey – with a striking ginger breast by contrast. His eyes are yellow, and suspicious. He's large and fat, and maligned by a snaggletooth that gives him a permanent sneer. Despite his unfortunate face, he is docile, cuddly, and a formidable companion. I don't blame him completely for what's happened, though he must think I do. Why else would he be confined to the house, he thinks. Why else would his dear mother jail him.

Cock Robin, for all his lazy mornings and babyish ways, is a talented and voracious hunter. I never exactly approved of him catching mice, but I suppose I tacitly endorsed it by allowing him outside, into the fields where he was undoubtedly the apex predator. At first I would only find pieces of the mice: a half body, a dismembered foot, an internal organ licked clean of blood.

But as Cock Robin acclimatised to the good life of being a kept cat, and gradually grew rounder from tinned tuna and cold cuts of chicken, he must have grown bored with the taste of mice. Because more and more often, he would bring them home alive.

He would bring them home alive, and with them stunned and confused between his careful teeth, he would howl for my attention. Once I would rise from whatever task I was at, he would wait for me to approach, present his quarry, and kill it in front of me. People say this is a cat's way of teaching hapless humans how to hunt, and perhaps they are right. But from the way Cock Robin would proudly deposit the poor creature on the step, whole but for the killing wounds, and bounce along to the cupboard where he knows I keep his treats, I think this ritual is more akin to a crude, kitty capitalism.

'I have rendered you the service for which our two species coexist,' Cock Robin says with his closed eyes and loud purr. 'Now I shall collect my fee.'

I don't like to watch things die. Even spiders, which I hate, I can't bring myself to kill. Even indoor plants, which are a chore to keep, I endeavour to save from my own habitual neglect. And now even mice, already trapped in the jaws of death, I am compelled by my conscience to rescue. Cock Robin objects to my charity, but he is stupid enough to trust my approach whenever he has some poor living thing in his maw, and once I am close enough, I grab him. Sometimes he drops them instinctively when he hears my stern demands, and sometimes I must pry his mouth open, but he always gives up without much fight.

The difficulty then is re-catching the mouse. I keep gardening gloves by the sliding door for this task, now. If they are sufficiently traumatized, I can simply scoop them up, walk to one of the neighbouring fields, and gently release them into the long grass. If they are lucid, though, they jump away; run, climb, scramble for their life. Those times are harder – especially if Cock Robin is still in the room. But I always catch them. Once they're out of his teeth, I find a way to cup them, grab them, cradle them. Out they go to the fields. Alive to survive another day.

I must have caught at least a dozen mice when the first gift appeared. I didn't know it was a gift then, of course. It was four raspberries, piled together on the doormat. I'm sure I thought it was odd at the time, but I simply picked them up and set them on a fence-post for the birds.

A few days later there were twenty raspberries. A whole punnet's worth. I certainly thought that was odd, and it ignited some paranoia in me. There are no other houses in sight of my cottage, only fields. Not even cattle graze there, so there is little cause for anyone to come out as far as my place on the quiet country road. I fretted about axe wielding maniacs, countryside bandits, the sort of nightmarish characters you might hear about on a True Crime podcast. Of course, as far as threats go, raspberries are a tame and obscure one. Hardly worth calling the Gards over. I think I mentioned it to some friends, and they laughed like I was crazy. I think I laughed too. I didn't want to be crazy.

The raspberries continued to appear for weeks, sometimes with a whole apple rolled into the mix, sometimes ornately arranged among picked daisies and buttercups. I tried to ignore them. Hoped if they rotted on the step, that would send a message. But the damaged, old raspberries were removed in the night, and replenished with fresh ones by morning.

At a certain point, I decided it was best to just wait up. I drank three cups of coffee and, with heart pounding and carving knife in hand, sat in the perfect dark of my kitchen, and waited.

It was just before dawn when I saw them. I'd imagined every manner of strange or dangerous person, - I'd spent the night staring at the middle of the glass door, the height you would expect a person to stand - and so I almost missed them. The tiny, moving bumps of darkness scuttling along the ground towards the door. It looked like the patio stones had come to life, and were rippling towards the cottage in little waves.

I stood and approached. Quite a stupid thing to do, in retrospect, but I did it anyway. I could see them in their droves: hundreds of mice removing the old, imperfect fruit and rolling in the new. Some of them carried the flowers in teams of two or three. I crouched slowly by the glass door, enraptured by their industrious energy. By the sophistication of the endeavour.

One of them must have noticed me, and the noticing spread, because almost instantly the bustling and bumbling little bodies went still. I went still as well. It was relatively dark out, the sky just lightening to a gloomy blue, but I could tell they were looking at me. Then, in another wave of collective movement, their bodies stretched upward – stretched towards the heavens, tiny front paws raised above their mousey heads – and then fell down again. Prostrating themselves on the ground.

I watched the motion repeat several times, paws stretching skyward, then falling back down, before I realised I was watching some strange, cultish worship. They were bowing to me. They were bowing to me.

I ran away, as any rational person would. I closed myself into my bedroom with Cock Robin, who was sleeping none the wiser. And I thought about how truly impossible it is to keep a mouse out of your home, if the mouse has a mind to get in.

It was the following week that Cock Robin was attacked. He came in from the fields, mewling in a pitiful manner I'd never heard from him before. There was a piece of wood lodged in his right eye, about as big as a toothpick. I rushed him to the vet. They couldn't save the eye. An unfortunate accident, they supposed. A mishap while Cock Robin was climbing through a hedge. We agreed he ought to be an indoor cat from then on.

Now they've taken a liking to effigies.

I kick through the smoldering remains of this latest one. Their understanding of human proportions has certainly improved. I see they've stitched leaves together with plant fiber and bug silk to simulate clothing. I wonder how they learned to light the wood. I wonder if this is what we looked like, too, when man discovered fire.

I look up the length of the garden to my rotten little cottage. Cock Robin is sitting politely behind the glass door, watching me through his surviving eye, tail ticking away in simmering upset. He wants to be out here, I know. He wants to exercise his divine wrath.

I wonder, as well, how they make sense of us. It seems impossible to me, that they cannot know how dearly I love Cock Robin. How I infinitely prefer him to any little mouse, no matter what mercy my conscience mandates. How he sleeps beside me, inside the cottage that is so alien and fortified compared to the world of empty fields around it. I suppose it is a contradiction inherent, that they should give me tribute while reviling the cat I openly adore.

I suppose that even God adored Lucifer, once.

I stomp out the last of the embers and wriggle my phone out of my pocket. I've been photographing these things, for posterity – not that anyone would believe them. It would be written off as some natural phenomenon, or AI fakery, or perhaps they'd simply say I'm lying. I photograph it anyway.

Trudging back towards my cottage, I turn on the phone's flashlight. This is a newly formed habit. I hold the light above my head and sweep it over the neighbouring field, in an arc. Tiny pinpricks of light glow back at me. An ocean of beady eyes, watching in the darkness.

I shout at them to go away, please. I say that I have nothing for them, and thank them for their worship but I'd really rather they just move on. There's no response. There never is. They cannot understand my prayers. I am too huge and powerful to be understood. But still, I pray.

[daydreamgoddess14]

💫 For Your Consideration - Act 5 - Part 1 💫

actor!Bucky x fem!actress!Reader (no use of y/n, l/n, reader is not described in any great detail. I save that for the gowns 💃)

Warnings: Hollywood AU, language, internet nasties, flirty!Bucky, a little power imbalance, age-gap (Bucky is around 40, actress reader is closer to 30 or younger if you prefer 🤭)... more to be added later.

Word Count: 8k

Bucky Barnes, the suave and talented leading man of the 'Winter Soldier' movie series, finds himself on the red carpet circuit during awards season with his latest film 'The Howling Commandos'. But the season takes an unexpected turn when he crosses paths with a mesmerizing newcomer - the actress who has become the talk of Tinseltown with her captivating performance in her most recent film. Sparks fly as they navigate silly season in Hollywood, with a spotlight on their every move will their chemistry ignite a real life romance?

< Prev Act | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Next Act >

JANUARY 2026 - Part 1

Sam hooked his towel over the handlebars of the bike and adjusted the seat.

“When's her flight get in?” He asked, testing the resistance level.

“Tonight,” Bucky stood up in the saddle of his bike and turned the pedals a few rotations before sitting back down. “She's coming straight to the hotel, she asked the studio if she could stay at the Mondrian.”

“They’re forking out for a room she's not gonna see?” He laughed.

“Asshole.” The instructor breezed through and took the bike positioned on a small stage at the front. The class had filled up, and only a handful of bikes remained among the rows.

“Morning everyone, let's get warmed up!” They turned up the synth pop playlist.

“Why am I doing this damn class?” Bucky asked miserably, scrolling through her Instagram profile again and liking the latest picture.

“Because it's all there's time for today, you're a busy man my friend.”

“I also have a personal trainer? A good one?”

“It's good to mix it up. Now shut the hell up and ride,” Sam nudged him with his shoulder and they fell into sync with the music. Just as the instructor reached to turn off the lights, the door swung open and for a brief second Bucky assumed he was hallucinating. He watched her reflection in the mirror as she dashed in, grabbed the bike on the end of his row, dropped the seat a few clicks and hopped up.

Bucky’s breath hitched.

He missed the downbeat entirely, his legs grinding to a halt while the rest of the class surged forward.

“Eyes down, lover boy,” Sam muttered out of the side of his mouth.

But Bucky didn’t hear him, not really. He was too busy watching her ponytail swing as she settled into pace and concentrated on changing the settings on her bike.

She looked up at the mirror, as if feeling eyes on her, and looked directly at him. Her pace faltered for a moment in surprise, and then she beamed. Her hand lifted slightly in a little wave. Bucky regained his composure and carried on.

“One, two, one, two,” the instructor shouted over the music.

Bucky matched the beat again, legs pumping in time, but his focus was shot. He couldn’t stop looking into the mirror at her. He counted four people between them. Four. He could take out four people.

Though he wasn’t sure what it would do for his award chances.

She was already flushed, singing along to the music, water bottle tucked between her knees. Around her neck, a thin gold chain necklace bounced against her skin with each rotation.

Sam leaned over, barely audible over the thumping bass. “She’s early.”

Bucky shrugged, “Must have changed her plans.”

The class might as well have gone on forever. It felt like it had, his legs, his lungs both ready to give out. But he kept watching her, matching her pace - trying to, at least - matching her rhythm.

“Turn the resistance up, we're climbing!” The instructor shouted. Along the row, she took the chance to sit back in the saddle and take a drink. He took in the stretch of her neck as her head tilted back, the sheen of sweat on her throat and chest.

He immediately thought of the last time he'd seen her alone. In his bed with breakfast plates clinking and rattling against each other, one leg thrown over his shoulder, and his name tumbling out of her mouth over and over.

And then she was up again, leaning over the handlebars, climbing to the beat of the music, each rotation of the fixed wheels of the bike making her body bounce a little more.

“Look away, brother,” Sam warned. “Your blood ain't gonna be where your body needs it.”

Bucky ignored him, instead watching as she tilted her head to brush her earlobe against her shoulder and catch a drip of sweat.

Her tight lycra crop top pulled her breasts together and his eyes were drawn like a magnet.

She leaned further forward on the bike, Bucky wiped a hand over his mouth, dragging his gaze away just as the instructor shouted, “Alright team, let's finish off with a run! Light resistance, fast legs - let’s go!”

The music kicked up into something frantic and bass-heavy, an old classic that everyone knew, and suddenly the room was a blur of motion. He dropped his hips, legs burning as he found the rhythm.

From the corner of his eye, movement caught his attention. She looked up - flushed, radiant - and locked eyes with him again. This time, she raised her brows with a playful challenge, then leaned into the sprint, legs flying, still singing along.

Bucky huffed out a breath, grinning despite himself. “Oh, it’s like that?” he muttered, kicking up his pace.

“Focus, Buck,” Sam warned through gritted teeth.

But it was too late. He was already chasing her.

The final track faded and the instructor congratulated them all. Bucky dismounted, his chest heaving, his legs like jelly.

She swung off her bike with a grin that hit him like a punch to the gut. The chain around her neck was still bouncing, catching the light. The one he'd brought her. The one he'd snuck into her bag before she left his hotel room, wrapped in green and gold Christmas paper and a tag that said:

Not until the 25th x

“Good class, huh?” Sam clapped him on the back, but Bucky barely heard him. She was already walking out - looking back once over her shoulder with a smile he recognised easily.

He didn't even think.

“Yeah, I'll catch you up,” he bumped Sam's shoulder and veered off in the same direction she'd gone in.

A minute later, he pushed open the door to the women's changing room - thankfully the main communal space was empty, and the only noise came from cubicle doors closing and locking, and the tinny music being played over the speakers.

He stood in the centre of the room, suddenly feeling foolish and completely unsure of what to do.

“You followed me?” Her voice came from behind him.

He turned. She was just stepping out from the water fountain, towel around her neck, skin still flushed and glowing.

“Well?” she asked, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth.

He rubbed the back of his neck, nervously. “Didn’t want to wait.”

She approached slowly, footsteps quiet on the tiles, eyes fixed on his. “Wait for what exactly?”

He reached for her, fingers curling around her waist, pulling her in. “You.”

She grinned, catching her lip between her teeth and stepped backwards, pulling him with her into a cubicle.

She locked the door and kissed him. The heat between them didn’t need time to build; it roared to life like it had been waiting for the moment her mouth found his.

He turned her quickly, switching their places and pushing her against the back of the door. Her body arched up against him, yanking off his sweaty t-shirt.

“Gotta be quiet,” he whispered into her ear, feeling her nod against him. He dragged his tongue from her earlobe to her throat and her hips bucked up to him, a faint whimper escaping her. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Please -”

He hiked her leg up around his hip, fingers already pushing beneath the waistband of her leggings. “God, I missed you,” he breathed, dragging the fabric down just enough.

“Prove it,” she whispered, biting his jaw.

There wasn’t time to be gentle. He shoved his shorts down, guided himself to her, and with a muffled groan against her shoulder, sank in slow, deep.

“Oh,” her hands clutched at his shoulders, her mouth falling open against his neck as he began to move - quick, rough, tight, with one hand tight on her hip and the other cupping her breast over the lycra of her top.

Every thrust made the door rattle behind her, her breath catching in little gasps she barely managed to muffle. His hand moved to clamp gently over her mouth as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Quiet, baby. Fuck, we’re almost there.”

She nodded, eyes wide, already close.

He felt her clench around him, legs shaking, her teeth sinking into his shoulder to hide her cry.

It tipped him over.

He pulled out just in time, groaning against her neck as he came hot across her skin, hips still twitching with the effort to hold back.

She let out a soft, breathless laugh, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his back. “You missed me, huh?”

They stayed there, tangled and panting, his hand cradling the back of her head.

After a moment, he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glassy, lips swollen, the gold chain sticking to the sweat on her chest. “Hmm hi,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone.

She smiled softly, resting her forehead against his. “Hi. That was unexpected?”

He looked down at the mess between them and grimaced softly. “Should’ve waited… should’ve taken my time with you. On the bed. Got you all soft and sweet for me first.”

She let out a shaky breath, her thighs tightening around his hips like she wasn’t ready to let go. “That an apology or a promise?”

His mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile. “Both.”

“I missed you too.”

He traced the line of her necklace, letting his knuckle skim the dip between her breasts. “You like it?”

“It’s beautiful. But you didn’t have to, I didn’t -”

“Shh,” he interrupted gently. “Didn’t give it to get something back. You showing up early’s a better gift than anything I could’ve wrapped.”

She laughed softly, leaning into his touch as he swept a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “You ok?” he asked, more seriously this time.

She nodded, still catching her breath. “Yeah. Better than ok.”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t mean to ambush you in a gym bathroom like a horny teenager.”

“Well,” she smirked, “if this you at forty, I’m not complaining.”

He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. “I’m going to hell.”

She kissed his temple. “You’re already in the women’s changing room. So what’s your plan for getting out of here without causing a scandal and ending up on TMZ?”

“I was hoping you had one. Or at least a towel I could steal.”

“I guess you’d better have this back then,” she said, tapping his arm to let her down. Hanging up was the hoodie he’d given her when she’d last left his hotel room. “If you walk fast and avoid eye contact…”

“Classic strategy.”

She tugged his shirt down, using it to wipe his stomach clean, fingers brushing his skin like she wasn’t ready to stop touching him. “You look like you’ve been up to no good,” she whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth, eyes dancing.

He chuckled, still flushed. “You’re not exactly radiating innocence either.”

She grabbed the hoodie from the hook and handed it over. “Here. This is quickly becoming the hoodie of shame.”

“I’ll wear it like a trophy.”

He caught her shy smile.

“Ok,” she sighed, straightening the hood. “Straight out the way you came in, if anyone asks, you just turned right instead of left.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You’ve done this before?”

“I have not! Go on, get lost. I’ll see you later?”

He gave her one last kiss - quick and bruising - and then he slipped out the door, hoodie up, heart still racing.

By the time you went to shower, the changing rooms had emptied out. The last two weeks had felt like a lifetime and it had been a relief that he’d been just as eager to see you. Despite the late night phone calls and the Christmas gift, the space between you had made everything less tangible, more open to fracture and interpretation. Your own doubts and insecurities had a tendency to creep in.

Once you’d made it back to the room, Dani was already knee-deep in her suitcase and Lulu had claimed the armchair, feet up, face mask on. The lights were low, the blackout curtains still drawn despite it being past 8am. You walked in still flushed from the ride. Your skin tingled, your hair was still half-damp, and your heart was doing stupid things in your chest.

“Someone’s glowing,” Dani said, eyeing you over a pile of unfolded clothes.

You tried to play it down with a shrug, but the grin gave you away.

“Oh my god,” Lulu pulled her mask off in one slow, dramatic motion. “You saw him already, didn’t you? You absolute menace.”

You flopped onto the bed and buried your face in a pillow. “It was so bad. Like, gym-class-horny bad. I couldn’t even look at him at first, he looked… oof, so hot.”

“You rode next to him in Lycra,” Dani said, horrified. “I would’ve combusted.”

You rolled over, laughing, and let it all spill, the spin class, the way he looked at you,

“Umm I’m sorry, you mean to tell me that you had semi-public sex with a movie star?” Lulu demanded.

“She’s a movie star too!”

“Yeah, but he’s like,” Lulu’s hand hovered somewhere above her head.

“And I’m wayyyy,” your hand dropped off the bed and to the floor, “down here. He followed me, I don’t think either of us expected it to happen.” You thought about the changing room door clicking shut behind you. A tangle of limbs and breathless apologies. Not just sex, something urgent and soft tucked into all that heat.

“You’re disgusting and I love it.” Dani grinned, throwing a balled up pair of socks at you. “Becka is on her way over with her rack of goodies, and then you’ve got an interview over lunch with The Hollywood Reporter - photoshoot for that is going to be the day after the Critics awards.”

Your phone buzzed

You free later? Or I have a few minutes now so we can figure something out together?

You tried to hide your smile, and failed completely.

“What?” Dani leaned in.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, typing back.

Come by now if you have a minute? 1412. If you’re feeling brave, you can meet my bodyguards…

You didn’t forewarn them.

When the knock came a few minutes later, they were mid-argument about color palettes and hair up vs. hair down.

“She can’t wear it down, it’s going to hide the back of the dress Becka wants her in,” Lulu grumbled.

“Trust me, Lu. Hair down,” Dani said, then raised her voice. “Get the sodding door!”

You swung it open with a warning, “stop arguing, both of you need to eat and sleep.”

“Bossy,” Bucky said, standing just outside with Sam beside him.

“Sometimes,” you smiled.

They stepped in, both hovering uncertainly just inside the door while Dani and Lulu fell instantly, comically, silent. You could feel the glee radiating off them in waves.

“Mornin’, ladies,” Sam said with his signature grin, reaching out to squeeze your elbow in a friendly half-hug. “Nice to meet you officially. I’ve heard everything and yet… nothing.”

You laughed, leaning into the hug. “Same. He’s pretty cagey.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, watching the easy comfort between you and Sam. He leaned in to press a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I’m not cagey,” he murmured. “I just don’t want you dragged into the bullshit that comes with all this.”

“I can handle it. I think,” you said with a slight grimace, just as Dani cleared her throat with the force of someone desperate to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping.

“I’ve got maybe ten minutes,” Bucky added, glancing at Sam. “We’ve got some brunch thing.”

“You don't want to hang around here, trust me,” you laughed. “Becka’s coming with wardrobe stuff, then I’ve got an interview over lunch.”

“Anything else?” Bucky asked.

“Not much,” Dani said quickly, still slightly stunned. “We kept today light. Jet lag and all.”

“Sam, what have I got?” Bucky turned to him.

“You’ve got that dinner tonight.”

Bucky looked back at you. “Yeah… I’m gonna skip that. Got someone else I’d rather take to dinner.”

Across the room, Lulu made a small, choked sound. Sam sighed.

“Right. Sure. But you owe me,” Sam said, pointing a finger your way.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea,” you grinned. “Don’t get blaming me for your unruly client.”

“I’ll show you unruly,” Bucky smirked.

Sam rolled his eyes and looked at Dani. “I’ll send you his schedule for the next few days?”

“Uh… yeah. Great. Thanks,” she said, clearly trying not to stare directly at Bucky like he might disappear. She went to stand next to Sam, swapping numbers and crucial non-skippable events.

The energy in the room shifted as soon as Becka arrived with tote bags slung over both arms. She barely paused long enough to clock the presence of one very famous man standing awkwardly in the corner, and his charming best friend and wingman.

Her eyes narrowed at Bucky, who gave her a polite nod, “you’re not press, are you?”

“No,” Bucky said with an easy grin. “Just here for moral support.”

Becka didn’t seem convinced. You caught Bucky watching you from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded, amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’d walked into another universe as chaos began to unfold around him. You raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him to say something.

Sam glanced between you two and made a low sound of suffering. “Ok, I’m pulling the plug before he decides he’s not leaving. Barnes, let’s go.”

Bucky pushed off the wall, but not before stepping close enough to let his hand graze your hip. He dipped his head, voice low. “Text me when you’re free, and I’ll see you later.”

You nodded, pretending your skin hadn’t just set alight.

And just like that, they were gone, the door clicking shut behind them.

“Maybe this is something she should incorporate into her skincare routine,” Dani muttered later on as she zipped up one of the garment bags that had been relegated to ‘emergency spare’.

You lobbed a makeup brush at her, catching Becka’s eye in the mirror. “I’m still right here, you know.”

Becka smirked, “that post-orgasmic glow is beautiful, darling.”

You tried to focus, but your attention kept drifting back to your phone - to the message that had just come through.

7:30. I’ll pick you up. Hope you’re hungry.

A simple text. But your stomach did a flip anyway.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. The Hollywood Reporter lunch was smooth, if slightly surreal, you smiled through all the right stories, fielded questions about “what’s next,” and gave answers that felt half-believable even if you weren’t sure they were the truth.

But through it all, you could feel the hum of anticipation beneath your skin.

That night, you opened the door at 7:31 to find him standing there in jeans and a dark jacket, holding flowers and wearing a look that made your knees go loose.

“You’re late,” you teased.

“You’re breathtaking,” he answered, eyes sweeping over you slowly - from the heels to the soft wave of your hair to the tiny gold necklace catching the light at your collarbone. “Also, technically only by sixty seconds.”

You put the flowers on the nearest table. Lulu and Dani had gone exploring so you grabbed your bag and stepped into the hall. “Where are we going? Am I overdressed?”

“You’ll see, and no. Well, yes for what I want to do. But not for dinner.”

He didn’t take you somewhere flashy. It was a tucked-away restaurant in West Hollywood with low lights, candles, and a booth in the back where no one bothered you. The food was ridiculous. The wine was better. But you barely tasted either, too wrapped up in the way he looked when he laughed, the way his knee stayed pressed against yours, the way his voice dipped when he leaned in close.

You don't know how he managed to avoid paparazzi, but there didn't seem to be any around. It felt like a real date, like London.

Like you really were two people who'd met, gotten along and were steadily figuring out what the hell this was.

Back in the hotel room, he kissed you like it was still sinking in, that you were real, here, his. His hands under your dress, his mouth at your throat. Slowly, more patiently. The way he looked at you made your heart ache.

He kissed the hollow beneath your throat and murmured mine like a secret he couldn’t stop from slipping out.

He lay you back across the sheets, settled between your thighs like he belonged there. His fingers traced every edge, every dip, learning you again.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your knee, your hip, the inside of your thigh. “How often I think about this. About you.”

“Bucky -” you whispered, pleaded.

He carried on like he had all the time in the world.

“Were you singing on the bike this morning?” he asked, rudely pausing whatever magic his mouth had been working.

“What?”

He rested his chin on your hip bone, looked up the length of your body - flushed and aching.

“Were you singing?”

“Yes,” you mumbled. “It’s good practice for being able to move around and hit my notes.” You rose onto your elbows, narrowing your eyes. “Why?”

“What else can you hold a note doing?” he asked, all false innocence, as he made space for himself between your thighs.

You swallowed. “Circuits?”

“Boring.”

“Running.”

He shook his head, unimpressed. “Swimming?”

“Nope. I’m an awful swimmer,” you laughed. “I’d drown, for sure.”

“What a way to go,” he teased. You tried to draw your thighs together but he didn't let you. “And if I did this -” he nudged his nose against your clit, blowing just enough to make your hips twitch, “- hmm?”

Your breath hitched. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re not answering.”

“Yes,” you said confidently, though not steadily. Your hands skittering across the bed sheets, searching for something to hold onto.

“Yeah, you think so?” He stopped again and looked up at you, “I'm not the first to ask you that?”

“Jealous?”

He frowned, his stubble scratching your thigh as he sucked a mark on your hip. Your fingers ran through his hair and tugged slightly. He looked up, unimpressed.

“No one has asked me that before,” you confirmed.

“How do you know you can -”

“I just do,” you laughed. “At least, I think I do. You going to make me prove it?”

“Damn right I am,” he grinned wickedly, “go ahead sweetheart.”

His mouth on you was greedy, relentless, like he was making up for lost time. You lost track of the words you said, or whether you were even singing at all.

All you could focus on was the way your legs trembled, your hands in his hair, the filthy sound of him working you open with his tongue like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, Bucky -”

“C’mon baby,” he rasped against your skin, voice wrecked with want, “show me. Let me hear you.”

You tipped your head back, a cry caught between a gasp and a moan as he flattened his tongue and sucked, two fingers pushing deeper into you as your thighs clamped around his shoulders.

He didn’t let up.

Not when your hips began to roll helplessly under his grip.

Not when your hand fisted in the sheets, then in his hair.

Not even when you sobbed out his name, broken and desperate.

He growled something into your skin, possessive, hungry, and that alone nearly tipped you over.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, and then…

Then you fell apart.

Your body bowed, shaking with the force of it, every nerve frayed raw as you cried out, legs trembling, your voice cracking.

You were still catching your breath when he finally kissed his way back up your body. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat back against the headboard and pulled you close, your legs tangled with his.

“Was that a yes?” he murmured against your temple.

You let out a broken laugh. “I think I sang an entire chorus.”

He hovered beside you, grinning like a man proud of his work.

“Excellent breath control. I'm impressed,” he smirked. “You ok?”

You stretched, eyes still closed. “Hmm, floating.”

“You better be. I -” he cut himself off, shifting down enough to kiss your shoulder instead. “I… I like making you feel like that.”

You turned to him, cupping his face, pupils blown wide again with hunger. “Let me make you feel like that.”

He started to shake his head, always the gentleman.

But this time, you were faster - already moving.

“Let me?”

Bucky swore under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “Doll, you don’t have to -”

“I want to.” You looked up at him through your lashes, pleased by the way his jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t thought about this? About you?”

His breath caught as you wrapped your hand around him, slow and certain, the way you'd imagined more than once when you were alone. His hand curled into your hair - just holding lightly, but the way his stomach muscles flexed told you how close he already was.

You made yourself comfortable, intentionally pressing your body against his.

“You looked pretty good on that bike earlier,” you said, brushing your thumb over the tip of his cock, catching the sharp breath he took. “All focused and sweaty and trying not to look at me.”

“I looked,” he said, voice hoarse.

You smiled, slow and sinful, and lowered your mouth to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered as you took him in, slow and steady, letting your lips drag over every inch, your tongue teasing just under the head.

You hummed softly, just to feel the way he twitched on your tongue. His hips flexed despite himself, his hand tightening in your hair, still careful, still holding back.

You didn’t want him to hold back.

You hollowed your cheeks, dragging him deeper, loving the way he cursed under his breath, how his thighs tensed under your palms.

“If you keep going,” he warned, his voice ragged, “I’m not gonna make it to round two.”

You pulled off with a soft, wet pop, your lips slick, your mouth swollen. “I don't believe that.”

His breath hitched. He huffed a laugh.

“Get back up here.”

You stayed where you were, licking him slowly as you met his gaze. “Say please.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not annoyance, but something darker. Hotter. A warning, maybe. A promise.

He didn’t say please.

He let you keep touching him, teasing him, tasting him until he was groaning, hips stuttering toward your mouth.

You felt him getting close - the way his thighs trembled, the way his hand in your hair twitched like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or let you finish him off right there.

You hollowed your cheeks again, determined to take him all the way.

But just when you thought he’d fall apart, his grip tightened slightly and he pulled you back - not rough, not forceful, just enough to catch your gaze.

“You want to take care of me?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Then let me fuck you properly.”

It wasn’t a question. It was like the way you’d worshipped him with your mouth had pushed him too far, and now he had to return the favour with his whole body.

He sat up fully and kissed you. Hands on your hips pushing you down on the bed, palms sliding down your thighs, his mouth hot at your jaw, your neck.

You reached for him when he pressed you into the mattress, his body covering yours. His hand slid between your thighs again, and you whimpered - still sensitive, but greedy for more.

He groaned against your mouth, like he could feel it too.

“Let me grab -”

“Wait.” Your hand gripped his bicep, squeezing gently. “I… I went on the pill.”

He stilled, like he’d heard something sacred.

You hesitated, frozen under the weight of his gaze, shyness creeping in. “I know we haven’t really… y’know, talked about… other people. But there isn’t anyone else, for me at least, so…”

For a moment, all he did was look at you.

“But if you’re not in the same pla -”

“Same here,” he interrupted softly, his hand coming to your cheek, slow and tender. “Just you.”

His hand slid from your cheek to your hip, and he nudged your nose with his.

“And you’re sure?” he asked, voice low.

Your answer came in the way you kissed him - hungry, breathless, full of all the things you weren’t brave enough to say aloud.

He didn’t make you wait. He lined his body with yours, slow and certain, his eyes locked on yours the whole time. And when he finally pushed into you, you both gasped.

There was no teasing now. No slow burn. Just the quiet ache of need finally met, the stretch and slide of skin on skin. His hand tangled with yours against the pillow, his other braced beside your head as he rocked into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

“You feel - fuck, sweetheart, you feel so good,” he groaned, voice wrecked.

You barely managed a reply - just his name, whispered like prayer, like surrender. He kissed you through it, fingers linked with yours, whispering encouragement until you fell apart beneath him.

Afterwards, he didn’t let you go far. Just enough to clean you up, kiss your shoulder, brush your hair from your face. You’d barely caught your breath when your fingers drifted lower again, teasing.

“You’re insatiable,” he murmured, grinning sleepily, though he was already responding to your touch. “You trying to kill me?”

“Not at all,” you kissed his jaw, the stubble scratching at your skin. “That’s the last thing I want.”

He let out a low laugh. “Trying to make me prove I’ve still got stamina?”

You arched a brow. “You’re not saying you’re old, surely?”

“You're gonna be the death of me,” he whispered - but he was already moving, shifting over you again. “Now let’s see who taps out first.”

He was all heat and muscle and quiet, determined control, his hands sure where you were shaking. This time, it was slower - and you were grateful for it, you wanted to feel all of it. You wanted your bones to ache the next morning, you wanted him to fill you so completely that no one else would ever be good enough.

“God, baby…” he whispered, as you clenched around him, voice dissolving into a groan.

He didn’t let up until you were writhing again beneath him, your hands fisting in the sheets, legs trembling as you came for him a third time - and then, finally, he followed with a ragged, guttural moan, burying his face in your neck.

For a long minute, all either of you could do was breathe.

Then he rolled gently to the side, arm still wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling against your back.

“You ok?” he asked softly, voice rough with tenderness.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Yeah. That was…”

He smiled, one thumb smoothing across your hip. “Yeah.”

You let yourself melt into the quiet. Into him.

He pulled you gently to his chest, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath your cheek. “I missed you,” he murmured.

You’d meant to sleep. Really, you had. But his mouth was warm on your neck, his fingers tracing lazy shapes across your skin. Somewhere between your third or fourth attempt to untangle from each other, you’d ended up entwined again, his hands sure and coaxing, your body pliant beneath his.

And when you’d finally collapsed, limp-limbed and aching, tucked into his side with your name on his lips - it felt dangerous, how much you wanted to stay there.

Bucky had never been good at mornings. But watching her pad barefoot across the hotel carpet in one of his shirts - skin flushed, hair a mess - was a better wake-up call than any alarm clock.

She moved quietly, like she didn’t want to wake him, but he’d stirred the second she’d slipped out of bed. He watched, letting her think she was alone, as she surveyed the room - her dress slung over a chair, his jacket on the floor, one of her earrings glinting from under the table - and blushed. She’d reached for his shirt to cover herself up, then gathered her things before turning her attention to the coffee machine.

He should’ve felt smug. He didn’t.

He felt wrecked in the best possible way.

And beneath that there was something much softer. Something he’d not let in before. A piece of himself he’d never shared with anyone.

Hope.

It lodged itself deep in his chest, sparking every time she looked at him like she had last night like he was something worth choosing. Worth keeping.

And that scared him more than all the press junkets waiting downstairs.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep before he could stop himself.

She jumped, hand to her chest. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he said, watching her with a slow smile. “But it’s much better with you in here?”

“Is that right?”

“You coming back?” he smirked.

She giggled and abandoned the coffee machine, “only if you promise to get that thing working?”

“I just have something really important to do first,” he insisted, taking her wrist and pulling her towards the bed. She climbed into his lap, her knees bracketing his hips, warm and sleepy and smiling.

He wasted no time in gripping her ass and dragging her closer, burying his face against her throat like he could breathe her in. His hand dropped between them both, his fingers tiptoeing up her inner thigh.

“You said something about important business?” she murmured, breath catching.

“Mm,” he hummed against her skin. “Real urgent. Life or death.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love it.”

Her hands slid into his hair as he shifted beneath her, one hand spreading low over her back to hold her steady. “I’m serious,” he said, softer now, his mouth brushing her collarbone. “Five more minutes. Just… stay.”

She looked at him, something soft flickering behind her smile.

Then she nodded, pressing her forehead to his. “Five minutes.”

He kissed her like he meant to stretch them into forever, swallowing her moans as his fingers found exactly what they were looking for.

His thumb brushed over her clit and she shivered in his arms, “who’s relentless?”

She rolled her hips against him, “still you. You’ve brought this out in me, you only have yourself to blame.”

When she collapsed against him again, her breath warm on his neck, he decided he’d happily take the blame.

Five minutes turned into another hour. She was still warm from sleep, curled half on top of him, her leg tangled with his, her cheek resting just above his heart.

He hadn’t moved. Wouldn’t, if he had the choice.

But eventually, her fingers began tracing slow, reluctant circles against his chest.

“I should go,” she murmured.

Stylists were waiting. Publicists. Cameras. A thousand eyes they weren’t ready for - not yet.

When she finally shifted to sit up, he followed, sliding behind her, arms wrapping around her waist.

She leaned back into him with a soft sigh.

“You could just… stay,” he said, his mouth brushing her shoulder. “We could order in. Pretend the awards aren’t happening.”

She laughed, quiet and tired and beautiful. “And miss your big acceptance speech?”

“You think I’m gonna win?”

She turned to look at him. “I know you’re going to win.”

His heart kicked hard in his chest. It wasn’t the awards that did it.

She slipped from the bed again, catching his eye in the mirror as she reached for her clothes.

“What?” she asked softly.

He just looked at her. “You look good in my shirt.”

Her lips twitched. “I’ll give it back.”

“Don’t.” And he meant it.

She crossed to him once more and kissed him, slow and sweet. “I’ll see you later?”

“You’d better,” he murmured.

And then she was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

The red carpet was a machine. Flashbulbs, shouted names, the heat of a dozen camera lights burning into his skin. Bucky smiled on cue, laughed at a question he didn’t really hear, and let Sam lead the way through the crowd.

But every now and then, his eyes found her.

She wasn’t near him. But he saw her - radiant, poised, a vision in a black striped dress. The crowd adored her. The cameras did too.

And when they ended up side by side on the photo wall, it felt like he had a secret no one else got to have.

They smiled, made it look entirely professional, like he hadn’t spent at least 12 hours out of the last 20 kissing her.

The ceremony itself blurred at the edges until they started announcing his category. Bucky hadn’t prepared a speech. He hadn’t thought he’d win, but when they called his name, and Sam clapped him on the back, and the room erupted, the only person he looked for was her, three tables away.

He didn’t see her, not immediately, but he felt her eyes. She was on her feet, along with a few other people. He saw the moment she mouthed “told you so.”

He kept his speech short. Grateful. Honest.

“And finally,” he said into the mic, “there are a couple of people that remind me every day why I do this. Thank you.”

He left the stage to a roar. But all he could hear was the thunder of his own heartbeat.

The party was loud - champagne flutes clinking, music pulsing low under a din of overlapping conversations. Bucky had been passed from handshake to handshake, back slap to back slap, until his head was spinning more from praise than from the whiskey in his glass.

But then he saw her.

She wasn’t looking for him. Not obviously. But she drifted close, laughing at something someone said, her glass of something golden cradled in one hand. Her dress clung to her frame like it had been painted on. Her hair was swept back, exposing the slope of her neck - the same place his lips had been just hours earlier.

Their eyes met for a beat too long.

“Congratulations,” she said softly when he stepped near enough. Polite. Perfect. Safe for the cameras. But her eyes held something else entirely.

“Thanks,” he said, just as soft. He didn’t touch her, but his hand hovered near her waist.

Someone bumped into him, and the moment broke. She stepped away smoothly, disappearing into the crowd again.

She barely had the door open before he was on her.

It wasn’t rough - not quite. Just urgent. His hands in her hair, her dress bunched in his fists. Her back hit the wall with a soft thud and she gasped into his mouth, his name already a breathless prayer on her tongue.

“You looked so fucking good tonight,” he growled, dragging his mouth down her jaw, his teeth catching on the soft skin below her ear. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, tugging it open, baring his chest. “You were brilliant,” she breathed. “God, Bucky - you were -” Her voice caught as he hoisted her up, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.” He walked her backward toward the bed, his voice thick with everything he hadn’t been able to say in public. “Couldn’t think about anything else. Not the cameras. Not the speech. Just you.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair. “So show me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

They tumbled to the mattress, a tangle of limbs and heat and soft, desperate sounds. He peeled her dress down like he’d been dreaming of it, kissing every new inch of skin he uncovered. She writhed beneath him, fingers gripping his shoulders, her voice breaking every time he said her name like a promise.

When he finally sank into her, they both moaned, already too far gone to pretend they were anything but casual.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was need. Fast, breathless, intense - the kind of sex that left them both shaking, chasing the high of a victory that only really mattered because she was there to see it.

“Mine,” he murmured against her neck as she came again, pulling him deeper, her nails dragging lines down his back.

“Yours,” she said, voice cracked open with truth.

Later, when they were a mess of sweat and satisfaction and tangled sheets, she curled into his side, breath still shaky, and pressed a kiss over his heartbeat.

“You really were incredible tonight.”

“So were you,” he whispered back, kissing the top of her head. “And in a couple of days, we do it all over again.”

“Think you’ll win the Globe?”

“I’ve already got what I wanted,” he said, pulling her closer. “You’re going to win though.”

She scoffed, nudging him with her elbow, “don’t be daft. Of course I’m not.”

“You’ll see.”

Morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, pooling across the sheets. She was still asleep, tucked close, her fingers resting just over his heart like they always ended up there.

Bucky didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to lose this. He’d made sure that she’d woken up in his bed every morning since she’d arrived in LA, every spare moment they’d spend together.

But the Globes were tonight. And even though he knew the circus was only going to get louder and messier, something in him wanted to take a step, a real one. No more hiding in the shadows. Not from the people who mattered.

She stirred against him, breath warm on his chest. Her lashes fluttered, and then she blinked up at him, sleepy and soft.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Hey.”

“I could get used to this,” she sighed.

For a few moments, they lay quietly.

“I was thinking,” he said eventually, brushing her hair back from her face. “Maybe we don’t do the whole separate suite thing tonight?”

Her brow furrowed slightly.

“I mean, I’m not saying we walk the carpet together,” he added quickly. “But maybe you get ready here? With me? Let Sam and the girls see us, just a little. Something real - just for us.”

She was quiet. Too quiet. Her hand slipped away from his chest as she turned onto her back, reaching for her phone.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to say yes.”

“No, it’s not that,” she said, scrolling. “I just -” She sucked in a breath, the screen glowing in her palm. “They’re already talking. About us.”

He sat up slightly, watching her face. “What do you mean?”

She tilted the phone so he could see: blurry red carpet shots, some press tweet about undeniable chemistry, a few fan posts speculating that something was going on between them - timelines lined up, comments dissected, a dozen takes too close to the truth.

And then, one that made his jaw clench:

It’s all PR. She’s not his type anyway.

He looked at her. The flicker of doubt in her eyes cut deeper than any headline.

“Hey,” he said, catching her chin, making her look at him. “You ok?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was too honest. “It’s stupid. I knew it was going to be like this.”

He nodded, “it still sucks.”

“Yeah.”

He kissed her. Slow. Certain. Like that could replace every shitty tweet she’d read.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he murmured. “Not to them.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. It’s just hard to ignore the noise.”

“Well,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek, “we’ll drown it out. One thing at a time.”

She looked at him for a long beat. Then she nodded. “Ok. I’ll get ready here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.”

And when she leaned in to kiss him again - something gentler now, but no less full - he felt it down to his bones.

One thing at a time.

The suite smelled like his cologne and fresh coffee.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in a silk robe, hair half-pinned, makeup halfway done, watching Bucky button his shirt in the mirror. He’d offered you space to get ready on your own - you’d refused. You wanted to be near him.

“You know you're staring, right?” he teased, catching your eye in the reflection just before Lulu blocked his view again.

“Can you blame me?” you shot back.

He crossed the room in a few strides and stole a kiss while Lulu warmed up the mascara. “You're beautiful,” he said simply. “You were always going to steal the whole damn night.”

Your stomach twisted in a good way. Mostly.

“Too fucking cute,” Lulu whispered once he’d gone again.

There were knocks at the door throughout - Sam and Natasha dropped in briefly, cracking jokes, throwing compliments. Becka came and went, adjusting your hem and smoothing fabric. Through it all, Bucky stayed close. A hand on your lower back, fingers brushing yours when no one was looking, touching you whenever he was close enough to do so.

By the time you left the suite for separate cars, your heart was thudding so hard you could barely hear yourself think.

You didn’t think it could get any crazier.

And then your name was called.

It was a blur.

Your table erupted, Steve held out his arm to guide you up the steps and into the welcoming arms of Stephen Strange who handed over the award. You looked out across the glittering room and found him. Watching you like you were the only one there.

And in that one, tiny moment, you let yourself feel it.

Joy. Pride. Something terrifyingly close to love.

You clutched the award in both hands, terrified you might drop it, and somehow, you were still remembering to breathe.

“Fuck me,” you whispered. The microphone picked it up and laughter filtered throughout the room. “Shit, sorry. It’s just… I never, never expected this. Truly,” your voice trembled, tears swam in your eyes but you were determined not to let them fall. You racked your brain to think of everyone you needed to thank, everyone you needed to acknowledge. “I don't know where to start! My dad. My dad and my brother, there are… very few men in this world as good and special as you both. I love you, I wish mama were here to see this. Bruce, you took, like, the biggest gamble on me. I hope I never let you down. This was, is… my first movie…. if I never get to do this again, if I never see any of you all again, then please know that I've had the absolute time of my life and I'm forever grateful to have been a small part of this. Thank you.”

Back at the table, people rose to clap.

You could see him a few tables away, looking like he wanted to plow through them to get to you.

You could barely feel the ground beneath your feet, you needed air. You half hoped he’d be able to sneak out too if he saw you leaving.

It wasn’t until you’d ducked into the corridor behind the ballroom - award still clutched in hand - that you heard them.

Two industry men, just out of sight around the corner, old voices and expensive cologne.

“Sweet girl,” one said. “But let’s not pretend she had real competition this year.”

“Yeah, quiet category. Flash-in-the-pan stuff, probably. Happens.”

“And you know who she’s apparently seeing, right? Pretty convenient.”

“Fucking your way to the top never gets old, buddy.”

Laughter. The rustle of tuxedos. Ice clinking in glasses.

You froze. Just long enough to catch your breath.

Their voices faded. The clatter of applause for the next category rolled on.

You turned the award over in your hands. It felt heavier than before. Somehow… smaller, too.

From the ballroom came the muffled sound of laughter, music, someone’s acceptance speech.

You stood still, blinked hard, and forced yourself to go back inside.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 3,593 Pairing: Negan Smith x Reader Reader pronouns: not really specified, but Negan calls you "doll" and "darlin'" often Warnings: language (the usual), some flirty!Negan Era: Alexandria, post-Negan Summary: Negan and the reader must weather the storm and the horde overnight and find someway to get back to Alexandria. A/N: Sorry this came later than I hoped to get it out. This is why I try to 1.) never write two series at once and 2.) never make a posting schedule because I usually can't adhere to it haha some parts just take longer to get right... so thanks for your patience and HAPPY WICKED WEDNESDAY! Previous part - Part 3

The storm overhead was still raging. Tucked away in the basement mostly underground you heard it only as a dull roar. The wind occasionally whistled and howled lending a haunting soundtrack to your sheltering.

Negan had dug out a couple sleeping bags and used one to cushion his seat on another box of supplies, his back leaned up against the wall and his long legs kicked out toward you.

“Can I have that?” you asked, gesturing to the other bag. You were sitting on the floor and the concrete was cold. He tossed it over to you and you folded it and placed it underneath yourself, sitting down in more comfort. You sighed and leaned back against the wall behind you, shutting your eyes for a moment. You could feel Negan looking at you.

“You’re really not going to tell me anything about you?” You cracked one eye open and looked at him, drawing a laugh from deep in his chest. It was resonant and warm, like the sound from a rosewood guitar. “We’ve been doing this for—I don’t know, three months now and I don’t know a damn thing besides your name,” Negan said, twirling the fireplace poker in his hand.

You sighed and sat up again. “What do you want to know?”

“What’d you do before all this?”

“Before the outbreak?”

“Yeah. Before everything went to shit.”

“Uhh… actually, I was a stripper.”

Negan froze, a shit-eating grin growing on his face. “Really?”

“No!” you laughed. “But it seems like you were hoping for something juicy like that,” you said with a self-satisfied smirk. “God, it’s so easy it’s not even fun!”

He laughed heartily. “Alright, smartass… But can you blame me? Shit, I was about to ask for a private performance.”

“I’m sure you were,” you retorted.

“I noticed that you still didn’t answer the question,” Negan said.

“Oh, that’s funny,” you said with a smile. It crinkled the corners of your eyes and Negan found himself suddenly gulping, nervous. He was nervous? “You know, it’s not like I really know a ton about you either.”

“Well, you know about my Savior days. That’s more than I know about you.”

“Is it?” you asked, one of your eyebrows arching.

Negan felt as if a continent shifted inside him when you looked at him like that; inquiring and graceful and steady. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “I think—and this is just my opinion, but I think that was a mask,” you said. “It’s almost as if you were playacting. But maybe you convinced yourself that it was the real you or maybe it was in some ways, for a time, and so everyone else around you believed it. It was convincing to watch.”

Negan gulped. He had that same sensation again, as if you were seeing into his core, his true center. “Jesus, doll, maybe fucking warn me before you say some shit like that again.” But there was no trace of jest or sarcasm in his voice and his expression was sincere as he stared back at you. His hazel eyes looked like there was a glow in them that was shifting like the heat moving over the coals of a fire. Was it turmoil? He drew in a deep breath. “Well, what’s the difference, if I was pretending or not? I still did what I did.”

“It matters,” you replied softly. “First of all, because it’s painful to not be seen, to not have your true self perceived, to be invisible in a way. And—when you’ve been hiding in any kind of shadow for a long time, like behind a mask, it’s all the more painful to—to seek out the light, to feel. To be awake. It’s easier to just—pretend.”

Negan’s brow furrowed heavily as you spoke and his hands were still on the iron rod, fingers curled around the chill of the metal. “You’re talking as if you know something about that,” he replied.

You smiled at him vaguely, sighing a little and leaning your head back against the wall again. “Maybe I’m just observant.”

“Alright,” he nodded. His tongue swept out over his bottom lip. “Well, you know about Savior Negan, whether it was a mask or not… and you know that I was a high school gym teacher and coach, and I still know absolutely fuck-all about you,” he said.

“Correct,” you replied.

Negan sighed, looking disappointed. He stared around the room aimlessly for a moment, clicking his tongue thoughtfully and spinning the iron rod in his hand. “What’s your favorite color?” he asked suddenly.

You laughed. “So, you’re switching to small talk now?”

He shrugged. “What the hell else are we gonna do?”

It seemed harmless enough. “Green,” you said.

“Green,” he nodded. “Hmm. Favorite food?”

You shot him an amused look. “Is this even entertaining?”

He only shrugged again and smiled at you expectantly.

“Raspberries,” you said.

“That’s lucky,” he said, scratching at his beard. “You can still get those. In fact, aren’t there a bunch of raspberry plants back home?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Did you just say back home?” you asked.

“Oh. Shit! Fuck me sideways, doll, I think I did,” he laughed, looking stunned himself. He let out a scoff and shook his head.

“That was… unexpected,” you replied.

“Well, how long do you have to live someplace before you call it home? Even in a cell, I guess time matters.”

“I don’t know. Home has always been a feeling for me, more than a place,” you said.

“Hmm. That seems like it could be telling,” Negan said, absently rubbing a hand over his beard again.

You rolled your eyes. “Now who sounds like a shrink?” you retorted. He laughed a little and shrugged.

“Alright. Green. Raspberries. Got it. Next question…”

“Negan…” you laughed, rubbing a hand over your face, feeling suddenly bashful at his probing and focused interest in you.

“Come on, doll. Just humor me.” He sighed and stretched, thinking. “Favorite season?”

“I can’t choose a favorite. I like different things about all of them.” Then, you paused thoughtfully. “But fuck southern summers.”

Negan smiled widely. “I can agree to that. What was your first car?”

“Pfft… the city bus,” you said. “You’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here on the questions.”

“I’m—working up to the really interesting ones… But really? You never had a car? Not even a rusty shitbox?”

You shook your head. “Nope. In fact, I didn’t even learn to drive until after the outbreak.”

Negan’s eyebrows lifted and his eyes widened. “Fuckin’ hell. That must have been terrifying. Everything shut down and you were just—”

“—stuck,” you finished. You were staring down at your hands and fiddling with a loose string on the hem of your shirt. “Though, most of the roadways were pretty clogged up quickly so it probably didn’t matter all that much. The only people who got out of the cities anyway were the ones who left as soon as there was a whiff of trouble. And then came the riots and the bombings and—”

A shadow darkened Negan’s face. “Fucking hell. You were in a city city when shit went down.”

You suddenly realized what you’d revealed and looked up at him, your breath caught in your throat at the sudden rush of memories unbidden. You gulped at the tightness in your throat and nodded. “Yeah. I was, um—I was in Atlanta.”

“That’s where you found Rick’s group,” Negan said. It wasn’t really a question.

You nodded. “More like they found me,” you said, ducking your eyes again. It wasn’t lost on Negan that you were avoiding his gaze. He sensed that there was still a wound there, unhealed, deep down. Perhaps it was one that would never truly heal. “But it also wasn’t really Rick’s group then. He’d just met all of them too, like the day before. But Daryl, Rick, T-dog, and—and Glenn,” your voice broke when you said Glenn’s name, but it wasn’t just for him that your voice wavered. “They found me. Helped me.” You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment. “Now, it’s just me, Carol, and Daryl left, out of all of us at the beginning.”

There was a soft frown on Negan’s face, creases in his forehead, when you looked back up, but it wasn’t pity. It was just… sympathy and no small amount of guilt. “I’m—sorry,” he said. His deep voice somehow seemed to cut through the air between you and right to the bone. “I know I had a part in that. And I’m truly sorry.” You were startled to see that his eyes were slightly glassy.

“Yeah, well… you don’t owe that apology to me. You owe it to Maggie and her son far more,” you said, shifting on the sleeping bag you were sitting on. A shiver suddenly wracked through you and you hugged your arms around yourself. The fingers of the cold, damp of the cellar seemed to be slowly finding their way in under your clothing. “I thought you were supposed to only be asking me small talk questions? How’d we get here?” you said with a wry laugh.

But Negan wasn’t really listening. He was digging out the jacket he’d shed earlier and tucked into his pack. “Here,” he said. He tossed it over to you.

You caught it, and then fixed your eyes back on him. “Oh. I’m okay,” you tried to argue.

Negan smiled at you, a small one that had his hazel eyes looking bright. “I just saw you shiver. I already think you’re a badass, doll. A little chill isn’t fucking changing that.”

You sighed, and relented. “Alright…” you murmured, pulling on the jacket. It swallowed up your frame, hanging on your shoulders and bunching around your wrists, and Negan couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling that suddenly manifested in between his lungs.

“Thanks,” you murmured, huddling into the fabric.

“Of course. Seems like we’re gonna be here a while,” Negan said. “Actually—” he pulled the top off a bin beside him and grabbed a camping stove and lighter. “We’ve got a stove, water… MREs. You’ve got those tea leaves we foraged on the way in?”

You quirked an eyebrow up at him. “Yeah?”

“Perfect,” he said. “It’s about dinnertime by now. Sit back and relax!”

You laughed a little skeptically at him. “You’re gonna… cook me dinner?”

“I don’t think heating up some MREs and tea qualifies as cooking. You should see me in a real kitchen. It’s a real panty-dropped,” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus…”

He laughed heartily and started setting up the stove. “No, no. You can still call me ‘Negan’,” he quipped, winking at you.

“Okay… don’t ever wink at me again,” you retorted, which only made him laugh harder.

“That is a promise that I am not willing to make. Or keep,” he joked. “Now, hand me some of those raspberry leaves you picked.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You stretched lazily, your eyes still closed for a moment, before you shot up straight, remembering where you were and the events of the previous day. Your eyes were wide as you realized that at some point over the course of the night, you’d fallen asleep. Part of you expected to see that Negan had somehow gotten ahold of your gun or knife, despite them always being stored securely on your person. But you didn’t have any need to worry. When you looked across the small, dingy space, he was still perched on the same box of supplies he had been the night before, though his long legs were now stretched out and up on another box.

He was smiling at you serenely, the fireplace poker resting across his knees. “Morning, doll.”

You gulped. “I—I fell asleep.”

“You sure did,” he said. You could tell he hadn’t slept at all. His voice was a bit gruff and undeniably tired. He’d kept watch all night. “You snore by the way.”

You hastily smoothed your hair and clothes, staring back at him. “What? I do not!” you argued.

He laughed. “Yeah, you do. But it’s okay. I found it strangely comforting actually. Nearly put me to sleep.”

“Shut up,” you said, standing up and stretching again.

“Don’t flirt,” he retorted, still smiling serenely.

You paced over toward the one narrow window in the basement and looked up at the quality of light filtering through the dirty glass. It was clearly early morning and the storm had passed. More than that, you couldn’t see or hear any of the dead outside. “Seems like the herd moved on.”

“Mhm,” Negan hummed in agreement. “It all got quiet in the early hours of this morning.”

“You stayed awake all night?”

He nodded, standing now too. “Yeah. Somebody else was slacking off after their gourmet meal,” he teased you.

You ground your teeth together, angry at yourself for falling asleep. “You should have woken me up. And ‘gourmet’ seems like a stretch for an expired MRE don’t you think?”

“With locally sourced tea? Come on, people would have paid a pretty fucking penny for that shit in the old world.”

You laughed a little and shook your head, then turned and fixed your eyes on him with a deeply perplexed expression on your face.

“What? That’s quite a look for first thing in the morning,” Negan said. “I can’t have fucked up that bad already!”

“Why—why didn’t you leave?” you said. “As soon as the herd cleared and the storm settled… you could have disappeared, taken some supplies.” The jacket he’d given to you the night before was still hanging on your smaller frame. The sleeves had slipped down over your hands and you hastily pushed them back up. “You know what you’re going back to.”

He just kept smiling back at you, his expression surprisingly soft and genuine, no trace of his usual jest or masking. It was doing something to you, stirring up a whir of fluttering just below your lungs that was impossible to ignore. You gulped, trying to clear the sensation. He paced toward you, stopping within a foot. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why I stayed,” he said.

Your brow only furrowed even more deeply. “You’re a prisoner,” you said plainly.

Negan shrugged. “Am I? I think I’m starting to fucking forget that…” His hazel eyes were flickering over your face, studying your features. You were the one to fell a sudden wave of emotions cresting up within you and you backed away from it.

“We should—see if the coast is clear,” you said softly, ducking your eyes. “Get back to the car. Everyone back home will be worried. They may even have come looking already.”

Negan smiled to himself. He’d felt something in the air profoundly, but he’d also seen how you’d stepped away and the spell was broken. “Okay,” he said simply.

The two of you gathered up your essential gear and headed up the steps cautiously, listening at the barricaded basement door for any noises on the other side. You pounded on the door with your bandaged hand and pressed your ear to the wood. Nothing. Steady silence.

“Okay,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I don’t hear anything. You can hang onto that poker until we know for sure the house is clear, but then you’ll have to leave it behind. Got it?”

Negan agreed, a little hesitantly, but he wasn’t going to argue with you this time.

You unblocked the door, lifting the wooden board you’d secured it with the night before, being careful to avoid the sharp metal brackets this time. The next moment, you slowly pushed it open.

The house was clear and once you’d thoroughly looked out through windows on all sides of the house, he begrudgingly left the iron fireplace poker behind. Stepping outside, the destruction from the storm and the horde were blatantly evident. Most of the windows in the surrounding buildings, including the house you’d sheltered in, were busted or hailed out. There were large branches blown down off trees and the leaves of many were also shredded in the hailstorm and wind. Shingles and scraps of siding and wood were lying in the scraggly patches of grass.

“Good thing we didn’t try to make it out in the car. I’ll be surprised if the windshield is intact when we get back to it,” you said, nudging a shingle with your boot.

“Yeah,” Negan agreed. “What’s the plan? We still have all those supplies to load up.”

“Um… I guess we can try to get the car in here and load them up. That side road didn’t look too bad on the way in.”

The two of you headed that direction immediately, still on guard and wondering where the herd had gone to. Knowing only hours had passed, it was possible they weren’t far at all. But you arrived at the car safely. However, there was another problem.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you swore, staring at the scene in front of you.

Negan stopped beside you and all he could do was laugh wryly. “Well, shit.”

A huge old cottonwood tree had come down in the storm and the trunk had entirely crushed the car. You sighed and dropped your pack down beside you heaving a huge sigh. “Well… Daryl and Michonne will have noticed by now that we aren’t back. Let’s hope they’re already on their way.” The two of you waited by the car, and luckily it wasn’t long before you saw an approaching vehicle down the old highway. The two of you scrambled into cover, just in case it wasn’t who you were hoping for.

But it was. A truck pulled up and you saw Daryl behind the wheel as it stopped behind your smashed vehicle. Aaron, Rosita, and Daryl piled out and quickly ran to check the car. That’s when the two of you stepped out of cover on the side of the road.

“Hey!” you called out to them. “Can’t tell you how happy I am to see you all,” you said, jogging over. Negan walked over more slowly, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Hell of a storm,” you said, gesturing at the smashed car.

“Goddamn, ‘m so glad to see ya in one piece,” Daryl said, pulling you quickly into a one-armed hug, his crossbow in the other hand. “We were worried sick, but figured it was the storm. Are ya okay?” he asked, shooting a tense look in Negan’s direction. “What happened to your hand?” he asked, noticing the bandage.

“I’m good. Just cut it while scavenging. It’s fine. How’s Alexandria? Everyone okay after the crazy wind and everything?”

“Yeah, all good. Definitely better than yer car,” he said, looking at the crushed vehicle.

“Thank God you weren’t inside,” Rosita said, slinging her rifle over her back.

“No. Instead we were trapped by a horde in a house,” you explained, crossing your arms.

“A horde?” Aaron repeated. “You’re serious?”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. I was worried you were going to run into them on the highway to be honest. They moved on overnight.”

Negan was standing nearby, looking out of place. Daryl kept shooting him tense glances.

“We found a pile of supplies though, in a hidden survivalist cellar. I bet we can get a vehicle to the house and load them up, especially with your four-wheel drive vehicle.”

“At least something good came out of your trip then!” Aaron said cheerfully, patting your shoulder. “Glad you’re safe.”

You nodded and you all started back towards their truck. Daryl fell into step beside you. “Hey—” he started in an undertone. “Everything really went okay? Even with him?” he asked.

You nodded and felt your cheeks flushing inexplicably. “Yeah.” You hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should even tell him this… but you did. “I—I didn’t mean to, but I fell asleep overnight. Negan stayed up on watch the whole time, Daryl. He could have—taken my weapons, overpowered me—the herd and storm were clear. He could have left, disappeared. But he didn’t. He stayed,” you explained in a low voice. “I—I don’t understand it.”

“Hmm,” Daryl hummed, his brow furrowed deeply, shadows cast over his blue eyes. He looked up and caught Negan staring in your direction. “’M glad yer safe, especially considerin’ that. But ya gotta be more careful.”

You sighed. “I know. I’m already angry at myself. I just—I don’t understand why he stayed,” you said, hesitating with your hand on the door handle of the truck.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “‘M startin’ to have an idea.”

[kiyo-cant-write]

I kind of forgot I did ask you about your favorite character and dorm. Sadly is not align, but is okay. I do want to request for Jack 👉👈🥺

About his chef card, imagine his crush is the judges and trying to impress them. While they would like to see Jack perform.

jack trying to impress his crush in culinary crucible ✧･ﾟ

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Thank you for requesting! I actually love Jack!! I love the whole cast a lot and while he isn't my bias, I think he's cute. So this was fun to write. I like the concept of beastmen but I am a dog owner so xD

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Summary: Jack is participating in the Culinary Crucible with his childhood friend, Vil Schoenheit. To his surprise, one of their judges is... [Name]??? Things just got interesting.

TW/CW: None

Notes: gender-neutral reader, the reader is Yuu/Ramshackle Prefect, they/them pronouns for the reader, the reader is implied to be a first-year

Guest Stars: Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Idia Shroud

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Jack Howl

Jack was already going to try hard, now he's trying harder.

Vil actually has to stop Jack and tell him to breathe.

Jack is appreciative to have an upperclassman paired with him for the Culinary Crucible because he is sweating bullets at the idea of [Name] eating his food as a judge. What are the odds?

Will they like it? What will they say to him?

He wanted to do a good job for them.

Vil comments that his tail is wagging up a storm.

Jack denies it but Vil just laughs softly like the radiant upperclassman he is, knowing Jack's feelings for [Name].

Jack is trying so hard that he's almost messing up the recipe.

He is making macarons and Vil says they are hard to do.

He really wants [Name] to like them.

Jack always strives to be his best and this is no different.

He will impress [Name] with his awesome cooking skills!

Vil thinks that it's going to be quite some time before those two realize they like each other. All the same, though, he's sure they will be happy when they do.

Jack had been starring off into space for far too long and Vil wasn't having any of it. He had joined the Crucible to learn more about cooking, to see if it was something he could do while maintaining his beauty. It was hard to focus on such a task when he was watching this lovesick little puppy staring toward the judges' table where Idia Shroud, [Full Name], and Rook Hunt were sitting.

"Jack, I have had just about enough of this nonsense," Vil told him.

"Huh? What?"

That snapped Jack out of his daze. This caused him to almost mess up the task he had been mindlessly doing. It was a miracle that nothing had exploded in their face thus far with Jack's spacey mood as of late.

Vil sighed. Why were all of the first years like this?

"Jack, I need you to focus. Your behavior reflects on me as well, you know. As an upperclassman," Vil told him, pausing his own task of mixing for a moment to shoot Jack a pointed look.

"Ah, sorry," Jack offered before his eyes drifted back to [Name] again.

They were so pretty. And they were going to be judging his work? Then he had to do a good... No! A perfect job! He would impress them with his work and then they would say what a good job he had done. It was all worked out and planned for. Perfectly, if he said so himself and—

"Jack."

"Huh? What? Sorry, Vil. Did you say something?"

"I said, you'd best focus on the task at hand... My word."

Jack could sense Vil's annoyance with the situation and he was frustrated with himself too. If he was distracted, he wouldn't be able to impress the judges. He had to focus. Shifting his stance, he got back to work making the macaron batter.

Vil continued his own preparation across from Jack, watching the younger boy every once in a while to ensure he was working and not daydreaming about [Name]. It was a good thing they were allowed to use magic in this event or they would surely fall behind on time.

[Vil & Jack - Cooking Montage]

As it would happen, they completed the macarons without any kind of disaster. Vil was thankful that it was all nearly over. Wasn't that a good thing? He would have this experience for his career and not get splattered in cake or lit on fire because of Jack's lovesickness-induced negligence. The things upperclassmen do for their underclassmen...

"Ready?" Vil asked Jack.

Jack nodded, ears perking up as they were about to present their creations to the judges. Vil smiled at that. He just couldn't stay upset with him. He knew Jack meant well by all of this.

"Let's do this!" Jack said, grinning.

Together, the actor and the first-year presented their culinary masterpieces to the judges. The array of judges had varying reactions. Rook stood up immediately and praised the simple staging of the food, ready to give 100 pts on sight for the beauty of it all. Vil shot him a look as he did this.

"I'd like to know how it tastes as well as how it looks, Rook," he chided.

The Pomefiore Vice Housewarden nodded as he tried both Vil's cake and Jack's macarons, eyes sparkling the entire time. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy the food with his animated reactions to it.

Next came Idia Shroud who attempted to eat macarons with a fork (one of the ghosts mumbled about this being a "crime"). He prodded the food with the utensil and ultimately only took a few bites, pushing the plate away after that as he attempted to avoid the eyes of both Vil and Jack alike.

Finally, there was [Name]. They tried a bite of the cake Vil had made and smiled at the taste of it, giving Vil a thumbs up. [Name] might have been the only person on the judging panel who knew what they were doing. They moved to the macarons, picking up one that was a bright shade of orange and taking a bite.

"Mm, this is good!" they said, smiling.

Their reaction was enough to make Jack's heart soar. He had done it, or he thought he had. Still, the scores could tell.

In the end...

A 10 from Rook (obviously, he was about to faint from the mere thought of eating the food almost as soon as he had seen it).

A 2 from Idia (now Vil was ready to throw down but he hid it).

And a 10 from [Name], melting Jack's heart in a single motion of holding up their score marker.

Vil sighed as he went to speak to the ghosts, followed by Rook Hunt for some reason but Jack didn't ask questions about it. Vice Housewarden stuff? Maybe? Probably. Jack had other things on his mind. Tail wagging behind him, much to his chagrin, he made his way over to [Name], calling out their name to get their attention.

"[Name]! Hey. I'm glad you liked... what I made," he told them, a bit sheepish about it all.

"I did! They were good!"

[Name]'s smile was the sunshine that came through the clouds after rain, that was what Jack was feeling when they praised his work.

"Uh, I have some extras if you want more?" Jack offered.

"Eh? Really? Sure!" they said, "Grim wanted to try some, or I think he would like to. That cat sure loves his food."

"Ha, sure!" Jack agreed, "Let me go get that for you."

"Thank you, Jack! I really appreciate it!" [Name] told him.

Jack's face reddened at the words. It was so simple but it got him.

He made his way back into the kitchen, tail wagging up a storm and face growing redder with every passing minute. It was painfully obvious what this was but Jack couldn't figure out why his heart was racing and he felt so... floaty?

Vil watched from a few feet away with the ghosts (and Rook). He sighed, he might have to step in if Jack remained unawares.

A minute later, Jack walked back to [Name] with some packaged macarons for them.

"Ah. Here you go, [Name]."

He handed them the package.

"Thanks again!" they said as they put the package of food in their bag, "I'll tell you what Grim's thoughts are too if you want."

They giggled as they spoke.

Jack only nodded, trying his best to calm down the heat on his face.

"Sure," he told them.

"Alright, it's a date!" [Name] said before heading off to their next period.

The wolf watched as they left the dining hall. What was he going to do? What would he say? Was it a date? Had he been on a date before? He tensed up at the thought that there was some protocol for this.

Who would he ask? Ace would laugh at him. Deuce wouldn't be able to help. Grim wouldn't be able to either. He didn't want to tell Ruggie and Leona... That left...

Sighing, he walked up to the table where the two Pomefiore students sat, taking an empty spot next to the dorm's housewarden.

"Hey. Vil... I'd like to, uh, ask you something," he said, trying not to seem as nervous as he was about asking an upperclassman something like this, "If it's not a bother."

Was he supposed to ask his upperclassmen about these feelings? They did say they would be there for their underclassmen... Right?

"Oh? And what might that be, Jack?" Vil hummed.

.

.

…Imagine the rest yourself~ <3

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[eldritch-spouse]

i-is it possible to get the full, delicious sex scene of this? uwu 'cause the idea of kalymir taking y/n frantically due to her matching his angel-killing-and-woman-in-robes-dream is so fucking hawttt https://eldritch-spouse.tumblr.com/post/769523379185319936/pinnie-pinnie-pinnie-pie-i-thought-of

[Yahoo, pain time!]

TW: NONCON; Gore; blood loss; delusional states; panic attacks; unhygienic moments; Kalymir's caps lock.

You didn't really have time to prepare.

It makes you think about how wars start, at times. How, in some circumstances, people are just outside performing their daily routines, before being subjected to unimaginable horrors at the hands of a force they'd never guess would show up.

Humans and monsters alike have always been tempted, it's natural, it's what leads to deals being established with those who aren't native to the surface. There had been rumors your city was hardly any different, and you've always thought that one day there might be consequences for the figures in power who think they can flirt with the fires- Pull the wool over the eyes of creatures who were made to deceive. Stories of high-ranking beasts unleashing punishment on those who break contracts always terrified you as a child.

There was no way to force judgement on them, their laws are different than ours, you sign and receive your goods on their terms, so any violations of protocol are also dealt with on their terms.

For all that childish fear your parents worked so hard to eventually snap out of you, they must be tearing their hairs off by now.

Because the very city you live in has angered a being so foul and tremendous that you felt the ground heat and shake before they even emerged.

Your night terrors couldn't have made this justice.

As screams rang ever closer, drowned out by belted roars and the horrid sounds of flesh being zipped apart, time seemed to slow down to a wounded crawl. You had barely the energy to breathe, forcing your head up towards the epicenter of the ruckus.

One look at him was enough to clamp your windpipe shut with terror. A sensation of vulnerability and hopelessness so nauseating that, when it finished raking down your spine, your stomach tightened into a marble and you held back your dinner.

That's no high-ranker.

That is so much more.

One of them. The embodiments, the focus points of each Ring, the demons who syphon all the sin around them like endless black holes of power. To provoke one of these things is to cast despair upon everything and everyone you've ever known.

This city will be nothing more than a corpse pile when he's done with it.

His generals -if you can call them that- spread out in a circle of gleeful gore. Smashing into crowds, letting no one escape their savagery and going as far as to toss each other people, playing volleyball with the lives of those they shame as weaklings. They seem equally as uncoordinated as they do strategic, hysteric with the freedom to cause as much death as possible yet still sharp enough to let none weasel out.

You've never seen a street get painted in red so fast.

Whatever chants and howls they emit do nothing but cause a ringing to take over your ears, buzzing into your brain. You can't even feel the tears running down your face.

You're outside of yourself in that moment. No longer a bystander in the massacre unfolding, you exist in a separate layer, watching it from above, everything muted to a much more bearable level.

Only the persistent, foggy sensation of touch keeps breaking that barrier. You try to shake it off, to ignore it, but it succeeds.

With a blink, the stench of innards and blood fills your lungs. You've become wet with crimson, things are now on fire. The force at your left ankle tugs again, some kind of gargle following, making you instinctively kick hard at whatever's grabbing you.

It was a man.

It is a man, more dead than alive, his lower body hanging but by a thread to the rest of him, so disfigured that you're sure adrenaline is the only thing powering his leaking, crushed body. When the force of your outburst makes him roll back, he heaves wordlessly, what you can only describe as a massive clot of blood pops out of his dismantled jaw. He stops moving.

And you vomit.

The shriek you let out felt like daggers through your acid-burned throat.

Louder still manage to be the cackles of the demons around, stopping to stare and taunt as if you're no more than a silly clown.

This mess, unfortunately, raises the attention of the entity you least want to think about. A spiked head bolts towards the general direction of the commotion, gluing itself to the miserable sight of you immediately.

Both of you freeze in burning time.

Where are his eyes...? A gaze of scorching intensity fixes you in place, but for the love of you, there seem to be no eyes on his gnarled face, just streaks of marred skin descending from a depraved crown of horns, and exposed teeth.

Aside from his hulking height, you can only focus on the sharp protrusions coming from his chest, the ones torn off his back and regrowing steadily, stalagmites of what you might guess to be bone. You wonder, briefly, sickly, if some of the scars on his form are from tearing these growths off.

When the rest of his body turns, when one heavy clawed foot steps forth, towards you, it must be towards you- It takes too long for you to react.

One step. Two steps. Three steps.

Something like incredulity in the way he moves, but not quite hesitation.

Then sprinting.

Even if the whole city were between you, it wouldn't feel like enough distance was established.

Your heart begins thunderously pumping blood everywhere, limbs throbbing with the energy of a lone rabbit in a wolf's den before blind instinct takes a hold of you.

You run faster than you ever have your entire life. Faster than you ever thought you'd be able to.

Frantic legs carry you through sharp debris that stab through your shoes, tripping past corpses and obstacles without landing on your face, dashing and batting everything away with no clear goal. You dare not scream, saving every bit of air for the blood cells racing in your organism.

Large wrathful demons mockingly stand aside, going as far as to cheer -Not that you can hear much with the ringing of your panicked ears- You don't need sound to feel the thump of gargantuan footsteps behind you.

Your chest tightens, physical effort making you spit like an animal when gasps become desperate inhales.

He's too fast, too large, too much- You're going to die.

A swipe of claws across your back disorients you, ripping through your shirt and leaving bleeding welts in its wake. Like a whipped horse, you can only try to run faster.

Not fast enough, however.

Maybe it's because you're in debilitating panic, maybe just because you could never physically compete with such a creature, but everything starts hurting, the muscles in your legs almost pulling wrong, slowing you down, the pain in your chest now a raging headache.

You could have never escaped the shove that throws you to the ground.

Didn't even have the energy to shield yourself.

A wave of agony spreads through your whole face when you make contact with concrete, you fear you might have broken something when blood bubbles from your nose.

" FINALLY. "

His voice barrels through your entire body. He doesn't sound one bit exhausted, not even strained, just mortifyingly excited.

The demonlord rolls you over without a crumb of resistance, your open-mouthed, panting visage weakly staring upwards.

Towering over you is death himself, you don't waste time thinking about how he'll torture you for his own amusement. You don't think at all, waiting for the first blow. Will he kick your ribs in? While he crush your face with a foot? Will he pick you up and twist you in two?

Instead, the massive monster tries to pull you up by the already torn collar of your shirt, growling when that doesn't work. He tears it off brutally, knocking out the air you'd been trying to catch. You're yanked up by the arms instead, likely because if he did that to your neck, your head would have popped clean off.

" WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING YOUR ROBES?! "

...

Robes?

A terrified mind races to understand.

You've never once come in contact with him, he's mistaking you for someone else.

The pain coursing through your arms and shoulders only allows you to grunt, not that he seems very intent in getting an actual response from you.

The Icon of Wrath looks around, easily throwing you onto something hard and vaguely chipped. You realize it must be hood of a car, perhaps a truck, from the way it squeaked upon impact.

No time is wasted as he traps you there, studying you for a pause. There's the sound of something slapping onto the ground, though you can't possibly see it from this angle. In fact, all you can see is his intimidating physique casting darkness upon you.

" THE FOOL I WAS. TO THINK YOU'D COME TO ME IN THE PERFECT CONDITIONS... "

You shiver, though it has nothing to do with temperature.

Something about the way you're being regarded screams trouble is coming. A whole new type of fear encompasses you.

" WHY HERE, OF ALL PLACES?! " A balled up fist slams so hard against the car hood that you're jostled up for a moment. " YOUR HOME IS NOT WITH THESE MAGGOTS! YOU BELONG IN WRATH, MADE AS MY TROPHY FOR THE AGE OF BLOOD I'LL BRING FORTH. "

What can your shaking mind even respond with?

" ... W... What? "

He doesn't deign your squeak of a noise worthy of attention, this rumbling sound emitting from his chest, loud and low, the rattle of a satisfied predator. All at once, he uses both hands to grab the hem of your pants, lifting your lower body when he tugs up and rends the fabric apart, easily peeling it out from under you.

Animal instinct kicks in before you even confirm the gravity of the situation, flailing and kicking with sore muscles.

The beast laughs, this racuous sound devoid of any care, amused, easily holding you down by the midsection while his dominant hand comes to rip senselessly at your shoes, your underwear, your bra. All of it goes flying back. You don't even notice the shards of glass that have stabbed into the soles of your foot.

" Stop! Stop! " The scream rips out your throat, a pathetic sob.

" YES... " He nods, confirming something to himself at the sight of your now bare body. You realize idly that he's allowing you to scratch and hit however you please, entirely unfazed.

Incredulously, disgustingly, he strokes a hand upon his dark, blood-soaked skin, then slaps a warm wet paw over your body. You don't understand what's happening until both meaty hands are caking you in blood.

There's a different quality to his breathing as he paints you in red, it becomes harsher, his chest heaves like a bull about to charge. The knowing revulsion within you causes you to jerk and attempt to weasel away, but every time you get on his nerves too much, he lifts and slams you against the car.

The third time he does that, a sting spreads across your spine, vision swimming. You decide it might not be a good idea to encourage this. It's all you can do not to shake too much while warm and sticky crimson is spread all over your form. He seems to be thinking as he does this, trying to imitate some kind of pattern, deciding the zones where you should be most covered in the gross, foul-smelling results of his slaughter.

Whose blood is this? Your neighbors'? Your friends'?

A bit of it wedges past your lips, you're glad your stomach has already flipped everything it had.

When he passes by your tits, both hands squeeze and roll too hard, catching your nipples in a sharp pinch that zings through your whole figure. Desperation has you opening your mouth to say something pointless, to plea, to cry, but all it does is whimper when you take note of the growth bulging his unique loincloth.

With neither shame nor hesitation, as soon as he notices where your gaze has fallen, the massive monster uses one hand to untie the cloth, toss it aside, revealing a length that nearly makes you feel lightheaded.

It's not just the comparative size, something he seems very eager to display, it's the barbs flaring underneath, no doubt meant to tear into any hole he claims and anchor his cock as deep as possible. The mental image of your body stretching disgustingly to accommodate it is sickening. He looks incredibly hard, you're sure that there's no give to his shaft, that it's heavy and unmanageable for most partners he attains.

Partners... As if this beast doesn't just grab people randomly like he's doing to you.

There's a snort, you realize he's studying the newfound horror on your face.

" YOU DON'T REMEMBER ME. " It's not a question. " I'LL JOG YOUR MEMORY, WHEN I RATTLE THAT FUCKING BRAIN OF YOURS- "

" H- Hu-?! "

In a blink, the Icon is blanketing you in a suffocating closeness, panting against your face as the hand that isn't pinning you by the ribcage darts to his cock and pumps aggressively. While the lurid sound haunts your ears, all you can focus on are his misaligned blade-like teeth. The bits of flesh caught between them when he no doubt bit sections out of people. A dark tongue hovers behind them, wet with drool and shimmering in excitement. His breath is far from pleasant, though there's hardly a way to escape it.

When your head turns in an attempt to abstract from the situation, he forces it back in place and hunches further to lick the mess on your ruined face. A scratchy, far too hot sensation that claims the red he previously caked you in, then bridges over your nose to collect the river that flowed from it when you fell.

The god-awful agony of that location being nudged has a scream belt out of you. Flailing legs thump uselessly against his thighs, your foot nudging his dick at some point. Fuck if he cares. All force you have goes into slapping and scratching at his head, another fruitless effort seeing as he doesn't even flinch. It gets him to stop assaulting your face, to bite your right hand instead.

It wasn't too hard. You know he has the force to tear it right off, to sever all those ligaments and tissue. All he does is give you a taste, aggravate your suffering, cackling at your shriek.

It feels like your extremity's been crushed, fingers struggling to move when a frightening numbness sets in.

Your intact hand has no direction and no goal, furiously swiping at his neck in hopes that it would get him to back away. You mostly succeed in chipping nails.

The demon groans however, apparently incensed by the effort.

" FIESTY LITTLE FUCKTOY CAN'T WAIT FOR MY COCK, CAN YOU? "

...

He's interpreting your fight in the worst way possible.

" I'LL MAKE SURE IT'S ALL YOU GET WHEN WE'RE HOME. "

Home? Home?!

As soon as your bitten hand regains some feeling, the avalanche of trepidation within you just at the implication of being taken to Hell -to this beast's dwelling- makes you swing as swiftly as you can towards his jaw. A punch that pops the fluid between your aching joints yet hardly molds his rictus.

You try everything. Bruising your arms, letting the pain flare through them. There's little hope in your motions by the time you curl both fists around the horns sticking out his head, yanking aimlessly.

" TEAR THEM OFF! " He demands, the want in his insufferable voice utterly transparent.

You can't.

You pull and twist and try to snap them off his skull, but the protrusions stay lodged there as a crown of morbid victory.

" BAH- THE SURFACE HAS MADE YOU WEAK. ANOTHER THING I'LL HAVE TO FIX. "

The demonlord's disappointment is palpable, though enthusiasm quickly replaces it, you can't disappoint him enough to avoid being assaulted, it seems.

His focus shifts to your nethers. You're anything but wet, though he pays no mind to it, suddenly pushing your hips apart so he can frame your pussy.

" TINY FUCKING THING. " He chuckles, observing your fear-clenched hole.

Clawed thumbs trace the rift of your entrance casually, on occasion nudging the bud above in lazy rolls. It's not as if you wish to get aroused, the amount of pressure he uses behind every motion is just inescapably stimulating. The first jolt of your hips, entirely reflexive, is rewarded with a wanton hum.

He slips a thumb inside with some resistance, then the other. You can only wince at the stretch, alarmingly aware of how those claws might slice through your vaginal walls if you shake too much. The fear causes you to tighten further, a painful feedback of sensation that appears to excite him.

A visceral hiss escapes through the gaps between your teeth when he pulls, spreading you out forcibly and mercilessly.

With no inch of lubrication to be found, a burning Hell settles and you start crying quietly again.

" I NEVER GOT A GOOD LOOK AT YOUR CUNT BEFORE... WONDER IF IT'LL FEEL BETTER! "

And that's all you get.

Hot-flashes have you sweating when his thumbs finally leave you alone. A thick tongue swings around, preparing a ball of spit that unceremoniously lashes against your genitals. You realize then that his spit is the only semblance of help you'll have to handle that torture device of a cock.

He slaps it on top of your mound, and you don't look down.

You don't want to see how much he'll hollow you out, don't want to see where it reaches, don't want to think about the weight and heat of it on top of your skin.

Your body... Your poor body. What evil did you commit to warrant this?

" I WANT YOU TO SCREECH MY NAME, THE SAME WAY YOU DID IN MY VISIONS. " He giddily reveals, dragging himself lower to line up properly. A foul maw leans to snarl in your ear. " KALYMIR. "

The sound echoes in your mind, adding to the stab of terror when the tip of his much-too-large dick prods at your entrance. You can't breathe, for a second, wondering how he thinks this is actually going to work, morbidly questioning if this is really how you'll die.

As soon as trepidation releases your lungs and the first crack of pain from his pushing arises, you babble hysterically.

" Stop! Oh God stop- I'm gonna die! "

Kalymir does pause, likely because the sound of fear must be arousing to him in some way. He's already smirking before you even say another word.

" Listen- I'll do anything, please I'll do anything, anything you want- "

" HAH. " Bold teeth get a coating of saliva, one brutish hand holding onto your neck just hard enough to silence the rest of your whining. " I WANT YOUR HOLES AROUND ME. "

Perhaps it was a small mercy that he rammed into you.

Maybe, if he was less excited, he'd have taken his sweet time pushing inside, dragging out the pain until your throat is hoarse from screaming.

All you feel is a flash of indescribable agony, vision going black and body tensing like a coil about to break. There's no direction to go and nothing comforting to hold onto as Kalymir's member carves its place within you.

This must be how vivisected bugs feel.

Writhing is all you're allowed.

Distantly, you realize you're bleeding. You can sense the way your torn body tries to lessen the pain, tries to lubricate itself, tries to contract in pulses meant to shove him out, yet only cause him to groan happily.

Every single time Kalymir throbs inside you, he presses into everything and offers a contradicting mix of feedback. There's the scorching of your poor insides begging you to remove the unwanted intrusion, and the creeping pleasure of sensitive spots being crushed into submission.

The monster himself looks vaguely out of breath, drooling openly onto your stomach while he recovers from the suffocating hold your body has around him. Kalymir cants his hips to somehow slide more of himself inside you, but there's no space left, he merely ends up sliding you back.

" LOOSEN UP ALREADY- " The Icon huffs, a note of incredible cruelty following. " OR WILL I HAVE TO FUCK YOU OPEN? "

You know those barbs aren't in use when he pulls back, and thankfully, your insides don't shred into ribbons.

There's no describing the vacant sensation of his retraction. The split second where air chills your abused hole as it tries to pitifully shrink anew, only to be rammed wide again in yet another nauseating piston.

He's too hot to handle, too rough, the mere contact of his war-hardened hide against your skin causes scratches and rashes from unrequited friction.

You wish you were wet. Maybe you are, but it's hardly enough. Only blood can periodically ease the torment of his jarring, mercilessly mechanic thursting. The truck hood bounces while he damn near crushes you to the vehicle, frantic claws finding purchase on squealing metal, perhaps mocking your own cries of pain.

The stimulus becomes too much.

No matter how hard you might want to alienate your mind from the situation, he won't let you. Kalymir's barking comments, the way he'll clumsily paw and grip at your softer sections, the press of teeth around a bare neck- It all stabs alertness into you, forces a figh or flight heave of primal panic whenever you so much as manage to vaguely dissociate.

Perhaps you instinctively can't abstract from this torment at all.

Kalymir yanks at your soul, chewing and tearing into it, all-demanding and all-consuming.

There's no escape from what's being done to you.

A confused body, unable to escape, fights for a different kind of preservation by drowning you in waves of arousal. It's unavoidable, you think through the slightly muted burning, it's predictable. You don't care to stifle the way your cries have shifted, don't try to mask twitching legs and curling toes.

You don't want this, you never wanted this, whatever is forced upon you isn't evidence that your mind has changed.

You just want it to end, really.

Ignoring your own creeping orgasm is impossible, though you try to focus on breathing evenly, shoving away his snarls of pleasure by listening to the squeak of the vehicle beneath you.

You're not too sure what you screamed when he hilted inside you in a telltale erratic grind, when you were claimed in a way so vile it chilled your bones. When it seeped out of your ruined orifice, onto the car, a pinkish hue that reminds you of sickly discharge.

The rest of it coated you, the monster grinning and huffing with pride at his work.

At this point, most of the pain you feel has become unreachable, replaced by an ambiguous throb of physical exhaustion and trauma. You cannot move, as if your limbs were made of cement and your back had rooted itself to the metal contraption beneath.

Yet your eyes still find Kalymir's face.

Inside them, burns an animal rage that creases your complexion into something borderline inhuman.

This demon will die by your hands.

Kalymir must have felt the silent, sweltering fury showering you from head to toe, releasing a delighted swoon as he picks you up like a soaked rag.

You wonder what Hell is like.

[pamwritessometimes]

The Great Invasion: Chapter 1

Dean Winchester x female!reader

Summary: In a world turned upside down, where monsters hunt and hunters are the prey, Y/N must choose: follow the new rules to stay alive or join a rogue band of hunters determined to reclaim power and change the game for good.

General warnings: dark themes, gore, kind of apocalyptic vibes, language

Chapter warnings: mentions of murders of hunters, horrible description of a fight, kidnapping, demons being demons, captivity.

Theme song of the chapter: Champion by Barns Courtney

Series masterlist

Chapter 1: The Hunter Games

The stadium was packed like it was Super Bowl night and Taylor Swift was about to perform at the halftime show. The air was littered with different kinds of noises, laughing, heckling, betting, heated debates over who’d win this match. Names were chanted aggressively all around the field, bets were shouted across the aisles. From a distance it looked like any massive sports event, even sounded like one.

Just one friendly match…

But upon taking a closer glance one could see it wasn’t a regular game, not by any means.

Those seats weren’t filled with your standard-issue fans.

No, these spectators were monsters in every sense of the word. Ghosts floated uneasily above the cheap and creaky seats like they were haunted by the idea of proper lumbar support. Ghouls gnawed on concessions — and occasionally on each other — while witches cackled from different corners like it was open mic night at a coven comedy club. Werewolves let loose howls at random, probably to remind everyone they were there, and demons? Well, demons were the VIPs, lounging like they owned the joint…. Because let’s be honest, they actually did.

All of them packed the stadium to watch the same spectacle: humans fighting for their lives.

It was a standard form of entertainment now, events like this. Humans, hunters, more specifically, trying to fight for their lives.

And monsters ate up the whole event, not being ashamed of their monsterness. In a chaos like this, anyone could mingle, blend in.

This was the first thing she noticed and was fathomlessly grateful for. Since The Great Invasion, she rarely left the walls of the only safe place she could find, and with good reason. Even now she wore a dark green cloak pulled tight and sunglasses perched firmly on her nose. The kind of low profile look that ironically screamed, I don’t want to be noticed!

But so far, it worked. No one seemed to recognize her, and she intended to keep it that way.

Once seated, she tuned into a nearby conversation.

“Eighty-eight wins! Can you believe it?” a demon behind her said, his voice dripping with excitement.

“Don’t care” grunted another. “She doesn’t look like much. Probably just lucky.”

“She’s more than lucky, idiot. She was one of them. A real hunter. Ya know, back before we took over?”

“Yeah? So what? All of them down there are. She ain’t special. I’m betting she’s done for tonight.”

Rowena smirked faintly to herself. This was the right place, then.

Y/N was here.

Down on the field, the coordinator strutted out, a smarmy grin plastered across his face and a ridiculous suit clinging to his body. He raised his hands, and the crowd hushed in an instant, sensing the greatest shitshow of entertainment was about to begin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, fiends and freaks…” he began, pausing just long enough to milk the moment, “Welcome to the Second Hunter Games!”

It made Rowena cringe a bit; it felt like a tacky attempt to imitate human pop culture, but the crowd seemed to eat it up.

“As you all know” the announcer continued, “this is where the tables turned. We’re the hunters now, and they” he pointed smugly toward the cages at the edge of the arena where ten poor ragged humans huddled, “are the prey. Let’s see if they’ve got what it takes to entertain us, shall we?”

The crowd erupted again and the announcer basked in the spotlight.

The games began with the first hunter shoved onto the field like a lamb to slaughter on its birthday. He was tall, mid-twenties at most, but he had the look of someone who’d already given up. And let’s be real, he probably truly had. His opponent was a standard werewolf, if werewolves could be called normal. The creature took him down in less than five minutes. The crowd cheered but only half-heartedly during the first round. 

They weren’t here for warm-ups.

One by one, the hunters went out. Some tried to fight, others tried to talk. One even tried a heartfelt speech about unity and coexistence — he didn’t make it past “coex—” before a wendigo clamped down on his skull. The audience howled with laughter, blood spattering the arena floor like confetti.

Panem et circenses.

Finally, the energy shifted after the ninth round.

Here comes the main event.

The announcer strutted back to the center of the field, his grin somehow stretching even wider and smug enough to suggest he was about to introduce King Charles to a stadium full of overly enthusiastic Brits.

“And now” he drawled, stretching every syllable like he was getting paid by the second, “the match you’ve all been waiting for! Our reigning champion. The hunter who’s racked up more monster kills than you’ve had hot meals. Eighty-eight wins across countless blood-soaked battles. A walking nightmare for anything with fangs or claws. The only reason she’s not still out there handing you all your asses on a silver platter is… well, someone got to her first.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“Give it up for the one, the only… Y/N Y/L/N!”

Rowena’s eyes were glued to the field, her anticipation was running high and it seemed like for a moment even Earth stopped turning. She heard a ton about you, some seemingly far-fetched anecdotes about the only hunter who could make it this far in this world. Just thinking about it, a strange feeling tugged at his heart.

Then you stepped out into the arena.

And for a second, Rowena hesitated, even looked crestfallen almost.

Her? This plain-looking thing? 

Was this the great champion she’d been sent to find, or were Jack and the trench coat baby just shitting her? Was she the one she was strangely excited to see?

Your appearance didn’t scream legendary hunter nor acclaimed champion, just… a plain ole regular hunter. Your hair was thrown into a sloppy ponytail and you wore a basic black tank top under a khaki jacket that looked more functional than fashionable. The only things that were new were your boots, but that seemed more like a perk of your status than an actual necessity.

However, for some reason, you didn’t have that desperate, hunted look that clung to the others’ faces. 

Then your opponent stepped into view and the crowd fell silent. 

He was tall, broad and built like a marble statue from afar, his every movement a study in control and power — like seeing a perfectly executed villain performance in a Broadway musical. His jawline could have cut glass and his eyes were cold enough to freeze it. He was dressed in all black, looking more like an assassin sent from the upper echelons of Hell than a combatant. Even his walk wasn’t just a walk. It was a declaration: he wasn’t here to fight. He was here to win.

Rowena watched as you faced him. No dramatic pose, no fear, just you, standing there, calm and almost… bored. Meanwhile, the guy smirked, already acting like he’d won.

The whole thing felt strange.

The crowd was a mess of cheers and jeers, half rooting for you, half betting you’d finally crash and burn. But Rowena noticed the phlegm in your eyes and your suppressed confidence that didn’t match the plain outfit you were rocking on the outside.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that you had something up your sleeves.

Then, the bell rang. 

The man lunged first but you sidestepped his hand and his attack sliced through empty air. It was all for a show, really. Any match like this was. You knew it, your opponent knew it, the whole arena knew it.

This is not how you fight a demon.

But that’s what the crowd wanted and that’s what they are getting. A circus.

The audience gasped as you landed a swift, clean jab to his ribs. It wasn’t a heavy hit but it was precise enough to make him (or rather his vessel) flinch.

Your opponent circled you, his smirk widening, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes now. He was used to fights that ended fast and messy, but you weren’t giving him that satisfaction.

He lunged again and this time you were ready. A subtle flick of your wrist sent a splash of liquid from a hidden vial straight onto his hand. The faint sizzle that followed was drowned out by the crowd’s cheers but Rowena saw it and so did he. His smirk faltered, just for a moment.

Holy water.

Rowena’s lips twitched into a smirk.

There she is. 

She had no idea how you managed to keep holy water on you (smuggled it, stashed it, conjured it, got it, who knew?) and she couldn’t understand why the other hunters hadn’t done the same. Could they not? But one thing was crystal clear: you weren’t here to lose.

The fight went on but calling it a fight feels generous. To be fair, you were running the show. You moved like you’d choreographed the whole thing beforehand, because you dodged his strikes like you knew everything was going to happen.

And all the while, you were muttering something under your breath.

Rowena tilted her head, her ears catching the sound with some magical help. Latin.

Her grin spread wide.

An exorcism. Clever little thing.

You weren’t just fighting him but you were dismantling him piece by piece.

Your opponent’s movements grew sloppier as his vessel started to reject him by your ancient words. Each syllable you muttered chipped away at his hold and every dodge, every counterstrike added to his frustration. The crowd thought he was just losing steam, but Rowena knew better. 

You were breaking him from the inside out.

Then came his final, and just as desperate charge. He lunged at you without actually realizing how clumsy his punch was. You dodged easily, stepping out of the way like it was nothing. This time, your voice got louder, the words now audible even to the crowd:

“…ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos.”

That was it. His body jerked violently, a guttural scream tearing from his throat as thick black smoke poured out of his mouth. The vessel dropped to the ground, staying limp and seemingly lifeless. You just hoped the human was alright.

You stood there, brushing off your hands like you’d just finished a chore not a fight to the death. Rowena leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs with a look that screamed satisfaction while her red lips curled into a sly grin.

Maybe she isn't as fragile as I thought so.

You hadn’t just won, you’d also put on one hell of a show.

And in this world, where blood and spectacle ruled that was what mattered most.

Sunlight poured through the long red curtains, spilling a golden glow across the pearly white walls of your room. It was the kind of quiet beauty you’d never taken the time to notice and bask in before.

Your dad’s voice echoed in your head: It’s the little things that count. Back then, you’d dismissed it as sentimental fluff people spouted when life was falling apart. But now, sitting in this room that was yours, but not quite yours, you got it.

Because everything had fallen apart. Or maybe it was better to say it had been shattered. And now, the only thing you had left were the little things. The way the light slanted just so or how you could still catch the tail-end of a sunset through your window, even in this messed-up new world.

It wasn’t always like this. You still remembered a time before The Great Invasion, even though it felt like a lifetime ago. It hadn’t been that long, though. Maybe two years? Who knew anymore? The calendar didn’t matter when monsters were in charge and time itself felt like a joke.

The knock at the door broke the stillness and your thoughts’ overflow. You glanced at the clock. 

Six p.m. already. 

The door creaked open, and in walked Rommer, your suite’s assigned waiter, carrying a tray. His hands were a bit shaky and his posture was stiff but he still managed to hold onto that old-fashioned professional air. Well, mostly, since the tension in his eyes betrayed him: He was scared. Not that you blamed him. You were scared, too.

Rommer had been working here at the Mandarin Oriental long before the monsters took over, so he knew how to fake calm when it mattered. But the truth was in his eyes: he was human, just like you. And every time you looked at him, you were reminded of the kind of life you could’ve had. What other kind of slave you could have ended up as.

He was a little grounding point in your life. The only presence you felt somewhat safe around. The only one that somewhat understood you here.

The little things.

Once or twice, you even tried to make him stay just a bit longer, just to talk and exchange more than five words. You were desperate for human contact, even for just getting to know his first name, but he didn’t seem to be a partner in your little attempt — his rigid posture and tight lips a clear indication of that.

But again, you couldn’t blame him.

Anyone would be tense and terrified if a demon billionaire essentially held them hostage.

It was strange, this life of luxury you were given. A room in a five-star hotel with all the trimmings and a staff that treated you like some lower level royalty. By all accounts, it should have been a dream. But dreams didn’t come with the kind of shadows that stuck to every step you took.

“Evening, Miss Y/L/N” he said, setting the tray down in front of you. Not silver, of course.

“Evening” you replied and offered him a slight smile despite the oddity of the entire situation. 

“The usual” he nodded at the plate of perfectly cooked steak and vegetables.

You thanked him and stared at him like he was the eighth wonder of the world… assuming the other seven were still standing.

He hesitated, as if about to say something, but he decided not to. His eyes flicked toward the door where the demon guard stood, watching rather indiscreetly. With a quick bow, Rommer left without saying another unnecessary word.

You stared at the tray, the smell of the food wafting up to you. It was good. It was always good. But somehow it never quite tasted right. It wasn’t the flavor, nor the texture, nor the temperature. Maybe it was because no matter how fancy the room, no matter how golden the sunlight, you couldn’t forget the truth.

This wasn’t freedom. This was a gilded cage.

Still, it was the only way to stay alive… And better than a life spent running forever.

Dean was in his element. A wide, open garage with all the tools he could ever need. It was way better than the bunker’s setup. His hands were covered in grease as he leaned over the Impala, carefully tweaking something under the hood. Honestly, he didn’t care who to thank, Jack, Cas, or the afterlife fairy, just as long as Baby was here with him.

Fixing her up wasn’t exactly thrilling, but it was steady work. Something simple. Something he loved. Something that brought him peace.

Metallica blared from somewhere, though he had no idea where. Heaven magic, probably, since he’d never seen a stereo in this place. Not that he was complaining.

Maybe it was the afterlife thing, but there was no rush here. No monsters to kill, no apocalyptic prophecies to stop. Just the hum of the engine and the whiskey-smooth riffs of Whiskey in the Jar keeping him company.

It was nice.

He could feel the presence of someone appearing in the background, but he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Sammy, hope you found a few glasses of cold ‘cause I’m running out here” he said, still focused under the hood of his car.

"Hi, Dean."

It wasn’t the voice he expected. Dean straightened up, glancing toward the garage door. There, standing in the sunlight with hands shoved in his pockets, was Jack.

Dean blinked, staring for a moment. It’s been a while since he saw the kid. Jack was still… very much Jack. He looked just as young as before somehow, still nothing like a god… more like a kid just stopping by to say hello. 

And as much as he wanted to hope this was just a casual visit, a “hey, how’s it going, maybe drink a beer or two” Dean couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t that simple. After all, Jack was the most powerful creature in the universe now — was it weird to want to grab a beer with him?

“Jack” Dean wiped his hands off again, eyeing Jack with a half-smile. “What’s up? You’re not here for a good time, are you? Because I gotta tell ya, I’m on a roll with this carburetor.”

Jack’s eyes flashed with something uncharacteristically serious and Dean’s gut twisted at the sight. Shit. If Jack was showing up here on a peaceful, lazy forever-afternoon, it had to be for a reason.

Dean straightened. “Let me guess… If the big guy himself is here, it’s gotta be an emergency, right?”

“It’s kind of an emergency.” Jack nodded.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

Jack took a step forward, and just when Dean thought he’d get a straight answer, the kid held out his hand. A flash of glowing light flickered, and bam, Sam was suddenly standing there in front of them, a pack of beer in his hand, blinking like he’d just been yanked out of whatever peaceful afterlife he’d been enjoying in Heaven.

Well, he was heading this way anyway.

“Huh?” Dean blinked, half-amused and half-confused.

Sam rubbed his eyes, still processing what had just happened. “What’s going on, Dean?” Then his eyes ended on the kid. “Jack? Hey, how—“

Jack didn’t waste time answering, cutting him off. “We need you both. Something’s going on back on Earth. We gotta go to the bunker. Cas is already there.”

It was well past your usual lights-out when you heard a chopped Latin chant. You bolted upright in bed, the satin of your pajama top slipping off one shoulder as you fumbled for the first object within arm’s reach: your bedside lamp.

Damn Barbas. Of course, that bastard wouldn’t let you keep a single weapon for protection. Why would he? Keeping you helpless was part of his twisted game, though you weren’t precisely sure what that game was. Vessel or not, you loathed every inch of him, including that smug, sadistic face of his.

Your eyes scanned the dimly lit room, and it didn’t take long to spot a flashing light flickering in and out in the middle of your suite’s plush carpet.

“What the hell?” you muttered, freezing in place.

Someone had just teleported into your five-star hotel room.

Teleported. Not walked, not snuck in, teleported. No human could pull that off. And with all the layers of magic and muscle guarding this place, no low-tier spell-slinger should’ve been able to either.

As the last remnants of the shimmering magic faded, a figure emerged, a woman from what you could see, her back to you. She wore a dark cloak, though strands of red hair slipped out messily from beneath the hood.

“Oh, dear, you couldn’t have been more precise” her Scottish tone rang out.

Your grip tightened on the lamp as she turned. Rowena MacLeod. The ex-Queen of Hell herself. Your pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding your veins as your mind raced with all the reasons to hate her. Maybe she hadn’t masterminded The Great Invasion, but she’d failed to stop it. Hell’s gates had burst open on her watch, and the world had paid the price.

“Don’t look at me like that, dear” Rowena said, brushing a stray lock of red hair from her face. “We don’t have much time. I see you recognise me, that’s great. Saves me a lot of trouble.”

“How the hell did you get in here?” You narrowed your eyes, heart pounding in your chest.

Rowena sighed dramatically, folding her arms across her chest. “No time for that little debate club. I’m here to save your hide.”

“Save me? Excuse my ass if it doesn't believe the former Queen of Hell.”

Her lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Yes, my résumé does tend to precede me. But I assure you, I’m quite serious. Your little fortress of luxury here?” She gestured around the room with a dismissive wave. “It’s about to be less... secure.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked as your grip on the lamp was firm as ever. “And why would you wanna save me?”

"Well, let’s just say the ex-Queen of Hell has her ways. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since the Games. You… are quite the showstopper, dear.”

“That still doesn't answer my question.”

She tilted her head. "Well, this place is guarded, almost as much as the hideout I’m about to take you to. And to your misfortune, I couldn’t get past the gates without notice."

The implication hung in the air. “You…”

“I know, I know, I'm a piece of garbage, yes, you can let it all out later. But right now, I advise you to get out of that California king and let me get you out of here before your not-so-lovely captors arrive” she said, her voice dropping an octave and with that all traces of sarcasm was gone. “Unless you’d rather face them on your own. I’d love to see their expressions when they figure you let me in. After all, you’re not exactly on the friendliest terms with them, are you? And I have a feeling they will jump to conclusions about me being here.”

Your eyes widened in shock. She hadn’t just put you in an impossible situation, she’d made it worse than you could have ever imagined. If Barbas’ guards noticed her slipping through the magically guarded gates, and you were damn sure they had, they were already on their way. And if they found the two of you together in ‘your’ room? You might as well write your own obituary. Forget reasoning with them. You were already on dangerously thin ice with Barbas and his crew. Seeing you in this situation would be all the justification they needed.

No second chances. No questions asked. Just the sharp click of triggers being pulled.

No championship would make them listen to you. You weren’t important to them, not really. All they cared about was your skills and the reputation they could leverage from it. You were just a tool in their game, nothing more

The words barely left her mouth when a loud thud echoed in outside from the hallway. Your heart jumped into your throat as Rowena turned her head toward the noise.

“Well, that would be them” she said. “No time for debate, am I right?”

Before you could process what was happening, Rowena’s hands were moving, her fingers weaving through the air in fluid motions. You barely had time to protest when the air around you shimmered and the world around you vanished with a gut-wrenching lurch.

“Y/N! You little piece of shit!” Barbas’ voice thundered through the room, shaking the very walls as he and his entourage of guards stormed in and ripping the door off its hinges like it was a cheap piece of cardboard from a bargain bin as they did.

His eyes scanned the room with the intensity of a bloodhound on a hunt. The bed was empty and there was still a faint shimmer in the air jaut above the plush carpet in the center. Barbas’ jaw clenched so tightly one could hear the bones grinding together.

One of the guards (probably the one that drew the shorter straw) stammered, “There’s no s-sign of her, sir. She’s... g-gone. W-with Rowena M-MacLeod.”

Barbas’ fist collided with the nightstand with enough force to rattle the room. The wood groaned under the impact. “Find them. Now,” he barked, his eyes seething with rage as they flicked over his guards.

That anyone he implied was a very specific someone that can’t know Barbas messed this up.

When the swirling magic cleared, you were standing in a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of dust, gunpowder and old books.

“What the—?” you stumbled forward, clutching your stomach as the nausea of teleportation hit you like a truck.

Shit, I shouldn’t have eaten all that steak.

“Welcome to your new home” Rowena said with a flourish, already brushing herself off as if nothing had happened.

“You can’t just—” you groaned, doubling over slightly. “I can’t believe you just did this!”

“Oh, no need for dramatics” she said. “You’ll feel better in a moment. And you should be thanking me.”

“Thanking you?” you snapped and you stood upright despite the dizziness. “You just fucking kidnapped me!”

“Oh, please” She scoffed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “If I hadn’t, you’d be in a demon’s stew pot by now.”

“Which you caused!”

You were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing from deeper within this strange yet seemingly enormous building. Your heart skipped a beat and you turned toward the noise, tense and ready for anything.

Mostly for throwing a few punches.

A tall man in a beige, worn trench coat appeared from one of the doorways.

He paused and took a long look at the both of you, his expression was almost completely stoic but you could see a hint of some stress and worry buried deep within.

“You made it back” he said to Rowenaz then his attention shifted to you. “I see you found her. Hello, Y/N. My name’s Castiel. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Next on The Great Invasion (Sneak Peek from Chapter 2)

Guns N’ Roses blasted through your headphones, drowning out every thought except the music. You made it your mission to listen to every cassette tape you found in the boxes. By the time you hit cassette number three’s flip side, the music was doing its job at making you feel a bit calmer a little too well. Your eyelids got heavier with every riff and before you knew it, you’d dozed off against the headboard. 

The music was loud enough to block out the creak of the door opening but not the voice that followed.

“Why’s there a chick in my room?” a gruff voice demanded. A pause. Then louder, like the words were physically offensive: “Listening to my damn tapes? Wearing my damn clothes?”

Maybe that last part didn’t bother him as much as the rest, though he wasn’t about to admit it. He was too busy scowling and reminding himself that this room, his room, was supposed to be his sanctuary. Instead, here you were, in his flannel, looking entirely too cozy and he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but also borderline irresistible for someone squatting in his space.

Or was this Jack’s way of saying, Sorry I yanked you out of Heaven, but hey, thanks for agreeing to help me clean up yet another apocalyptic mess!?

Because if so—

Congratulations, hunter, you made it this far! Welcome to the bunker.🤭

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of the Great Invasion! AndI also hope you buckled your seat belts because we are going to have a wild ride, I tell you.

Can’t wait to read your thoughts on this!!

xx Pam

Read Chapter 2 here

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@thebiggerbear @spnaquakindgdom @globetrotter28 @kaz-2y5-spn @artyandink @hobby27 @lamentationsofalonelypotato @muhahaha303 @yeehawgiddyup13 @applelovesposts

🤍 Jensen taglist🤍

@roseblue373

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

My tears ricochet

Previous chapter

summary: There are thunder clouds in the horizon that threaten Eris’s chance of being a high lord. Rhys strikes a deal. The only thing left to find out now is who gets out of this deal alive?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You have been watching the flames dance in the fireplace ever since. Blazing right in front of you. It felt as if it was a theater, and this was just a performance. One that had struck you to your core. Or maybe one that you had seen so many times that you had grown numb to it. The shouts? You no longer heard them. Turning them all out into the background noise. Making sure that all of it would blend into one unidentifiable mush.

“I will cut your eyes out," Mor howled as she trashed in Azriel’s unmoving hands. His arms too meet the anger seeping through her. Sharp nails dug right into his flesh as she hissed at her cousin, “Let go of me or else...", “Calm down, Mor." Azriel tried to reason for what felt like one hundred times that night. You could tell that he was frustrated. The spymaster simply hated showcasing his emotions. Reading him was impossible most of the time. Yet you saw the way he had glanced at Cassian even back in Autumn. A look alone clearly showed that the two were just as clueless.

“How can you just sit here?", Mor shoved at Azriel, her eyes now finding another victim. Cassian. Who had practically folded into the chair the moment everyone had returned. You had always been close. At times, you even thought that he was more your brother than Rhys himself. So his slightly shaken form didn’t surprise you all that much. “He will not agree," Rhys muttered, rubbing his hand over his face. Mor stopped for a moment before her hands found the roots of her perfectly wavy blond hair that had long lost the natural curl from all the pulling. “Have you hit your head or something?", she chuckled in disbelief. “I think it’s the or something part because, what the fuck, Rhys?", Cassian growled for the first time, his hands gripping the armrest of the chair.

“Do you trust me?", Rhys looked through the room, trying to capture everyone’s eyes, even for a second. He was hoping to pour out his hopes. Ideas. Something into his family. "No," everyone hissed in unison, making the high lord shake his head. “I couldn’t say anything because it would have ruined it", Rhys tried to justify his actions once more, only to be cut off by Mor, who once again had launched forward. “At the cost of YN?" she growled right as Azriel caught her mid-jump.

You let out a sigh. And for the first time that evening, everyone turned to you. The person all of this affected directly. “Why aren’t you saying anything?", Mor muttered angrily, “Say something?”. You knew that her intentions were good. Mother strike. You had sat with her and bandaged her wounds when she was brought back from the border. You had turned into her shadow. She had quickly become more than a cousin. She was a sister. In a way, filling up the role of your older sister. One that cruelly got taken from you.

“Can I go?", you muttered. Staring right ahead. Too tired to look at every one. To watch their faces. Their emotions. “I’m tired," it was barely a whisper as you pushed your chair back. You felt their eyes on you. And only now did you understood that they had no idea what was set into motion. “My darling," Rhys muttered, but you only gripped the note that had sat in your palm for the entirety of this circus that had been happening. "I will meet you at breakfast," you muttered, “Have a calm night.”

Eris didn’t sleep at all that night. While he had spent the nights after his father’s death cooped up in his chambers, tonight he couldn’t stand the idea of being anywhere near that house. It held too much power over him. Too many memories of pain and suffering still lingered. He could swear that parts of Beron still lingered there, and while on other nights Eris could battle that, tonight wasn’t that night.

The two dogs stiffened by Eris’s legs. Low growls filling the silent forests. But the high lord didn’t open his eyes. Simply scratching the hound's ears - a clear sign that they didn’t have to worry about anything. Because he wasn’t worried about anything. “You look like shit," A little smile crept onto Eris’s face as your voice echoed. Followed by the rustling leaves beneath your feet. “Thank you; I can only say the same about you," he mustered teasingly. “Your eyes are closed, asshole," you huffed, stepping from beneath the branches to fully come face-to-face with him.

“Did you read through it?", with the question, Eris’s eyes snapped open, piercing right through you, even in the dark. You simply nodded your head. You had just gotten back and were angrily undoing your corset when a piece of paper fell out. Your initial thought was to ignore it. That was most likely just a grocery list you had forgotten on your venture earlier in the day. But the more you looked at the brown paper, the more you felt the urge to look at what was written on it.

“Thoughts?", Eris crossed his arms over his chest. Assessing your every move. Every reaction. This too, in a way, was a test. One of his own. "Diabolical," you smiled at him before shaking your head, “Want me to keep going?”. Eris only rolled his eyes, his hand coming up to rub at his chest. "Fine," he shrugged. But that fine stirred something deep within you. It wasn’t all that simple. And the answer wasn’t easy to give out. Especially to a man like Eris.

“You can be executed for shit like this," you tapped at your temple, letting the tiredness of today sink in finally. Or maybe it was the fresh autumn breeze that practically screamed for a cozy blanket and a nap. Not a midnight meetings. “Oh, would you look at that?", Eris muttered, clearing his throat with a cough that he tried to hide. “You care about me, little bird?" he asked, moving his eyebrows suggestively. “Get over yourself," you huffed, reaching out for the black pup that had been nudging your leg all this time. “I would be the first to claim your head.", you threw Eris your best angel smile, making the high lord laugh. “And hang it in your room so you could look at me," he whistled in delight. “More like shoot arrows at," you cut in quickly to correct him”, before adding, “We do it my way."

Eris shook his head immediately, “We won't." You shot him a daring look, but Eris didn’t seem phased by it. “Then no," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. "Y/n," Eris growled. "Eris," you mimicked his tone in return. “Compromise? Have you ever heard that word woman?", he huffed angrily, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Not when it comes to you," you chirped back.

“You are so fucking..." he had started to say as another cough slipped past his lips. “Lovely, I know," you finished happily, but Eris didn’t return your smile. He turned back as another cough made his shoulders seize. A strange feeling ran right through you. Watching him lean against the tree... "Eris," you called out, not sure what was happening. He raised a dismissive hand, but you weren’t about to leave him like this.

"Eris," you muttered, stepping past the two whimpering hounds that suddenly, truthfully, looked like two terrified puppies. “Hey, what’s going on?", your hand touched his shoulder. It felt as if he was on fire. And not in the autumn male way. It felt as if he was burning from within. "Eris," you hissed, pulling your hand away quickly. He turned his head slightly, his fingers coming up to dig at his throat. "Can't," he mouthed. Your heart instantly skipped a beat. An unknown panic filling your body.

“Let me," you breathed, your cold palms reaching out to rest on Eris’s chest, slowly letting your cold magic seep into his burning flesh. “Come on," you muttered, no longer sure if their words were directed at you or Eris. You stood like that for a couple of hearts only. Yet it felt like two heartbeats were too long. Because Eris never lost control. He was one of the males who knew how to carry himself.

“What was that?", you muttered once Eris’s heartbeat evened out. The high lord tilted his head towards the starry night, letting out a deep sigh, "nothing." You huffed at his unbothered tone. "Nothing, my ass! You were choking," you huffed, pulling back, nearly tripping over the dogs, eagerly waving their tails now. “It’s nothing," Eris claimed once more. You watched as he slowly moved his head in circles, followed by his shoulders and hands. As if stretching. As if he had now filled out his own body. I was uncertain as to where the limits lay. “Eris Vanserra", your warning tone made Eris finally look up at you. You could see him contemplating his words for a moment. His eyes drilled into you as he no doubt ran through the worst scenarios. “The magic hasn’t settled yet," he said so casually, yet it pretty much knocked all oxygen out of your system.

"What?" you muttered in disbelief. There’s no way because... “I'm not fully in control," Eris admitted as he flexed his fingers. “I know what that means." You frowned, “It’s just... they can kill you," you whispered, but Eris didn’t seem to worry about it that much considering that his laughter filled the space between you two.

“The joy you must feel," he chuckled, reaching out for his hounds. “Don’t joke about it," you frowned. Hate it or not. Death was not something you would wish for anyone. Even if that person was Eris, "Careful, I might start to think that you care." His blazing eyes found yours, taking you off guard for a moment. “Get over yourself, Vanserra," you rolled your eyes, gathering your skirts up as you turned back from him.

You had barely made it down the stairs the next morning when someone caught your hand, pulling you through the door of the closet study. “I have a plan," Mor muttered breathlessly. The dark circle under her eyes was a clear evidence of her sleepless night. "Mor...", you muttered. Rhys had called you into a meeting that same morning, but you had chosen to ignore his offer. You didn’t want to miss the sunset, and the river bank was way more to your liking than your brother’s office. “No, listen to me," she said, grasping both of your hands. “We will hide you. We’ll get one of the high lords involved”. She rambled on, but you quickly shook your head, “Did you talk to someone outside our family about this?" A slight panic ticked deep within you. She looked up at you in confusion but quickly shook her head in response, “Good, Mor, no one can know about this." Now it was you who had pulled her closer. “Do you understand?", “This is bullshit," she huffed, pulling away from you.

"Mor," you pleaded, but her distress was way too strong by now. “You can’t go. I won’t let you go”, she continued her rant, pacing the room. "Sweetie," you said, moving in front of your cousin, taking her hands in yours. “You’ve seen the scars. You’ve seen...", she muttered, her eyes slowly filling up with burning tears. You reached up to cup her cheek. Offering her a soft smile because no words were going to make this any better. “That man has no soul; Satin has nothing against him," Mor hissed through gritted teeth, right as you wiped the angry tear away from her cheek. “Maybe he hasn’t met Satin yet”, you muttered under your breath, resting your forehead against hers.

“What about the borders? There have been breaches”, the booming voice sent shooting pain through Eris’s scull. It had been the fourth meeting that day, and if his patience was thin in the morning, now the male could barely find any fragments of it. “I already sent out another handful of soldiers to monitor the outskirts," he said, trying to keep his cool. His people deserved better. Way better than what his father had given them. Autumn could be a court like the others. Not full of scum and drunken lords.

“When will the payments roll in?", another angry tone echoed through the hall, and Eris all of a sudden regretted offering the merchants to join the meeting. “I’m looking through the scrolls," Eris said through gritted teeth. Yes, he had stopped the money flow because, with his father’s death, a lot of the men who had drained this place to the last drop had planned on running away with their pockets full of coins. “People are starving," another claimed. “Beron would have sorted it out by now," someone added which had Eris frozen in an instant. Eyes scanning the crowd till they land on the male who had just slipped up. The high lord pushed his chair back, clapping his hands on the table. "You," he pointed an angry finger at the order farmer, “Who do you think you are?" The anger deep within Eris bubbled. Why was it so fucking hard to earn respect? Why did every move he made meet with so much resistance and always mention that monster?

"I...", the male muttered. "I... I… crapped your pants already?", Eris clipped. “I’m your high lord, and you yap at me like I’m nothing," his voice echoed now. Drowning out the crowd of people who had gone dead silent. His anger flared, fires burning so brightly that the vax started to drip, drip, dripping down onto the floor. “Forgive me, Your Majesty." The male had pulled his hat out, now clenching it right against his chest. “What do you need? Coins?", Eris reached into the side drawer, scooping down a handful of silvers before throwing them at the man. The metal clicking against the stone floor was now the only ringing sound. The old man had been left to stand all alone. Anyone who had been throwing demands alongside him now stood with their heads stooped low at far corners of the room.

“Go ahead, pick it up," Eris gestured to the floor. "Forgive...", the man had started, his face now as white as paper and his legs shaking as he barely found his footing. “Pick. It. Up," every word came out like a growl louder than the one before. The man fell to his knees. A crooked smirk stretched onto Eris’s lips as he reached for his sword, rounding the table. “Please… I have kids and a wife”, the man pleaded. Eyes as big as the moon. “Why not think of them before you speak?", Eris assessed the blade, running his finger along the rim. “I did... We're starving”, the farmer whispered, now almost lying on the floor as he threatened beneath Eris’s cold glance. “Pick up the coins," The high lord’s bitter tone sliced the light sobs.

“Your Highness," the male tried to plead his case once more, but Eris only let out a growl. "Pick…," but his voice died down. As if someone had cut his vocal cords. It felt like a whisper. A cold touch. Most of the candles went out in a cloud of smoke. Suppressing the scolding heat that Eirs had thrown at the hall. Then there were the cold fingers that snaked down his wrists, stilling his hand, ready to strike. Reaching for the blade.

“Let him go." It was barely audible. Eris doubted that anyone besides him heard it. But his whole body. Every fiver within perked up at the sound. “For me," it pleaded, “This is not your way." Bile rose in Eris’s throat. It wasn’t his way. This was his father’s way. His father’s methods. Pain. Suffering. Terror. The oldest Vanserra felt his face seize as fear of that monster rooting within him washed over him.

“Breathe through it," Eris turned back from the man, coming face-to-face with purple eyes staring right up at him. "Out of all of you," you ordered, pulling the blade out of Eris’s hand and pointing it at the gawking crowd. It seemed like no one had to be told twice as people rushed out, pushing one another in the process.

"You," you called out, making the farmer stop in his tracks. The man had barely made it off the floor. The sudden joy of being freed disappeared impatiently at your next words, “Pick up the coins." His bottom lip quivered. "Please," he seemed in his later years. The grays had started to show. Hands cracked, clearly from the long hours in the fields. “There’s no catch," you said softly. You handed the sword back to Eris before stepping to the side. “Pick them to buy food," you crouched, picking the silvers yourself. Reaching for the pouch at the side of your skirt to neatly place them inside, “If there’s none to buy, stop by the kitchen tonight." The farmer's eyes watched you move, too stunned to speak. “There will be food to spare here,” you smiled at him, reaching out to touch his shoulder, “Even better, stop by to eat with us. Bring your family with you."

“But miss...", the male stuttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, please. Let this be our way of settling peace. This court deserves it after all the years”, you muttered, watching the msn taking a deep breath and nodding his head at your words. “Thank you. Mother will never forget your kindness, my lady.” Bowing, the farmer reached for your hand, placing a kiss on it. You watched him hurry towards the door with his head bowed low. No doubt, still frightened.

“What the fuck are you doing?", Eris’s rough hands clasped over your shoulder as he turned you over to face him. You simply raised your eyebrow at him, “Saving your ass twice now." His nostrils flared as he tried to suppress the frustration bubbling inside. “You have no word in this house," he growled, moving to step closer. Towering over you. You could feel the heat pouring in waves from him. "Wrong”, you crooked your head back, tapping the tip of his nose, “If you want to play this game, then we are equal in this." His lips thinned into a tight lines. His jaw clenched so firmly that you had no clue how his bone hadn’t cracked. But you enjoyed him like this. Frustrated and bubbling inside. Smirking slightly, you crossed your arms over your chest, "So, Eris Vanserra, are you playing along?”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: @hnyclover @slytherintaco @fxckmiup

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Ry’s Blurbs

Prompt: can I get Jey, Jimmy and Sami teaching the judgement day how to dance?!

The Judgement Day x Jey, Jimmy, Sami - Rock Yo Hips please and thank you…

The room was electric. Neon lights cast a colorful glow across the WWE Performance Center, bouncing off mirrors lining the walls. What began as a simple bet after a heated match quickly spiraled into pure chaos.

"Aight, listen," Jimmy clapped his hands together, turning to the hesitant group before him—The Judgment Day: Finn, Damian, Rhea, and Dominik. "We gon' teach y'all some moves tonight."

"Why did we agree to this?" Finn muttered, already regretting every choice he'd ever made.

"Because y’all suck at dancing, that's why," Jimmy shot back, grinning wickedly. Sami stood beside him, arms crossed smugly.

"Can we just get this over with?" Rhea huffed, rolling her eyes, even as Damian snorted in amusement.

"First up," Jey announced dramatically, hitting play. Immediately, "Rock Yo Hips" by Crime Mob blasted through the speakers. Jey effortlessly stepped forward, demonstrating the dance with ridiculous flair. "You just gotta feel it! Like this—"

The Judgment Day stood frozen, utterly bewildered.

"This ain't rocket science," Sami teased. "Just rock ya hips, man."

Finn attempted a move, looking more like a malfunctioning robot than anything human. Jimmy doubled over laughing, holding his stomach.

"Finn! Bro, please stop—you’re hurting my eyes!" Jimmy howled.

Damian tried next, awkwardly jerking his hips, his usual swagger nowhere to be seen. Dom, desperate, started copying Sami’s moves with stiff limbs and a look of sheer panic.

"Dom, what are you even doing?" Rhea shouted, half-laughing.

"I don’t know! My body’s betraying me!" Dom cried, helplessly flailing his arms.

Jey shook his head, sighing dramatically. "Next track—maybe y’all got some rhythm hidden somewhere."

Suddenly, "Back That Azz Up" by Juvenile blasted through the speakers.

"Oh no…" Damian groaned, eyes wide.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Sami announced, spinning effortlessly into a flawless move, "follow my lead!"

Jimmy and Jey immediately joined him, expertly dropping into rhythm, making it look entirely too easy.

Judgment Day watched in horror.

Rhea, refusing to lose, stubbornly attempted the move. Dom followed, looking like he was being electrocuted. Finn gave up entirely, sitting on the floor, covering his face in shame.

"This ain't natural," Damian grumbled, arms flailing.

"Neither is your dancing," Jimmy shouted back, earning another glare.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Everyone froze mid-move.

Standing in the doorway was Roman Reigns, Paul Heyman beside him. Roman’s eyes swept over the ridiculous scene before him. Dom sprawled on the floor dramatically, Rhea awkwardly mid-dance, and Finn completely given up on life.

Roman turned slowly to Paul, voice eerily calm. "Wiseman...what exactly am I witnessing?"

Paul cleared his throat, carefully choosing his words. "It appears, my Tribal Chief, that The Judgment Day lost a bet with The Bloodline, and are... being taught dance lessons as punishment."

Roman stared blankly, processing the chaos silently for a long, tense moment. Then, with an exhausted sigh, he shook his head.

"Never again," Roman muttered darkly, turning on his heel. "I need a vacation."

As Roman and Paul disappeared, the room erupted into laughter. Sami grinned broadly, patting a still-traumatized Finn on the back.

"See? Dancing's easy!"

"Says you," Finn snapped, standing up with wounded pride.

Jimmy laughed loudly, clapping his hands. "Alright, one more time from the top!"

"Absolutely not!" Damian yelled, but Jey had already restarted the song, pulling Dom to his feet.

"Come on, Dom! One more try, dawg!"

"I hate it here," Dom groaned miserably.

But he danced anyway, laughter filling the room, bringing both teams closer in the most ridiculous way possible.

[sturnboos]

[🔥]Bonfire

warnings: mentions of drugs & alcohol.

inspired by: bonfire by childish gambino

requested by @riasturns

a/n: never listened to childish gambino before so this was quite a challenge, hope it’s good.

It starts with a spark literally.

You're halfway across the crowded backyard when someone lights a bonfire in a dented metal barrel. It whooshes into flame like someone summoned hellfire with a Red Bull and a Bic lighter. People cheer. Someone throws in a ripped poster of a SoundCloud rapper who had ghosted his own set at this party.

This isn't your first chaotic night in a downtown LA influencer party. You came here to chase beats and numb thoughts. The rooftop reeks of sweat, weed, and ambition. You're sipping something that might be juice, might be poison, when you hear the laugh. Sharp. Stupidly familiar. You turn.

Chris Sturniolo is leaning against a busted speaker, laughing at something his bestfriend Nate just said. He’s dressed casually in a white shirt, black jeans, a chain necklace and sneakers that probably cost more than your rent. His hair’s a mess and he looks like he belongs here, which is annoying because this isn’t his scene.

You stare too long, and of course he notices.

"Didn’t think you were the type for these crazy house parties,” he says, walking over. He smells like expensive cologne and smoke. “Thought you were more… laying in bed with a Spotify playlist drinking lavender tea.”

“Didn't think you were someone who'd ditch a pr event for this kind of noise,” you shoot back, raising your drink. “Do your brothers even know your here?”

His laugh punches the air again. “Touché.”

You sip the drink. Still not sure if it's juice or poison. "So, what- you slumming it tonight, Sturniolo?"

He shrugs. "Fame’s a prison. Needed parole."

“And this is your escape plan?”

He looks around chaos, graffiti, questionable drinks. “Kinda beautiful, isn't it?” You roll your eyes. His voice lowers. “Besides, I was hoping to see you here.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe. But it worked.”

You wind up near the bonfire anyway, trading insults like secrets. Chris’s smart. Sharper than he lets on. He says shit that makes you laugh harder than you mean to. The music shifts Childish Gambino’s “Bonfire” blares through blown out speakers. The crowd howls like they’ve been waiting all night.

You and Chris both know the lyrics by heart. “I love pussy, I love bitches- dude, I should be running PETA,” he mouths, eyes locked on yours.

You choke on your drink, laughing. “God, that line is so problematic.”

“And yet… iconic.” He shrugs. “Can’t help what slaps.”

You rap the next line back at him “My dick is like an accent mark, it’s all about the over Es.”

He stares for a second, impressed. “Okay, that was hot.”

You raise a brow. “You think?”

“I think girls who can rap along to chaotic men with trauma are hot.”

You scoff. “So… all of Tumblr, then?”

He grins. “Specifically… you.”

You’re sitting on an old couch that smells like cigarettes and missed dreams when Chris leans in and says, “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blink. “That’s a lot of pressure for someone I just verbally sparred with over Gambino.”

“I’m serious.”

You consider. The fire crackles. The song changes.

“…Sometimes I think I’m more of a persona than a person,” you admit. “Like, I’m always in ‘performance mode.’ I don’t know if I actually know who I am when no one’s watching.”

Chris doesn’t flinch. Just nods.

“Yeah. That’s the curse of being perceived,” he says quietly. “You get really good at becoming what people want. Even when it’s not you.” A pause “Sometimes I want to set it all on fire,” he adds, voice soft. “Just to see what’s left.”

You glance at the bonfire, at the flames licking higher. “Then why don’t you?”

He looks at you like you already know the answer.
“Because I’m scared there’s nothing under it.”

Your chest tightens. You didn’t expect real tonight. You expected flirtation and chaos. But here it is. Real. Sitting in front of you in a thrifted flannel and tired eyes. You don’t say anything. You just scoot closer.

Later that night you're dancing like the world’s ending. People are half lost in the beat, sweaty bodies and strobe lights and a freedom that tastes like rebellion. Chris spins you, then pulls you in by the waist. He’s grinning. "You know," he shouts over the music, "if this were a movie, this would be the part where I kiss you."

You smirk. "This isn't a movie."

"Doesn't mean I can't improvise." He leans in. And yeah, it’s chaos. It’s messy and too hot and someone bumps into you mid-kiss but you’re kissing the Chris Sturniolo on a rooftop, fire blazing, and music that curses the world in the background.

And it’s perfect. In a completely wrong, exactly right kind of way.

The next morning, your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:

[1 New Photo Attachment]

You open it.

Tags: @blushsturns @riasturns @iloveduckssm @chrissbxby @sturnobessed @kayskreativeideas @tits4matt @mattsfavho @sturniolobananas1 @courta13 @alexisa78 @chrisissos3xy @sturnobessed @mattschelseaa @norahsturns @dolliraez @jibitzlesscrocs @oopsiedaisydeer @gemzyy @mattschelseaa @hesvoid34 @phone4pills @spaghettislut1 @sturnslux3 @phone4pills @owenstar @luvsturns @nickssidewitch @ariieeesworld @babyt0matoes @sugarraez

[pankowcrumbs]

Tasked with Falling X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

The Taskmaster throne loomed above us as Greg Davies leaned forward, a wicked glint in his eye.

"Well, well, well," he said, smirking at me and Will. "If it isn’t the nation’s favourite flirtfest."

I nearly choked on my water.

Will spluttered beside me, cheeks flushing pink.

"I... what? No!" I protested, voice far too high to sound convincing.

Greg gave me a look. "Oh, come off it. I’ve seen less chemistry in GCSE science labs."

The audience howled with laughter.

Beside me, Will shook his head, grinning helplessly as he bumped his knee against mine.

"Maybe we’re just excellent at group tasks," he offered, innocently.

"Right," Greg said, deadpan. "Because when I think 'teamwork,' I think long lingering looks and unnecessary physical contact."

I buried my face in my hands, laughing.

It wasn’t like we meant to be this obvious.

It just… happened.

Earlier - the filming of the group task.

We stood side by side, squinting at a large contraption made of pipes, buckets, and a precarious stack of oranges.

"Your task," Alex Horne handed me the task.

I read "Your task is to transfer all the oranges from the blue bucket to the red bucket using only the items provided."

There was a dramatic pause.

"You may not touch the oranges with your hands."

Will glanced sideways at me, grinning.

"Teamwork makes the dream work?"

I smirked.

"Only if you do exactly as I say."

"Oh, it’s like that, is it?" he teased, nudging me lightly with his shoulder.

We spent the next frantic ten minutes fashioning the world’s worst orange catapult, Will holding a bent bit of guttering while I launched fruit across the lawn, missing the bucket spectacularly almost every time.

"You're meant to catch them!" I shouted, laughing as yet another orange thudded pathetically onto the grass.

"I’m trying, you maniac!" he shouted back, tears of laughter streaming down his face.

At one point, he dove dramatically to save a rogue orange, landing flat on his back with a loud oof. I immediately collapsed beside him, laughing until my stomach hurt.

"New plan," he panted. "We just... eat the oranges."

"Strong plan," I agreed, breathless.

It was a disaster. It was glorious.

In the studio- watching it back.

Greg shook his head as footage of Will sprawled dramatically on the lawn played behind him.

"If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have given you two a room."

More laughter.

Will turned to me, eyes crinkling with amusement. "You see what I had to deal with?"

I grinned, nudging his knee again under the desk.

"Poor you."

Greg’s eyebrows shot up.

"Right, we’re moving swiftly on before this turns into Love Island."

One of my solo tasks-

I stood in the middle of a dark room, blindfolded, a table of random objects somewhere in front of me.

"Identify these items using only your mouth," Alex’s voice echoed cheerfully.

I pulled a face.

"Brilliant. This is what my career’s come to."

I stumbled forward, tongue tentatively poking out.

At one point, I accidentally licked what turned out to be a Wellington boot, gagged loudly, and swore enough that they’d definitely have to bleep it for broadcast.

in the studio, Greg wiped tears from his eyes.

"I have never," he gasped, "seen someone more betrayed by a piece of footwear."

Will leaned in close, whispering, "You alright, love? Or are you still tasting rubber?"

I elbowed him in the ribs, laughing.

One of Will’s solo tasks-

Will, wearing a ridiculous inflatable sumo suit, had to herd a dozen ducks into a tiny pen using only interpretative dance.

It was majestic. It was tragic. It was art.

He flailed wildly across the garden, ducks scattering in every direction.

At one point, he performed an oddly graceful pirouette and promptly fell flat on his arse.

I laughed so hard in the studio I nearly fell off my chair.

Greg roared.

"If that doesn’t go in the Tate Modern, I’m staging a protest."

Will bowed dramatically, cheeks pink, and shot me a look.

"Reckon I could teach you some moves later?"

I raised an eyebrow, biting back a grin.

"Careful, Poulter. I’m very impressionable."

Greg pretended to retch.

"Good God, get a room."

Another group task-

This one was simple: build the tallest tower using only cooked spaghetti and marshmallows.

Simple, except that Will decided he should hold the base steady while I climbed precariously onto a chair to place the final marshmallow.

He held my waist firmly, steadying me, his touch warm even through my jumper.

"Got you," he murmured, voice low.

I glanced down at him and promptly dropped the marshmallow onto his face.

He blinked up at me, cross-eyed, marshmallow stuck to his forehead.

We both burst into helpless giggles.

Footage of me nearly falling into Will's arms replayed behind us.

Greg stared, utterly incredulous.

"That wasn’t a tower. That was foreplay."

The audience shrieked with laughter.

I buried my flaming face in my hands.

Will just shook his head, smiling.

"What can I say?" he said, shrugging. "We’re... supportive."

"You’re something, mate," Greg said, cackling. "Honestly, it’s like watching two Labradors trying to flirt."

I gasped, offended "Labradors are very dignified!"

Greg arched a sceptical eyebrow.

The next clip showed me tossing a marshmallow at Will’s head while he caught it effortlessly in his mouth, both of us laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.

I slumped onto the desk, defeated.

"Fair enough."

Live studio task-

"Right," Greg said, grinning evilly, "for the final task, you’ll be working in pairs."

The moment our names were called together, the audience whooped.

Will grinned, reaching out to tug playfully at my sleeve as we stood side by side.

The task - Paint a portrait of your partner using only your non-dominant hand... on their actual face.

"You have five minutes," Alex said, setting a timer.

Immediately, Will dipped a brush into bright blue paint and dabbed it gently onto my nose.

I squeaked.

"Rude."

He chuckled, smoothing more paint across my cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

I retaliated by streaking a wild line of green across his jaw.

It descended into chaos and colour very quickly.

By the time the buzzer sounded, we were both splattered in ridiculous patterns, giggling like children.

Greg stared at us when we turned to face him, dripping with paint, grinning at each other like idiots.

He sighed dramatically.

"Honestly. Just snog and put us all out of our misery."

The audience roared.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

Will was pink to the ears but smiling, glancing at me like he couldn’t quite believe any of it either.

Greg leaned back on his throne, shaking his head.

"This is supposed to be Taskmaster, not The Notebook."

As we waited for the final scores to be tallied, Will leaned in, voice low and warm in my ear.

"You know," he said, nudging me with his elbow, "we are a pretty good team."

I smiled up at him, heart hammering.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "We are."

He bumped his shoulder against mine, grinning.

"And for the record, I would’ve caught every single orange. If you’d aimed better."

I laughed, shoving him lightly.

"Oi! My aim was perfect!"

Greg glanced over at us, catching the tail end of our bickering.

"God’s sake," he muttered into his mic, to the audience’s delight. "Just date already."

Will caught my eye and grinned.

And for the first time all day, neither of us looked away.

[yangkitties]

bros before hoes ✰ chapter 08: 7th sense

wc: 0.7k

Sunghoon was used to loud sounds. Growing up on the rink, the rush of the howling wind as he danced was nothing. Performing at award shows and concerts in front of thousands and thousands of screaming fans? No problem.

But the thundering of his heart as he walked to the practice room was like nothing he had ever heard before. The consistent pumping of his heart drowned out his thoughts, forcing him to focus on each beat. 

His heart was so loud, he could barely hear his own thoughts. Not that he was thinking much anyway. 

He couldn’t wait to see Tsuki again, with her pretty pink hair and lovely eyes. The previous two times Sunghoon had seen her, he could barely thing. He could only focus on her and nothing else. She captivated him, with her soft voice and kind smile. 

Before he knew it, Sunghoon was standing in front of the practice room. He could feel himself smiling at the thought of seeing Tsuki again, his heart picking up speed. He took a deep breath, forcing his heart to slow down. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, the cool metal calming him down as he pushed the door open.

Before he could register anything, he registered the song on the speakers first. It was the last chorus of 7th sense, a song he’d heard over and over again during his trainee days. 

And then he saw you. 

You were in the zone, focused on your movements, Sunghoon knew you didn’t notice him come in. He watched you, observing the way you danced. 

The more we watched, the more mesmerised he became. The way you moved, so smooth and so sure of yourself, Sunghoon wondered if you were being controlled by another being. The way you hit every beat was incredibly satisfying, and the way you nailed the footwork was beyond amazing. 

He stood there in awe, jaw on the floor. As the music stops, Sunghoon begins to clap. 

‘Wow. That was… incredible…’ He whispers softly, slowly making his way closer to you. He walked in a trance, still reeling from watching you. 

You yelp in shock, stunned to see him here. ‘Sunghoon?? What the hell are you doing here???’ Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest, not just from the vigorous choreography. 

‘Oh! Uh Jungwon told me Tsuki would be here???’ He says, face contorting in confusion. Your face began to mirror his, wondering why on Earth Jungwon would say that. 

‘Ah damn, you can’t even go see her now… it’s almost 5, she’ll probably have Haewonnie or Jooyeon with her.’ You shrug, secretly happy that Sunghoon was with you, and not Tsuki. 

‘Eh.. it is what it is. At least I got to watch you dance because Y/n holy SHIT??? You’re one of the best dancers I’ve seen!’ He lightly punches your arm, his smile wide and genuine. 

You can feel yourself blushing, heat prickling your skin. ‘Please, you flatter me.’ 

‘No, no I’m serious!!! But why are you practicing 7th sense of all songs?’ Sunghoon looks at you quizzically, and you can’t help but be endeared by the way he jumps from topic to topic, his enthusiasm infectious. 

‘Oh! Well award shows are coming up and I want to be in my best form you know? And 7th sense has a complex choreography, so it keeps me on my feet.’ You shrug, smiling as you grab your water bottle. Sunghoon frowns lightly, ‘But you’re already so good??’

You turn away from him, overwhelmed by his compliments. ‘Well, as they say, there’s always room for improvement! Plus, practice makes perfect, you know?’ You shrug, taking a sip of your water. 

‘In that case, want to practice 7th sense with me?’ You choke on his words, almost spilling water all over yourself. 

‘HUH?? I mean- What…?? Don’t you have other schedules?’ You ask, tapping your head before you could choke some more. 

‘Nope! We’re quite free this week, other than our individual schedules…’ It takes you almost a full minute to process what he says, distracted by the way he shakes his head, soft hair flopping side to side, reminding you of a puppy’s ears. 

‘So…? Do you want to practice together?’ He tilts his head, and instantly you are reminded of Berry, Chan’s dog. 

You laugh lightly and agree, happy to have someone accompanying you. 

You begin practicing, and it is as if you are two halves of a whole machine, and the dance comes out incredibly. You match each other’s dance styles, his fluid motions and beautiful contrast to your sharp footwork. 

The time slips by faster than you both could have expected, and soon enough you’re parting ways, tired, yet content with the outcome of you practice. 

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synopsis > with the help of fukutomi tsuki, park y/n finally gains the courage to face their long time crush, the one and only, park sunghoon. park sunghoon thinks it's love at first sight when he sees her. paired up as the new mcs of music bank, shenanigans ensue when y/n learns about sunghoon's crush...

note: this post would've come out a LOT earlier if not for a mix up between my sister's and my laptop 😭 also menace jungwon my love 😁 also i love sunoo :P

©️ yangkitties 2024 do not copy, plagiarise, or repost

[pinguwrites]

Drabble: William fakes a PTSD nightmare

pairing | william killick x reader

Warnings: william being manipulative/possesive/controlling/kinda creepy, mention of PTSD trauma, implied to take place years after WWII, baby boy nickname, lowkey forgot how his house looks like

A/N: Ugh I've literally been so busy I can't believe I managed to get this out. I'm planning to get a long-length fic out but for now here's a drabble

The wind howled outside, sharp and loud, as the trees rustled against the wood of the house. The atmosphere was bitter and tense, the air cold and the silence thick.

William didn’t dare apologize, and as it seemed, you had no plans to as well. He was by no means content to sleep on the couch, missing the warmth your body provided, but he wasn’t sorry for what he did. He wasn’t sorry for his possessive nature. He was only controlling you because he was trying to keep you safe, couldn’t you see that? And the way you demanded more freedom earlier today — like that was something you needed. You were being completely unreasonable.

But still, you were stubborn. William knew that this wasn’t going to blow over until a few more days, and by then he’d be forced to make some compromises. If only the whole thing had never happened . . . He would be in your arms, held by you, cared for, and loved again.

If only he had a nightmare like he usually did on stormy days like this. You would forget everything, start cooing him, comforting him, and being a good wife.

And that was when it hit him — you would never know the difference. He could fake it! He could fake it and then everything would go back to normal. There was absolutely nothing stopping him, and it wasn’t wrong to do. The distant thunder did remind him of bombs, and the reminder did take him back to Greece. It was only now that he was better at controlling it, at not letting these minuscule things take him back to that hell.

William got up and walked towards the bedroom, leaning against the wall, watching you sleep. Your chest rose and fell slightly, your hair slowly falling across your forehead until it finally rested over your face. It was a beautiful sight. Sometimes, while you were asleep and he was awake, he would sit upright in bed and just watch you.

My darling girl. The love of my life. Why do you have to be so difficult?

William put on his best performance. He pouted his lips slightly, forcing tears to well up in his eyes. He tried his best to look like a wounded dog.

Before he even called your name, you woke up. Immediately noticing the dark figure standing by your door, you gasped, but when you recognized it as William, you got rather annoyed.

“What is it, William?” you asked groggily.

William shivered. “I—I dunno. I’m sorry — you always told me I could come to you . . . whenever it happened.” He let some tears fall. “I just got so scared. I thought — I thought I was back there, and . . . and.” He paused. “I’m sorry, I’ll go. I’ll go.”

“William,” you said softly, shaking your head with a look of pity on your face. “Darling, come here.”

William didn’t hesitate. He crawled into bed with you, wrapping the blanket which smelled like your perfume around his body. The tears dribbled down his chin, and he sniffled, snuggling his head in the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry — it’s just, you were there. In the dirt, with all the other bodies. I couldn’t protect you,” he babbled.

“Shh,” you whispered. “I’m right here, baby boy. I’m not going to die. Can you feel me? Here.” You placed his hand on your chest, right above your breast. Your heart thumped, and he could feel it.

William was almost surprised that you had been fooled so easily, but also heartened. Your care for him outweighed any suspicion. It was at that moment that he knew things would be alright. You were going to forgive him.

"I-I can feel it."

William snuck his hand a bit lower, on your breast, and cupped it a little bit. Maybe you were too sleepy or just didn't mind, but you didn't move his head away, and instead let it rest there.

"I'm sorry about the argument," he said softly, after a while. "I just . . . what would my life be if you are not in it? What kind of husband would I be if I didn't protect you as best I can?"

You were quiet. Then, "Okay, Will. I'll stop visiting my friends so often. And I won't go past the property line without telling you . . . I know you only want to keep me safe."

William let out a sigh of relief and affectionately nuzzled his nose against your shoulder. "Thank you, my love."

He was a bit afraid that you would change your mind, so the moment he got what he wanted, he pretended to doze off into sleep, his breathing becoming more rhythmic and patterned.

"Will?" You shook him slightly. "Have you . . . ? Oh, it's alright. Rest." You kissed him on his forehead, leaving a wet mark. "Sweet thing," you murmured, before you yourself drifted off into sleep.

Taglist: @mrkdvidal1989 @slut4thebroken @qqquartz7 @madeinuk @flwrs4aust @httpxgray

[literatemisfit]

Thoughts on my second viewing of Macbeth at the Harold Pinter Theatre, Thursday October 3, 2024

For posterity.

(SPOILERS ON EVERYTHING)

Okay I cannot describe to you how much I absolutely ADORE the folk dancing scene. So playful, so rugged:

It begins with the cast (sans Macbeth) spinning in two circles hand in hand and laughing, then Macbeth joins to stand in the centre (back) opposite Lady Macbeth (front), they join in the middle and put each others arms around their shoulders, hands held on shoulders, and then they hop and march, turn, hop and march, turn, then all chaos breaks out (my favourite part of the entire play maybe???) and Macbeth and the others all shout and howl and whoop as they spin fast fast arm in arm in circles, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth meeting in the centre to spin, then returning to their respective circles to spin fast fast, then returning again and again and then:

Bam. Everyone freezes as Macbeth and Lady Macbeth stare each other down in the centre, lights whitish blue on them as they share in their plot secretly, everyone else slow-motion clapping as they stand chest to chest and then:

Zzzzip. Everything speeds back up to normal time and they spin and howl and whoop as if nothing happened, showing that the freeze frame was a mental picture, the exact thoughts they are having as they are outwardly acting happy and normal.

David's WOO! with finger pointing up as he shouts red-faced and rough and aggressive is maybe one of my favourite things he's ever portrayed. I'm just so happy to watch them play within the play.

Tonight was different from opening night. The actors played more with the rhythm, speaking more slowly, pausing in different places and emphasizing different parts of the speeches. It was completely fascinating to watch, having just seen it done differently. And David's performance was so much more emotional than opening night, I think. The slanted eyebrows and big sad eyes were more prominent, his voice cracked more, his eyes were maybe even more teary, his speeches turned to whines and wails in his grief.

The boy was played by a different actor. Both of them are good, though I found the first one to be more energetic and wild like the cast. This time around, the entire cast seemed a little slower with pacing, less "On It", which maybe was because I had already seen it and knew what to expect, or maybe in line with them speaking slower, the rhythm of movement maybe also changed.

Because the rhythm of the words was slower and more experimental, it felt like the emotion was more palpable and the words felt more conversational and real, coming from humans rather than a slightly more formulaic rhythm of lines being said as they're written. Not that it was ever that stiff or strict, but there definitely seemed to be a loosening of the rhythm and there was freedom there to play with it and feel it out.

The second witches scene. Fuck. I completely forgot that they grab him by the hair and drag him down (how could I forget that???) before they make him convulse and whimper and moan and shake and tremble, then they drag him to the other side of the stage, feet dragging on the ground, before they surround him and one witch slowly slowly approaches his chest and YANKS outwards making him cry out and bringing him back to consciousness.

David also had shaking hands during at least one scene where Macbeth was frightened and tense, which I thought was a great acting choice: showing some weakness, some fear, some un-put-together-ness as he's trying to prove himself to be manly and brave and unbeatable.

I also think that maybe - just maybe - David made a mistake tonight. After he washes off the blood from his face and hands (opening scene) after returning from war, he puts all the rags back in the bowl before handing it all over to Ross who brings it off stage. Well, tonight David had one of the rags wrapped around one hand for the entire following scene and I didn't notice him wrapping it but I think he may have left it behind? It added nothing to the scene, just wrapped it around his hand as he bowed to the King, stood to attention with the others, and was ushered offstage to warn his wife of the incoming guests.

I felt the Banquo's Ghost breakdown scene was even more pathetic and emotional, his legs getting caught under him as he writhed and kicked to run away from the imagined spectre, ending the scene a bit crooked and not looking so comfortable.

The self-harm scene. I don't know how I forgot about it but gosh it's good. He's so desperate, so guilt-ridden, so willing to accept pain and punishment for the crime he committed. Same as the emotional, distraught lilts in his voice during this speech, so moving:

No son of mine succeeding. If ‘t be so,

For Banquo’s issue have I filed my mind;

For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d;

The word "murdered" was almost cracked, almost whispered, for how much shame and guilt he displayed tonight. It really hit me. Similarly when he talked of Duncan sleeping peacefully when he never would "Macbeth shall sleep no more" he whines desperately.

The Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow speech: I thought he might actually cry. Then at the end, bitter shame and anger on the words "signifying nothing" almost spat out in a growl with how much he resents the meaninglessness of his actions and of his own existence.

This time around, it was delightful to hear the audience gasp when Macbeth snaps the young boy's neck, "you were born of woman" /snap/. So badass.

The slap slap slaps on Macduff to taunt him in the last scene. Macbeth's final moment of fear "I'll not fight with thee" then Macduff calls him a coward and he squares his shoulders and goes on to fight, and win, and taunt, and die.

Still no blood on the stage during his death. I wonder if they plan to bring that back? Also still no lifting-david-by-the-witches which I assume they've just removed from the scene although I do wish I had seen it.

It was so fascinating to watch the same play, only two days apart, and to realize how they were both exactly the same and surprisingly different. Live theatre is alive, and it moves and changes and breathes life and lives on, to be repeated and yet reinvented night after night for audiences who (most likely) would never know it.

David was right, theatre is alive, it's there and then it's gone. Just as we cease to exist, so does a performance the moment it comes to an end, never again to be repeated exactly, only the same but somehow entirely different.

[fluffywings13]

Abuse of a Binding Vow (Yuuji uses Sukuna as a means to an end like Sukuna once used Yuuji as a means to an end)

(Sukuna does not appreciate being used as a means to an end very well.)

“I can’t–! I cahahahahan—Kuhuhunaaa!”

Their new Binding Vow didn’t pertain to any forceful usurping of Control between them, no magic word that tore Yuuji out of the metaphorical drivers seat without the ability to reclaim it, the details are quite simple but without any room for potential abuse of loopholes.

One; Sukuna had the right to yank him down into his Domain whenever he pleased, so long as Yuuji was in a safe location to be rendered Unconscious, whenever he was feeling particularly restless and/or a sense of irritation that needed to be cured without a more physical approach.

Two; Yuuji was only required to hand total control over their Vessel retaining the ability to coexist in that metaphorical drivers seat. (Sukuna taught him how to manage that feat–guy was a surprisingly decent Sensei when in a mellowed out state of mind)

Three; Sukuna was required to step in if something or someone Yuuji was not suited to handle on his own or with his partners to ensure he remained unharmed (healed if unavoidable harm did befall him) without complaint or an attempt to mutilate the other two bratty students. Control was to be given back upon assurance the threat was neutralized completely unless the child was not capable of handling control at the moment. In which a suitable location must be found with haste to allow control to be returned while the boy recovered within his domain.

Four; Yuuji could summon Sukuna into the physical plain just as Fushiguro could summon forth his Shikigami if the need arose, Sukuna was tied to remain within a specified distance to the boy at all times, and could only cause harm to whatever reason he was summoned forth. (Again, Sukuna taught him how to perform this particular technique because though akin to his friend’s ability it was starkly different in the finer details of the act)

“You most certainly can. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Take it, you brat, this is your consequence for summoning me for such frivolous reasons.” Sukuna rakes his nails, sharp as ever, up and down the bratty child’s abs. Taking in his howling shrieks of laughter as one would a much needed tonic or such. “Let’s go over them, shall we?” With the child hanging over his lap, bent at the back over his knees, legs anchored at his hips as he rests contentedly upon his Throne as usual. Sukuna made sure that the bend of the boy’s back would not cause discomfort, legs spread open only just to ensure the skirt of his kimono cushioned his position, his head resting upon the tops of his feet. “Summoning me to assist with your daily chores , I think not , they’re your chores to complete not mine.”

Yuuji screams and jolts at the sharp pinching spider crawling of fingers racing over the sides of his tummy, the sensitive belly surface spasming with the intensity of his peals of squeals, no regrets for summoning the Curse forth for stupid reasons. Arching his back as they come around to knead and scribble over his lower tummy, bursting with a loud shrill squeal, the most lighthearted sound to ever ring within this typically dismal place.

“I don’t mind you summoning me to assist with your studies. I know you struggle with sciences and history studies. That I won’t punish you for. I’m, dare I say , happy to be of assistance in that regard.” Sukuna tugs the hem of the brat’s lounge pants down enough, a discovery made upon the very first torturous endeavor, a rather ticklish waist. “However, the same can’t be said when you summoned me to assist in folding your laundry.” He watches in content as the boy screams and bucks, head lifting from the cushioning his feet provide him, as his claws scratch lightly over the sensitive waist. “It never ceases to humor me that you lose all hope with something as simple as me lightly scratching your waist.”

“Pl–Pl eeaaasseehehehhehehshshahahahahah nohohohot theheheheere! Nonononononoahahahhahahhahahaha I caaaaaahan’t! Anywhere but theeheheheheheheere!”

Oh, how the sounds of his pleas always falling short of their desired outcome are music to his ears. “Perhaps I’ll stay right here for, I don’t know, ten minutes– longer –how would you like that, hmm ?” Sukuna feels the boy’s legs jolt against his hips and grins. “If you kick me, no matter if it’s accidental or not , I’ll bring you to absolute tears kid.” The strain of those little feet just under his elbows, toes flexing in agony, is so harsh it’s felt . “Don’t you dare . You asked for this, daring to abuse our Vow for your own childish gain, something you should have considered was this being your atonement for using me to your whims.”

When that right foot, bare and warm, so very small compared to his own, makes contact with his hip Sukuna follows through on his threat. Yuuji wails at his misfortune and shrieks in surprise when he’s yanked up into the Curse’s lap entirely, nothing more about his position changes, legs tugged up to curl comfortably over the man’s shoulders the apologies he spews are met with deaf ears as far too knowledgeable fingers attack his inner thighs with a viciousness that has shrill screeches mixing with great loud shrill squeals and cackles.

Kicking and bouncing, Yuuji can’t find the mental capacity to form actual words for further pleading and apologizing for the unintentional assault, fingers wander down kneading and clawing vicious as ever to the spot that started the exploration of his thighs in the first place. Drumming his legs, careful not to kick the Curse King again, his head whips around as his hair messes completely as he pushes himself upwards with his feet against the backrest of the Throne they reside on.

“Oh, little one, you didn’t say you wanted me to get that particular spot .”

He didn’t! Yuuji did no such thing! Fingers far more gentle than they’ve ever been return to that insanity inducing spot just under the curve that would be considered a groping of his rear end. Collapsing in a fit of guffaws, fingers leave that life altering spot to race up his sides again, the teen writhes and twists as they race back down. Up again, shrieks and squeals, down once more, twist and turns like a cackling little worm. Up. Down. Up. Down. You get it.

Tears slowly begin to entice his eyes to burn, laughter becoming a tad hysterical, as one set of fingers continue to race up and down his side as he tries to curl sharply away from them and the other set claw up to his defenseless armpit.

Sukuna’s cruel. Obviously. Worming one finger under the clenched arm. Then two. Three. Four. All five . Yuuji feels those tears threatening to burst as he succumes to the horrid tickle torture as comeuppance for kicking the man who gave him fair warning. Clawing and vibrating in his sensitive pit, the pinkette’s laughter slowly falls to silent crackly cackles, tears soaking his cheeks.

Then it stops . Giggling deliriously, gulping frantic breathes of much needed oxygen, the aid of a warm large hand rubbing his sore belly in a manner that could definitely be taken as tenderness helps him settle far quicker then one typically would. “Don’t you ever kick me again.”