#not sure if there's other tags I should use?

[lalo0]

INSIDE AESPA EP. 7┃ The Calm That Isn’t

Male reader x Karina

Word count: 6.7k

Tags: squirting, dom/sub, orgasm denial, breath play, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6

The morning was quiet.

Not the soft kind. The kind that makes your thoughts louder.

Karina wasn’t in bed when I woke up. No note. No sound. Just the dent in the mattress beside me, the scent of her still clinging to the pillow.

I sat up slowly. My body ached in places I hadn’t realized I’d used. My jaw felt tight from clenching. My wrists still held the memory of her grip. The kind of soreness you earn, not regret.

I told myself I was fine.

Then sat on the edge of the bed for five minutes pretending I believed it.

The house felt different today.

Not changed—just... rearranged.

Like someone had come in while we were sleeping and moved everything an inch to the left.

Winter was in the living room, legs folded under her, scrolling through something on her phone. She didn’t look up when I passed.

Ningning was in the kitchen with a spoon halfway to her mouth and a box of cereal cradled in one arm like a newborn. She glanced at me once—just enough to register I existed—then went back to her bowl.

“Morning,” she said around a mouthful.

“Hey.”

She swallowed. “Karina let you sleep in?”

I raised an eyebrow.

She smirked. “No reason. Just surprised you’re walking straight.”

I didn’t answer.

I found Karina in a small room with only a couch and a window. Not on her phone. Not reading. Just sitting—one leg crossed over the other, staring out the window like she was calculating something she wasn’t going to say out loud.

She didn’t look over when I entered.

“Morning,” I said.

A beat. Then: “Hey.”

No tension. No edge. Just... calm.

Like something had shifted between us, and for once, neither of us was trying to wrestle it back.

I sat beside her. Not close. Just within reach if either of us decided to bridge the gap.

She leaned her head back against the wall. Closed her eyes for a second.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure.”

Another pause. No eye contact. Just the window and her own thoughts.

“How do you stop acting like you're fine all the time?”

I didn’t say anything.

She opened her eyes again, slow. Met mine, but only for a second.

“I mean—like—I’ve been holding it together so long, I don’t know how to not.”

I let it hang there.

She glanced away. “Forget it.”

“I won’t.”

That got the smallest breath of a laugh. Just air through her nose.

Then, quieter: “I’m tired, Mylo.”

The words sat between us for a second. No drama. No weight behind them. Just truth.

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

She looked at me again. Really looked. Like she was trying to figure out how much I meant that. If I said it because I understood, or because I wanted her to think I did.

“I don’t want to be in charge all the time,” she said quietly. “Not just here. With everything. My parents. My label. The girls. You.”

That last word came slower.

I didn’t flinch. “I never asked you to be in charge of me.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I should.”

We sat in that for a minute.

The room didn’t feel heavy.

It felt clean. Like something unspoken had been scraped out of the air.

Karina sighed. Shifted. Her shoulder brushed mine.

“I don’t even know what this is,” she said. “But when I told you not to make me chase you…”

I looked over.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. Just said, clear and quiet:

“I meant it. Don’t disappear.”

It was dark when I left. I didn’t run. I walked. Slow. Careful. Not looking back. The streetlights buzzed like they were about to die. Every time a car passed, I stopped breathing. It didn’t matter if the driver saw me. Didn’t matter if they didn’t. I didn’t have a bag. Just a hoodie and twenty-three dollars in ones. No plan. No destination. Just away. Away from the envelope. From the way he looked at me like he already owned the next few weeks of my life. From my mother’s silence when I told her I didn’t like him. From her not asking why. And from what I overheard the night before.

His voice on the phone, low and too casual: “Yeah, he’s quiet. Doesn’t fight. Should be easy.” I didn’t need to know who he was talking to. I knew what he meant. The couch where he used to sit still had the imprint of his keys in the cushion. I noticed that as I passed. I didn’t cry. Not because I was brave—just because I already knew what it would feel like.

I stared ahead for a long moment.

Then I said it.

“I won’t.”

She held my eyes for another second. Then nodded—barely—and turned. The door shut softly behind her. No dramatic exit, just quiet certainty.

It wasn’t the kind of silence you fight. It was the kind that invites you to sit in it, let it wrap around your ribs, and wait to see if you flinch.

Eventually, I moved. Pushed off the wall. Wandered the loop of the house once—bedroom to hallway to kitchen and back—just to keep from being still too long.

The others came back home before sundown.

It wasn’t loud. Just footsteps, murmurs, the thud of a bag dropped too hard. The kind of noise that means the outside world is back.

Ningning walked in first. Her phone lit her face in a pale wash, and her lips moved like she was mouthing lyrics only she could hear. She looked tired in a way she wouldn’t say out loud.

Winter trailed her. Hoodie zipped to the throat. One earbud still in, the other dangling like she forgot it. Her eyes passed over me and kept going.

Neither said anything.

They didn’t have to.

The air between them was stretched thin—tight with something I didn’t understand yet. Like a conversation had started in the car and ended too early.

I waited a beat. Then moved to the kitchen to give them space.

Ningning’s voice broke the quiet later, from the living room.

“You think she’s okay?”

She didn’t say who.

Winter didn’t answer right away.

“She’s fine,” she said eventually. “Just overthinks everything.”

Ningning didn’t push.

I didn’t ask.

Karina came out last.

She changed. Clean hoodie, leggings, towel-dried hair pulled up like she didn’t care how it dried. Her face was bare—no makeup.

She moved like someone who was used to motion. Someone who didn’t stop unless she meant to.

Her eyes met mine just once. That was all.

I nodded.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t look away either.

Giselle didn’t come out at all.

Her door stayed shut. No music. No voice. No presence.

Like she’d vanished into her corner of the house, and everyone had quietly agreed not to disturb the boundary she’d drawn.

I almost knocked once. Just to break that boundary.

But I didn’t.

Dinner happened in fragments.

Ningning reheated leftovers and ate them standing up. Winter poured a glass of juice and forgot about it. Karina opened the fridge, looked for something for a full thirty seconds, then left without taking anything.

I stood in the hallway and watched it all like I wasn’t really part of it.

Maybe I wasn’t.

Maybe they weren’t either.

They were all in the same house, breathing the same air, carrying different weights they wouldn’t name.

Later, I passed by the bathroom and heard Winter’s voice through the door.

Not talking. Singing.

Soft. Something slow. Not Korean. Not a song I knew.

It only lasted a minute. Then the water shut off.

And the silence returned.

I ended up in the kitchen again.

Leaning against the counter. Cup of water untouched beside me. Hands still. Mind not.

Karina appeared again without warning. No footsteps. Just there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

She stood across from me, fingers curled loosely around the hem of her hoodie. Her eyes scanned the room—then settled on me like I was something she’d already decided to reach for.

“Come with me,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t soft either.

It was certain.

I followed her.

She didn’t lead me far—just to the back door. Slipped her shoes on without speaking, unlocked the latch with a twist, and stepped outside.

I paused at the doorframe, then pushed it open and joined her.

The air was cooler out here. Still, like the house was holding its breath behind us.

Karina walked a few paces ahead, then slowed by the fence. She didn’t sit. Just stood there, facing away, her shoulders rising with a breath she didn’t let out all at once.

She spoke without turning around.

“That thing I said earlier—about not wanting to carry everything…”

I said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder. “This is part of that.”

Then she turned to face me fully, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists.

“I’ve been watching the others,” she said. “Winter, Ningning… Giselle. They’re not saying it, but something’s off.”

I nodded slowly. “I heard them earlier.”

“Yeah.” Her jaw worked a little. “They were talking about Giselle.”

She finally sat down on the edge of the low bench near the back fence. I followed, sitting beside her with a few inches of space between us.

“She’s been pulling away,” Karina said. “Not just from you. From all of us.”

I didn’t respond.

“She seemed fine this morning. A little quiet, but that’s normal after a long day.” Karina ran a hand through her hair. “Then something happened while they were out. Winter wouldn’t talk about it, and Ningning… she said too much already.”

“What did Giselle do?”

Karina shook her head. “Nothing dramatic. No yelling. Just—she shut down. Didn’t say anything the whole way home. Got out of the car, went straight to her room.”

“Is that normal for her?”

“Kind of,” Karina said. “But usually, she doesn’t vanish unless she’s trying to avoid herself.”

She looked down at her hands. Twisted her fingers once. “I think she felt something today. And it scared her.”

A breeze moved across the yard, soft and dry. It carried the faintest sound from the street—a car door, maybe. Then silence again.

“She asked them something,” Karina said. “Ningning just said it was about being wanted.”

I didn’t move.

“She asked if she was being kept around for the fantasy of her.”

That sat in the air for a while.

Karina didn’t look at me when she said it.

“She didn’t mean aespa,” I said.

“No.”

That was all either of us needed to say.

Karina leaned back a little. Her hands were tucked into her sleeves again.

“She's the kind of person who’s always been wanted for the wrong reasons. Looks. Fame. Money.”

“And then she let someone get too close to the real thing,” I said.

Karina looked at me now.

“And when it got quiet,” I added, “she panicked.”

“She’s not the only one,” Karina said.

I raised an eyebrow.

Karina gave a thin smile. “You think I’m like this for fun?”

That got half a breath of a laugh out of me.

She turned her face toward the fence again. “The whole point of being strong all the time is pretending you don’t notice how tired you are.”

She didn’t say it for pity.

Just a fact.

“And now?” I asked.

She was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Now I notice.”

We sat like that for a while. Not touching. Not rushing.

Karina’s voice came softer the next time.

“I’m glad you didn’t disappear.”

“Yet.”

She smirked. “Don’t make me punch you.”

Then, with a glance that cut sharper than it should’ve:

“You’ve been holding it together a little too well,” she said “Sometimes that’s the loudest red flag there is."

I glanced at her. “You think everything’s a red flag.”

“Only when it is.”

I gave a small smile, just enough to pass for unbothered. “Maybe I’m just good at handling shit.”

Karina rolled her eyes. “That’s what people say right before they crash.”

I looked away. “I’m not crashing.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “Just said you’re holding a lot.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Who isn’t?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

She sighed, but didn’t push harder. Just leaned back against the bench and stared at the fence like it might answer something.

“I don’t need the whole story,” she said after a while. “I just… want to know you’re not white-knuckling everything alone.”

“I’m fine.”

Karina didn’t argue with me. She didn’t nod either. She just sat there. Watching me with the kind of quiet that didn’t feel like pressure—it felt like understanding trying to be patient.

I looked down at my hands. They were steady. Still.

“I’m used to this,” I said. “Being the one who stays calm.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”

“Good at not making it anyone else’s problem.”

She didn’t answer right away. Then: “Sometimes that just means you stopped expecting anyone to care.”

That stung more than I wanted it to.

But I shrugged, like it hadn’t.

“Look,” I said. “I get it. You’re worried. You want to check in. And I appreciate it.”

“That’s not what this is.”

I looked over.

Karina met my eyes, firm but quiet. “I’m not checking in. I’m here. With you. That’s it.”

I didn’t respond.

But I didn’t look away either.

We sat in silence for a while.

Karina pulled her legs up onto the bench, hugging her knees. Her face looked softer in the dark. Less controlled. Less carved.

“I’m not trying to read you,” she said eventually.

“You are.”

She smiled. “Bad habit.”

I leaned back, elbows on the top of the bench. “You’re not wrong.”

“But you’re not gonna tell me anything.”

I looked at the sky. “Not tonight.”

“That’s fair.”

She let her head rest against the back of the bench, close enough that our shoulders brushed again.

“I used to think staying quiet was strength,” she said. “That being composed meant I was handling it.”

“And now?”

“I think sometimes it just means you’re scared of falling apart in front of the wrong person.”

I looked over. “You think I’m the wrong person?”

“No,” she said. “I think you don’t know if I’m the right one.”

That shut me up for a second.

Karina shifted, stretched her legs back out, one foot brushing mine as she moved.

She wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just out across the yard, the way people do when they’ve said too much and don’t want to see the reaction.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t touch her.

But I stayed.

Not as an answer.

Just as proof I hadn’t disappeared.

The silence between us had changed.

It wasn’t tense. It wasn’t thick with something unsaid.

It was waiting.

Karina’s foot still rested lightly against mine. Her head tilted back, eyes on the stretch of sky above the fence line. I didn’t need to look at her to know she was still thinking—still holding the weight of the things she hadn’t said.

And then she shifted.

Turned.

Her voice low, but clear.

“You coming back with me?”

I looked over at her.

She wasn’t smirking.

She wasn’t teasing.

She just… meant it.

No game. No pose.

Just want.

I didn’t answer. Not with words. I stood up first, waited for her to do the same.

She did.

She didn’t lead this time. Just walked beside me. Our steps soft across the grass. Through the back door, past the low light of the hallway, down the quiet corridor toward her room.

No one saw us.

Or if they did, no one said anything.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Left it half open behind her.

I closed it.

The room was still. Dim.

She turned toward me and pulled her hoodie off in one slow motion. Her t-shirt clung underneath—thin, worn-in, more sleepwear than outfit. She tossed the hoodie onto a chair, then stepped forward, close enough that I could feel the heat off her skin.

But she didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

She just looked.

“I meant it,” she said.

I didn’t ask what.

But she told me anyway.

“When I said I didn’t want to be in control of everything.”

My chest tightened—but only a little.

Still manageable.

Still quiet.

“Okay,” I said.

Then, softer: “What do you want instead?”

She stepped in, fingers finding the hem of my shirt.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t desperate.

It wasn’t loud.

It was steady. Certain.

Like she’d waited long enough to say it clearly.

I let her lift my shirt. Tossed it aside. She kissed me once—quick, focused—then again, slower this time. And this time, it deepened fast. Her hands were on my back, gripping hard like she didn’t want to fall.

But there was no rush.

She didn’t push.

She just pressed closer.

And when she pulled back, breath slightly uneven, she looked at me like she was daring herself to go quiet again—but didn’t.

“Don’t make me tell you what to do,” she said, voice almost a whisper.

I stepped forward.

“Get on the bed,” I murmured.

She exhaled.

Relieved.

Then she moved—no words, no hesitation. Just turned, stepped backward, and climbed onto the mattress. She didn’t pose. Didn’t sprawl. Just sat on her knees in the center, watching me like she needed to see how far I was going to take it.

Her breath hitched once when I stopped at the edge of the bed.

“Lie back.”

She did.

Flat. Head tilted slightly, hair spilling over the pillow.

I climbed over her, slow and deliberate, one knee between hers, the other caging her leg. My hands pressed down on either side of her ribs, just enough weight to let her feel I was everywhere now.

“You’re not in control,” I said quietly.

Karina nodded.

“Say it.”

“I’m not in control.”

My hand came up, fingers sliding gently along her jaw. Then I let my thumb rest just under her chin, tilting her face toward mine.

“And you don’t want to be,” I added.

“I don’t,” she whispered.

Her eyes searched mine. Not afraid. Just wide, focused. Like she wanted to feel what it was like to be looked at without armor.

“You’re going to take what I give you,” I said. “And nothing else.”

“Yes.”

“No begging.”

A slow breath. “Okay.”

“No hiding.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I kissed her—deep this time, all breath and heat and no space left between. Her legs wrapped around me instantly, hips shifting like her body already knew where it was going. But I didn’t move faster.

I slowed it.

My hand slid under her shirt, skimming her stomach, then up—slow enough to make her arch, barely enough to be cruel.

When I finally pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it aside, she was already panting.

But she didn’t reach for me.

She waited.

Exactly how I wanted her.

I kissed her neck next. Bit lightly. Then dragged my mouth to her collarbone, pressing a hand flat to her chest just to feel her pulse jump under it.

Then I moved that hand higher.

To her throat.

Not choking. Not even tight.

Just resting there.

My thumb brushed the side of her neck, steady pressure.

Her mouth opened.

But she didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

Her eyes said it all—yes, please, don’t stop.

I applied a little more pressure—not enough to cut breath, just enough to remind her she’d given it up.

Then I kissed her again, holding her there, body under mine, voice caught somewhere in her chest.

She moaned into my mouth.

It was quiet, choked, honest.

When I pulled back, I kept my hand at her throat.

“Good girl,” I said.

Her whole body reacted.

Her nails dug into the sheets. Her knees squeezed around my hips.

I kissed her temple, then her jaw, then whispered against her ear:

“You’re going to come for me like this.”

She nodded—desperate, silent.

But I wasn’t done.

I shifted lower. Trailed kisses down her chest. Took one nipple into my mouth and sucked, slow and deep, while my other hand slid between her legs.

She gasped.

My fingers found her soaked.

I groaned softly, more for her than for me.

“You were waiting for this.”

She whimpered.

“Say it.”

“Yes—fuck—I was—”

I slid two fingers in, slow and deep.

Her back arched.

I tightened my grip around her throat—still gentle, still measured.

“Stay right there,” I said. “Don’t move.”

Her hips trembled.

But she stayed.

Exactly where I wanted her.

Every breath she took came in pieces—tight, shuddering. Her hips kept rising, chasing my hand like she couldn’t stop herself. I let my fingers stay inside her, slow, deep, curling just right to make her toes flex against the sheets.

My other hand rested at her throat again—gentle pressure, firm enough to remind her.

Her eyes were wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. Her breasts moved with every breath, soft and flushed and begging to be touched again.

I leaned down, brushed my mouth just over hers without kissing her.

“You want to lose it,” I murmured. “Don’t you?”

She gave a small nod.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I—yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I want—fuck—I want to—please—”

My fingers didn’t stop. They moved slower now. Crueler. Keeping her trapped in that ache that sits right before everything breaks.

She squirmed beneath me. Back arching. Nails clawing at the sheets like she needed something to hold on to.

“I’m right there—Mylo—please—”

“No,” I said.

Her moan cracked in the middle. Desperate. Wordless.

“I didn’t say you could.”

She tried to nod, to obey, but her thighs were trembling and her chest was flushed all the way up to her collarbones.

I leaned in again and kissed just beneath her jaw—slow and open-mouthed—then dragged my tongue along her throat where my hand rested.

“You’re doing so fucking well,” I whispered.

She whimpered like praise itself made her wetter.

“But you don’t get to finish until I say you can.”

I bit her collarbone—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” she choked. “I swear—I’ll wait—just—”

I cut her off with a kiss, then pulled my fingers from her slowly. She gasped—almost sobbed—at the loss, trying to grind against nothing.

But I wasn’t done.

I brought my hand to her mouth.

“Taste what I got from you.”

She wrapped her lips around my fingers without hesitation, moaning low as her tongue circled them.

“You're mine,” I said. “You get to come when I say you can. Not a second sooner.”

She nodded fast, eyes glassy with need, cheeks flushed and wet where her hair clung to them.

I pushed my hips forward, dragging the length of my cock against her folds—just enough friction, just enough slick—and then pulled back.

She cried out.

“You ready for me?”

“Please,” she breathed.

I pressed forward again—slow, grinding the head of my cock along her clit, teasing her with it, but not giving her more.

She writhed under me.

“Fuck—you’re cruel—”

“No,” I said. “Just patient.”

Then I grabbed her wrists, pinned them above her head, and drove into her with one deep, solid thrust.

Her whole body arched.

A strangled sound came from her throat—half cry, half sob.

“Jesus—”

I didn’t give her a chance to recover. I pulled out, slow, then slammed back in. Again. Again. A pace she couldn’t match, only feel.

Her tits bounced with every thrust, full and soft and flushed. Her legs locked around me.

“You were made for this,” I muttered against her ear. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes—yes, I was—”

Her voice cracked again.

I tightened my grip on her wrists. Pinned her harder.

“Let go,” I said.

“I—”

“I’ve got you. Let go.”

And that’s when she broke.

She came hard.

Not with grace. Not with control. She shattered like she’d been holding it in for days—hips jerking up, breath caught, thighs trembling around my waist.

And I didn’t stop.

I kept thrusting, deep and slow, letting her ride the edge of it while she gasped through the aftershocks. Her eyes fluttered closed, mouth slack, hands twitching where I still held her wrists.

“Too much,” she whispered.

I didn’t slow down.

I leaned in instead. Let my mouth brush her ear.

“That’s the point.”

She moaned—half pain, half bliss—and I kissed her temple, then her neck, while my hips kept the same pace, stretching her open again while her body pulsed around me.

She clawed at the sheets with one hand when I let go, then pulled me closer with the other like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to get away or be ruined again.

“Fuck—fuck—Mylo—”

Her voice cracked beautifully.

“I can’t—”

“You already did.”

She arched again. Full-body. Her breasts bounced with the movement, soft and flushed and still sensitive. I caught one in my hand, squeezed just right, then bent down to take it into my mouth.

She cried out.

Bit down on her own knuckle.

“Fuck—please—just slow down—”

“No.”

I kissed lower. Across her ribs. Down her stomach. Then pulled out with a wet sound that made her whimper from the emptiness.

And just when she started to breathe again, I flipped her.

Fast.

She let out a startled sound as her chest hit the bed, hands braced near the pillow, hair falling across her face. I pushed her knees apart, then leaned over her back, chest flush to her spine.

“I’m not done.”

“Fuck,” she whispered.

My cock dragged against her ass—wet, slick with her, still pulsing. I didn’t thrust in. Not yet. I just ground forward—slow and heavy— humping the curve of her body like I was building tension on purpose.

She buckled back.

I pushed her down.

“Stay.”

She went still.

My hips rolled against her again, lazy, deliberate. The fabric of the sheets rasped against her breasts. My cock pressed between her cheeks without entering, grinding slow over her soaked pussy until she was writhing again.

“You’re not in control,” I growled into her ear.

“I know.”

“You’re not calling the shots.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

I kept humping her like that. Slow. Cruel. Denying both of us what we needed.

“You want to beg again?”

“No,” she whispered. “I want to be used.”

I watched her hips twitch, legs still spread wide on the bed. Her breath came in sharp gasps, thighs glistening and trembling, her ass raised slightly like her body was trying to stay open even when I denied it.

Then I sat back and said, voice low, calm, brutal:

“Show me how badly you want it.”

She looked over her shoulder, hair in her eyes, completely wrecked.

“What—?”

“You want to come?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Then work for it.”

I leaned back on my heels, grabbed her hips, and pulled her on her back—not into me, just onto my thigh. She moaned, a high breathless sound, then realized what I was doing.

Her face flushed deep.

She was still trembling when I spoke again.

“Ride my leg.”

She hesitated.

And that pause—that pause—told me everything.

She was embarrassed.

Turned on enough to be shaking, but embarrassed.

And I loved that.

“I want to watch you hump like a needy little slut,” I said. “Since that’s what you are right now.”

She let out a broken sound.

Then slowly—shakily—began to move.

Her thighs flexed as she started grinding herself against me. Not graceful. Not practiced. Just raw. Desperate. The drag of her soaked pussy against my thigh slick and hot.

“That’s it,” I murmured. “Keep going.”

She moaned, biting her bottom lip, hands clutching at my knee for leverage. Her hips rolled hard, rubbing herself fast along my thigh. Each motion left her gasping.

“Faster.”

She obeyed.

Her tits bounced wildly, sweat glistening between them, her face burning with shame and pleasure as she humped me.

“Look at you,” I said, brushing her hair back roughly. “Humping like you’ll die if you don’t come.”

“I—f-fuck—please—”

“Please what?”

“I—ahhh—I want to—please—I’m gonna—”

“No you’re not.”

She whined—loud, desperate—and kept grinding harder.

“Even if I beg?” she panted.

“Especially if you beg.”

I grabbed her jaw, pulled her face up to mine.

“You’ll come when I make you come. Not a second before.”

She nodded, legs trembling beneath her.

“I want to see you ruin yourself trying.”

That pushed her over the edge—not into orgasm, but into need. Her whole body started shaking. She moaned uncontrollably, thighs clenching around mine, mouth open in a silent cry as her clit dragged across my thigh in desperate, slick circles.

She was a mess. Humiliated. Completely under my control.

And loving it.

Her hands reached out like she needed something to cling to.

I gave her nothing.

Just my leg.

Just my voice.

“Keep humping,” I said. “And don’t you fucking come.”

She kept going.

Not because she wanted to impress me.

Not because she had something to prove.

Because she was past the point of reason—driven by the need to come, to be allowed, to be owned in the only way that would break her clean.

Her body shook against mine, thighs slick and trembling, hips grinding frantically against my leg. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen, flushed skin glowing with sweat and need. She looked wrecked—and still she moved.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “Mylo—fuck—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” I said, gripping her ass to keep her pressed against me. “You will.”

“I’m—I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not.”

She sobbed—high, trembling, desperate. It wasn’t just begging anymore. It was pleading from someplace deep. Her face crumpled as her hips twitched harder.

“I’m trying,” she cried.

“I know.”

“I want to be good for you—fuck—I’ll do anything—”

“You already are,” I whispered. “But you don’t come until I say so.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, breath breaking apart into short, choking gasps.

Her rhythm faltered.

She was right there. Teetering.

I let her grind again—once, twice, hard enough to make her whole body convulse—then I grabbed her hips and lifted her off me.

She screamed.

Wordless. Raw.

Her head dropped to my shoulder. Her whole body shook.

“Why—why—”

I kissed her jaw, her temple.

“Because I’m not done with you yet.”

She was crying now—quiet tears, barely a sound—but her body didn’t pull away. It curled in tighter. Hands gripping my arms like she needed them to stay grounded.

“I can’t take much more,” she whispered.

I held her still.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “You can.”

I laid her back gently onto the bed, and climbed over her again. Her legs parted instantly, involuntarily.

“I’m gonna fuck you now.”

She nodded—shaky, wrecked.

“I want it.”

“I know.”

I lined myself up, rubbed the head of my cock along her slit, then looked her in the eye.

“You're gonna be my good girl?”

She nodded quickly, too fast, eyes wide.

“Yes. Yes, I swear—please—”

“Then take it.”

I thrust in—slow but deep. Every inch.

She screamed again, but this time it wasn’t pain or desperation.

It was relief.

Pure, overwhelming, body-shattering relief.

Her walls clamped around me like she’d been made to hold me there. Her arms wrapped around my back. Her breath caught and broke again and again as I started to move—slow and brutal.

“You’re mine,” I whispered. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours, Mylo, I’m yours—”

And then I gave her what she needed.

I drove into her like I owned her.

Because in that moment—I did.

Her legs wrapped around me, ankles hooked behind my back, locking me in. Her hands tangled in the sheets like she didn’t trust herself not to fall straight through the mattress. She met every thrust like her body was done pretending to have boundaries—just open, raw, and wanting.

“Harder,” she begged, voice cracked.

I gave it to her.

The bed creaked under us. Her tits bounced with every movement, slick and swollen, flushed all the way to the tops of her shoulders. She was moaning without rhythm now, lost in it—gripping me, pulling me, dragging me in deeper every time.

“You gonna come?” I asked.

She nodded frantically. “Please—please—I’m so close—”

“Then come.”

She did—loud, full-body, completely broken. Her thighs clenched around my hips, her mouth open in a cry that barely sounded like her anymore. Her eyes squeezed shut as her whole body seized, shaking with every pulse.

But I didn’t stop.

Not right away.

I slowed down—let her feel it all the way through, hips still moving, slow and deep, just enough to overstimulate her, just enough to make her whimper.

“Can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

She sobbed. “I—”

I grabbed her jaw, leaned in, kissed her hard.

“You’re done when I say you are,” I said against her lips. “Not when you think you are.”

She moaned into my mouth, body twitching under mine, completely surrendered.

I fucked her through it—until she went still beneath me, body limp, trembling, breath ragged.

Then I pulled out.

She whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness.

But I was already moving.

I knelt beside her, gripped her hair gently, then guided her down.

She didn’t need direction.

She took me in her mouth like she was starving for it—lips wet, mouth open, eyes still teary and glassy as she sucked me deep. Her tongue curled around the head, her cheeks hollowing as she worked me over with messy, eager devotion.

“Just like that,” I groaned. “Don’t stop.”

Her moan vibrated against my cock.

I gripped her hair tighter, started thrusting into her mouth—slow at first, then faster, deeper. She took it all, drool spilling down her chin, eyes rolling up with each thrust, hands gripping my thighs for balance.

“You look so fucking good like this,” I growled. “On your knees for me. Wrecked. Obedient.”

She whimpered around me.

I held her in place.

“Swallow it.”

Then I came.

Deep in her mouth.

Hot and thick and heavy.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just took it—eyes half-lidded, lips wrapped around me, swallowing every drop.

I held her there until I was done.

Until I could breathe again.

Then I let go.

She pulled back slowly, licking her lips, face flushed, hair a mess, chest still rising fast.

I leaned down.

Brushed a thumb across her mouth.

“You did good.”

She gave the smallest smile.

And then she collapsed back onto the bed.

Quiet. Spent. Glowing.

And this time—I lay down beside her.

No orders. No pressure.

Just calm.

The kind of calm that meant something had changed.

Not finished.

Just shifted.

For both of us.

Karina hadn’t moved much.

She was still on her back, hair splayed out, one arm draped over her stomach like she wasn’t sure what to do with her body yet. Her eyes were half-open. Her chest rose slowly with each breath.

I stayed close.

Not touching.

Just there.

The silence between us had changed again—no longer tense or waiting. Just quiet. Tired. Real.

She turned her head a little toward me.

“I know I keep saying this, but I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured.

I didn’t ask which part.

She kept going.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her voice was softer now. No command. No challenge. Just a truth spoken carefully, like it could crack if pushed the wrong way.

I looked at her.

She was still flushed. Still wrecked. But something in her face had cleared—like letting go hadn’t weakened her, just peeled something away.

“I’ve never been good at saying stuff like this,” she continued. “But... some people can be trusted.”

Her gaze met mine.

“And maybe you’re not used to that. Maybe it’s easier not to believe it. But it doesn’t make it less true.”

I swallowed, jaw tight.

She didn’t say anything else. Just looked at me. Let me sit with it.

The air was drier that day. I remember that. I was sitting on a porch. Not mine. Not anyone’s I knew. Just a porch in a neighborhood I didn’t belong in, watching the light change as evening crept in. My bag was at my feet. My arms were wrapped around my knees. I hadn’t slept in days.

Then the door creaked open. “Hey.” The voice was older. A woman. Warm. “You’ve been out here a while.” I didn’t answer. She didn’t press. Just opened the door wider. “You want to come inside?” I looked up. She didn’t flinch when our eyes met. Didn’t pity me, either. “We’ve got food,” she said. “And a couch.”

I don’t remember walking in. I remember the smell, though—something like cinnamon and laundry. There was a fan running. The TV was on, low volume. Someone else was in the kitchen, talking to a dog like it was a person. I stood near the wall like I didn’t trust any of it. “Name?” “Mylo.” She smiled. “I’m Cara. That’s Bill. You can stay a night if you need to.” “Why?” Her smile didn’t change. “Because it looks like you’ve run out of places to go.”

Back in the room, Karina was still watching me.

I must’ve drifted longer than I thought, because her expression had changed—slightly more alert now, brow just starting to knit.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. A beat too slow.

“Yeah.”

Karina didn’t press.

But she didn’t look away either.

“Some people really can be trusted,” she said again. Quiet. Like she was repeating it for both of us.

And I almost believed her.

Almost.

Karina drifted off with her hand still barely touching mine.

She didn’t say anything before she closed her eyes. Just shifted slightly, murmured something half-formed, and exhaled. One deep, steady breath—and she was gone.

I stayed there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart quiet but alert. Her skin was warm beside me. Her scent still clung to the sheets. It should’ve felt comforting.

It didn’t.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a good way either.

Just… muted.

Like it had happened to someone else.

After a few more minutes, I slipped out of bed.

Softly. No rush. Careful not to wake her.

I gathered my clothes. Moved like I’d done it before. Like I’d learned how not to leave a trace when I walked away.

The door clicked shut behind me.

The hallway was still.

Quiet, but not heavy. Just late.

I walked barefoot across the floor, down to the end of the hall, then into the bathroom. The fan was humming softly behind the mirror light. There was a towel hanging over the edge of the sink, still damp.

I turned on the tap. Let cold water run over my hands. Splashed my face. Let it drip.

The reflection stared back.

My eyes looked tired.

Not in the usual way.

Not the kind that sleep could fix.

I toweled off and caught the smallest mark on my collarbone—faint, red, already fading. Karina’s nails. Or maybe her mouth. Something that should’ve felt intimate.

I touched it.

Felt nothing.

No shame. No heat. No tenderness.

Just skin.

I looked at myself longer than I should’ve.

Trying to find the version of me that belonged here.

The one they thought they were getting.

The one who was stable. Useful. Capable of being wanted without breaking.

The mirror didn’t offer anything back.

Eventually, I turned off the light.

But right before I did, I caught my own expression.

I was smiling.

Not wide. Not warm.

Just practiced.

Like it was something I’d taught myself to wear.

I dried my hands. Left the bathroom.

Didn’t check if anyone was awake.

Didn’t check the time.

Just walked slowly back to the guest room and sat on the edge of the bed. My bag was still at the foot of it, half-zipped. My phone on the nightstand. Still no new notifications.

I sat there a while.

Breathing.

Not thinking.

Not feeling.

Just... sitting.

And somewhere in the back of my head, I heard Karina’s voice again.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

I blinked.

And then I told myself—quietly, carefully:

If I keep this going, they won’t ask.

And I believed it.

Enough to keep breathing.

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (3) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael offers to help you carry a large box, but when the elevator’s out, you end up climbing six flights of stairs together. The climb is tiring but playful, and it leads to him spending time with you in your apartment.

Word count: 2180

Warnings: Age Gap (Mid 20/ Early 50s)

Authors Note: part 3!!! the story Michael tells is based on a actual story from someone in my life lol. if I forgot to add you to the tag list, very sorry! let me know if I didn’t add you and I’ll add you on. again thanks for the love! I enjoy reading your comments :) - ryn

Wednesday 7:20pm

“You need a hand with that?” Michael asked, walking up to the mailboxes, key in hand. He slid it into the lock and pulled out a small stack of mail. He looked tired—fresh off a long shift, still in scrubs.

You had just come back from a coffee shop, where you’d stayed after work to chip away at lesson planning. Now you stood by the mailboxes, eyeing the large box at your feet.

“Oh hey! Yes, please! It’s pretty heavy. Like, definitely a two-person job.”

“Alright, let’s go for it.”

The two of you hefted the box together, making your way toward the building’s single elevator—only to find a sign taped across the doors: Out of Order.

You both set the box down and stared at it in silence.

“Crap,” you muttered.

You exchanged a glance. It was obvious—you’d both just gotten off work, bags in tow, and neither of you had the energy for this.

“Okay… well, I guess we’re hitting the stairs,” Michael said.

“I can just leave it…”

“And let someone in our building steal it?”

“Who’s dumb enough to steal a box that weighs, like, over fifty pounds?”

“Hey, you never know. People are desperate these days.”

He bent to grab his side of the box, and you followed suit.

Together, you maneuvered the large box toward the stairwell, bumping it against the doorframe with a dull thud that made you both laugh, tired and amused.

Then began the slow, painful climb—six flights of stairs ahead.

They two of you made it about halfway.

“Okay—wait, wait,” Michael huffed, setting his side of the box down with a dramatic grunt. He leaned over the banister, catching his breath. “I need a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

You laughed as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, shaking his head.

“How old are you, anyway?” you asked, playfully squinting at him.

“Fifty-three,”

He was twenty-nine years older than you. He’d lived more life, seen more, carried years of experiences you hadn’t even brushed against.

“How old are you?” he asks back.

“I’m twenty five”

“Geez,” he mumbled under his breath, masking his reaction with a slow exhale. He’d known you were young…just maybe not that young.

“Should I be worried about you throwing out your back?” You tease.

He gave you a hard, playful look as he looked up at you from leaning against the banister.

“Careful,” he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I might just leave you to drag this thing up yourself if you keep it up.”

“You wouldn’t do that." you say.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t” he chuckles.

He was teasing, sure—but he meant it. He’d never leave anyone hanging, especially not a woman. That’s just the kind of man Michael was. Caring. It was something his mother had instilled in him from the time he was a kid: look out for others, be kind, be useful.

It was why he became a doctor in the first place. He didn’t just want to fix things, he wanted to help people.

“Okay… halfway there,” he said, standing up straight.

You mirrored him, both of you grabbing your sides of the box as you began the final climb—three more flights of stairs.

By the time you reached the sixth floor and made it to your apartment door, the box hit the ground with a heavy thud.

You and Michael both let out loud huffs, panting like you’d just run a race.

He dropped his backpack beside the box and hunched over, hands on his knees.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Okay—we… we did it. We made it,” you said, dropping your own bag, one hand braced against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

“What even is that?” he asked, squinting down at the box like it had personally offended him.

“It’s a shelf,” you replied.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve got water… beer.”

He was still hunched over, catching his breath, but he pointed a finger at you when you said beer, wagging it up and down like it was the magic word.

“Beer… a beer sounds good.”

“Okay,” you exhaled, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“Do you think we can just… take a minute?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the hallway—at the idea of not moving at all for a bit.

“I’m right there with you,” he said, like he’d read your mind.

You both stayed there a second longer, just breathing. Neither of you moved to open the door.

—

Eventually, the two of you made it inside your apartment. The box lay on your living room floor. You and Michael slouched on the couch, beers in hand, too exhausted from not only lugging the box up six flights of stairs but also your jobs.

“Are you gonna build it?” Michael asked, glancing over at the box.

“I was gonna have Aiden do it,” you said with a shrug.

Michael raised an eyebrow. Well, if Aiden didn’t even unjam your window, he most likely won’t be assembling your shelf either. The box was probably just going to sit there until you caved and did it yourself. He thought about it for a second, then sighed.

“Well, since I’m already here, I can put it together for you,” he offered.

You blinked. “What? No, come on, Michael. You just got off a 12-hour shift, you just helped me lug this thing up six flights of stairs—and your back—”

“My back will be fine,” he said quickly, waving it off.

It was a lie. His back was definitely hurting, but he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d pushed through worse and, honestly, he didn’t mind helping you out. Plus, it gave him an excuse to stay, to linger in the space for a little longer.

“Well, if you’re gonna build it, at least stay for dinner,” you said, giving him a pointed look.

“Okay, deal,” he agreed, grinning.

“I can also supervise you as you cook. You know, so you don’t smoke your apartment out again,” he said, teasing you, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes. “Very funny.”

“Hey, I take this supervising gig seriously.” He leaned back, a mischievous grin on his face as he took a swig of his beer

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” you replied, getting up from the couch, heading to your kitchen.

__

You start cooking dinner, the comforting rhythm of mixing and stirring filling the air. Michael sits on your floor, his glasses on as he carefully reads the directions. His second beer sits not far from him, and tools and scattered pieces of the shelf are spread across the floor.

You glance over your shoulder, watching him as he concentrates, fiddling with the screwdriver in his hand, his brow furrowed in focus. The scene feels oddly domestic.

For a moment, you let yourself savor the quiet comfort of it—how natural it feels, how easy. You wish you and Aiden could have moments like this, too. No rush, no tension, just small, simple acts of being together. But the thought lingers, bittersweet, before you return to the task at hand.

“How long have you been a doctor?”

He huffs out a laugh “A long time”

“Uh well I started working in the ER when I was around your age–” he says picking up a piece and screwing it to another part. “I was assigned to the ER as med student…never really left after that. the department I wanted to be in”

“What made you want to be a doctor?” you asked, stirring the food in the pot, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the sides.

“I knew from a young age I always wanted to help people,”

“I was raised by a single mother,” Michael said, his voice steady but thoughtful. “She taught me to be kind, to be useful. Helpful in any way I could—whether it was something big or small. Her rule was: take action. Don’t just stand there waiting for someone to tell you what needs to be done. If you see it, do it.”

Michael said, his voice softening a bit and tinkering with the now half-built shelf, fitting a wooden panel into place. “There was this time when I was a kid—my friend and I were messing around with his BB gun, and he ended up getting shot in the torso. It was lodged in there, and he was too scared to tell his parents because we weren’t supposed to be playing with it”

You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “What did you do?”

“I panicked, but then I remembered her rule. I went into full rescue mode. I kept running back and forth through my house grabbing supplies—Band-Aids, peroxide, even tweezers. My mom was yelling, ‘What are you doing?’ and I just kept saying, ‘Emergency!’”

You laughed quietly, picturing a younger version of him in full crisis mode.

“Long story short,” he continued, “she was proud of me for wanting to help him, but also told me, very clearly, to leave it to the professionals. And right then and there, I knew I wanted to be one of them.”

He looked over at you.

“What about you? What made you want to be a teacher?”

You stopped stirring, turning the burner to low before resting the spoon on the edge of the pot. And grabs bowls from the cabnit.

“Kind of the same thing, I guess,” you say. “I just knew as a kid I always wanted to be good and do good. I thought I could do that by being a teacher. Impacting kids, inspiring them. I remembered how some of my favorite teachers made me feel… seen, safe, like I mattered. I wanted to do the same for someone else.”

“Look at us—working two of the most underrated, underappreciated, and undervalued professions,” he laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me about it,” you said, cracking a tired smile as you scooped rice into the bowls.

“The food’s done. Come eat,” you called over your shoulder.

Michael paused mid-screw on the shelf, then set down the tool and picked up his beer. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

He made his way into the kitchen, peering into the pot with interest.

“Red beans and rice,” you said, ladling it into bowls. “It’s a Louisiana dish. I’ve got family down there. This is kind of my go-to comfort food.”

“Smells good,” he said, taking the bowl from you with a nod. “Thank you.”

—

The two of you sat at your island table like the first time the two of you had dinner, natural conversation flowing between you. Eventually, you both cleaned up the kitchen and made your way to the living room. Michael returned to the half-built shelf, you helping this time, passing him screws, holding panels steady, the quiet kind of teamwork that made the space feel warmer.

“How long have you been with Aiden?” Not looking at you right away, his focus on aligning two wooden panels.

You paused, caught a little off guard by the question, but not in a bad way.

“Since college,” you said, handing him a screw. “That was a different time though.”

He glanced over at you then, curious but not prying.

“Different how?” he asked, his tone careful, curious.

“We’ve changed a lot, I guess…” you said, your voice briefly tinged with sadness. But you quickly deflected, flashing a teasing grin and adding, “Not as young as we used to be.”

You mirror his earlier words, throwing them back at him when he had stopped to rest while carrying the box up the stairs.

He notices the brief shift in your mood but doesn’t push, sensing you’re not ready to dive into the heavier stuff. He figured maybe Aiden had been the one to change since then.

Instead, he chuckles, the sound light and familiar. “Says the 25-year-old. If you’re old, then what does that make me?”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Ancient? A fossil? Practically prehistoric?”

He lets out a sigh and shakes his head “You wounded me.”

After finishing up the shelf, you both set it carefully in the corner of your living room.

“Now I have a place to house my books and not leave them lying around,” you say, stepping back to admire the shelf.

He crosses his arms, looking at the shelf with a proud nod. “Well, look at that. Mission accomplished.”

You glance over at him, your expression softening. “Thank you, Michael, can I repay you?

“Hey, you paid for my manual labor in beer and food, so we’re even.”

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. “Okay, so pay you in food and beer—got it. Noted for future reference.”

He picks up his bag off the floor, signaling that he’s heading back across the hall, giving you a mock-serious look. “I expect my shelf to be filled with books and knick-knacks and whatnot.”

You give a mock salute. “I promise, it’ll be a shelf worth showing off.” The two of you walk toward the door.

You pause at the threshold, glancing at him with a soft smile. “Good night.” He says.

“Good night, Michael.”

With a final, lingering glance, he steps out into the evening, and you close the door behind you. You heart feels warm.

Tags: tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967 @lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep

Across The Hall (1) (2) (3)

[myfictionaldreams]

Would you maybe consider writing something about buckynat x reader again? Maybe something along the lines of reader being a little insecure in the relationship and really trying to find her place with Bucky and Nat? Maybe it ends with some super sweet spice and reader in subspace?

Idk but that's what I'm thinking! I love all of your works so literally anything you write, I will be sat and ready to read!!

⁀➷ Where You Belong // Bucky/Nat x F!Reader

Summary: You've always felt like the extra piece in a perfect puzzle—especially when that puzzle is made up of Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff. But after a slow spiral of self-doubt, Bucky and Nat remind you just how perfectly you fit between them. And when they do, they don’t hold back.

Part one

Requested by: Thank you so much for the lovely request (all those months ago)! I hope you liked it!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, self-doubt, comfort, dom bucky/nat, oral, sub reader, subspace, multiple orgasms, aftercare

Words: 1.8k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

Falling in love had been as easy as breathing, and yet as restricting as a boa constrictor around your chest. Where excitement bloomed, insecurities festered.

At first, it was just late-night lunches delivered to the weapons floor, quiet coffees in the lounge. You were the one who printed out reports, staying until the rest of your colleagues at Avengers Towers' corporate level returned home, just to make sure your work was completed.

This was where you first ran into Natasha, or rather, she ran into you, head first, until you’re slumped on the floor. One trip to the medical bay later, you’re introduced to her boyfriend, Bucky - of course, you already knew who he was, much like the rest of the world.

It was safe to say there was no one else you’d made quite a spark with before. Friendly conversations turned into evening hangouts, and spending every possible moment together.

It still didn’t make sense to you–how two assassins, legends and Avengers, found comfort in a soft-spoken office girl who cried at dog commercials and couldn’t even hold a gun properly.

And even now, months after that night, when the lights flickered out and friends became something more with comforting hands, lips, and bodies colliding together with the admittance of feelings, the uncertainty lingered. It seemed you were just waiting to be left behind. 

You had tried not to let it show. You smile when they tease each other and share stories from missions you weren’t there for. The intimacy you allowed yourself to enjoy because, well, who wouldn’t want their kisses and touches? Even if a voice in your head told you that you’re a temporary fixture in a relationship that was already stable before you’d even begun working in the Avengers Tower.

One detail that you had brushed over was their profession. Assassins had to be vigilant, you mean, it’s a key skill for them to have. So Natasha notices. Bucky feels the reluctance.

They wait until a night when you’re home late, kicking off your shoes and shrugging off your coat with a tired smile, only to stop dead at the sight of both of them waiting in the kitchen. Too quiet, casual, gentle smiles that should be reassuring, but had you feeling defensive and fragile.

Natasha speaks first. “You’ve been quiet, Milaya”. Darling. The comfort of the nickname is momentarily there.

“Been pulling away from us, Doll”, Bucky begins to cross the room.

“I’m just tired. Work’s been crazy-”

“No,” Nat says softly, slipping off the counter. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to us.”

You try to swallow the tears burning your throat. “I just–. I don’t know where I fit in here.”

Bucky’s arms wrap around your shoulders, unable to watch your pain anymore. “You fit right here, baby. Always have.”

“I’m not like you two; You have all this history. You’re heroes. I make coffee and file reports.”

Natasha's arms wind around your waist as she presses against your back. “You are not less. You are everything.”

They take you to bed like you’re something sacred. Wanting–No, needing to show how much they care for you.

The bedroom was already decorated with dim, warm mood lighting, scented with lavender, and soft music filled the silence. Natasha undresses you slowly, her fingers lingering on your hips, your thighs, your ribs, like she’s mesmerising every inch and leaving a trail of heat behind.

“You’ve been in your head too long,” she whispers, cupping your cheeks and pressing her forehead to yours. “Let us take you out of it. Let us remind you why you are our best friend and girlfriend. Why you are ours, just as we are yours.”

Bucky nods from perched on the edge of the bed, “Let us take care of you.”

In a sweet daze, having been wholly blindsided by the evening's activities, you nod, “Okay.”

The first night that you were intimate with Natasha and Bucky, it had been with desperate touches, frantic and heated. Tonight was different. Tender, slow touches that held just as much intensity and passion as the first night.

Bucky has you pinned to the bed, your hands above your head, kissing you deep and slow, mouths moving perfectly together in sync, tongues brushing against one another just to get a little taste.

Natasha is out of sight, but you can feel her between your thighs, her fingers spreading you open.

“You’re already so wet, baby,” she groans in excitement. “You want this, don’t you?”

You moan in response, unable to answer in words, but only because Bucky’s tongue is in your mouth. Your back arches as her tongue licks a stripe up your centre, making sure to fill her mouth with your taste.

Bucky keeps you grounded, whispering praises in your ear. “You’re perfect. So good for us. You don’t have to think. Just feel.”

Natasha’s tongue is relentless. Hot, wet circles around your clit, two fingers cluring inside you in perfect rhythm. You’re already trembling, struggling to keep your thighs parted, but Natasha knows that, knows what all of your whimpers and mewls mean as she holds your thighs firmly spread.

They don’t stop.

That’s when the intensity begins. It had happened twice before, and the sensation was slowly building in your body.

Nat doesn’t let up even when you cum. She barely pauses, groaning against you like you’re her favourite meal, lapping up the droplets of squirt that you couldn’t hold back. Natasha's hands become firmer, holding your upper body down as you squirm.

“One more,” she says, voice silky and rough. “Give us another. Make me work for my dinner.”

And you do. You orgasm again with a broken cry, Nat’s mouth not missing a single drop as she licks and slurps with renewed excitement.

The sensation intensifies. Your body feels as if it's floating off the mattress, and your muscles go limp. Those negative, self-destructive thoughts slow down.

They are not done.

Bucky lifts your body into his lap as he sits against the headboard. He’s able to move your body for you, lowering your hips as he penetrates you with his thick cock. You’re trembling, brain cottony, too far gone to do more than cling and beg.

“Shh,” Bucky reassures, rocking his hips until you’re both flush. “You’re doing so well. Look at you, Doll. Taking me so good.”

Your head falls back, resting against Natasha’s chest from where she kneels behind. Her hand cups your cheek, a touch that has you nuzzling into as your hips continue to rock in time with Bucky’s gently. “She’s there,” Natasha remarks to Bucky. “She’s gone all soft for us.”

A pathetic little mewl purrs from your throat as your eyes drop close, barely processing the words.

Subspace is like sinking into a warm ocean. Every sound muffled, every touch magnified. You’re floating. Safe. Free. Wanted. The only thought was the two individuals who were caring for you.

They never pushed too far when you’re in this headspace, just enough.

All you’re able to do is let them move you, care for you, touch you. Natasha’s hand over your chest, grounding you, Bucky’s body wrapped around yours, filling you so deeply you can’t breathe right. But you don’t want to breathe right. You want to stay here forever.

In this headspace, there's no saying how many orgasms you have. You stop trying to speak. Everything is sensation and guidance from your lovers.

“That’s our good girl. You take us so well.”

“Such a pretty thing.  Safe now. You’re safe.”

“You’re ours. You’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.”

The bath is warm. The steam curling around your flushed skin, softening the edges of your floating mind. Natasha is behind you in the water, her arms around your waist, breasts pressed to your back as she kisses your shoulder again and again. Bucky kneels beside the tub, gently running a washcloth over your chest, dipping it into the water every few seconds.

“You’re so well for us, Milaya. We’ve got you,” Nat reassures, her voice swimming through the haze.

Opening your eyes, you turn from Bucky to Nat, blinking slowly. Bucky's metal fingers tip your chin back in his direction. “You don’t have to talk yet. Just breathe. You’re with us and you’re safe.”

It takes a while. Longer than usual for your mind to function even remotely close to normality. The silence is only broken by gentle splashes and quiet humming from Nat and reassuring squeezes of your calf by Bucky. Eventually, your lashes flutter, and you blink repeatedly, eyes still glassy but more focused than before.

“You back with us, baby?” Nat asks, kissing your jawline.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just floaty.”

Bbucky leans forward, bending over the tub to kiss your forehead, his stubble scratching against your skin. “That’s okay. You were deep. You let go so beautifully.”

Your bottom lip trembles as your body begins to react more to your surroundings, which are fully present and hot, and the emotions surge like an overwhelming wave. “I didn’t mean to go that far, I just-”

Nat hushes you immediately, arms tightening. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s what we wanted. For you to feel safe enough to let go.”

“You were perfect,” Bucky encourages. Brushing his thumb against your cheek. “We knew that you needed, and you trusted us to give it.  That means everything to us, Doll.”

“I want you to listen carefully to us, ok?” Natasha requests, her tone hardening slightly. “We didn’t bring you into our lives just for fun. We love you. We’ve loved you for a long time, even before that night with the power cut. You’re the part that we didn’t realise was missing.”

“You love me?” Your breath catches, tears filling your vision.

Bucky lets out a quiet laugh, a grin spreading across his face. “Of course we do. So damn much.”

“We are a trio. We move together, we love together. You’re not on the outside just because of your job. You’re ours because of who you are as a person.”

Once the tears began to slip down your cheeks, you could not hold back, but Bucky was there to catch every single one.

“Hey, it’s alright. Happy tears?” he questions.

You nod, biting your lip to hold back the sob building in your chest.

“Good,” he reassures, leaning over to kiss the tip of your nose as you sniffle. “Because you’re stuck with us now, I’m afraid, Doll.”

“Forever,” Natasha adds, kissing the side of your face.

“I love you,” you rush the words out, sounding more like a prayer than a declaration of your feelings.

“We know,” Natasha reassures, continuing to hold your body.

You remain there until you’re sure your body is completely pruned. As much as you’d been in your head for so long, there was no doubt in your mind that they loved you.

[musingsofheaven]

BLESS THIS MESS

summary: cruel intentions inspired but make it stanford, tennis and country clubs. pretty lies, perfect masks, and a bet between the two of them that’s will lead into something more deeper.

pairings: art donaldson!sebastian valmont/lucien belmont x reader!kathryn/caroline merteuil.

warnings: 4.6k words. mature themes. non-biological step-siblings. emotional manipulation. power imbalance. voyeurism. recorded sexual acts. sexual self-indulgence. toxic relationship dynamics. d/s undertones. morally gray behavior.

note: this one’s been living in my head rent-free ever since i rewatched the movie. i swear i’m not like them (promise), but i love writing about fucked-up people. so i might keep this going. (if people like it) should i make a specific tag for it? (and reposted… the last one is shadowbanned.)

Introducing… Reader!Kathryn/Caroline Merteuil. You’re the sweetest girl at Stanford. Everyone says so. Because how could they not say that? You just have that face that people… People feel comfortable being with, the one people trust. That soft, approachable, pretty, not intimidating… God no! You don’t even have a resting bitch face, and not too sexy, just right. Your lips? Always glossed but not over-lined and not messy. Never messy. Your lashes curled, and you even have extensions, but not the kind that will cover your beautiful eyes. You have a smile on your whole face like you mean it. You practiced smiling perfectly so that people don’t know it’s fake. You smile and pretend you don’t know what they want from you.

You RSVP early, you make them feel special because, aw, you remembered! You send handwritten notes using an expensive pen and it shows how expensive it is. You bake when you’re stressed, of course, you know how to bake. Your mother made you take lessons for it to cure your boredom because she couldn’t give you attention. Making the actual shit from scratch and leaving extras in the kitchen like some fairy. You show up to worship on Sundays with a notebook in your designer bag and you make sure that your hair is fixed enough to show your face like you’re ready to listen, to repent, to believe.

You wear dresses that hug your curves and touch past your thighs. It looks sweet, but not slutty, never slutty… unless it’s for parties. But not much that your soul will show. You love that beige heels. Don’t start with pink nails… always your color. Not a single hair tie on your wrist, that looks cheap. You are not cheap. When you hug people, you mean it. Or do you? Maybe you are rolling your eyes behind their back when you hug them. When you speak, you’re careful. You don’t want the wrong people to hear you talking shit, right? You never drink too much. You don’t black out drunk like other girls. Pretty girls know how to handle their liquor, you always say. Never talk too loud. The whole world doesn’t need to hear your voice. Never post anything that could get you called out, or canceled. Your digital footprint is so squeaky clean, that it makes your stalkers angry when they can’t find anything about you.

You are, to put it simply, perfect.

And the thing about being perfect is? Everyone wants a piece of you.

They want to be you.

Or they want to be inside you.

Either works.

It’s not old news to you when you overheard that line because it happened more than once, blurt out like a joke but meant like a prayer.

“Dude, I’d sell a kidney to fuck her.”

“I wanna be her or be in her. I don’t even care which. Is that too lesbian to say?”

“She’s, like… wife material. Just look at her. But she’s also…? Kind of terrifying.”

You always play dumb. You love to make people think you’re some dumb girl. You just tilt your head. Blink at the words you are hearing. You give a sweet smile like you don’t know what they’re talking about. That’s part of it. That’s what makes it work because you act clueless.

You are the definition of classy. Elegant. Polished. That’s what they call you. The kind of girl their moms would trust because of how you present yourself and how your reputation reflects and their daughters side-eye in secret because your name has been brought up to compare to them when they do shit and their mother found out. They think you run your sorority because you're kind, you’re a leader, and you’re inspirational. Well…

They think your power comes from being likable. That’s adorable. So fucking cute.

It’s hidden behind the curtains how you move every piece like a chess. They don’t see the way how you play girls off each other while you hand them the tissues because they teared up. You knew they would cry because you made sure to hit the right spots. The way you just play dumb and act you like don’t see how those stupid frat boys humiliate themselves just to talk, sit, or get a piece of you. You will hear those girls change their tone when they asked how you do it, meaning, how you stay so nice, so cool, so together, and you just bat your lashes and smile like you are saying that it’s a secret, like it’s luck, like you didn’t a personal notes, journal, or board to plan every goddamn inch of it. Maybe people will tell you to have OCD when they discover how obsessed you are with details when you plan something.

Because being the perfect girl? That’s not luck.

It’s precision. It’s strategy. It’s control.

But hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Like they don’t know that you blackmailed three girls off your rush list this rush season alone. It didn’t cause any scandal, not really. It didn’t happen accidentally. You pulled the trigger as if you already knew the weight of consequences, you don’t have consequences, only them because they fucked you up.

The first girl? She just happened to hook up with one of your girls' boyfriends. What a home wrecker. She’s sloppy, too sloppy. She left with hickeys and even got caught on someone’s finsta at 3AM in his hoodie, sneaking out of the house in Rowan Neighbourhood. Such a reckless girl. What's worse is you don’t enjoy it much because you don’t have to dig for that one. You just watched your sister cry in the bathroom stall and thought, what a shame that bitch did that to your girl. She would’ve looked cute in your color if she got accepted. But the betrayal? Off brand. You don’t need another stress. So you crossed her off the list with a note beside her name saying she’s a home wrecker bitch. Sent her that cute letter of yours saying that she’s “not the right fit.” Before you sent your sister’s cheating ex-boyfriend a screen recording of her DMing one of the frat pledges two nights later. You have to put a little extra touch.

Oh don’t get started with the second girl. It’s humiliating when you find out. She had an academic record from high school that looked clean, too good to be true. Your guts just told you something is wrong so you ran it through the software your ex-boyfriend built you to find dirt about someone. Cheating scandal. What in the hell? Almost expelled for buying an exam answer key from a user from Reddit. As usual, covered up. By who? Her parents. Use a donation move. Money is power. But you smiled when you found it. Nothing screams “walking scandal” like an academic shady record before you even step into college. Of course, you could be a little bit dramatic. You printed out the report you found and put it in her rush envelope with a sticky note, a pink one, saying, “Maybe next year.” You don’t want girls who cheat in your circle anyway.

Ah. The last one. Well, this is kind of funny and petty. She clumsily spilled a full glass of red wine on your white silk Valentino at a welcome dinner for the rush. You noticed the nervous hands. Shaking apology. Hm. You didn’t yell even yell, didn’t scream at her face even if you wanted to, didn’t even flinch. Just smiled with teeth… nodding before you said, “Don’t worry about it.” Then her name was gone off the list the moment the dinner was over. That dress was custom-made only for you. She was clumsy. It will be funny if it’s not on a special day or when you won’t get humiliated. It’s not that deep, you know that, but deep enough to be memorable, enough to remember the stains on your dress. People don’t like humiliation especially when you have an image in that place. If you let one girl get away with embarrassing you in public by just acknowledging and accepting her awful apology, the rest will start to think they can too. You can’t have that. Never.

You didn’t lie. Well, not that they can catch your lie, right? You didn’t threaten. Not in a way they can pick up that it’s a threat you are saying. You didn’t even raise your voice.

You just let them spiral on their own.

Stanford runs on the image. Reputation. Control. You don’t want to be a social suicide. Ew. You don’t just maintain yours, you crochet it little by little like a kid needs a hobby to focus on. Your hands are clean, it’s like you wear expensive princess gloves just not to let them get dirty. Your hands? They never touch anything directly. Everything goes through someone else because they are desperate to do your favors. You let everyone else dirty theirs trying to reach you.

Because you’re the girl everyone wants to be.

Or be inside.

Or both.

And they will never know how ugly it gets underneath.

Except him.

And when something calls for a messier touch?

You have Art.

Your stepbrother, unfortunately. Stanford’s favorite golden boy. Tennis prodigy. He’s good to the point you will wish he would shove his racket inside you and rearrange your guts. Even he walks in soft clothes, all sweat and baby curls, and the kind of smile that every grandmother loves? Expect that people are giving him the fuck me eyes. But he’s yours. Not officially, not publicly. He’s yours in all the ways that count. He knows that too.

He follows you. Lapdog is the word you will describe him. Too eager to please you. Too desperate. You use that in your favor. You send him out like a dog in heat. He fucks who you tell him to fuck. Mostly the girls from your list. Sometimes the ones you hate. And he records them. What a sick fuck, people will say if they know it.

Not for blackmail. (Okay, sometimes for blackmail.)

You give him the name and a smile. Sometimes it’s just a text saying, “Kappa legacy. Show me if she moans loud enough compared to when she's talking shit about me.”

What’s good about him is he does. He always does.

The first time he sent you the video of the girl you asked him to ruin, the video was shaky, awful quality, and loud. You watched it once. Just once. That’s it. But you saved it.

Now there’s a folder named, “Summer files.” Lame folder name but with a history behind it. One summer when the first time he… yeah. But it’s password-protected. Only you and him have access.

You know that sometimes he fuck around in and out of campus not just for the blackmail anymore, just because. But mostly for you. For your eyes. For your enjoyment. Because he knows what it does to you. He finds it hot, and he gets off by it. Just because you like seeing it.

He’s aware you watch them at night. Your hand under your panties. Legs spread in your sheets, head thrown back while you’re flicking your pretty fingers with pink-colored nails over your clit as he fucks some girl in the recording with a camera angled just right. Sometimes, he looks straight into his phone when he’s inside them. It’s like he’s pretending it’s you. Like he’s thinking about you when he groans, low and pretty, when he holds back a whimper. His hand gripping their hip while they whine like they’re the lucky ones. Oh, they’re not. You enjoy watching those girls fall apart over someone you can control with your fingers around his throat and your voice in his ear.

But it’s not about them. It never is. And will never be.

You exactly get it. So much. You want the girls fucked up by him in a deeply perverted, obsessive, deranged way. Like the videos aren’t about the girls, not really. It’s more like the girls are just props for him to use while he lets her watch the position she wants to be in. Lucky them. And him? You want him sweaty and wrecked and yours, even when he’s inside someone else’s cunt.

She doesn’t cum despite him fucking other girls—she gets off on it. It’s fucked up way to get yourself to work. You can’t just fight your morals when you are watching your screen when he’s inside someone else, working her open, making her cry, and none of it means anything. Because it’s not about the girls. The girls are just there so she can watch him. Just wet holes, nothing more than meat to show off what you trained him to do. The way he fucks now? The way he groans? Chokes? Slams into them just right? That’s not natural. That’s how you like to be fucked by him. He’s just practicing it through other girls because you don’t let him do it in you.

That’s your voice in his head, your grip still ghosting his throat. He can still hear your words when he manages to get a little taste of you. He learned all that from you. And now he performs it like a dream, putting on a show for the only person who matters. You. It’s not arousing because he’s with someone else, it’s arousing because he’s still yours while doing it.

Every thrust is proof. Every moan is your reward. He could be inside a thousand different girls, and it wouldn’t matter, not as long as you’re the one watching. That’s what makes you come and shake until your thighs hurt. That’s what makes you pant and twitch and grind your slick fingers between your legs, gliding it between your slit while his voice cracks in the dark of your room while you are listening to him through the tapes he sent you. He’s fucking them, sure. But he’s doing it for you.

The fun part is when you watch them with him too, sometimes. Not always. In your room. On your laptop. He’s always fidgety when he’s watching it beside you like he’s anxious. His leg bounces like he’s gonna lose his mind because you are too close.

It’s quiet. The only thing you can hear is the sounds from your laptop. No touching. He’s so desperate to do it though. No talking. He doesn’t need it. Just you, legs crossed, eyes on the screen, biting your thumb like you’re bored. Some poor girl cries his name into the sheets like it’s a prayer while he’s thrusting deep inside her and pushing the girl’s head on the pillow. Mean.

You think he likes that? You think he likes being watched by you. No… scratch that, you know he does.

After all, he’s the only one who sees how dirty it all gets. How unhinged you can be.

You make the rules. He breaks them. For you. Always for you.

You tell yourself it’s about the power. The control. The game. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. It’s about him. It’s always been about him. The way his back flexes when he fucks. You can see the muscles and you just want to scratch that back. The way he grips their hips like he’s afraid they’ll float away. It made you think how he will hold your hips. Will he make it bruised so you will remember it? Will he hold it tight as he slams his cock deep into you so you won’t move around and he can fuck you the way he likes? The sweat on his neck, you want to lick that. The flush on his chest. The way his jaw clenches and his voice catches when he’s close. You know when he’s really close, when he’s orgasming for real. No fake grunts, not performance, but real, guttural, cracked-open moans that only you know how to read. You don’t even need sound anymore. You can see it all in his face.

You’ve watched the tapes. All of them. You don’t miss a video. It’s like when he put another video in the shared folder? You will quickly get notified. You have favorites that you watch more than once. (One of your favorite is when he fuck one girl from your sorority and he have the nerve to fuck her in your sheet) Some so many times you’ve memorized the order of his thrusts. And it’s not to study them. Not anymore. You study him. You know every vein on his cock, it’s disgusting the way you zoom it when you are watching the video. You know every freckle on his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers when he’s holding back. Every time he glances into the lens, you know exactly who he’s thinking about. It’s not her. It’s you.

He doesn’t touch the girls the way he touches you. They don’t get that treatment from him. But you do. You can tell when he’s faking it. When he’s fucking just because he’s trying to finish what she said to him, hips moving just enough to pass, eyes flat, mind somewhere else. The way he looks more on the camera. And you know exactly where that somewhere else is because that’s when you’ve been texting him. (He always message you when he’s going to start recording in his phone. You both don’t video call, no. He just records on his phone while you send them) During. Sometimes just one word at a time: slower. say her name. touch her throat. good boy. No emojis. No punctuation. You know he can see the messages in his notifications even though the sounds are silent. Just on vibrate. And he does it. Of course he does. Because he knows you’re watching.

When he nods, just barely, just enough to let you know he got the message although you don’t see it. You squeeze your thighs together and whimper without sound because you can only imagine what’s he’s doing with the girl. After all, he will only show the tapes after he fucked them.

The girls don’t matter. They never did. Why would they even matter to you? They’re faceless, replaceable , nothing but background noise to frame the real subject. He’s the center. The reason. Your brother. Your masterpiece.

Sometimes you come before he does when both of you watches it together. Bite the inside of your wrist just to stay quiet, panting into your sheets while he’s still pounding into someone else in the background of your laptop like it means something. And still, you keep watching. You like it too much. You don’t look away. You can’t. Just. Can’t. You don’t come for her. You don’t even come for you. You come for him. For the way his rhythm falls apart when he’s close. For the way he bites his lip like he’s trying to hold your name back. For the fantasy you’ve fed yourself so many times it feels like truth���that he’s not really fucking her at all. He’s fucking you, just through someone else’s body, just until you finally let him have the real thing.

You know he wants it. He yearns of it. Its’s too obvious anyway. You see it in how eager he is to please. To perform. Sometimes you just want to tease him about starting an OF because he basically has the talent for it. To be good for you. He thinks you’re the camera. But no. You’re the mirror. He’s always been looking into you.

And god, you love it. You love being the reason. The center of him being crazy. The god behind the curtain, legs sticky, heart steady, watching your perfect boy ruin someone else just to make you feel something. You’re not the audience. You’re the director. The producer. The pervert in the front row, getting off behind the curtain like it’s a private showing just for you. And you. do get off every time.

And the worst part? You don’t even feel guilty.

You feel alive.

And sometimes, only sometimes, you reward him.

Like the night he got that footage of the girl you couldn’t stand. You loved that one. He did a good job. She ended up whining and babbling through her orgasm like a dumb little puppy in his tape. You let him stay over that night. Pulled him into your bed. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t kiss him. You just tugged his shorts down and stroked his dick off while still watching the screen with you.

It’s filthy. Your hand is slick with his pre cum. So wet like a girl. Your eyes never leave the video. The girl crying. Him pounding her cunt from the back. You? Silent while rewarding him for a job well done.

You didn’t even look at his face until he came. You just run and circled your thumb on the slit of his tip while squeezing his cock. And him? He bit your neck a little too hard afterward. He even left a hickey, but you let him. He earned it.

He thinks he’s the corrupted one.

Thinks he’s the problem.

Thinks he’s dark for wanting you to see all of it. For wanting you to see him.

But that’s the joke.

He was already fucked before you. He’s already messed up. You know it. He knows it. You just made him honest about it. You made him embrace it around you. Taught him how to weaponize it. How to use it to his advantage. Put a mirror to his want and made him stare until he broke skin. It’s not sex. Not really. Just control. Yours. Always.

And maybe that’s why he comes to you that night like he’s got something to offer. (He always has, sometimes you just made hints feel he doesn’t) Like he’s got chips to play with when he’s already flat on the floor, bleeding out beneath your heel like a bunny that has been abandoned by his owner.

He leans in, smelling like cigarette smoke and some girl’s perfume he never even touched. Voice low like a secret, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers like a hedge in a fucking movie, and says, “About that little wager of yours?”

There’s that twitch in your smile. The one you trained to look polite. Your eyes twinkled. Curiosity sparkling. But you know. You fucking know, he’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet. He never does. And that’s the part that turns you on the most. Both of you like to play.

“Count me in,” he adds, with that cocky smirk that means he thinks he’s a game changer in this. Thinks he’s playing the game like you didn’t design the fucking whole thing, put the puzzles together, and made it possible to happen.

You don’t answer right away. You just hum while you trace the neck of your wineglass in a slow and lazy motion. You tilt your head like you’re thinking of continuing it or not. He stares. He always stares. You were made to be looked at.

“What are the terms?” he finally asks, and god, even his voice sounds fucked. Like it’s straining to stay casual. Like he’s grounding himself. Like it’s already halfway into a whimper. He always seems trying to hold back a moan when he’s around you is he not?

“If I win…” you start, and then you leave it. Just hang it in the air like a mystery. Heavy. Sticky. Sweet. Enough to tease him and you can already see it on his expression. The way his mouth parts a little and nods.

Then you finish it, “Then that hot little car of yours is mine.” Yeah, you know he loves it so much because it comes from his father.

He goes still, thinking, thinking, and thinking while jaw twitching, tongue pushing against his inside cheek like he’s trying to process it. Tries to act cool. Fails. You see it all, the flicker in his eyes, the pulse in his neck. You can see him getting worked up. Angry? Irritated.

“And if I win?” he manages, voices rough and deep.

You lean in like you’re gonna kiss him. Face inches close to him. But you don’t. You just stay close to him. You just breathe across his cheek and lean more so you can whisper in his ear, “I’ll give you what you’ve been obsessing about ever since our parents got married.”

And that? That’s the piece of chess you don’t say with a smirk. You say it flat. Mean. Nonchalant. Almost mocking. Like truth.

He stiffens, and you swear you can feel the temperature shift. Maybe he’s just turning you on.

“Be more specific,” he says, but it sounds like begging. He always begs.

You laugh. “In English…”

“I’ll fuck your brains out,” you smirk at him, almost testing him if he will quickly agree. He always does. Always. You feel like you wouldn’t be persuading him that much.

Silence. But not the empty kind. The kind that crackles. The kind that begs.

He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just somewhere near your mouth. “What makes you think I’d go for that bet?”

You shrug like it’s boring. Like it’s easy. He always agrees to the bet. Especially that price? She knows how badly he wants to fuck her in her pussy, deep, and her clenching him around his cock. She knows he dreamt of it.

“That’s a 1956 Jaguar roadster.” He huffs a laugh, but it sounds hollow. Like he’s already halfway to yes.

You tilt your head and say it. “Because I’m the only person you can’t have, and it kills you.”

That gets him. Gets him good. You watch it happen, his throat working around nothing, his fingers twitching, the way his knees shift like he wants to crawl under the table and beg. He masks it with a defensive “No way.”

But you lean back. Spread your legs just slightly beneath the table like it’s a reflex. Like you want him to look. Like you want him to lose. You even lift your skirt a little so he can see enough of your see-through panties that are hugging your cunt, which made your clit can’t breathe.

“You can put it anywhere.”

And that’s the fucking break. That’s when he snaps.

His mouth parts, eyes going blown black, and he breathes the words out like a fucking prayer.

“You got yourself a bet, baby.”

And just like that, you win again.

You don’t feel guilty. Not when you’re the one he wants. Not when every girl he touches is just a poor man’s version of you, so easy, so grateful, so forgettable. You don’t feel guilty because he’s the one sending you videos at 2 a.m., saying her name with your face in his head. Because he comes back to you every time, he always does even when he’s pretending not to. Even when he’s fucking someone else, he’s thinking of you.

You don’t feel guilty because you’re not the sidepiece, you’re the goddamn center of him. And you know it. You count on it. Let them call it twisted. Let them say it’s cruel. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. Because what you have is bigger than guilt, bigger than shame, it’s power, and it’s permanent. He’ll never shake you. Not when every orgasm is a confession. Not when every breakdown has your name buried in it. You don’t feel guilty. You just get horny and turned on.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[aespabangedbang]

SULLyOON NANNyOON HONEyOON

Writer's Note : Wanted to write about Sullyoon for a long time, here it is.

Tags : DUB CON, I wrote it a while ago so forgot the tags.

Warning : Anyone who have an issue should see a doctor about their inability to fuck.

Word Count : 2125 words of submission and happily ever after!

I am a 23 year old successful manhwaga, divorced and now a single father of a daughter named Sera. Yeah, I had a wild teenage life. But that immaturity costing me now. My wife and first love left me for wealth 2 years ago after Sera's birth, I was poor back then. Devasted, heartbroken and helpless those day's memory brings the better taste back as I wake me, really distasteful.

Sullyoon, the 21 years old nanny of my daughter and household helper came even before I woke up, now taking care of my Sera. She is from a poor family otherwise surely she could become a Kpop idol with her tall, toned and curvy figure with a doll-like face that turns all heads.

Some even mistake her for Sera’s mother, she is that close to her. She has a caring, sweet, shy and kind soul. I am grateful to her for taking care of Sera and keeping my life hassle free. A part of my success is thanks to her dedication to my little family.

But my peaceful life is threatened by her family's arranged marriage for her. My life got messed once, I am not letting that happen twice. “I want you, beside me, as my daughter's mom, forever.” I mutter as I am devouring her sexy body in tights and cropped hoodie from behind, her toned abs are looking appetizing. She is busy playing with my daughter.

The lingering need for her and my years depraved hunger for sex is increasing my lust every sec. Today I will make her mine, by hook or by crook. I also write erotic pornhwa in a different pen name, I am going to use that shady side and expertise of mine today.

I wait till Sully makes Sera asleep and goes to do houseworks. I creep behind her, Sully almost screams suddenly seeing me behind. I calmly thank her for her service for the last 2 years. She politely says it's just her job. I don't beat around the bush and directly say that I want her beside me, as Sera’s mom for the rest of our life.

Sullyoon’s eyes palpate hearing me as if she really wants it deep inside, but she declines politely saying she is now engaged. I grab her face hard and look eye to eye, I say it's not a request. She has to be Sera’s mom, or my life will get ruined again. She just have to say yes, I will manage her family!

She shakes her head sideways to say no, it's time for the crooked approch. I lock my lips with her in a sudden forced kiss. My tongue going inside her mouth, my teeth biting her lips drawing blood. She tries to break free, but my grip behind her head is strong. My other hand is exploring her butt creek with my finger, her soft boobs squished against my chest.

I only let her go once she started whimpering and sobbing. She tries to run away with her shaking body but I hug her tightly from behind and drag her back to the living room and press her on the sofa. My lips lock her again, my hands under her crop hoodie squeezing her perky firm boobs.

She tries to stop me but I easily overpower her both hand with my one hand, the other one busy trying to undress her. She starts begging to stop me, says that she is still a virgin, she can't disappoint her family. She tries to fight back kicking, but I got between her legs. My bulged cock pressing against her wet crotch.

She bites on my hand, but my rude hard slap with other hand on her blushed face makes it redder. I hiss at her pulling her hair and tell that I will make sure her family have no other options but to give her to me. Sully’s teary eyes gets stunned, she understand my plan immediately. There are many cameras around my house.

Specially the living room is packed with 5 camera to keep an eye on Sera. Having sex here with me mean I can use that footage to break her marriage. Her family is poor, they can't fight aginst me in the court and marry her to someone else after that will be impossible. So giving her to me is the only option that will be left for them.

I don't have consent for this oppa, it's rape! Please stop! We can think something�� She tries to convince me while sobbing but I don't let her finish. I kiss her again, sucking the tangy taste of her bloody lips. Like a blood sucking demon I look at her and say, it's ok Sully. I will give you a life full of happiness and abundance, just endure today’s discomfort.

Ignoring her gradually weakening protest, I keep undressing her like a Christmas gift on the mat where she was playing with Sera even a moment ago. She is even more beautiful up close and naked. Her body is a piece of art, those supple boobs and ass, thick thighs, hourglass thin waist and her shaved wet juicy pussy that's really like a plump ripe peach! Her face is dripping with uncharted beauty. Sullyoon is mine, this virgin beauty is only for me to take and devour.

I lower my face on her pussy, I can't wait to eat her big muffin anymore. I make a big bite, taking as much as I can of her finely shaped pussy. She tries to stifle her moan, but can't as my tongue darting inside and slurping her virgin juice. The musky scent of her pheromones, sweet pre cum and salty tasted sweat soaked crotch is already making me drunk!

I throw my shirt and pull my boxer down in a frenzy, virgin Sully looking at my 5 inch long but thick manhood with fear. I set my cock at her entrance in classic missionary position and just shove. Even with full wet arousal, she is so tight I can only go an inch or so. She screams in pain but I muffle her with both hand, don't wake up Sera Sully, I will fuck you anyway so it's no use.

After 4 hammering and agonizing inch by inch thrust I completely impale her with my cock, soon red blood starts leaking around her pussy and coating my cock. I tune down my pace and keep fucking her virgin pussy slowly. Her moaning mixed with pain and pleasure is like melody in my ears. Now that I am in and she is not fighting back I am trying not to put her in any more distress.

I lean on her, elbow on the ground as I am caressing her head while wiping her tears and snot. I say to her that it's ok Sullyoon, oppa have fallen in love with you, I will keep you safe and sound for the rest of our life. Please, just please don't leave us Ill fated father and daughter alone. You are the mom Sera needs, you are the wife I wish I had!

Sullyoon is barely moaning now as her pussy got stretched wide for my thick cock, the pain getting overwhelmed by carnal pleasure. She lock her beady big eyes with mine, lips pouty and shaking in a mix of polarizing emotions. Her sweaty face is looking so surreal like I can’t even believe such a beauty is in front of me!

Suddenly she grabs my hair and pull my head in for a kiss, that's the first time she reciprocated my so far questionable actions. My heart jump, is that a yes? She agrees to be a part of our family? Yes? The answer is obvious as she is now exploring my mouth, her lips still leaking some blood.

I didn't touch any girl for more than 2 years since my divorce. Now that she is willingly having sex with me, it makes me way too horny. I sped up, each of my thrust sending shivers down her body. I rise and put a cushion under her waist, then start jack hammering deep in her rapidly. My fingers rubbing her clit, I am hellbent to make her orgasm before I do.

She starts screaming out loud and her loud moaning is echoing through the room. Soon Sera’s cry come into our ears as she woke up from her soon to be mother's lovemaking. Maybe the shame send her over edge as Sullyoon come undone, her back arches, pussy spasming around my cock as her body quivering from her first ever orgasm. Her squirt drench her thighs, my cock, balls and stomach. I slow down, giving powerful thrusts that's drumming her ass with meat slapping sound.

In or out Sully? I ask her gently, she says it's not her safe time. Sigh, after few more thrusts I pull out and put my wet and bloody cock in front of her face. She doesn't want to suck but like hell I am gonna listen. I shove my cock in her mouth and start face fucking her like mad, using her pretty face like a cheap fleshlight. I masterbated months ago, so very thick and huge load of cum fill her innocent mouth, she starts coughing as cum spruts out her mouth and nose.

I order her to drink my sticky milk, she obediently gulp down all of it. I kiss her forehead lovingly as I help her sit up. Her flushed hot body melting in my embrace. But she rushes me saying Sera is crying. I help her quickly wiping her pussy, lips and face. She doesn't waste any time and run to Sera’s crib, though limping from a deflowered wounded pussy. Her delicious looking big ass suspending form her thin waist swaying around like pendulum. What a fine bitch she is!

I follow behind, of course I need a taste of that ass. She is busy changing Sera’s diaper while I bury my face in her ass, my tongue immediately started to rim her puckered hole while both hand spreading her butt cheeks apart. She is whining as it's hard for her to change Sera’s diaper while getting leaked in her ass. I say it's only natural that papa clean mama the same way mama clean Sera, right?

Sullyoon really tried to find a corner where she could run and hide from this shameless man but having no such option she only digest the erotic absurdity of mine, with a pouty face getting loved by a mad manhwaga. Do I need to keep explaining what other shameless act we did for the rest of the day after periodically taking care of Sera now and then?

No, she didn't go back home that day. We were fucking a pair of rabbits whole time. Sleeping the night snuggling Sully as Sera was beside us was the most fulfilling night I had in years…

It's been 3 years we got married. It was very smooth sailing as Sullyoon agreed to marry me. Her parents were reluctant, kept saying about the engagement, keeping their words and what not nonsense but a few sec of sneak peek of what Sullyoon and I did made them go silent once and for all. With both family’s blessing we walk the isle and here we are.

Where? At Sera’s kindhearten because through spoiling from her momma Sully has turned her into quite a bully. Sully and Bully? See, it's you who is in the fault here. This remark only makes her furious as she says she will see who is the problem once we return home. Sigh! I am completely against my gal becoming a macho but Sullyoon is ready to fight me to defend her daughter.

She loves Sera more than me I guess. Sigh, I face other way, what a devilish woman! She pinches me painfully as Sera is running toward us, a silent warning to not say anything to Sera. Every woman is a trouble once they get married and a ticking time bomb when they become a mother. Sullyoon being a mother since day zero makes it even worse. Sigh, just sigh!

Though I listen to everything she says the whole day, the bedtime is all but mine. That's the house rule. I am particularly going rough with the deepthroat today, it's her punishment for being such a pain in the ass this morning. She is thrashing her legs to pull me out, but I am not making it easy. I am gonna make her throat raw so her yapping is going to be less at least for tomorrow. Keep choking on the daddy meat you freaking mommy!

The End up Sullyoon's mommy asshole 🖕

[tsukisangel]

evil scientist

characters ꕤ senku ishigami, gn! reader, yuzuriha ogawa, chrome, kohaku

cw/tags ꕤ fluff, established relationship, not proofread

wc ꕤ 835

“yuzuriha!” you sang, going into the craft hut. 

she swiftly finished the dress she was working on and turned to you. “y/n? nice to see you!”

“you too! that dress is beautiful!” you went up to her, holding out your hands for the dress. she gladly handed it to you for you to inspect. since you were revived, you’d been taking up sewing and helping her out a bit. you wanted to do it before the petrification, so this was a great chance to do it. you were being helpful, and you got to learn something fun.

“thanks.” she grinned. she pointed to the sketches on the table. “these are all the ones i’m making. you have time to help me out?”

“definitely later! i’m actually looking for senku? do you know where he is?” you ask as you look through the designs. they were beautiful. yuzuriha would’ve ended up being a famous designer in the modern world had this been her goal.

“ohh, looking for senku, huh?” she teased. you blushed. “you checked the lab?”

“i did! i went to chrome’s resource hut, the lab, even the observatory!” you sighed. “nowhere to be found.”

she hummed. “chrome should be around. i’m sure he or kaseki would know.”

“you’re right. let me go ask him. thanks! i’ll see you tonight to help with these dresses.” you smiled at her. she grinned and nodded, then went back to efficiently working.

she might be done by the time you returned.

you walked out of the hut, looking around and spotting chrome getting a beating from kohaku. you sighed, walking over. “wait!” you exclaimed to kohaku. “i need some info from him.”

she chuckled, motioning to the beaten man on the floor. “he’s all yours.”

you laughed, crouching down. “you okay?” you asked.

he shot right up, grinning. “of course i am!” he exclaimed. he wasn’t even looking at you.

you shook your head. “where’s senku?” you asked.

“you said there’s zeku? who’s zeku?” he fell down to the ground.

you laughed again. “senku!” you exclaimed to him.

“huh?”

you jumped at your boyfriend’s voice, turning to him. “where did you come from?!” you furrowed your brows.

he shrugged. “you need somethin’?”

“uh,” you looked around at the many people, “can we talk in the lab?”

he nodded. “good idea. was on my way there now.” he started walking, and you followed closely behind him.

“whatcha makin?” you asked.

he sighed. “the mentalist wants glue.” he shrugged. “it’ll be useful for other things anyway.”

you giggled, and he raised a brow at you. “it’s just funny.” you poked his shoulder. “you act like you do everything for yourself. you act like you help others to benefit yourself.” you smiled. “but you just like making your friends happy, hm?” you teased as the two of you walked into the lab.

he rolled his eyes. “not this again.”

as the door shut and he started walking, you wrapped your arms around him from behind. “you can’t deny it around me!” you rested your head on his back, holding him close. he continued with his work.

“you can believe anything you want. doesn’t make it true.” you felt the vibrations of his voice in his back.

“yes it does! it’s science, isn’t it? psychological science.” you grinned. “the data is everything you do for everyone. the cola for gen, the glue for gen, the medicine for ruri, oh suika and kinro’s glasses! the list goes on. those were all for others. not you.”

he shook his head. “the problem with your psychology is that it can be disputed. i’m making glue for myself and for gen. i have a future science project that may need it.” he moved a bit, and you got off of him. he grabbed the rest of what he needed as he spoke. “the cola was in exchange for a favor gen did for me. the medicine was to get the villagers to join the kingdom of science.” he moved back to his spot, and you went right back to the same position you were in, with a smirk on your face. “the glasses were so suika could be better at recon, and so that kinro could properly defend us. does that not also count as scientific data?”

“and what about when you grabbed everything you needed just now?” you asked. he stopped moving for a moment. “you usually grab it as you go. this time, though, you grabbed it all and set it down. why is that senku?” you hummed.

“the warmth feels nice.” he said softly.

you gasped, your heart pounding in your chest. the sounds of bottles clinking and liquids mixing replaced your teasing. “oh.” you mumbled.

“still benefits me.” he chuckled.

you huffed. “whatever.” you grumbled, and the comfortable quiet in the room came back as he worked, and as your heart raced. he could be so unintentionally flirty sometimes. he flustered you without even meaning to. what an evil, evil scientist.

a/n ⋆ obsessed. i'm obsessed. with him, with dr stone, i just finished what's out of season 4, i'm in shambles, it's 3 in the morning!!!!!!!!!!!!! anyways. i love senku ishigami and i love this. the end

if i get any dr stone readers out of this, i usually write for haikyuu! this is my first and currently only dr stone fic. just keep that in mind if you check out my masterlist!

m.list

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[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Siren

Author's note: I'm going to be trying to do Mermay 2025. Thanks for @kit-williams for letting me borrow Anrir and Draga a bit. Claude should get a morally grey- slightly Red Flag Mentor as a treat. Oh- and learn more about Night Lord Specific Siren-like traits that Night Lord mers get and to train them.

Summary: Claude meets Mer!Anrir and Draga.

Warnings: LMK if I need to add something

tagged: @sleepyfan-blog @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @i-am-a-dragon34 @ms--lobotomy @jaghatai-khock

tagged: @kit-williams @whorety-k @bleedingichorhearts @thevoidscreams @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @felinisnoctis

Claude was patrolling this area- he had been told by a worried Becky that someone - a woman had gone missing. She had shown him a picture of the poor woman. She had been nearby the ocean's edge when it had happened.

He had also been warned about some of the Night Lord Shoals having risen from the depths of the ocean recently for a singing competition thing.

Claude hadn't known that Night Lords had more siren-like powers. Or how if he could use his abilities like that. Or had them. It was rather hit or miss what a Primaris inherited from the gene-seed they were given.

He's been rather reluctantly, and begrudgingly, learning from Zariel and his shoal of brothers how to use his Alpha Legion abilities and powers. And some training from them. In exchange he helps them with various and gives them the juiciest bits of gossip he can find.

Right now- he's following after some haunting music and sees an older Astartes with deep midnight blue scales. He sees the colors- which shows that the older Space Marine is an Apothecary and he cautiously approaches him.

It's still rather hit or miss on how older marines react to Primaris Marines. While those on Ancient Terra tend to jus ask "why are you so big?" or something like that, there are reactions that are either more or less positive.

The older space marine turns to look at him and warbles out to him in a song. Claude blinks at him confused and says, "Uh... hello sir?"

Anrir blinks confused, he had just been passing through when he'd spotted the younger Night Lord mer. Who- he had noticed did not sing, he hadn't heard nor seen the younger one sing at all- in hunting or for communication.

"Don't you know how important song and singing is, little one?" Anrir asks, almost lyrical.

"What?" Claude says utterly confused as he tilts his head. "What do you mean Sir?"

'Singing? Song? What importance does that have?' Claude thinks confused.

"Ah- you are quite young, where is your Claw little one?" Anrir asks.

"Claw?" Claude says even more confused as he shows his clawed hands. "you mean the weapons attached to my hands?"

"I mean a Claw- as in you and your squad of brothers." Anrir explains.

"Oh- you mean them! I have some brothers, but they are all of different gene-lines." Claude says, "You are one of the first Night Lord's I have met on Ancient Terra Sir."

Anrir sees that he has much to teach this confused youngling. Sure- some might mistake him for a Raven Guard- but the Terran born Night Lord can see the marks of his legion in this young one's face and features.

Although the teal to his eyes is an odd mutation- a rather interesting one. So he takes the next few days to stay in this area- and teach young Claude how to sing- how to play as Night Lords do. There is something ... slightly broken about this youngster that has his paternal instincts come out.

He watches as Claude struggles to use his Psyker powers and Anrir has been teaching him singing. As he was watching him use his powers or not use singing at all and he's like "why are you being inefficient? Just sing."

"Sing? Inefficient?" Claud responds confused, "how?"

"Ah," Anrir says as he teaches him how to use his psykery and song- and siren-like abilities to his advantage. In hunting-and for other things.

While Anrir isn't a Psyker, per say, he does know how singing can enhance Psykery and can help teach Claude what he does know- which helps which helps him.

Claude is really glad to have met Anrir- he seems to care a lot more than Storm Breaker does- and he seems a lot more patient. And fun to learn from. Ramiel is headed to where Claude is- he'd heard from his brother-cousin about the older Marine who he has been getting some instructions from.

And he had heard from Miss Angela that there was a woman that had gone missing recently and that there has been some eerie, haunting music that was nearby when it had happened.

Ramiel looks over the Terran born Night Lord with caution as he asks Claude questions about Anrir and what he's been doing. What Claude tells him about learning to sing and use his psykery- matches up with the spooky and eerie singing that was noticeably haunting the shoreline.

As well as the other times during the next few weeks that has weird singing, matches up with what Claude reports for him training with Anrir on various Night Lord Related things.

The next time Claude sees Anrir, there is someone else swimming with him. He's surprised when he notices the proportions are smaller and curvier- a female Mer, which he's seen a few here and there, and they are always bonded to someone.

"Hello Ma'am!" Claude says with a cheerful trill.

"Hello," Draga sings back as she swims around Claude. She had heard about the younger Night Lord Mer from Anrir- and is glad to finally meet him.

Claude's eyes widen a little - as what is bugging him about Draga's face hits him. He remembers that face, she's got the same face as the person on the missing poster that Becky showed him a few months back.

Claude looks at her face closely- then at his older brother. He has. Questions. But not sure how to ask them. Or if he should. Uh. He'll let Becky know that the missing woman is alive. And a Mer. And bonded with an older brother.

"We are in the area, and its warm enough for what we need it for." Anrir says distracting Claude for a moment.

"Oh what's that?" Claude asks a little nervously.

"I am having a baby!" Draga says with a smile as she rubs her belly.

Claude blinks rapidly twice, "Congrats on having the baby."

He's. Well. He suspects that Anrir might have lured her in - and changed her into a Mer. That is something he's heard is possible. Even if the person did not originally want to be a Mer, and there is likely no way to reverse the process.

Anrir is looking at him with a sharp assessing gaze. A question lingering in his mind that boils down to 'what the fuck broke you?' there is a protective rage and concern.

Most younglings Claude's age would immediately accuse him of shenanigans and cause a scene. He can tell that Claude's put two and two together, but hasn't said anything about it, yet. Which is surprisingly circumspect.

"You shouldn't worry about my relationship with my beloved Darga." Anrir says when the two of them are alone. "You will understand when you get a Bonded, why I do what I do."

Claude looks at his older brother cautiously and picks his words with care. He has seen how Intense some of the others can be. Not just Anrir, but Roland and Arnault are Like That as well.

Claude nods and says, "Fair enough, Anrir."

"Any ways, I am going to be living in a cave for a week or so." Anrir warns the younger Night Lord seriously, "And if you smell amniotic fluid, don't come into the cave or I will attack you."

Claude nods- protective instincts because of his vulnerable mate and newborn makes sense. "Okay, would you like to stock up on supplies? The nearest base is within easy swimming distance, it's Steelix Cliff Base nearby."

Anrir nods and hums a little as he says, "Yeah, might as well stock up before we isolate."

"I can show you to the base- and help you get into contact with the Quarter Master for Supplies." Claude offers.

"Sounds good." Anrir says.

Draga and Anrir swim after Claude who talks about Steelix Cliff Base. The bonded and mated pair of mers speak with an Apothecary (who isn't Anrir), a Chaplain (for reasons Claude can't discern) and one of the Quarter masters, a gruff and no nonsense Iron Warrior who negotiates fiercely with Anrir.

The only "aggressive" thing Anrir has done was a rather upset tail twitch but that's when someone got too close to Draga but it seems Anrir is helping them out for some time before and after Draga's delivery. They keep away from Draga- and are polite as they get the Protect one's vulnerable and carrying mate. At least the older ones who have a Bonded do.

[keithyp00]

'*•.¸♡ Stupid Cupid, Stop Picking On Me ♡¸.•*'

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, romance, humor, fluff, slight angst, mutual pining, romantic tension, morning sweetness, vulnerability

Song Inspiration: Stupid Cupid by Connie Francis

Word Count:2.1K

Author Note: Hi again! This fic has been stuck in my head all day so here I am writing it and pushing some of my other fic ideas back a couple of days. My last one didn't do as well as I was hoping overnight so if you like this one please go check out Timeless. Thank you guys! (And Happy Mother's Day for those who celebrate!)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You weren't exactly sure when Bucky Barnes became your problem.

Maybe it was when Steve asked you- sweet, pleading Steve- to check in on him after the whole time-travel thing. Maybe it was when you saw Bucky sulking at a farmer's market like a feral cat trying to adapt to a domestic life, poking at ripe peaches like they had personally offended him. Or maybe it was when you found yourself holding two coffee cups and wondering why one of them always seemed to be for him.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered, tripping over a sidewalk crack. "Quit messing with my head."

Because how else could you explain? The flutter in your chest every time Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. The way your stomach flipped when he threw that infuriating little smirk your way- like he knew something that you shouldn't.

You should hate him.

He was moody. He didn't text back. He once told you that your playlist sounded like 'a sock hop and a migraine had a baby.' And yet, when he stood too close in the kitchen of your shared safehouse, or brushed his hand against yours when he passed the remote, you felt like a walking daydream.

______________________________________________________________

It was Tony's lake house, technically. But since he wasn't around anymore- and Sam insisted Bucky get used to 'civilian life'- you'd all rotated through it like some kind of Airbnb. For the last month, it had just been you and him. And your rapidly imploding patience.

"Can you not stare- no, glower- at the mailman like he owes you something?" You asked one sunny morning, squinting through the screen door as Bucky stood on the porch, his arms crossed like some sort of bouncer.

He simply didn't answer, which infuriated you even more.

You groaned, sipping your coffee and reminding yourself to not shove him into the lake. Because despite the grump, despite the sarcasm, despite the fact that he wore gloves in the middle of July sometimes- he was good. He was thoughtful, sometimes in ways that snuck up on you.

Like how he left Post-Its on your laptop that said, 'Eat something.' Or how he'd fixed the wobbly leg on your favorite chair without saying a word. Or how he stood outside your room every night, headphones in, until you fell asleep just to 'make sure it was safe.'

And yeah- maybe you noticed the way his hair curled after a shower. Or how his voice went all gravel and hush when he said your name. Or how he smelled like cedarwood and mystery.

But that didn't mean you liked him. Right?

______________________________________________________________

It was the pie that broke you.

Not your spine in a sparring match. Not the blackout you both endured during a rogue power surge. Not even the time he carried you through mud because you twisted your ankle.

No. It was the goddamn cherry pie.

You were baking. Sort of. Trying to, anyway. The crust was partially uneven, your hands were sticky, and you were muttering something about 'defeating the patriarchy through pastry.'

He leaned in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

"You're talking to the dough," he stated.

You didn't look up. "She's rude. She needs discipline."

Bucky snorted- snorted- and you stared at him like he'd grown another metal arm.

"Did you just laugh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't laugh."

"Tell that to the dough," he snapped, cheeks hot. "What do you want, Barnes?"

"I smelled sugar," he said, shameless. "Was hoping you'd share."

You rolled your eyes. "I thought you didn't like sweets?"

His voice went low. Dangerous. "I like yours."

Your hands froze in the leftover flour.

And suddenly, you weren't thinking about the pie. You were thinking about the way he looked at you sometimes- like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss you or run. Like you were both a threat and a safehouse.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered again, flustered. "I swear to God-"

"What?"

"Nothing."

The pie actually came out fairly decent, the edges of the crust a little burnt, but fairly tolerable. And Bucky, he ate the whole thing, or most of it anyway.

______________________________________________________________

It got worse after that.

Every glance lingered too long. Every argument had an edge of flirtation behind it. You kept pretending not to notice the way he always found a reason to sit beside you. How his knees would bump beneath the table. How he started playing your music in the kitchen.

And when you finally snapped one night- pacing on the porch, wine in hand, muttering about how, 'he's ruining everything with those ridiculous blue eyes'- you hadn't realized he was standing in the doorway behind you.

He pushed his body off the doorframe and walked toward the railing of the porch, his expression incredibly too smug for your liking.

"I'm ridiculous now?"

You flinched, whipping around. "Jesus- do you sneak for fun?"

"Occupational hazard." His smirk widened. "What else did you say about my eyes?"

"Nothing," you said quickly. Too quickly. "Shut up."

He stepped closer. "Make me."

You blinked. Then laughed. Loud, bright, and disbelieving.

"What are you, twelve?"

"I was," he deadpanned. "Once."

You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."

And then he said it. Quiet. Honest. Barely audible beneath the breeze. "You make it hard."

You blinked again. "What?"

He cleared his throat. Looked away. "To stay... detached."

The wine slipped from your fingers. Luckily, the bottle was already empty.

You stared at him. At the scars on his knuckles. The lashes that framed those godforsaken eyes. The lip he kept biting like he regretted saying anything.

And you realized- he wasn't teasing.

He meant it.

Stupid. Damned. Cupid.

You stepped forward. He didn't flinch.

"I don't want detached," you said softly

He looked at you. Really looked. Like you were sunlight and danger and the last good thing in the world.

His voice cracked. "I'm not easy to love."

"I don't want easy either."

You reached for him. Gloved hand, then metal. He let you, but you heard his breathing stutter. And when you leaned in- testing the waters, testing fate- he met you halfway.

It wasn't fireworks.

It was softer. Stranger. The kind of kiss that steals your balance and leaves you wondering where you end and they begin.

When you finally pulled back, you smiled.

"Still think I talk too much?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

Then he kissed you again. Harder.

______________________________________________________________

Later, tangled on the porch swing with his arm around you and your head on his shoulder, you hummed a familiar tune. Under your breath. Just loud enough for him to hear.

"Stupid Cupid, stop pickin' on me..."

He groaned. "If you start singing that in the morning-"

"You'll what?" You teased. "Fall even more in love with me?"

He didn't answer. But the way he pulled you closer said enough.

______________________________________________________________

You woke up with his hoodie under your cheek and a breeze on your knees.

The sun filtered through the curtains inside like a lazy golden hand, dust swirling in the air like dandelions. You blinked, registering three things:

You were curled up on the porch swing.

Bucky Barnes was asleep beside you.

His metal arm was around your waist like it belonged there.

"Stupid Cupid," you murmured again, though it came out softer this time. Less bitter. Almost... giddy.

His chest rose and fell in a rhythm you were already memorizing. Peaceful. Unarmored. Mouth parted slightly, lashes casting shadows, hair falling into his face.

You wanted to touch him.

Not in the hungry, let's-make-out-on-the-porch kind of way. You simply wanted to run your fingers through his hair. Trace the scare near his eyebrow. Press your palm to the pace just under his collarbone where he always kept his tension.

You settled for tucking his hoodie around his side, trying not to shiver from the early morning air.

"You're staring," he said, voice husky with sleep.

You yelped. "I-no, I was just-"

"Keep lying. You're adorable when you panic."

Your face flushed and Bucky grinned as a response. "So. We kissed."

You ticked your knees under your chin. "We did."

He finally looked at you, blinking slowly. "How do you feel about that?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On whether you're going to brood about it for three days and avoid me."

He let out a quiet huff of laughter. "I'd never avoid you."

"Really? Because last month you avoided Sam for hating on your music taste."

"That was justified."

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm- flesh, not metal. The little grin that flickered on his lips made your stomach tumble.

"So what does this mean?" You asked quietly. "Us. The... kissing."

He went still. Then sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand.

"It means," he said slowly, "that I want more."

More?

More of you? More kissing? More sleepless nights lying next to each other on a porch swing, tangled up in feelings too big to name?

You swallowed. "Okay."

His eyes searched yours. "Okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah. But you have to stop the staring problem, especially at strangers, I agree with Sam on that one."

"No promises."

______________________________________________________________

You didn't talk about it for a few days. Not directly, anyway.

But everything shifted.

He cooked breakfast before you got up- black coffee, toast, eggs that were slightly overcooked but made with obvious care. You found him waiting on the couch every evening with a blanket folded beside him like an invitation. He started brushing your hand every time you passed him something. Not an accident. Not anymore.

You tried not to let your heart explode about it.

Didn't work.

Especially not when he started calling you 'Doll' without a trace of irony.

Or when he found an old record player in the attic, fixed it, and played your favorite 60s vinyl like it was nothing.

Or when he got jealous over a guy in town who complimented your outfit and sulked for the next hour.

______________________________________________________________

It came to a head one evening during a thunderstorm.

You were barefoot, twirling in the kitchen while "Stupid Cupid" played on the record player- loud and cheeky, your voice warbling off-key along with it.

"Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy-"

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered behind you, towel around his shoulders, still damp from fixing the gutters in the rain. "You still know all the words?"

You spun, grinning. "I was born in the wrong decade."

"Clearly."

He crossed the kitchen slowly. Red Henley sticking to his chest. Hair dripping onto his forehead. You didn't realize you stopped breathing until he was right in front of you, blue eyes bright, towel abandoned.

"You like this song because it reminds you of me, huh?"

You swallowed. "Maybe."

His hand brushed your waist. "You like me, doll?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "Maybe."

"Then shut up and dance with me."

You didn't think. You just fell into him.

He swayed with you under the soft crackle of vinyl, your feet slipping against his boots, your laughter dying against the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm getting you soaked," he said into your hair.

"Can confirm," he mumbled.

He choked on a laugh. "It wasn't a question- god, you're a menace."

"Your menace," you whispered.

He froze. Pulled back. Looked at you. And then he kissed you. Slow, deep, reverent.

It didn't feel like the one you shared on the porch. This one felt like a promise.

______________________________________________________________

Later, after changing into dry clothes and curling up beside him on the couch, you whispered the question that had been living under your tongue for days.

"Do I scare you?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I mean... you never let people in. You barely let Sam in. And now you're-" you gestured between you. "Letting me in. Doesn't that terrify you?"

He exhaled. Then reached for your hand, metal fingers wrapping around yours.

"It does," he said. "But not because of you. Because I don't want to ruin it."

You stared at him. All of him. The scars, the war, the tenderness.

"You couldn't ruin this if you tried."

He looked away. "I've ruined things before."

You tilted his face toward you with your fingertips.

"Then don't run," you whispered. "When it gets hard. When I yell because you left dishes in the sink. When I forget to say goodnight. Just... stay."

His jaw flexed. "You'd want me to stay? Even when I'm a mess?"

You smiled. "Especially then."

______________________________________________________________

That night, you fell asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the storm fade into silence and his heartbeat slow to something steady. Something safe.

"Stupid Cupid," you whispered one last night into the dark.

And Bucky- half asleep, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm- mumbled back, "Yeah... but I'm glad he chose to pick on you."

[murdocksapostasy]

bob reynolds x therapist!reader

tags: use of pharmaceutical drugs, mentions of mental health struggles, slight fluff, mentions of depression, involuntary taking of medication kinda.?

warning: i’m not a mental health professional do not take anything written here as professional advice or truth. (i also know bob definitely has bipolar but im not writing about bipolar sry)

after the events of new york with bobs whole void situation, everyone thought it would be best if bob got some support for his mental health struggles, yelena especially. she really cares about bob and didn’t want him to fall deeper into his personal void.

so here’s where you come into play, a licensed psychiatrist who specialises in powered-people, and just so happens to be an old friend of yelena’s, by that we mean..the red rooms

still the dynamic between you and bob was friendly if anything, you were simply there to keep an eye on him, make sure he takes his pills and be a shoulder to cry on that can give him professional advice. and weren’t exactly useless to the other thunderbolts either. again, experience withred rooms and a degree in psychology.

when you first met bob he was very timid but soon enough your calm and caring approach got him pretty comfortable around you.

now, it’s the afternoon at the watchtower and you knock on the door of bobs room for a check up.

“bob.? can i come in.?”

you hear a faint yeah come from inside before walking in, there you see bob sitting in the corner of the room looking out the window. he looks at you with that wide eyed expression he always has,

“hey..”

“hi bob, how are you feeling today?”

you could already tell by his body language it was definitely gonna be a low day.

“uh, i don’t know i think i’m okay..”

“could you put that on a scale from one to ten for me?”

„like a four maybe.?”

your face doesn’t show it but you’re a little disappointed, not in bob. you’re very proud of the progress he’s making, you just don’t like when he’s upset.

“that’s alright. can i give you your pills bob?”

you say taking out a little plastic cup with a little white pill inside, you extend your hand towards bob kindly offering him the pill. (even though he has to take them)

bob hesitates, before nervously brushing off his resistance.

“i don’t know..i just”

“is everything okay?” you ask a little surprised

“yeah it’s just… is it normal to feel weak? for taking anti depressants i feel like i should be able to handle myself. i can’t help like feel im doing something wrong?”

your gaze softens, and silence fills the air only for a few seconds while you think of an good way to phrase your response.

“you’re not weak, whatsoever and this won’t last forever, we all need some extra support sometimes, i used to take tablets too.”

“really?” bob tilts his head in curiosity.

“mhm”

silence fills the room again only for a brief moment before an idea pops into your head.

“come here.”

bob is a little caught off guard by the request but complies anyways walking over to you.

you turn over the small plastic cup letting the singular table fall into the palm of your hand, you put your free hand on bobs chin opening his mouth before placing the tablet on his tongue and watching him swallow.

your hand stays on his chin a bit too long before you finally take it away handing him a bottle of water.

bob looks at you a little confused taking in what just happened, you’re not sure either it just felt right.

“t-thank you”

he says giving you a small smile.

“i’m proud of you”

you say walking towards him before placing a little kiss on his forehead.

[borkunlimited]

Zayne, Keeper of the Shrine

Zayne had inherited the role of holding rituals in your name from his father. The passage of time flows slower for the gods and he hopes even then, he will be one of the faces you will remember when he passes away.

Tags: Zayne & Reader, Fantasy AU, Fluff

Word Count: 585

Author's Notes: This snippet was fun to write. In my drafts, his encounter with you when he was a child was actually the first one I wrote. Enjoy!

────────────────────

Zayne had been granted the gift of sight by no other than you.

A normal human would see a dense forest and nothing more, but in his eyes, he sees your friends, the forest spirits, frolicking about and walking with him while he looks for herbs.

Recently, he had heard you have made a new friend.

“He’s a snake, Master Zayne-”

All of the forest creatures, and even woodland spirits had told him covertly, expressing concerns about your new friend with ashen hair who does not appreciate being called one while whispering rumors that the wandering god is but a god of calamity who wants to devour you.

That’s a new.

Zayne is aware of your older sibling, the tiger god that prowls the mountain day and night, and he has seen that grim reaper who always goes up in the mountain with a determined look only to go down all frustrated but still politely tipping his hat at him.

Should he consider this new character an omen?

Perhaps in this rainy night he will have his answer but then again, kind hearted as you are, one can never predict the whims of a god on giving replies.

The sliding doors to the veranda of his room are wide open, the faint drizzle barely reaching inside, perfect for a late night reading that you have finally decided to make your appearance, carrying a lotus leaf as your umbrella with a woven basket full of herbs.

“Master Zayne will not grow taller if he stays up late.”

“I am no longer a child, Great Forest Spirit, you know that.”

To most with the gift of sight, they would usually see a giant deer in your place but ever since he was a child, he often sees you as a beautiful lady, your hair tied in a braid (You have told him once in passing it is your older sibling who does it for you) and growing on top of your head are pure white antlers.

You have little to no regard for human customs but you have always listened to him so when you step inside to look at the books he is reading, you leave your shoes by the door together with your lotus leaf.

(Maybe he will tell you another time to dry yourself first but he was too mesmerized towards every step you take, flowers sprouting, blossoming, wilting until all that is left behind are wet footprints on the tatami mat.)

“Master Zayne grows up too fast.”

“A year for us is a second for you.”

But he hopes you will remember him, just like how you remembered each of his ancestors and their names, and he hopes one day you will show to him where you hid all the small mementos they have given to you so-

-He can see how his gifts look amongst them.

“Oh, a colorful lotus leaf!”

“No, Great Forest Spirit, this is a parasol. Used by ladies at the capital to shield them from the sun and rain.”

If only the rest of your followers knew how bright your smile is every time you received their heartfelt offerings, they would surely linger here on this land after they pass away to be with you before they let themselves be taken away by the grim reaper.

So, Zayne has taken upon himself to describe it in words, hoping his brushstrokes would do you justice.

Afterall, everyone should know the name of the benevolent forest god and her likeness.

────────────────────

Author's Notes; I supposed one of the characters I had patterned Reader after is actually Totoro. I like how that fluff ball seemed so enamored with trinkets made by humans that he kept all of them.

Check out the roles the rest of the LIs will play for this longfic:

Sylus, The Wandering God

Caleb, The Two-Tailed Tiger God

Rafayel, The Grim Reaper

Zayne, The Keeper of the Shrine

Xavier, The Grand Prince

[not-poignant]

Up until your version, I actually refused to read any omegaverse. (NOT for lack of trying ... my god. so many disappointing attempts.) And even then I didn't start UtB until I had run out of literally everything else you'd written and the apprehension was real. I was staring at that omegaverse tag with a 'don't go where I can't follow' look of distress.

Should have known you'd absolutely kill it though. So so so good. It also helped me figure out how to approach other people's omegaverse fics/writings. Alpha/Alpha pairings actually did give me what I was looking for but never found before.

A lot of my disappointment with the whole genre before came from how the heats were depicted. Not to generalize, but a lot of writers use the heat's as a way to just ... delete personalities in a way that is not engaging to read in the least... characters reacting to each other is 90% of what I'm looking for in fics, not 'Alpha 1' and 'Omega 2'.

ANYHOW, all of that is to say that Underline the Red is my /favourite/ of your rainbow stories so far. I love the world-building in general, but oh my god. The dynamic between Faber and Caleb is so phenomenal. Beta's so rarely get a spotlight and it's just like 'yeah what would it be like to be in this heavily binary world where nothing seems to be made for you'

...I would ramble more if this wasn't already so long.

Hi anon,

Tbh, I agree with you on a lot of your points.

There are aspects of heats which are my least favourite thing about omegaverse. Even less appealing to me than mpreg. I understand why they're other's favourite things, but the lack of coherent thought, the inherent dehumanisation* of going 'alpha!' 'alpha!' or 'omega! my omega!' (which to me often sounds as silly as 'man! man!' or 'woman! my woman!'), etc. are kinky for some people, for sure, but for me it's the opposite of appealing. I can only really handle a little of this in like, noncon / dubcon PWPs, but not in long stories.

*There are many different ways to express this kind of fantasy/irl kink. I actually don't mind some of them. But this one I don't like at all.

My favourite kind of heat is a heat that doesn't go smoothly (which is why I've written so many of them, lmao), and my favourite kind of omegaverse relationship and sexual development happens outside of heats (which is why I write so much of that!) But even when I do write heats, there's aspects I deliberately omit because I just don't prefer it, so it sounds like on that level our preferences mostly align. (Not to say that any other version is bad for the folks who write and love it! It's just bad for me, and I don't want to read it).

I also avoided omegaverse for a long time because the ones people tend to recommend have a lot of the most standard tropes, some of which I enjoy, and some of which I find empty and meaningless. 'I'm so aroused I no longer think of you as a person but as a generic vessel / knot' is not appealing to me, but I can see how it appeals to others (and I can see other, different interpretations of that to mine, appealing to others too). 'I'm so aroused that I have no choice but to surrender to something I'm going to loathe afterwards' is appealing to me, and I can see why that doesn't appeal to others.

Tbh I do fall into the trap of vastly preferring alphas and omegas over betas, but I like Faber, he's interesting to me, and tbh it turned out all I had to do to overcome my broad dislike was like, just make a character I enjoyed, lol. Give him enough angst and I'm there!

I also generally enjoy crunchier pairings. I like the mindfuckery of alpha/alpha pairings, and I do think there is really great tropey omegaverse out there. But as soon as a fic is tagged with something like 'knotdrunk' I know I'm not likely to enjoy it. There's only so far I can go on the deep dehumanisation that seems innate to the 'standard vanilla heat.'

From an objective, analytical standpoint, there's a lot of things you could find appealing as a kink depending on how you hooked into it (i.e. 'someone is so consumed with me they lose all rational thought and can't see anyone but me' or 'I am just an object of this person's desire and they are going to use me and even if that's scary I'll still enjoy it' or 'I have realised who my true owner is' etc.), and to a degree, I can get behind some of it, but once we get to the 'I am no longer saying your name but a generic word that applies to everyone in this secondary gender, and you no longer matter as an individual, it's just your knot that counts' and vice versa, I have to dip. It's also why I tend to gloss past writing (consensual, smooth) heats in any great detail myself (people who want that from me are going to be disappointed). As a character-focused writer, in omegaverse, this is generally where you find the least characterisation, 404 error - Character Not Found.*

*It's not always this way, but it's often this way (as in, I have encountered it in hundreds of fics and published works now, and given I only read m/m or t4t or some permutation of both I dread to think how prevalent some of this stuff is in cishet), especially in generally 'No Archive Warnings Apply' omegaverse fics.

Everyone's preferences in omegaverse are different, what I like about it, honestly, is that there is plenty of room for me to write my own versions of the tropes that I enjoy, and that I'm not alone in that. I can omit mpreg, I can omit the 'call me alpha' trope, I can omit soulmates, I can keep 'claims can hurt omegas', I can include alpha/alpha and beta(omega)/alpha pairings, I can fuck with secondary gender, I can keep the dystopia part, I can keep the fluid play and the knots, I can have knots happen outside of heats, I can have 'alpha voice' and make it multi-layered, I can invent hormones and glands and give them names, etc. And someone else who hates everything I love, can do the opposite, and that will still be omegaverse if it happens to have alphas and omegas!!

This is why I think people who dismiss omegaverse outright probably just aren't aware of how vast the umbrella is yet. That's understandable, there are people who dismiss anime because all they've ever seen is shounen, and they just literally don't know there's so many genres within that broad umbrella/technique that will actually appeal to them. You can't know what you don't know, and all! I used to be the same, because my first encounters with omegaverse were like 'oh no, this is like, vanilla dehumanisation. I hate it.' Thankfully I found my way to the subversive humanising side, and I love it here. (ETA: Vanilla dehumanisation is actually pretty damned subversive at times too, I just don't find it hot, lmao).

[jayden-killer]

Aftermath.

Eddie's death took a huge toll on you and his uncle.

warnings: mentions of death, hints of depression, bad language.

A/N: jeez. I didn't want to, but I had to.👀 It's gonna be long, so grab the tissues. Also, my taglist is now open! If you want to be tagged in my next upcoming stories, comment below!

The feeling of emptiness that I was experiencing at that moment was not comparable to anything else in the world. Without emotion, my eyes did not move from the coffin placed around the attendees, arranged in a circle. Not many people showed up to Eddie’s funeral: his uncle, Dustin, Steve, Robin, Nancy, the friends from the Hellfire, a long-time friend of his, Ronnie, moved to New York to study. I was there too.

I didn’t mind getting dressed up well for the occasion. Why would I? On one hand, I know Eddie would have wished for the opposite, but on the other hand it was impossible for me to make the slightest effort. It had become impossible for me to try to carry on a healthy routine. Fiddling with my cold fingers, my gaze shifted to his uncle. Wayne Munson was wearing a black suit. I read on him the anger, sadness, pain, despondency and regret that characterized his gaze. A real sea of emotions. The bags under his eyes had become more prominent; he hadn’t even thought of shaving. I noticed that the silver beard had become much thicker since the accident. Dustin instead cried in silence, sometimes trying to contain himself, in vain. A few days after Eddie died he told me that he would have taken his place. That he should have thought of a plan B, that he should have gone with him to fight those monsters. "I made an appointment with a good tattoo artist. I will replicate his bat tattoo," he said with a forced smile. But of course. He didn’t want to show how hard he hit him.

Fuck. My fingers were tingling again. They felt the desire to hold something. Someone. I promised myself not to cry. I promised not to be so vulnerable, not to give in. However, how can I not give in when I know that my beloved is now about to be buried underground and I will no longer have the chance of having him here next to me?

Me too. I would have taken his place too, Dustin.

It seems like an eternity since Eddie was buried. The funeral had been held in a secluded area of the cemetery to prevent citizens of Hawkins breaking in with torches and forks. As a result, Eddie’s own grave lay far away from the heights, in a small hill. Just for safety and to avoid imminent vandalism. Unfortunately, this solution did not last long. There are those who had discovered where it was. So, when I happened to visit it, there was no lack of decorated inscriptions on the stone, in capital letters, like "satanist" or "burn in hell". Can’t even a dead man have some peace? I cleaned it from top to bottom, changed the faded flowers, tried to keep it in place each single time. The stupid people of this shitty town didn’t seem to want to give up. Even today it didn’t seem to be any different.

I inhaled and exhaled, kneeling on the ground and gently passing a hand over the red paint-soiled stone. This time they used a can. Even worse. I don’t think it will come off so easily. They had even left him some weeds that emanated a nauseating smell. Probably piss. "You are shits" It came out with disgust, not too low. I wanted to be heard.

At that moment I listened carefully. The steps became closer and closer until the mysterious figure turned around me. I recognized him from his build.

"Sooner or later they’ll stop." That’s all his uncle Wayne said, placing a bouquet of mixed flowers on his tombstone. He seemed… changed. I don’t know if to say in positive or negative; surely he had thinned his beard and fixed his hair. He also seemed to have lost a few pounds. I looked away, shook my head in sign of surrender. "For me it is absurd. Persecuted even by death". Wayne pulled out of a small bag he had with him a damp sponge. He scraped the stone and I noticed that the colour was coming off. Maybe it wasn’t as I thought. There was a tense silence; the only noise was the occasional passing of cars from afar, the chirping of birds. I feared that I had made a mistake in uttering that phrase, not until his eyes were on me. However, I saw him soften.

"Sooner or later they will tire themselves," he began, breaking into two the silence that enveloped us until a few moments ago, "and realize that it was not worth pouring all this hatred on an innocent boy."

Innocent.

Eddie was just that. Throughout his life he had always been mistaken for the criminal on duty, the one who performed sacrifices in the most remote classroom of the school and enjoyed doing so, but Eddie had never been anything like that. He was the boy who wanted to indulge in warm caresses and hugs after a busy day at school. He was the boy I admired because he could get in on the ball when it was necessary. He was the boy who showed love in the most unconventional way ever. He was just a boy mistaken for a sheep disguised as a wolf. The scapegoat of a city built on ignorance and skepticism towards others.

I swallowed with difficulty, taking a seat closer to his uncle, contemplating the stone now washed. Wayne then turned his eyes to me, and it was that look that caused a heartbreak. I could see through the dark irises of the mature man my dearest boyfriend, as if he had never left. This made me burst into tears and I did not try to stop myself as my body trembled from the sobs. I was so caught up in crying that I didn’t notice even Wayne did the same. With a hand pressed to the face, he sobbed, letting the tears flow on his cheeks and then fall on the ground below us, squeezing with force the sponge still moist. Immediately my thoughts went to him and the relationship he had with Eddie. Eddie himself confessed to me one summer evening that he was very close to his uncle, to consider him as a father. "Even if I never say it openly, I love my uncle very much" I remember that he said it to me with a mixture of sweetness, calm and affection, still feeling his ringed fingers massaging the base of my head.

He continued by telling me how his father, a very selfish guy called Al Munson, had abandoned him more than once, returning when the need arose. Wayne disapproves of his behavior, considering his brother a real thorn in the side and a bad example of father. When Al was arrested, Wayne had decided despite Eddie’s eighteen-year-old age that he should still go live with him. He did not lack anything: a modest roof, food, clothes. "Wayne will like you, you’ll see. Initially it is very on his own, but when you start to know him, he becomes unstoppable. He has a great repertoire of jokes". "Ah, so now I understand who you got it from!" I reply immediately, laughing heartly.

Eddie threw his head back, bursting into a genuine laugh that made my heart beat faster. How I would have liked to hear that melodious sound again.

It was too late by now.

Eddie was dead and the only consolation left was to share an excruciating pain with his uncle. Wayne Munson held me close to him; I let him do it. I was not the type of person who would be easily embraced, let alone by a man three times my age, but at that moment he felt the need. In the graveyard resounded our cries, our emotion, our sorrow for a person who would never return. A draft of wind ran through my bare arms. At the center of the stone laid an animal, a bat. A bat with dark fur, scratching his head with the back claw. With my eyes clouded by tears, I looked at the beast in confusion. Impossible. If reincarnation existed, then it meant that Eddie…

Eddie never left. Perhaps it was now his task to watch over us, to make sure that we did not indulge too much in the sea of despair that had accompanied us during that seemingly endless time. I didn’t call Wayne in time that the animal spread its wings, flying away elsewhere. A bat… with the sun so high. It had to be a sign. It was him. It might have been difficult to surface so fast. Eddie was here, though. Spiritually, he was there. And we would return to the shore successfully. Not today, not tomorrow, but we would reach it. I will never forget the true love of my life. And Wayne will never forget the son he loves.

Taglist: @ali-r3n @cowboylikemunson @zanate-in-the-stars @jeangeniex

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ [ch.5] for when you need me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 4.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, also AHH VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

“You sure you’re okay?” Mira’s voice echoed as you got inside your townhouse, the sudden sounds of clicking locks and shifting gears of your front door echoing against the city ambience.

“Yeah.” You sighed.

Mira took a short time to breathe too before she prompted to leave you to rest. As soon as she said her goodbyes, you tucked your phone on your left pocket and walked straight towards your most beloved house possession—the fridge.

The weight of Mr. M's ultimatum pressed against your ribs like a second heartbeat as your hands traversed the cans of carbonated drinks inside the fridge.

“Should I even get cola today?” You pondered.

Outside, the city was bleeding from gold hour into twilight—windows glittering amber across brownstone rooftops, the Chrysler Building's spire catching the last fiery streaks of sunset.

God was it such a treat of a view.

You stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows, pressing your forehead to the cool glass, watching your ghostly reflection blink back at you in the darkening pane.

“Hey, you.” You spoke, alone in the dim living room.

You twisted and curled your toes as you tried to think of anything amusing to say to your own reflection, yet there was nothing that came to your mind.

“You’re pathetic.” You muttered under your heavy breath.

Buzzing into existence, your phone rang from your side pocket.

Flipping through your messages, you see one notification from the only person in your mind right now.

Jay: Remember that bench back in Battery Park?

That message drew a smile on your face, memories resurfacing and thoughts flooding your senses.

You: Yea?

Jay: One hour?

The message burned in your palm. You counted the passing seconds by the throbbing pulse in your wrist—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—until the screen dimmed to black. Then lit up again.

Jay: There’s a new taco joint my students recommended me to. Got coupons for 50% off tacos. You down?

A punched-out laugh escaped you, fogging the glass. The condensation mirrored how your thoughts had been all day—clouded, unclear, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold on.

Without missing a beat, you quickly grabbed your spring jacket.

–––

“I guess it that time of the year already…” You spoke to yourself as you see petals pass above, below, and to your sides.

The park smelled like freshly cut grass and distant rain. Cherry blossom petals swirled through the air like pink snow, catching in your hair as you followed the familiar path—past the old elm with the gnarled trunk, around the fountain that never worked quite right, down to that one bench facing the harbor where the paint was chipped away from years of weather and restless fingers.

And then—like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—there he was.

Jay sat waiting, backlit by the harbor lights beginning to flicker on across the water. Two glass-bottled colas sweated between his knees, their labels peeling from condensation. A grease-spotted paper bag sat balanced precariously on the bench beside him, the scent of cumin and charred corn tortillas cutting through the salt air. And it’s not even a Tuesday.

The sight knocked the breath from your lungs.

He turned at the crunch of gravel under your shoes.

"You came," he said, voice scraped raw like he'd been shouting. Or maybe not speaking at all.

You sat carefully, leaving exactly eleven inches of painted metal between you. The space felt both cavernous and infinitesimal. The thin tree beside the bench still bore the faint carving you'd made one drunken summer night — ME + JAY inside a lopsided heart. The memory of his laughter as you struggled with your metal fork warmed your cheeks even now.

"You asked." You said, accepting the cola he handed you.

His fingers brushed yours—just for a millisecond—but it was enough to send electricity shooting up your arm.

Jay took a long pull from his bottle, the muscles in his throat working. The fading light caught the shape of his bare face—still as soft, plump, and charming as you’ve last seen them. Behold them. Had them between the warmth of your palms.

"Naomi and I talked," he started, then stopped, jaw tightening.

It was weird. For a new dish from a new store in New York, the tacos smelled like lime and nostalgia. You focused on picking at the label of your cola instead of the way his shoulder pressed against yours, warm even through two layers of fabric.

"And?"

A harbor breeze ruffled his hair, longer now than in your days together as a bunch of cram heads. He watched a seagull swoop low over the water before speaking.

"She knew.”

Your face dropped the moment you heard him say those words.

“Before the article. Before Leah's wedding." His laugh was hollow, bouncing off the pavement. "Apparently I'm shit at hiding it when I..." He trailed off, fingers tightening around his bottle.

"When you what?"

Jay turned to face you fully, the bench creaking beneath him. The dying light caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

"When I'm still in love with you."

It was as if the world has tilted on its axis. The cola bottle nearly slipped from your fingers.

"She said she'd always known," Jay continued, voice softer now. "Saw how I'd go quiet when your songs came on. Even down to how I kept that stupid festival wristband in my wallet from years ago."

His thumb traced the lip of his bottle, around and around. “Then she saw how I lingered on your music. How I’d go quiet when someone mentioned your name.”

The thought of it almost ruined you. Wrecked you.

From your recent conversations, you figured it was just nostalgia of a relationship past. The ‘miss you’s you’ve exchanged fleeting thoughts that echoed regret and nothing more.

But right now, it finally hit you. He still thought of you all this time.

Just like you did.

"She told me she also found the CD you made me years ago—the one with all our road trip songs—in my glove compartment."

A cherry blossom petal landed on his knee. He didn't brush it away.

"She said she wanted me happy," he murmured. "Even if it wasn't with her."

Your throat tightened.

You looked back as you remembered Naomi's hand on Jay's arm at the wedding—not possessive, but protective. The way she'd looked at you with something that wasn't quite jealousy, but instead resignation.

"And you?" you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Jay set his cola down carefully on the bench. When he spoke again, it was like he'd ripped the words from somewhere deep inside.

"I dropped out of law school because of you."

The non sequitur startled a wet laugh from you. "What?"

"That day you left," he said, eyes fixed on the Statue of Liberty's distant torch, "I realized I'd spent all my years of living following a path my parents have built and paved for me.”

Jay grew quiet at that. “Just like you were about to do with Atlas."

You looked at him as he tried to say all this words without breaking.

His fingers flexed against his knees. "So I quit. Switched to music theory because I thought..." His voice cracked. "I thought if I couldn't save you, maybe I could at least be someone else's guide."

The confession hung between you, fragile as the spiderweb glistening on the bench's armrest.

You swallowed hard. Mira's voice echoed in your memory—"He teaches at NYU now. Music theory. I knew he was an ace but he’s actually good at it."

"You knew," Jay realized, watching your face. “… haven’t you?”

You nodded, the motion jerky. "M-Mira told me last week."

The harbor sounds filled the silence—waves lapping against the seawall, a distant ferry horn, the screech of gulls fighting over scraps.

“If there’s anything that made me realize after all this time, it was that …”

Jay shifted, turning fully toward you until his knee brushed yours.

"I never stopped loving you," he said, simple as sunrise.

Time stopped.

Four years.

Four years of platinum records and sold-out arenas and hotel rooms so silent you could hear your own pulse. Four years of telling yourself you didn't miss the way he snored softly through his nose when exhausted, or how he'd absentmindedly hum old radio songs in the shower, or the particular way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at his own jokes.

It all came rushing out in a single breath. "I thought about you every goddamn day."

Jay's breath hitched. His hand hovered between you, trembling slightly in the golden glow of the park lamps. Waiting. Always waiting for you.

And now, you bridged the gap.

His fingers laced through yours—calloused from guitar strings and piano keys, warm and familiar and right. The tacos tumbled forgotten to the side as you turned toward each other, knees knocking, free hands reaching.

Around you, the city pulsed with its usual relentless energy—car horns blaring, a street performer's violin carrying on the breeze, the million lights of Manhattan flickering to life. None of it mattered.

Not when, for the first time in four long years, the hollow space beneath your ribs finally felt full again.

Not when Jay's thumb was brushing your knuckles like he was relearning your topography. Your texture. Your temperature.

You.

"What now?" He put his forehead against yours as you leaned into him, breathing in the cedar-and-salt scent that had haunted your dreams.

“Now I take my time with you.” You said softly. “I’ve missed your warmth, Jay.”

Jay smiled, creasing his cheek with that one-sided smirk that complimented his features.

“Me too.”

And all that you ever needed was that, his presence, blanketing you in sweet embrace.

—

The studio was bathed in soft golden light, diffused through silk screens to eliminate harsh shadows.

You sat on a peach colored sofa that was firmer than it looked, the microphone clipped to your collar weighing heavier than it should.

Across from you, Claire Mercer—legendary music journalist with a reputation for extracting truths artists didn’t know they were ready to share—crossed her legs and balanced a leather-bound notebook on her knee. A steaming cup of black tea sat untouched on the glass coffee table between you, its scent mingling with the studio’s faint ozone smell from all the equipment.

Claire smile strategically, hoping to lure you into honesty.

"Let’s start with something light. Your fourth album just went triple platinum—an almost impossible feat in today’s streaming landscape. When you were eighteen, busking in Washington Square Park with a secondhand guitar, could you have imagined this?"

You chuckled, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your knee. "Of course not! Let’s be real. Back then, a good day meant making enough for a slice of dollar pizza and a MetroCard swipe.”

Memories flood your head as you remember making time to hang out on the Square, preparing hurriedly as Jay made sure to tune your acoustic friend finely before he left you for his morning classes.

“You didn’t touch the donuts I got you?” Jay asked as he held your guitar in his lap, all in the middle of tuning it to perfection.

“Donuts?” You popped a brow. “You mean the one’s from Monettan’s?”

Jay chuckled. “What else did look like donuts to you, genius?” He then pinched your ears right after.

“But that’s half my rent??” You crunched up your face.

The memory quickly passed by, all with a light unnoticeable chuckle. It was one of those days that Jay always looked out for you.

But even then, other memories flooded your mind, too. Everything was different back then.

“I remember this one afternoon—it was pouring rain, and I was playing under this sad little awning. Some guy tossed a five-dollar bill into my case and said, ‘Kid, you’re gonna be huge.’ I thought he was just being nice."

A quiet laugh rippled through the small crew behind the cameras.

Claire scribbled something in her notebook, the pen scratching audibly.

"You’ve spoken before about the loneliness of fame—how the higher you climb, the fewer people you can trust. Do you ever miss those early days? The rawness of playing for strangers who didn’t know your name?"

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the faint scar on your wrist—the one from the pancake incident with Jay. The studio lights suddenly felt too hot.

"Yeah," you admitted, quieter now. "There was something... honest about it. No expectations. No algorithms telling you what to play. Just me, my guitar, and people who either stopped to listen or walked right past. Sometimes, I’ll be onstage in front of thousands of people and... I’ll still miss that."

Claire nodded slowly, her sharp blue eyes catching yours. "That’s interesting. Because last week, photos surfaced of you at a diner with a man the internet’s been obsessing over. And in those photos..." She paused deliberately. "You looked happier than you have in years."

The air in the room shifted. Off-camera, Mira tensed, her manicured nails tightening around her tablet.

“Oh for fucking— that woman!” She muttered under her hot breath.

Claire leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Who is he?"

For a second, you considered lying. You should lie.

“What if she slips in a naughty question?” You asked as you tried another outfits from the closet.

“How naughty?” Mira smirked.

“Ugh, I meant like … sneaky ones.” You sighed as you sat on one of the ottomans present beside you. “Like about me and Jay.”

Mira looked at you, exhaling deeply before getting her say.

“Just trust your gut. Talk, maybe.” You looked at her with a concerned glance.

“Just… like that?”

“Yeah.” Mira smiled. “You’d do it anyway. I can’t stop you.”

You chuckled as she guessed you right to that. You are one heck of a defiant guy.

“Also wear this, we’ve got a deal to keep it all Dior ‘til April right?”

“Ugh, fine~”

The more you thought about it, the more you’ll keep hurting yourself.

Then you exhaled, looking directly into the camera.

"His name is Jay."

Claire’s pen froze mid-scribble.

"We met in college," you continued, your voice steadier than you felt. "He was—is—the reason I believed I could do this in the first place.”

Silence. The room was nothing but a sea of silence.

“And I left him to chase this dream." A wet laugh escaped you. "Funny how that works, huh?"

Claire’s eyes flickered—surprise, then something like respect. "So this isn’t just a reunion?"

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

—

Mr. M’s office was a monument to power—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, a desk polished to a mirror shine, a vintage whiskey decanter that cost more than most people’s rent.

Right now, it was also a crime scene.

The flat-screen on his wall replayed your Rolling Stone interview on mute—your face, your words, your defiance—looping endlessly. Mr. M stood motionless in front of it, his reflection superimposed over your image like a ghost.

His assistant, Ethan, hovered in the doorway, clutching an iPad like a shield. "Sir, the board—they’ve called an emergency meeting. They want you in the conference room. Now."

Mr. M didn’t turn. "Tell them I’m busy."

Ethan swallowed. "They said... they said it’s not optional."

Silence.

Then—

CRASH.

Mr. M’s crystal tumbler exploded against the wall, ice skittering across the floor. "Get out."

Ethan fled.

Alone, Mr. M stalked to the window, where your face—twenty feet tall—smoldered on a Dior advertisement at Times Square. Your eyes stared back at him, mocking.

"After everything I gave you," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass.

His phone buzzed—a text from the board chairman:

"Conference room. NOW."

Mr. M straightened his tie, smoothed his suit, and walked out like a man heading to the gallows.

—

Breathing in the conditioned air and holding yourself inside the elevator, Mira was already moving, her clipboard clutched like a battering ram against the inevitable circus outside.

It was already past 3PM when your interview ended, and as soon as it concluded— the headlines, the fuzz, the frenzy, and the notifications started to flood your phone.

“I’m seeing a lot of articles already.” You mumbled. “They work fast.”

“Well,” Mira sighed, “they are the devil.”

You both snickered a good laugh together.

Suddenly, the elevator slowed down gracefully and notified you with a calm voice.

“Ground Floor.” A silent hum then followed after.

"Don’t engage," she hissed, stepping in front of you with the precision of a bodyguard. "Head down, sunglasses on, and for fuck’s sake—just keep moving—"

The elevator doors slid open and Mira was already moving, her sharp elbow clearing a path. "No comments, no photos—"

Too late.

The second your shoe hit the lobby floor, the flashbulbs and shutters erupted. A wall of shouting bodies surged forward, iPhones thrust like weapons.

"OVER HERE! LOOK HERE!"

"IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE CURRENTLY IN A RELATIONSHIP?"

"WHO’S JAY! WHO’S JAY!"

Mira blocked a camera with her clipboard. "Move," she snapped at security, yanking your wrist so hard your shoulder jerked. You ducked low, sunglasses slipping as some asshole lunged closer—

"SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE BREAKUP, C’MON MAN!"

—and then your ribs connected with a stray elbow. The air punched out of you.

“Ow!” You couldn’t help but wince.

Mira saw it and boiled her blood to a hundred degrees, shoving the rookie paparazzi out of the way.

"Christ," Mira snarled, shoving a reporter back. "Call fucking backup—"

A hand clamped onto your bicep. Not Mira’s.

You whipped your head up, ready to swing—

Security. A rookie you didn’t recognize, wide-eyed and sweating. "This way sir—" he panted, hauling you toward a side exit.

Mira’s voice sliced through the noise. "NOT THAT WAY—"

But the crowd was already pivoting, a pack of hyenas scenting blood. You stumbled as someone grabbed the back of your jacket—

Then you saw him.

Jay.

Leaning against a concrete pillar near the exit like he’d been carved there, arms crossed, one ankle hooked lazily over the other.

The late afternoon sun cut through the glass lobby doors, gilding the edges of him—bleached hair mussed from running his hands through it, that stupidly perfect leather jacket clinging to his shoulders. He wasn’t even looking at the chaos brewing outside. Just waiting. For you.

Your breath locked in your throat.

The paparazzi spotted him half a second later.

"OH MY GOD, IT’S HIM!" A shutter exploded like gunfire. "JAY—IS THAT THE MYSTERY MAN?"

Mira’s grip on your elbow turned vice-tight. "Company van," she barked into her headset. "NOW."

Jay didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the pillar and closed the distance in three strides, falling into step beside you like no time had passed at all. His shoulder bumped yours—warm, solid, an anchor in the screaming storm of flashes and questions. "Eyes forward," he murmured, so low only you could hear.

Mira wrenched the SUV door open, shoving you both inside. The second the door slammed, the noise cut off like someone had hit mute.

Silence.

You turned to Jay, pulse hammering. "W-What are you doing here?"

No answer. Just his hand sliding over yours, calloused fingers lacing tight between your knuckles. A single squeeze.

I’m here. Whatever happens.

Mira exhaled sharply from the front seat, her phone already lighting up with a dozen notifications. "This," she said, voice clipped, "is a PR nightmare."

Jay’s thumb traced the ridge of your wrist.

At that point, all you ever needed was him—nothing else.

—

The Atlas Records boardroom was a tomb of glass and steel, the kind of cold that gnawed through suit jackets and settled in the marrow. Twelve executives sat around the onyx table, their faces carved from the same indifferent stone.

At the head, Eleanor Whitmore—61, razor-straight posture, a single pearl necklace against a charcoal blazer—rested her palms on the table. Her manicure was flawless, pale pink. It made the silence worse.

"Michael."

Her voice sliced the air.

Mr. M — Michael Aker — stood frozen halfway to his seat, his custom Tom Ford suit suddenly too tight across the shoulders. His smile was a brittle thing, cracking at the edges.

"Eleanor," he laughed, nervous, too loud, "whatever this is about, I assure you—"

"Sit. Down."

It was a command, not a request. The kind of tone that stops hearts.

He sat.

Eleanor tapped her iPad. The floor-to-ceiling screen behind her woke up in a blaze of light—emails, bank transfers, contracts, all stamped with his initials. A digital autopsy of his crimes.

Mr. M's throat tightened in an instant. His cufflinks caught the light as his hands trembled—just once.

"W-what is th—"

"For the past four years," Eleanor said, calm as a guillotine's descent, "you have been laundering money through our artists' royalties." A click. Offshore accounts, layered like Russian dolls.

Another click. "You manipulated streaming numbers to defraud investors and undermine the competition." A spreadsheet bloomed, numbers artificially inflated in red.

Then—the kill shot.

A contract. Your name. Page 37, Section 9b: a clause so predatory it made the room inhale.

"And worst of all," Eleanor murmured, "you enslaved our biggest star in a deal so fraudulent, it’s a miracle they haven’t sued us into oblivion."

Mr. M's laugh was a dry cough. "Eleanor, these accusations are—"

"Not accusations."

Daniel Cho, the CFO, slid a black folder across the table. It screeched against the glass. Inside of it was printed server logs, his personal encryption keys, a paper trail even his lawyers couldn’t burn.

"From your own servers," Daniel said. "We copied everything before you could ever think of wiping it."

Mr. M's pulse throbbed in his temple. His Rolex rattled against the table. "You don’t understand—I built this label!" His voice splintered. "And that … I made that ungrateful brat a star! I gave him everything!"

Eleanor sighed, the way one might at a child’s tantrum. "You're fired. Effective immediately."

In a heartbeat, the air turned viscous.

Mr. M stood so fast his chair slammed backward, crashing into the glass panels of the room. Outside, your face loomed on a billboard—standing tall, smirking down at him like fate itself.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" Spittle flecked his lips.

Eleanor pressed a button under the table. The doors hissed open.

Two armed guards stepped in, hands already reaching.

"Watch me," she said.

They grabbed him by the elbows, dragging him toward the elevator. His Ferragamos scraped grooves into the hardwood.

"ELEANOR! ELEANOR, YOU BITCH—"

The doors closed. His voice muffled, then vanished.

Silence.

—

The townhouse was eerily quiet when you stepped inside, the click of the door too loud in the hush. Jay flicked on the lights, but the silence pressed in anyway—heavy, like the air before a storm.

Mira lingered in the foyer, her fingers worrying her car keys. "You sure you’re okay? I can stay—"

You waved her off. "We’re good. Thanks, Mira."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Call me if anything happens."

The door shut behind her, leaving you and Jay alone.

Quiet. Only the peaceful sounds of the city streets rushed through your ears and outside the window.

There, you stood by the entrance. And with you? Jay, smiling at you like there was no tomorrow.

“You’re gonna tear off your face if you keep smiling like that.” You spoke.

Jay then hugged you from behind, breathing onto your next with a sigh of relief.

You kicked off your shoes, laughing weakly. "Remember when we thought my dorm was haunted?"

Jay smirked, toeing the edge of the rug. "You screamed because a moth flew into your hair."

"It was huge!" You shoved him, and for a second, it was like nothing had changed.

Then—

BANG.

The sound was deafening.

The vase beside your head exploded, glass shards raining onto the hardwood. Your body moved to shove Jay out of the way before your brain could process—gunshot—and then Jay was moving, lunging toward the shadow in the doorway.

Mr. M.

Pistol raised, his face twisted in fury.

"You ruined me!" he snarled.

“H-how did you-”

“I know everything about you!” He raised his voice. “I built you! MADE YOU!”

Suddenly, Jay crashed into him, knocking him back.

“JAY!!”

A whittling commotion can be heard as Mira pried your door open.

“What’s the-”

“IT’S MR. M!” You shrieked. “He’s fighting Jay!”

“F-FIGHTING?!?” Mira shouted like her lungs depended on it.

“Should I-”

“YES!” You didn’t let fear scramble you as you took Mira to the side. “NOW!”

Mira didn’t hesitate and brought her dial to her ear, waiting for the other side to pick up.

The second gunshot tore through the air like a crack of thunder, and suddenly—BANG.

White-hot, searing through your side.

You gasped, the sound more of a wet choke than breath, your back slamming against the wall as your legs gave out. Your hand flew to the wound, fingers coming away slick and red.

“What the fuck—” You coughed, and agony lanced through your ribs—each spasm cost you air, cost you thought, cost you everything.

Mira was on you before you hit the ground, her hands clawing at your shirt, her voice a frenzied mantra.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—”

She dragged you backward, your heels scuffing bloody trails across the floor, her grip bone-crushing as she hauled you behind a toppled conference table.

“Stay with me—stay with me—!”

“Fuck it hurts…” You winced as you felt the hot bullet still searing your muscle.

Your vision spotted black at the edges, but you forced your head up—because Jay was still out there.

“HAH!!” Jay had Mr. M pinned against the shattered window, the quaint city street a fractured backdrop behind them. The gun lay kicked aside, but Mr. M was far from done.

“You ruined me!” Mr. M spat, his face a rictus of sweat and fury, shooting a glance towards you.

“I made you! Everything you are—everything you have—it’s because of ME!”

Jay’s grip on his collar tightened, his voice low, lethal.

“You stole from him. You lied to him. You used him”

Mr. M laughed, the sound hysterical, unhinged. “And you let me!”

The words stung silently, your eyes never taking off Jay’s fazed look. ****

“Where were you, Jay? Huh? Off playing hero while HE bled for my profit?”

“Jay, don’t listen to him!” You shouted, the wound still throbbing hot in your flesh.

Yet Jay flinched—just once—but it was enough.

Mr. M twisted, driving a knee into Jay’s ribs, and broke free. He lunged for the gun—

“JAY!” Your voice ripped raw from your throat.

Jay tackled him, their bodies crashing into a desk, sending your books, papers, glass flying—

BANG.

A third gunshot.

Jay staggered back, his hand pressing to his side, blood welling between his fingers.

“N-No!” Mira caught your hand as you sobbed, clutching you tighter.

Mr. M scrambled to his feet, panting, wild-eyed—

But Jay was faster.

He slammed Mr. M’s head into the floor, once, twice, until the man went limp.

Then—silence.

Jay’s breath was ragged, his shirt stained crimson, but his gaze found yours across the wreckage.

“Still… here?” he managed, voice threadbare.

You choked out a laugh, even as Mira shook you, screaming for help.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still here.”

Mr. M wrenched free, panting—then bolted, the front door slamming behind him.

Jay dropped to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You crawled toward him, vision swimming.

"Please … stay with me," you begged, pressing your hands to his wound.

Jay smiled, his eyelids fluttering. "Worth it."

Mira was already on the phone, her voice frantic. "Ambulance! NOW!"

Your tears fell onto Jay’s face, mixing with his sweat.

"Don’t you dare leave me again." You cried. ‘’Don’t you DARE!!”

His fingers found yours.

And there was only a smile on his face, before he let out one gust of precious air from the pain.

“Jay? Jay …. JAAAYYY!!!”

Outside, sirens wailed.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i gotta admit this is too fast for an update and i was supposed to publish a ni-ki fic but THIS IS MY MAN'S DAY SO WE GOTTA CELEBRATE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BELOVED POOKIE ROCKSTAR RAAAAAAAAA LYLYLYLYLYL MAWMAWMAMWA

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

[ambiguous-avery]

Moon Without Stars, Part 5

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 5448

Summary: Hunters – the people who lived fast and lawless – had one rule they all abided by. No attachments. And in a world where your first touch with your soulmate would leave a brand behind, No Touching was an unspoken second rule. Not everyone followed that, but you did. Or you tried to. The last thing you needed was for fate to be cruel and bind you to someone. Least of all someone like Sam Winchester.

Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU, sad Sam (that’s a warning all of its own), idiots fighting fate, strangers to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: Finally we can let these two start getting to know each other. Nothing says relationship building like forced proximity! Moon Without Stars Masterlist

Sam’s words were devastating. 

They were a wrecking ball that crashed through the walls you had spent so long meticulously building up brick by brick. A breach that tore through the dam you had spent years building. A match that kindled your entire world to ashes. 

And the worst part of it all? He didn’t say a goddamn thing about it. No gloating. No shoving your face in it. No smug smirk would’ve given you all the fuel you needed to hate his guts over it.

Instead, he simply came in the next morning with a plate of eggs and bacon and toast and a glass of orange juice. Freshly showered with his hair still damp, framing his face in soft waves. You wanted to run your fingers through it. He offered you a soft, 

“Good morning,” as he held the plate out for you. “You should eat,” he said simply. “Need the energy if you’re gonna walk out of here in a week.” It wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t taunting. It was just… a statement. No different than if he had said that the sun was bright or the rain was wet.

“I don’t need your charity,” you muttered, even as you reached up for the plate.

“It’s not charity. It’s breakfast.”

You had to fight the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips and instead chose to stab the eggs with more force than necessary. Smartass. That was a line you might’ve said if the roles were reversed.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“Doing what?” Sam’s voice was so maddeningly calm. So devoid of the triumph he should’ve been parading around in your face. He set the juice down next to your empty water cup.

"This." You gestured at the food, at him, at the room around you. "Taking care of me. Acting like... like we're..." The words died in your throat because you weren't sure what exactly you were trying to say.

Sam shifted his weight and loosely crossed his arms over his chest, those hazel eyes studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. 

"Like we're what?"

"Like we're friends," you managed, stabbing another piece of egg. "We're not friends, Winchester."

"No?" There was that small smile again, the one that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but somehow reached his eyes. "What are we then?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren't ready to face. You chewed slowly, buying yourself time.

"We're... temporary allies," you decided. "Sharing space until I can get the hell out of here." Sam chuckled, and the sound did something warm and dangerous to your insides.

“Temporary allies,” he repeated, as though he were tasting the words. “Is that what you call someone who stitches you up and makes you breakfast?”

You crammed an entire piece of toast in your mouth to avoid answering, but Sam just stood there, patient as ever while you chewed. It was infuriating how he could just wait, like he had all the time in the world for you to find your words.

"I didn't ask you to do any of that," you finally muttered.

"No, you were too busy bleeding out in the back of the Impala.” Even though his tone was gentle, there was still a bite in his words. "Look, we don't have to be friends. But you’re stuck here for now, so can we at least play nice while we share space?" You narrowed your eyes at him. 

"I don't play nice, Winchester. I hunt alone for a reason."

"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?" He gestured to your bandaged side with a pointed look. You wanted to throw the plate at him, but the food was too damn good to waste. Instead, you took another aggressive bite of bacon and glared.

"Fine," you conceded. "I'll play nice. But don't expect me to braid your hair or share my deepest darkest secrets over a bottle of wine." 

The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds – unexpected and annoyingly beautiful. 

"I'll cancel the slumber party I was planning, then." Despite yourself, a laugh escaped your lips before you could swallow it down. Sam's eyes lit up at the sound, and something in your chest tightened uncomfortably. You covered your traitorous mouth with your hand, silently cursing yourself for giving him the satisfaction. But the damage was done. He'd heard you laugh, and judging by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"Don't look so smug," you grumbled. "I'm delirious from pain meds."

“Sure you are.” And you didn’t have to look at him to hear the smile in his voice. “When you’re done with breakfast, I need to change the dressings on those wounds and make sure things look okay.”

“I can do it myself,” you said automatically, the words coming out before you could stop them. It was a reflex at this point. A constant need to keep everyone else an arm’s length away.

“Really? You’re going to reach around and take care of the ones on your back?” When you glanced up at him between bites, you could see that he had arched an eyebrow. You chose not to dignify that question with an answer.

“Don’t suppose I can get a shower before the dressings go back on, can I? Feels like I got mauled by a pack of werewolves.”

“Those stitches are fresh. You should probably wait at least until tomorrow before getting them wet,” he said. You sighed and gingerly leaned back against the pillows.

“Fine. But I’d like to get a real shower as soon as possible.”

“I can help you with that,” Sam offered before immediately backpedaling when you stared at him wide-eyed. “I mean– not– I can pick up some stuff for you. Not actually, uh, you know...” His cheeks flushed pink, and you felt a flutter of amusement. He looked good when he was flustered. What else could you do to fluster him like that?

“Careful, people might think you care.”

“Heaven forbid,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but notice the way the damp strands curled slightly towards the ends. “I’ll, uh, I’m just gonna go grab some things. I’ll be back in a bit.” And with that, he excused himself from the room.

Left alone, you stared at the empty doorway, feeling strangely bereft without Sam’s presence. You poked at the remaining food on your plate, irritated by how much you had enjoyed the interaction with him. And how long had it been since someone cooked for you? Years, probably. The life of a hunter wasn’t the most conducive to home-cooked meals. Or any kind of domesticity. You let out a frustrated sigh.

The problem wasn’t that Sam was unkind. He was the exact opposite. He was too kind. Too gentle. Too damn understanding. It would be so much easier if he were some self-assured asshole that gave you more than enough reasons to hate him. But he wasn’t. You didn’t have a single genuine excuse to despise him. 

You liked Sam. A lot.

And that was the problem. You had told yourself that leaving those last two times was the right thing to do. That the universe was wrong to mark you as his. That someone like you – broken, sharp-edged, foul-mouthed – had no business being tied to anyone, let alone someone as good as Sam Winchester. He deserved someone who still believed in the magic of soulmates like he did. Who still believed that the mark was a gift. A cosmic reassurance that you weren’t meant to be alone in the world.

Because to you, it was more like a curse. A reminder of what you weren’t allowed to have. 

You finished your breakfast, surprised by how hungry you had actually been. The plate had been scraped clean by the time Sam returned with an armful of medical supplies.

“Good to see you’ve got an appetite,” he said, setting everything down on the bed.

“Food’s food,” you replied with a shrug that you immediately regretted as pain shot through your side.

“Careful,” Sam warned, his voice dropping to that low, concerned tone that made your stomach do strange things. “I need you to sit up a bit more and lift your shirt on the right side.”

You hesitated for a moment. It wasn’t that you were shy – modesty wasn’t a luxury you could afford in your line of work. You’d patched yourself up in gas station bathrooms, motel rooms, and the back seats of stolen cars. You’d stripped down in front of strangers when necessary, all in the name of survival. 

But this felt different. More intimate somehow. Knowing that Sam’s full attention would be on you. His hands on your skin. If you made a move on him, just how long would his touch stay innocent and gentle?

“I can turn around if you want,” he offered, misinterpreting your hesitation.

“Wha– I’m not some maiden clutching my pearls,” you scoffed before tugging the borrowed t-shirt up to expose your bandaged side and shoulder. You slid your arm from the sleeve and let the extra fabric bunch up at your front to maintain some semblance of your dignity. “I’ve been stitched up by shadier characters than you.” Sam chuckled as he knelt beside the bed.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he said, carefully peeling back the adhesive tape. “Though, the bar for ‘shadier than me’ might be lower than you think.” You tried to focus on the ceiling rather than the jolts of electricity his fingers sent through your skin as he worked.

“What, you got a dark past I should know about?”

“Don’t we all in this line of work?” His tone was light, but when you glanced at him, there was something in his eyes that made you wonder just how many ghosts of his own he was carrying. But before you could dwell on it too much, he gently pulled away the old dressing, and you couldn’t suppress the hiss that escaped you as the cool air hit your wound.

“Sorry,” he murmured, inspecting his handiwork. You looked down at your side, finally able to get an idea of the damage you had sustained. There was a single, long gash that ran perpendicular to your ribs that had been neatly stitched back together with black thread. The edges of the wound were jagged and swollen and angry. “It’s looking better than it did. Less inflamed than when I put the stitches in.”

“You can thank my superhuman healing abilities,” you quipped, trying to keep the tone light and ignore how close his face was to yours. How you could smell the clean scent of his shampoo. Your eyes found the desk that sat in the corner of the room, and you spent way too much effort memorizing the little details of it.

The room fell silent as Sam worked except for the occasional sounds of crinkling gauze packaging and medical tape ripping. Despite yourself, your gaze drifted back to him, studying the concentrated furrow of his brow and the way his lips pressed together as he focused. And his goddamn hands. They were impossibly gentle for their size, careful not to do anything that would lead to unnecessary tugging or discomfort. 

Though, no amount of mental distraction was enough to fully tune out the way every brush of his fingers against you sent pure electricity through your system. It was no small feat to hold still, but even when you twitched or jerked slightly, he didn’t say anything. No reprimands. No chiding. Just wordless care. It was unsettling. For you at least. 

“You’re good at this,” you admitted reluctantly. “Not your first rodeo, I’m guessing?”

“Dean and I have had a lot of practice patching each other up over the years,” he said, his mouth quirking up slightly.

There was another deep wound that curved from your collarbone, over your shoulder, and down across your shoulder blade, and Sam had a point that there was no amount of twisting or contorting that would let you take care of that one by yourself. Two others on your mid-to-lower back added to that point. When Sam was done, he set about cleaning up the mess he had made, tossing wrappers into the garbage before moving to grab your empty plate from where you had set it down.

“Dean and I are going to do a supply run here soon. I can grab some things for you. Do you still have my number?” Memorized it. Forwards, backwards, upside down, you could recite it in at least three languages. Just in case.

“It’s somewhere around here,” you said nonchalantly.

“Well if you need anything specific, just text or call,” Sam said. “I know being stuck here isn’t ideal.”

You nodded, tugging your – Sam’s – shirt back down. The bunker was stifling in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. The weight of the domesticity, of being cared for, was what made it hard to breathe. You weren’t used to staying in one place for more than a couple of nights, let alone being confined to a bed while someone fussed over you.

“Some clothes of my own would be nice,” you admitted. “And I don’t know what kind of soap situation you guys have here, but if all you have is a five-in-one bodywash-shampoo-conditioner monstrosity, then I’m going to walk out of here by the end of today.”

Sam laughed, the sound rich and warm, and your mark decided that it was singlehandedly the best sound you had ever heard in your entire life. No contest.

“Noted. Text me your sizes. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Hey,” you blurted out before he could leave. He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at you with those patient eyes.

“Yeah?”

Your throat constricted. What were you going to say? Thank you? Sorry for being so difficult? I’ve been running from you because I’m terrified that the second I give in the universe is going to take you away from me? Instead, all that came out was,

“Nothing floral. With the soap, I mean. I don’t want to smell like a flower shop exploded.” You saw the ghost of a smile tug at his lips.

“Got it. No flowers. Any other preferences I should know about?”

“I like mint. Or… citrus is fine.” You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, suddenly feeling ridiculous for making such a silly request.

“Mint or citrus. I can manage that.” And with that, he left.

You sank into the pillows with a heavy sigh, your weight sagging into them with a tiredness that permeated through your bones. You drained your glass of water before pulling the blankets up a little higher over you and letting the warm feeling of safety lull you into a surprisingly peaceful sleep. Thoughts of Sam’s hands on you chased you into your dreams.

When you woke, you found yourself bathed in darkness. The lamp on your bedside table had been turned off, and without any windows in the room, it was hard to say how long you had been out for. Everything felt stiff and sore from sleeping in one position for too long, and your mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. You fumbled around for the lamp, wincing as soft, golden light flooded the room when you found it.

Your water glass was full. And four pills had been set out in one of those plastic dosage cups that came with liquid medicines. You groaned as you sat up and swung your legs over the side of the bed, testing the give of your wounds. You were achy for sure, but not so much that you couldn’t manage a small walk. Anything to get out of bed. You downed the pills with a happy gulp of water, sighing in content as you did so.

There was a small bag sitting on the chair Sam had occupied earlier, and curiosity got the better of you. When you peeked inside of it, you found clothes that weren’t yours but were definitely meant to be. A simple pair of black sweatpants, a soft gray t-shirt, and a pack of underwear that still had the tags on them. There was also a small toiletry bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of citrus-scented body wash. No floral nonsense, just as you had requested.

You went back and double checked the tags on the clothes, realizing that you hadn’t ever texted Sam. You had meant to, really. But he seemed to have guessed your size just fine regardless. You grabbed your phone off the bedside table and checked it.

2 New Messages

1 Missed Call

You navigated to your calls, and you swore your heart skipped a beat seeing HIM on your missed call list. The call had come in several hours ago. Unsurprisingly, the two texts were from him too. When had he gotten… right. When you had texted him in a moment of weakness during the time you had spent avoiding him. How could you forget?

What size shirt and pants do you wear?

I guessed on the sizes. Hope I wasn’t too far off the mark. Let me know if you need anything else.

You stared at the messages, warmth spreading through your chest despite your best efforts to squash it. You glanced at the time on your phone: 9:43pm. Jesus… you had slept the entire day away. You changed into the fresh clothes, hesitating when it came to stripping out of Sam’s shirt. You weren’t ready to give that up so soon. So you simply changed into a fresh pair of underwear and the sweatpants.

It hadn’t even been a full 24-hours since you first woke up here, but it would be nice to get to know the layout of the place a little better, especially if you were going to be stuck here for the next week. Not to mention there was an uncomfortable pressure in your bladder. And the idea of leaving the confines of your room was too tempting to ignore.

The hallway outside your door was well-lit. The bunker was quiet except for the dull hum of electricity and the occasional creaking that every old building seemed to make. You moved slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for support, bare feet against the cold bunker floor. The place was much larger with far more rooms than you had initially expected. There was a number ‘20’ on your door, and you briefly wondered how many other people called this place home. Or at least home base.

You had no idea where anything was, but your stomach growled. It echoed in the hallway and reminded you that breakfast had been your only meal of the day so far. Okay, new plan. Kitchen then bathroom. Sam had brought in freshly cooked food earlier which clearly meant there had to be a kitchen around. Or a hot plate. Maybe a stash of MREs? It took you a few wrong turns before you finally found the kitchen in question. But not before you had stumbled into a library of sorts. You filed the location of that away for later. For now, food.

You flipped the kitchen light on and dug through the cupboards, trying to find something edible that wouldn’t take much effort to put together. Just the walk to the kitchen had quickly burned through what little energy you had, though you weren’t sure if it was the lack of food or your body healing that took it more out of you. The cupboard was surprisingly well-stocked. Whoever lived here clearly shopped regularly, which struck you as odd for hunters. Most of the ones you knew lived off of convenience store food and booze, you included. Then again, Sam had mentioned earlier about a supply run, so more than likely it was just the aftermath of that.

You moved to the fridge and opened it, the light inside casting a soft glow that spilled onto the tiled floor. Carefully, you scanned the shelves, reaching for an apple but pausing when you spotted something better on the top shelf. Sitting in the corner was a pie tin with a single slice remaining. It took you all of three seconds of consideration before you reached for it. Leftovers always tasted better at night. It was a secret of the universe that anyone would’ve agreed with you on.

You moved with quiet precision, a habit you had developed in your years of hunting. It had been ingrained in you from the very beginning to never make more noise than necessary. As your fingers closed around the pie tin, the cold metal of it bit against your skin. You slid it from its spot carefully and set it on the counter before closing the fridge door with a soft thump, sealing the pie’s fate as your prize. Lost in the sweet indulgence of stolen pie, you missed the way your mark had warmed, and it wasn’t until Sam cleared his throat that you swiftly pulled one of the kitchen knives from the block on the counter and whirled around to face him, your stitches pulling uncomfortably with the sudden movement.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there!” Sam’s hands went up in a gesture of surrender, palms facing you like a shield. “It’s just me.” You huffed out a sigh, your grip on the knife relaxing ever so slightly as your shoulders sagged.

“Jesus Christ,” you hissed, “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone?” Your heart hammered against your ribcage, adrenaline coursing through you. Sam’s lips quirked upward, his eyes flicking between your face and the knife still pointed at him.

“Says the person stealing pie in the middle of the night.” He took a cautious step forward. “You gonna put that down or…?”

You slowly lowered the knife, watching his slow movements towards you.

“I was hungry,” you explained, setting the knife down and gesturing vaguely to the pie. “Didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

“So you decided to steal Dean’s pie instead?” Amusement was laced in Sam’s voice as he spoke. “That’s bold of you. He counts the slices, you know.”

“Oh.” You glanced down at the dessert. “Sorry, I didn’t realize–”

“No, no,” Sam chuckled, moving to your side and pulling out a fork from a nearby drawer. His arm brushed against yours, and you felt your mark hum in response. “This is actually perfect. He’s been annoying me all day.” He handed you the fork. “I’ll just tell him a stabby raccoon got into it.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a slow smile spreading across your face despite your best efforts.

“Stabby raccoon? Really?”

“If the knife fits.” Sam leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement drew your attention to the way his flannel stretched across his shoulders. They were so damn broad, and with him standing right next to you, it was impossible not to notice just how tall he stood. He was an absolute mountain of a man. A mountain you’d like to climb. You’d gotten pretty decent at identifying which thoughts were your own and which ones were coming from your mark. And that was definitely the mark talking. Though… you might’ve agreed with it… just a little bit.

“I’ve been asleep all day,” you defended, popping off the plastic cover of the pie and digging your fork in. “I’m starving.” The first bite was heavenly. Sweet but not overwhelming. With just the perfect amount of cinnamon to offset it. Even cold, it was delicious. You briefly closed your eyes, savoring it. You couldn’t think of the last time you had treated yourself to a simple indulgence like this. When you opened your eyes to go for another bite, Sam was watching you with an expression that made you pause.

“Good?” he asked, his voice softer than before.

“Really good,” you admitted between bites. “Though now I understand why your brother would count the slices.”

“Dean would be happy to hear that. Well… after he murdered you for eating his last slice.” Sam’s smile was infectious, and you took another bite in an attempt to stifle your grin. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft scrape of your fork against the metal tin. You were painfully aware of his presence beside you. The silence between you stretched, though it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as you remembered it.

“I’m surprised you’re up and walking around already,” he said finally. “Those were some pretty nasty wounds.”

“I’m not the type to stay in one place for too long. I’d go stir-crazy if I stayed in that room the whole week.”

“I can imagine. You don’t strike me as someone who likes being cooped up.” You paused mid-bite, studying him with a sideways glance.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re stubborn,” Sam replied without missing a beat. “I know you’re resourceful enough to survive on your own for years. You’re brave to the point of recklessness. And I know that you’re good at what you do.” His eyes never left yours as he spoke. The fork stilled halfway to your mouth, pie precariously perched on the tines. How could he do that? How could he peel back your layers so easily? It wasn’t fair. You had spent years building your walls, but here he was, walking right through them like they were nothing.

“Those are generalizations that could apply to any hunter,” you countered, setting the fork down with more force than necessary. “That’s not knowing me.” Sam shrugged, his shoulders rolling with the movement.

“Maybe not. But I’d like to.”

The simple honesty in his voice caught you off guard. It would’ve been so much easier if he just kept his distance. If he treated you with the same guarded suspicion that you gave to everyone else. That was a dance you knew by heart, and you could do it all day long. Keeping people at an arm’s length away and never letting them any closer was something you could do as easily as breathing. It kept them safe, you told yourself. It kept you safe.

“And what if you don’t like what you find?” The words came out as a whisper, far more vulnerable than you had intended. Sam moved a fraction closer, his side just barely touching your shoulder. You could feel his warmth through the fabric of his shirt. Your mark practically sang at the contact, and you couldn’t deny that it felt nice. You didn’t flinch away.

“I’m willing to take that chance.” His voice was low, almost a gentle rumble that you could feel in your chest. “You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not,” you muttered, stabbing at the pie.

“I think you’re scared of something that isn’t a monster.” 

And for the second time in less than 24 hours, his words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fork until your knuckles turned white. You were exposed. Flayed open like a fish on a cutting board with your insides laid bare for him to see. Your knee-jerk reaction was to deny it. To cover it with your bravado you wore like armor. To push him away. To bare your fangs and claws to protect yourself. But wasn’t that what you had been doing? It was exhausting. The running. The hiding. The fighting.

“Aren’t we all afraid of something?”

Sam’s gaze was soft in the kitchen lighting. It simultaneously made him look younger and older. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for a second fork from the drawer and scooped up a bite of pie for himself. Your instinct was to protect your prize, to live up to your ‘stabby’ title and jab your fork into his outstretched hand. But something about the shared moment kept you from following through.

“Yeah,” he finally admitted, savoring his stolen bite. “We are. But most hunters run towards the things that scare them. Not away.” You set the pie down on the counter between you.

“That’s different,” you said, gingerly crossing your arms over your chest. “Monsters are predictable. You know what they want. What they’ll do. How to kill them.” You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of Sam’s gaze on you. “People are messier.”

“Is that why you run? Because I’m messy?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications and unspoken secrets. You could lie. You could deflect. You could do what you had always done: run. But for the first time in a long time, you found yourself wanting to stay. Wanting to face this head-on.

“No. I am.” And something in you cracked a little more, the fracture spider webbing outwards. Sam’s eyes softened, and he set his fork down.

“We’re all messy. It comes with the territory.”

“No. Not like this. Not like me.”

“You wanna elaborate on that?” Sam asked, leaning his hip against the counter, his full attention on you. It was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating to be the sole focus of those hazel eyes. You liked how he looked at you.

“Not particularly.” You reached for the pie again, using it as a shield. A distraction. Anything to avoid the way he seemed to see right through your carefully constructed layers.

“Fair enough.” He didn’t push, and somehow that made it worse. The way he just accepted whatever you were willing to give. You ate the rest of the pie in silence, and he didn’t try for another bite even when you offered it to him. 

"You should probably head back to bed," Sam suggested, his voice gentle in the kitchen's quiet. "Doctor's orders."

"You're a doctor now?" You raised an eyebrow, setting the empty pie tin aside.

"I've got more medical experience than most ER residents." There was no arrogance in his statement, just a simple fact. "And I say you need rest."

"Fine, Dr. Winchester." You pushed away from the counter and immediately regretted it as your legs wobbled beneath you. The short excursion had drained what little energy you'd managed to recover. Sam noticed instantly, taking a step toward you with his hands hovering near your elbows, ready to catch you but not quite touching. 

"You okay?"

"Just peachy," you muttered, steadying yourself against the counter. Your pride wouldn't let you admit how weak you still were, but your body was betraying you with every trembling step. The journey to the kitchen had seemed manageable earlier, but now the prospect of walking all the way back to your room felt like scaling Everest.

The two of you walked back to your room in silence. Sam stayed close enough that you could hold onto him to steady yourself – you didn’t – but far enough away that you wouldn’t accidentally brush him against him. The message was clear enough. Any contact would have to be initiated by you. Which was good. That was how you wanted it. No touching beyond what was strictly necessary. Just how you liked it. Why were you disappointed?

“I’m right next door if you need me,” Sam said, motioning to the door with a ‘21’ on it. “And you can call or text anytime. If you’re up for it, I can show you around the bunker a bit tomorrow.” You studied him for a moment, trying to find the angle. The catch. But all you could find was sincerity.

“I’d like that,” you admitted, surprised by your own honesty. “I think I saw a library earlier?”

“Yeah. It’s a good one; you’ll like it,” he smiled slightly, a soft, gentle one that made your stomach flip. “Good night.” He said your name, and it was like you were hearing it for the first time. There was no edge to it. No underlying tone that suggested he was annoyed with you. Just… Sam.

You hesitated, parting your lips like you might say something more. But instead, all that came out was a quiet,

“Night.” The door clicked softly behind you, and you didn’t see how Sam lingered a moment longer, staring at the space where you had stood. You leaned against the door, heart thudding in a way you were too terrified to name.

The world was tilting towards Sam. And you were falling.

---

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Part 4 --- Part 6

[therivercrow]

A Word With Friends - Perspicacious

OK, so this one's trying to do a lot. It's my response to this week's Word With Friends (perspicacious - tagged by @seaglassmelody and @blackwall-my-tiny-husband) and Thursday Bangers ("I've loved you three summers but I want them all" - from @teamtakagi).

It's also for @robinsea who wanted some loving for Alana and their amazing Rook, Ivy.

This is vaguely Rook's Roost AU in that it fits the main timeline, but it doesn't reference it heavily.

Enjoy a tender moment in the Necropolis Gardens:

"Thought I'd find you here".

Alana crouched down beside the timeworn headstone where Ivy Ingellvar of the Mourn Watch was half-kneeling, eyes closed, before a single lit candle that cast a tiny golden glow amid the indigo gloom of the Necropolis gardens. Ivy glanced up at Alana's movement, a sudden intrusion into their silent meditation, but not an unwelcome one.

"I needed to get away. I come here to think". Ivy's words were brusque but their eyes softened as they took in the expression of care on Alana's face. Their bright green irises shone like funeral lanterns in the deep black of their sclera.

Most people avoided Ivy's gaze, finding their glowing, demonic eyes unsettling, but Alana met them tenderly.

"Are you okay?"

Ivy sighed, shaking their head. "I saw Minrathous, what the Venatori did to Dock Town. I should have been there". Their voice took on a hardened edge. "I should have done something".

Alana rested one hand on Ivy's shoulder. "You couldn't be in two places at once, none of us could. Other Watchers were there, they tried their best. If you'd gone, you might have been..." Alana let the words fall away.

"I'm used to death", Ivy said. "I've lived with it my whole life, and I'm not scared. But what I saw in Dock Town, so many bodies - people - left in the street without a proper burial. It goes against everything the Watch stands for".

Alana turned away, thinking about their next words. The gardens were a peaceful haven, especially after the chaos of the dragon fight in Treviso, and the horror of what happened and was still happening in Minrathous.

Soft green and blue wisp-lights illuminated patches of the constant twilight, revealing islands of light in the sea of gloom, highlighting mausoleums and memorial statues, silent homes for the dead. The scent of flowers and candlewax wafted on the night air.

"Thank you", Alana finally said. "For choosing Treviso".

Ivy made their choice in a moment, they had no time to think about the situation with their usual cool logic. The Watchers scattered, some going to each of the two cities under attack, to help the Crows and Shadow Dragons there.

"I didn't choose Treviso", Ivy replied quietly. "I chose...you".

Alana lowered their head slightly, their voice cracking. "I know".

Alana wasn't good at these moments, where genuine emotion threatened to break through their carefully constructed mask. Ivy could see their discomfort, and understood it. In this they were the same; only where Alana deflected with irreverence, Ivy pretended stoicism. Underneath, both elves were small, scared, and fragile.

Alana shook out their hands as if to banish the rising feelings, and glanced at the stone Ivy had chosen to kneel at. The name was worn away by centuries but was still partially legible.

"Ingellvar", Alana read aloud.

"This was where I was found".

"That's where you got your name?" Alana asked. "This stone is...ancient. Look at it, it's overgrown with...oooooh, Ivy Ingellvar. I get it!"

The stone was indeed grown over with ivy, vines trailing like serpents over the carvings that once adorned the granite slab.

"Well, aren't you the perspicacious one?" Ivy chuckled. "Never been sure about the name, honestly".

"It suits you". Alana reached out one hand to Ivy's hair, a dark green knot of braids that sat atop their otherwise shaved head. "It matches your hair. And...I think it's beautiful".

Ivy gave a small snort of derision. "Beautiful?"

Alana met their eyes again. "Yes. You are".

"I thought we said we wouldn't do this". Ivy stood up quickly. "Not while..." they gestured widely, at everything.

"We kissed, Ivy". Alana said. "That day in Arlathan forest. You and me, in a sunbeam under the trees. And I haven't stopped thinking about it. I know what we said but -"

They stood level with Ivy, and held their hands.

"Everything with Minrathous, with Treviso, with those damn dragons". Alana's words caught in their throat. "It reminded me that we don't have forever. We're fighting gods. Sure, we have a small army to help us, but any day, any one of us could -"

"Die". Ivy finished Alana's sentence, saying the word they'd been avoiding.

"Well, yes". Alana's voice softened. "So, let's work with the time we have. I want to see where this can go. I want more summers in Arlathan with you. I want them all - if you do".

Ivy rested their head on Alana's shoulder, moving into a tender hug. The two elves stood embracing, in the quiet of the gardens and the cool of the night. "I do".

[alexanderlightweight]

Wednesday nights are my new/old/new again favourite part of the week. I'm solo parenting bedtime with 2 little ones and a doggy on Wednesdays which can be stressful when one is an infant who cries when tired (who would have thought 🤔) and the other is my 5yo autistic angel who manages her displeasure at a baby crying by being louder to down it out.

All this to say when the dust settles I treat myself to a cup of tea and binge read anything/everything you post during writing Wednesdays. So thank you for being you and sharing your gift. It's a sweet treat to frayed nerves and a sign that the week is almost over.

With that in mind I selfishly ask for a continuation of either guide/sentinel verse or some other where they're essentially power boosting eachother against others who would be happier to have them weaker (for control reasons or to get rid of them).NSFW please (should you be so inspired) but will happily take anything.

PS I hope you're getting some R&R yourself or at least snuggles with your pets 🐶🐈‍⬛.

that sounds... that sounds like you need a whole pot of tea and i'm very glad that my fics help you recenter and also remind you the week is near its end! I hope this wednesday was nice to you!

indeed! so shocking that a tiny human who doesn't understand anything cries at the surprise of exhaustion they can't comprehend! why I certainly don't still cry when i'm over tired even now that I understand it (jk I totally cry but I only wail sometimes). seriously, I love how kids are like 'oh hey. I can problem solves this by escalating' and you're just sitting there going '... someone please stop this ride. I would like to be off and go sit in the quiet, dark corner of peace I know exists somewhere'. not that kids aren't amazing, but well. they come with quite a few features that are understandable but no-less exhausting for all that they're being reasonable considering they're brand new humans.

as tempted as I was i didn't manage to get this written on Wednesday (because the brain fog decided I was done) but I hope you still enjoyed the other prompts filled that night when you took your break and I hope you enjoy this because I may have had too much fun with it

that being said, if this ends up not sounding like (don't read if I accidentally added something not your thing) something youd enjoy or if you read and it ends up not being your thing, just let me know.

uhm so I need to be clear this is 3DNE and it's in gladiolus first part here, so it's both bloody and kinky. seeing as Magnus senses Alec and goes Enemies to Married in about five minutes.

uh..., slaughter, fucking on a battlefield and using blood as lube (corpse blood so corpse desecration I guess). kinky sex and Magnus has dick piercings. battlefield bonding and some blasphemy. a little outside pov for some added despair. not for malec, malec are having a blast. probably some more but i'm bad at tagging without ao3's helpful database so be advised, here be dead doves.

also I did have some lovely cuddles with Nightshade (tho they are never enough according to him)

<3 lumine

gladiolus

Izzy isn’t sure what’s happened.

All she knows is that Alec is at the center of something powerful, red mist gathering in, obscuring her vision as she tries to find him.. Her hermano is in the eye of a storm that’s taken down the entire field of combatants. 

The shockwaves have stopped and while the ground still feels like it’s trembling with aftershocks, Izzy can’t be sure it’s the earth or her.  However, she’s finally conscious again and that means she can fight.  She pushes up from her side up to her knees, leaning on her elbows as she tries to steady herself and gather the will to get up.

She’s lucky that whatever happened took out both sides, giving her time to gather herself and then gets a look at what’s actually happening.

The warlock — the High Warlock and the reason her parents are in a different location rather than here —  is still in front of Alec, even if they're both standing now.  Izzy isn’t even sure if Alec’s standing or if he’s being held up, she can’t tell from this angle or from how blood drips down into her vision.  His wings are out, but they’re not glinting adamas and they’re not being ripped away from him either.

Finally she sees Alec fully as he steps away from the warlock and looks towards her, even across the distance, she feels like their gazes meet.

Run.

The stern command against her mind is silent to her ears, but not her senses. Izzy’s never felt a louder truth or a more desperate and deadly emotion from her hermano.

It’s dangerous.

He’s dangerous and it’s with fear that Izzy realizes the warlock must be a guide and if he’s a guide and Alec’s giving her a warning then...

Izzy closes her eyes and grits her teeth, forcing herself up even though she’s struggling along with every other shadowhunter on the battlefield. 

On a field of slaughter, more like.

Unlike the other shadowhunters who are picking their blades back up and orienting themselves, Izzy runs. One foot after the other, first a staggering limp before her gait steadies as her training overcomes the pain and shock.  Alec didn’t give empathic orders like that unless lives were in danger... but Izzy is the only one he’s bothered to warn.

Tears stream down Izzy’s face as the screams start.  

These are people she knows. 

Some of them are people she cares about and while she doesn’t like all of them, she’s been fighting on a battlefield with them for what feels like a lifetime. 

Even as others join her in fleeing, Izzy knows it won’t be of any  use.  

She’ll survive for one reason and one reason alone, because the bonds of kin can temper Alec’s reason enough to spare her.  There’s no such grace for anyone else on the field. Especially since most of them are hunter’s Alec only tolerated because they were all equal fodder once on the field and each body counted.

Alec’s never let on just how deep his soul ache is.  If the echoes of his un-shielded mind feel like a canyon or a puddle, or how deeply he yearns for a guide, if at all. 

Izzy feels like a fool.

Of course Alec would want a guide.  

Who else will give him the unconditional love he deserves and has been denied his whole life.  Their parents threw him at the Clave the moment he emerged and the Clave have him throwing him at demons and then on battlefields ever since.

Alec has no true reason to stay loyal to their people, not even the Pride of Idris that he was a part of.  Alec turned his nose up at too many guides, snubbed too many families and bruised too many personal feelings, despite the blatant lack of compatibility between him and well, anyone.

He’s been alone for years, not just by choice but because he’s never matched.

Which is exactly why he’s slaughtering them.

All of them.

Tiers and rows and teams of nephilim, killed by one of their own.  Worse, a sentinel, the steadfast protectors of their people.  The very reason Alec leads troops despite being unbonded is because of his natural instinct as a sentinel to protect them and his territory. 

Yet now he destroys what he once shielded with a near manic glee. Why wouldn’t he, when it’s to prove his devotion to his guide, Alec’s never been one to half-ass anything.

Izzy can feel Alec's satisfaction grow with each death.  It lingers heavy in the air as if Alec’s warlock guide is magnifying it. Projecting it out to further torture the nephilim dying in droves and flaunt his own victory in claiming a sentinel even the Clave has given up on.

Most of them are trying to fight back but some know better and are running.  Alec’s deadly enough on his own, but now in defense of his guide?  There’s no hope for any of them.

Izzy stumbles, nearly tripping as the hunter in front of her drops, an arrow through their throat.  Izzy wants to fall and kneel, take advantage of the fact that Alec’s her brother and take a moment to mourn and just breathe but she can’t.

Alec may be her brother but Alec’s guide is her enemy.

This is Alec’s last gift.

Her life, before her brother completely turns to the other side.

That warlock didn’t demand this. 

Oh the Clave will assume so and so will their parents.  They’ll make it sound like the warlock mind-controlled Alec but Izzy knows the truth.  This is a gift.  A courting gesture. A Raziel damned promise, that Alec will never betray his new guide and is firmly by his side, despite being enemies only moments before.

Izzy gets past the runline and to the tents, where runed defenses normally keep those in charge and those wounded who are sent back to heal.

Her first step past the zone where her body can recognize nephilim grace and she collapses. Rolling with the force of her fall and barely remembering to tuck herself to take the brunt on her shoulder rather than head.

For a moment she lays there, blood and mud in her mouth and then she’s being hauled up.  Aline and Sebastian pulling her up and into a tent rather than in the mud.

“Izzy, what in Raziel’s name is happening past the runes? We can’t see anything.” Sebastian’s voice is soothing and familiar and Izzy chokes, turning to spit before accepting a canteen of water.

“The High Warlock, the one no one can get near. The reason my parents got called to Idris—” Izzy gets out and then she takes several more sips.  They’ve both paled but what they’re imagining is nothing as bad as the reality.  “He’s a guide. A powerful guide, he brought the entire battlefield down. Even his own side and by the time I managed to get up it was too late.” Izzy shrugs, laughing mirthlessly as she cries because she can’t tell if this is worse or better than losing Alec to death. “He’s claimed Alec as his sentinel.”

Aline turns to where the wardline is lit up with silver-blue wards and runestones and Izzy follows her gaze.  The field she ran from can’t be seen, hidden beneath a deep, dark unnatural fog of crimson.

“The screams stopped a few seconds ago.” Sebastian murmurs, “I can’t tell if that’s bad or good. You think the warlock killed them all so that Alec wouldn’t have to choose? It makes sense he’d spare Izzy then, since she’s Alec’s sister.”

Izzy shakes her head, not sure if it’s guilt, love or exhaustion that holds her tongue from spilling the truth.  Better to let them understand and see with their own eyes the carnage Alec’s wrought. 

“Can you see out there, if you go past the wardline?” Aline asks her and Izzy isn’t sure, she doesn’t remember anything but trying to make sure she didn’t trip on the bodies that dropped as easily as the apples Izzy used to throw for Alec to shoot.

—-

Pleased avarice fills the entirety of Magnus as he watches his sentinel slaughter his way through packs of his fellow shadowhunters.  No sooner had Magnus pulled Alexander to his feet and into a kiss to ground his boy with his touch as he pulled Alexander from a zone-out and his sentinel bristled.  Turning his backto Magnus and hand on his unlit blade.

Magnus had thought it to be symbolic, that his delightfully tall sentinel wanted to show that he’d protect Magnus despite it hardly being necessary or what Magnus wants.  Instead of posturing however, he’d launched forward, blade reaping lives and his psyche oozing grim satisfaction. He’s a scythe in a field of bodies ripe for the harvest. 

This isn’t protection, it’s carnage.

Magnus is quite frankly, shocked and delighted by Alexander’s brutal instincts and the way he cuts through bodies with both his blade and wings.  They’re bonded and even if it hasn’t settled that’s more than enough for him to shield Alexander from the mental agony ringing across the field.

His boy is drenched in the sacred and holy blood of his own people, uncaring of the gore as Alexander crushes bones and cuts off limbs. A battledance of gruesome beauty dedicated to Magnus alone.

Magnus hadn’t had any particular plans for the rest of the shadowhunters on the field before this. He’d fully intended on taking Alexander somewhere private, where he could make sure his sentinel wasn’t too overstimulated as they finished bonding. Sentinel senses could be rather delicate, especially before the final claim to complete and settle a bond. Alexander’s mind and soul submitted so sweetly to Magnus’ claiming that he thought he’d need to protect his boy until it settled.

Yet Alexander stands strongly, bow drawn and arrow aimed, feet steady and planted on bloodsoaked ground.  Quickly and efficiently picking off those who try to run, avoiding only one single shadowhunter.

That singular mercy would normally be enough to raise Magnus’ hackles, however the bond that thrums between his boy and the lone shadowhunter is familial and filled with farewell, not one of lust or yearning.

Still, it stokes something bitter in Magnus’ instincts that anyone was spared when this is a display from Alexander to himself.  It’s not even a display of protection, but one of devotion. One survivor won’t make him doubt his sentinel but it does make him wistful, as Magnus watches his boy decapitate one of the hunter’s actually trying to fight back.

Despite thinking of taking Alexander somewhere calm and isolated, where his senses could be soothed as they bonded, Magnus has changed his mind.

Because while it isn’t necessary, Magnus intended to finalized his bond with Alexander with sex. He wants a primal bond and considering Alexander is slaughtering the soldiers he was leading only moments ago, his boy can only want the same.

Magnus doesn’t want to tame Alexander’s tempest, he wants to unleash it and add his own gale to the storm.

—-

The minute every threat is neutralized — perhaps not yet dead, but no longer a threat, Magnus pushes his sentinel down onto the ground and follows. Kissing Alexander messily and marveling at how just how much blood his boy got on himself during the massacre he just gifted Magnus.

“You’re divine, Alexander.” Magnus praises as he kisses blood from Alexander’s jaw and they both groan when Alexander gets his viscera soaked fingers under Magnus’ shirt. They’re firm and calloused and slick with still warm blood and Magnus chuckles into Alexander’s mouth as he uses magic to get both their pants open.

“I hope you’ll forgive me darling, but I’m afraid after your little display we’re bonding here and now, Alexander. I’ll fuck you on silks and roses later if you like, but for now. I’ll have you like this.” Magnus means it too, his sweetly vicious sentinel deserves finery and gentleness as equally as he deserves to be ravaged in the pools of blood he’s created.

Alexander chuckles under him, eyes dark and wild as he pulls Magnus down so he can lean up and kiss him — teeth catching on Magnus’ lip in a taunt.

“You think I mind bonding on the land I washed clean for you with blood? You think I’d let you bond me somewhere else? I’m your sentinel now. You decreed it. So prove it here, where it can’t be denied.”

Magnus has to kiss him for that and then Magnus drags his fingers through the thick blood on Alexander’s clothes.

“Do you think your dead comrades ever imagined that the most useful thing they’d ever do in life or death is help me fuck you open?”  

Alexander whines, hips wriggling to give Magnus more room to pull his pants down far enough so Magnus can fuck him. 

Magnus pets his fingers across Alexander’s hole, anointing it with the blood of Alexander’s own hunters with a smirk.  There’s a whine of impatience and Magnus spits, letting blood and saliva mix and adding magic to slick the way as he presses into Alexander.

Magnus feels as impatient as Alexander looks, the way he’s urging Magnus to hurry with little hitching breaths and judders of his hips as he clenches down on Magnus fingers.

“I’m trying to loosen you sweetheart, let me in.” Magnus nips at Alexander’s ear, careful to avoid breaking or biting skin just yet. “If you keep clenching like that, how are you ever going to handle my cock, hmm?”

Alexander whines, tensing despite Magnus orders and finally after a deep, steadying breath he forcibly relaxes.  Magnus fucks into him with his fingers, curling them and twisting and holding down Alexander’s hip with his other hand. Unrepentant when he finds Alexander’s prostate and rubs teasingly at it.

“There, isn’t that better?” Magnus asks and Alexander’s gasp of his name is the correct answer as Magnus adds a third finger, twisting until he’s knuckle deep. The rings of his fingers pressing together and stretching Alexander’s rim tight against the cold metal.

Magnus crooks his fingers teasingly, the rings threatening to slip past Alexander’s rim and he laughs in delight as Alexander comes, breathless and untouched between them.

“Such a good boy,” Magnus praises him mentally and also petting him with emotions.  Laving him with affection and pride and Alexander squirms, clenching around Magnus’ fingers like he’s afraid they’ll leave.  Magnus gives him a moment to settle and then presses his fingers deeper, curling them so they press insistently against Alexander’s prostate this time.

It earns him a deep whine and Alexander tenses and trembles beneath him.  His wings are muddy, fluttering and gathering filth and blood and Magnus only allows it because he’ll personally clean each and every feather later.

Once Alexander is entirely his.

Alexander’s hole is pink and swollen and streaked with blood when Magnus pulls his fingers free.  It’s obscene to use nephilim blood to fuck Alexander, but how can Magnus waste such a precious opportunity when it’s been provided by Alexander.

Magnus slicks his cock with the blood on Alexander’s torso and then fucks into him.  He’s not nice or gentle about it and Alexander’s scream is silent as his nails claw into Magnus’ back and he bites at the shoulder of Magnus’ jacket.  His teeth nearly pierce through the leather, prickles of pain teasing at Magn us’ skin as Alexander moans.

“Did I forget to mention the piercings, darling?” Magnus barely manages to get the words out.  Breathless himself and too entranced by how tight Alexander is around him.  The jacobs ladder of platinum rings down his cock dragging and catching on Alexander’s hole had been blissful but it’s even better now, fully inside him. Magnus has to take a moment, just to let himself feel as Alexander’s soft walls flutter around him. Each of the nine captive beaded piercings ensure that his sentinel will never be able to forget the feeling of Magnus fucking him. 

Of Magnus claiming him from the inside out..  

Alexander is breathing wildly, wings puffed up and trembling and eyes clenched shut as he tries to breathe.  There’s blood and mud in his hair and on his face and Magnus snaps his hips forward, just to make Alexander look at him.

He does, gasping out Magnus' name in both complaint and awe.

—-

Alec can feel everything and it’s been too much since Magnus caught him and claimed him but that doesn’t matter. Because all sensation fades away, to where he can’t feel the mud or smell the blood or anything but Magnus.

Magnus cock breaks and remakes him, as he memorizes every imprint of metal and flesh inside him as Magnus fucks him. 

Alec could zone out on the sensation of cool metal that stays chilled and Magnus’ cock searing hot in contrast. He can’t though, Magnus keeps him on the edge of awareness, dragging his cock in and out in smooth, slow thrusts, as if he has all the time in the world. Each piercing catches on Alec’s rim, again and again every time Magnus pulls out only to slam back in and when he hits Alec’s prostate, it’s with metal kissing it.

Alec can still hear the gasps of the dying.  The gargle of blood in lungs, slowly drowning those he stabbed in vital places but didn’t personally finish off.

But what does that matter when he can also hear the way Magnus’ heart beats in tandem with his own and feel how Magnus cock pulses inside him, slicking his walls with precome and the blood Magnus opened him with. Alec’s too sensitive to come again, even if he’s half-hard and wishing he could. That kind of pleasure would black him out when he’s this open and overwhelmed or worse. Send him into a zone out..

Magnus is shielding him, but not completely, not yet.

He wants Alec to feel this and Alec wants to feel it even if he feels like he’s drowning.

Alec wants to feel the raw agony of death around him as he discovers the brutal joy of being found and claimed. Wants to be lost and then found again by the pained pleasure of Magnus fucking him, his cock erasing and rewriting every moment Alec ever felt lonely and aching and empty without Magnus.

Magnus fingers stroke his dick, forcing him fully hard and then slowing to jerk Alec off with unhurried, lazy movements as the thick crimson fog around them begins to disperse.  

It lingers on the edges of his vision before disappearing and Alec groans as he realizes Magnus did it on purpose.

Magnus wants everyone to see and feel the backlash as their bond finishes forming, to witness Alec’s guide fucking him in a valley of blood and as Magnus comes, the bond sears fully into place.

Existence roars and the world spins before it’s tucked away behind Magnus, the sensations that overwhelm Alec fading away. Even with as over sensitive and vulnerable as he is.

He comes, barely feeling and nearly blacking out from the feeling of Magnus’ limp cock and hard piercings sliding from his raw hole. 

Fingers pet over his face and he can hear each kiss of metal teeth as Magnus zips him back into his pants and then hauls him up.  Alec’s not sure how he does it, when Alec’s spine feels like jelly and his wings are a dead weight.

There’s the noise of a portal and Alec follows with relief, knowing that wherever Magnus takes him will be home.

Will be safe.

—

AN:

When Magnus dropped his shields, they connected on a psionic level and he claimed Alec mentally, he then locked Alec’s senses on him with a quick imprint, to ensure that Alec will know him no matter what.  The sex just finalized the bond and also cemented what kind of bond it is. The psionic melding shared the basics of who they are with each other. Not like, favorite color and food, but like the primal basics of a soul and mind and their names.

I’m gonna explain the sentinel/guide bonds in my universe because everyone kind of has their own thing and mine is aro/ace inclusive which a lot of them are really not. In fact in this universe stabilizing/formalizing/settling a bond via sex is the rarer of the three options.

Okay so full-bonding can occur with either sex/mutual full sense-imprinting (including psionic)/and mutual, scarring bites. There’s about a twelve hour window after you start forming your bond to stabilize it with a full/complete bonding. It does not take a full twelve hours, but that’s about the limit before you start going feral with the need to finalize the bond.

Full and (mutual) sense-imprinting is both physical and psionic and creates a bond based on a kind of mutual steadiness, a baseline bond that's got a firm and even foundation and is very grounded. If one half of a pair is especially hot-headed/reckless/impulsive or something, they might want this kind of a bond to help ground themselves just a little more. Or if both sides have anxiety etc. This is the kind of bond that helps stabilize you and your partner to the point where a lot of partners can work apart if they want/need to. It’s the most common bond. 

A mutual bite blood-shared bond creates a very protective more insular bond. It’s basically the most defensive version of the bonds and it’s very focused on each other. More contact platonic or otherwise is required, a lot of holding hands and leaning against each other and generally being in each other’s space. Which is less optional and more a need to feel each other as close as can be. Most pairs who bond like this don’t work apart ever. Second most common bond.

Sex bonding is actually in fact a sex ritual with a side of bonding and is more raw and primal driven. It’s a more rare form of bonding because of that. The bond it forms is a violent, decadent and feral energy that toes the line of humanity. It’s a more rare bond because it does symbolize a sacrifice of control for the raw, wildness of a bond that's also rabidly obsessive. Depending on the pair, you never know if they’re more or less dangerous together or apart and which they are depends on the sentinel/guide. Least common bond.

After a bond stabilizes, the acts of full sense imprinting, sex and biting each other don’t have any effect on the bond itself. They’re just fun things they can do or not do. 

Yes they still need to do full sense and psionics imprints, but if they’d done that first it would be a different kind of bond. Therefore, sex first.

There are nine captive beaded piercings (which are a hoop with a locking bead in the middle that seals the piercing shut) on Magnus’ Jacob’s ladder piercing and they represent the nine circle of hell because he’s extra like that.

also for anyone wondering, Magnus didn’t influence Alec at all even though he could have. Alec is just also extra and wants to make sure Magnus understands that he’s picking Magnus, just like Magnus chose him. Alec wants everyone to know what side of this war he now belongs to. there will be no allowance of someone even hinting he's not loyal to Magnus and Magnus alone.