#ripple steering wheel

[intheorangebedroom]

🧡HAPPY ❤️‍🔥FRANKIE❤️‍🔥 FRIDAY🧡

Hey Orange besties 🧡 I am currently utterly obsessed with this lame ass 70s classic rock song (lame ass 70s classic rock songs are one of my favourite types of music).

It screams road trip with Frankie Morales, so you can bet your sweet 🍊 there will be a PTMY drabble somewhere down the line with that title. In the meantime, may I humbly suggest you give this other road trip a read...?

Have a good Frankie Friday 😊🧡

[suguann]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

[janumun]

A Bond Everlasting (LaDS Rafayel - NSFW)

Rated: NSFW/18+ Pairing: Rafayel/Reader Words: ~17k

Tags: soulmate AU (the red string of fate, with a twist), college setting (and they were roommates), angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, minor violence and action, scent kink, blow job, oral and vaginal sex, facial, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, merman knotting, sexual rut/Lemurian sexual cycle

Summary: Rafayel tries — and miserably fails —  to forget the one his red thread weaved against once upon a time, even a decade after its break. Finding her, once more, years later, and residing within the same place as her doesn’t help his cause. 

A/N: A happy very belated birthday gift to you, @chibamari. With all of my love and all of our favorite heartbreak, I hope you enjoy this, darling friend.

I. EBB 

The red string of fate. Rafayel found he truly loathed the concept.  

What was it, truly, if not just the Fates contemptuous scorn upon them?  

Forcing kinship and eternity in between a pair that did not mould against the other. That would, if time given, drift apart as mere bottled wishes left traversing, lonely, across the seas.  

And yet, the manacles remain celebrated, since time immemorial. As legends of the rare, and lucky few, destined to be bonded in harmony.  

Rafayel used to be — once upon a time — part of the same foolery brigade as the rest of them, the day his red thread spun and found itself interweaved against his first, and last, love. To her, he promised a Lemurian’s vow of faithful eternity. 

Until the day that blood-red thread quivered and ruptured apart, weakened by her absence.  

Leaving to Rafayel only the hollow remains of a heart rejected. The brand of its mockery left behind as indelible remains of the severed — useless — string wound against his finger.  

II. FLOW 

Deft, practiced digits streak a brush across canvas; the truculent quality to his paint lines reflecting the agitated knot of Rafayel’s brow and the hand he scrubs through his hair in chagrin at constant-wheeling thoughts. Bold strokes; an amalgamation of bright colors — gentle turquoise and oceanic azure — setting into paper to shape unconscious form to his muse, for his current class.  

It is only when he hears the ripple of applauding gasps behind — “You’re amazing, Senior Rafayel!” — is he knocked back into his senses, angling a stupefied gaze up at what he’s made of his project: originally an interpretation of the depths of the sea, the topic he’d presented his class for the day.  

He notes, in no small proportion of growing aversion, the strokes of his brush having shaped form of a delicate back — hers — against the backdrop of a vast sea, reminiscent of home. His thoughts — he muses in self-derision — having lent unconscious connection in between his place of most comfort to the person who stood as his entire comfort. 

Rafayel’s head throbs with heat, as if knelling the oncoming of a particularly harsh fever. Perhaps his less than perfect health was to blame for his momentary lapse of concentration.  

“Is the lady underwater inspired by anyone in particular, Senior? Your brushwork for her seems particularly passionate.” 

Rafayel’s mouth twitches into an insouciant, cool smile, he directs at his students. “Hmm I’m not sure. Perhaps, she’s inspired by that one mermaid movie they’re currently playing in theatres.”  

“Oh, ‘Aquatic’? I’ve seen it!” 

“Me too! It's really good.”  

“The part where she turns to sea foam—” 

A seamless lie; he lets it steer the focus of conversation away from him and his lapse in concentration. Turning back towards the board to proceed with his lecture.  

Opting to teach a fine arts course to a bunch of junior year students, for extra annual credit, was clearly shaping to be one of the worst decisions he’d ever made.  

Especially so, when the subject in question, he’d offered to teach for, in the first place, remained starkly absent throughout the duration of the lecture.  

III. EBB 

Shouldering open the door to their shared apartment, Rafayel steps inside, staggering under the weight of his stack of the newest arrival of deliveries. The apartment is silent, devoid of the sound of her characteristic pattering footsteps.  

Depositing his packages down against the side of the sofa in the living room, he collapses back into the cushions, tuning a distasteful frown towards the empty kitchen counter. Recounting to mind, the events of this morning, having shepherded him into an entire day of distraction at the University.  

“Ouch.” She hissed, a sound of surprise, wrenching her arm back from the sizzling frying pain at the spits of oil it spewed.  

Rafayel released an exaggerated sigh at the sight, ambling over towards the kitchen. “Let me help.”  

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of fixing breakfast on my own.” She attempted heroic reassurance, even as she easily treaded backwards to let Rafayel replace her at the stove.  

“Yes, yes, I believe you. I'd still like to ensure you don’t burn our apartment to the ground while I’m away at work. My paintings are priceless treasures, you know.” He deftly takes the eggs off the stove and plates them before shoving her share at her. “There you go, Miss All-Capable.” 

“Stop making fun of me.” She smiles in relieved gratitude, moving to set cutlery across the table. “And thank you.” 

Rafayel swivels a puffed smile her way. “Whatever would you do without me?”  

She shakes her head at him, attempting no effort to refute him. “Indeed.” Her fingers brush against his as she moves to pass him his share.  

“Rafayel.” She sweeps a sudden grab at his hand, digits entwining in between his. “You’re a bit warmer than usual. Are you feeling sick?” She smooths a gentle hand across his forehead.  

He feels his face burn darker at the sudden intimacy of their contact. “No, I don’t.” Instinctively jostling away from her touch. “I’m just tired, is all. I was up the entire night, after all.”  

“You really need to fix that terrible habit of yours. A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!” Rafayel can’t tamp back the grin from his face at her chiding. 

“Take better care of yourself. I can’t be here to keep you in check round the clock, you know.” She sighs in resignation.  

“Yes, yes, my noisy Mistress.”  

“Speaking of which,” She begins, just as Rafayel seats himself at the table. "I'll be out late tonight.” 

Rafayel feels his smile frost over; a dreaded, sour feeling immediately spurning at the base of his belly.  

“I have a study date with Caleb.” She does not meet his gaze, forking at her egg.  

Rafayel hears himself speak before he can tuck back his impulsive thoughts. “You sure you should be trusting the man this much? I don’t—” 

“’Like him.’ I know. I don’t know why you’re so biased against him, he’s a good person.”  

The praise dredges bitterness across his tongue; ashy and tepid. His fork nearly stabs at his own food, a disapproving moue he knows is dark upon his face. “Sure,” he intones at last, grappling against his desire to ask her not to go, to spend her day with him instead. “Have fun.” An unfair burden he knows he throws onto her shoulders; he does not possess the right to dictate who she chooses to associate with.  

And yet— 

Rafayel’s gaze deliberately treks the line of red thread adorning his ring finger — treacherously cut off a few centimetres in and dissipating into nothingness. Following the absent line of it; her own finger sits vacant against the wooden table-top. An immeasurable dejection he isn’t able to shuck off, no matter how many times his eyes have witnessed its emptiness.  

Perhaps she is right and he is sick, an inscrutable tremor setting into his fingers as they continue on with the rest of their meal in silence.  

IV. FLOW 

The oncoming dawn encroaches a gradual shell-pink spill of color across the velvet skies as Rafayel’s feverish gaze drags, listless, to the view past the patio windows, the bone-deep ache from the day past yet to recede.  

The angry scrapes of charcoal rushed across paper, forgotten as the unfinished sketch drifts purposeless down onto the floor to join the rest of its discarded predecessors.   

She has yet to return home — Rafayel had stayed up the entire night and remained planted, firm, within their lounge, to make sure he would be there to greet her on her return. She'd never been away from their apartment overnight.  

Rafayel knows because he had — on more occasions than he could count and didn’t wish to acknowledge — found himself crumpled within cool sheets, self-confined to the privacy of his room, listening in to the comforting sounds of her padded, soft movements around their apartment.  

She'd often slip back through their door, close to midnight — she made it a point, always, to return home, no matter the hour — after slaving away hours at the library for her Hunter exam. She'd try for quietude; he knew, so she wouldn’t disturb his absent sleep.  

A gentle clink of mugs at the kitchen counter as she’d make herself a cup of a coffee in preparation of burning the midnight oil.  

Despite having the physical structure of their apartment — a shelter and comfort in name — his room’s four-walled sanctity, it didn’t truly feel warm as a home until the moment she stepped past the threshold and into their shared space.  

And only when he’d hear the soft crinkle of pages turning steadily as she’d settle herself onto the living room sofa to study, would he find himself beckoned into slumber. As if she too, knew on instinct, how her presence aimed to soothe, choosing to make space for her studies right where he could hear her, in the lounge, instead of the confines of her own room. 

Yet now.  

Midnight had come and gone, dawn scraping indigo for approaching light, and no signs of her return.  

A long day behind him endured in feverish unrest and the toll of another sleepless night, doesn’t help disentangle burgeoning thoughts of her within the embrace of another man at that very moment, one not him. He can’t help but sorely curse himself for his ill-thought decision of staying the night up, waiting for her like some sorry love-struck fool.  

Not that he would’ve been able to sleep, either way; a part of him mocked in muted whispers.  

His thread throbs; a nipping bite of rejection and along with it, his body. Languid gaze absently trekking the severed thread, flickering incandescent against his ring finger. The constricting heat of it, as if traversing up his veins along with the fever within his body. Colluding against his heart, as if it wishes to eventually wither him up instead. A slow, bittersweet poison.  

Rafayel feels nauseous.  

He’s beginning to contemplate on retiring for the meagre, precious hours before his upcoming classes for the day — perhaps that bitterly strong liquor she’d stowed into the fridge earlier would help do the trick — just as the door lock clicks open.  

The sound violently startles Rafayel out of winding, unheeded thoughts enough, he springs off the sofa just as she steps foot over the threshold.  

Opening his mouth to put words to turbulent emotions — a million queries — before his questions wither off the tip of his tongue when he fixates a good, long look at her.   

She appears downright exhausted and an instinctual, foreboding spurts forth in him. The look on her careworn face, light-snuffed gaze meeting his — Rafayel thinks, mirrors the state of his own affairs — before it dissipates into stifled surprise. “Rafayel, what’re you doing up—”  

And before he can tamp himself back into composure, Rafayel’s striding the few paces it takes for him to reach her, dragging her into his embrace.  

She stiffens at the contact on instinctual reflex, it chips away at another piece of his heart. Tightens the strangulating hold of his severed thread against his soul.  

He hedges her tighter into his embrace, regardless. Head pitching down onto her shoulder; a hand he smooths down the line of her quivering back before she relaxes into him, at last.  

“Rafayel—” Arms twitching by her side and up as she circles him within her own comfort, returning his warmth in the cling of desperate digits against the back of his shirt.  

“You’re late. You're so late.” he gripes, half-hearted.  

A beat. Two passes. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”  

A peculiar relationship; she calls them friends — close — inappropriately so and he’d agreed to be one, to her, if it were the sole thing that allowed him to be by her side. For her to not abandon him once more. A relationship edging something far gnarled than friendship.  

He doesn’t believe even she has a name for what they share, in moments as these, where Rafayel forgets himself and the boundaries he holds himself to. Turns blind to pretenses and masks he fixates, so delicately crafted, for her benefit and the safety of his own heart. 

He is not, however, a man strong enough to ignore the strain of his beloved’s gaze, tiredness rimming her entire being, she feels so brittle in his arms, and it ruins him to not know the cause of it.  

“...Got something on your mind?” He murmurs into her hair. 

“Perhaps.” Her response is slow, halting.  

“Want to tell me what it is?” He breaks away from her, enough to let his eyes scour her face in stern scrutiny.  

A whispered laugh escapes her at his inspection.  

“...Rafayel, how do you feel about an early morning stroll with me?”  

V. EBB 

The shores of Whitesand Bay stretch empty within the wee hours of dawn, quiet, save for the twittering song of birds cutting across the sky and the gentle wash of waves at their bare feet as they amble along the sandy belt. She hasn’t uttered a word since, absent gaze trekking the gradual rise of the sun above the horizon, light flittering its diamonds across the lap of waves.  

The easy access to the sea — and by extension, the remarkable view — was one of the reasons they’d jointly agreed upon renting an apartment this close to Whitesand Bay, two years prior. On any other usual occasion, Rafayel’s fingers would’ve been upon pen and paper, soaking inspiration up and through rough strokes, sketching across paper.  

Now, however, his focus is all but entirely removed from his environment, vision honed in on her by his side.  

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” She murmurs, gaze still fixated upon the horizon. “I’m not an early riser like you are so I’ve never seen the sunrise here up this close.”  

She's skirting the issue, Rafayel has no mind to force her to spill her heart when she does not wish to. 

For her, he is willing to remain patient.  

Regardless of the consequences to his person.  

He joins in on her flimsy facade.  

“If only I wasn’t a little too aware of the fact.” Tapping a light fist against her temple, he angles a skewed smile down at her. “Despite my very arduous efforts to get you out of bed on multiple occasions, you’ve persisted in your terrible ways, Miss Hunter.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good, I fear.” 

That gets her breaking a smile, the tensed knitted worry within her gaze easing just that tiny bit; Rafayel plucks it up for the small reward it is. “A classic case of the pot calling the kettle black. Like you’re any less bull-headed.” She defends. “Don’t make me recount all the times you nearly gave poor Thomas a heart attack because your paintings weren’t ready even mere hours before the exhibitions they were supposed to be featured in.”  

His mouth pulls into a distasteful moue at that. “Don’t tell me you’re on his side. He refuses to understand the world of difference it causes in between using cherry red or wine on a canvas. If it were up to that simpleton, he’d have me besmirch all my works, just for the sake of those trivial exhibitions.”  

She chuckles. “Now, no need to get so worked-up. You know Thomas cares for you and wishes to have your talent recognized like it deserves to be.” She moves to seat herself by the shore, close to where the waves lick up at the sand. Rafayel follows suit.  

“I know how much passion you pour into your paintings.” Crinkling a gentle smile up at him. “That’s exactly why I love your art so much.” 

Rafayel’s heart catches at his throat at the easy slip of her compliment.  

She's never been sparing with her appreciation of his artworks. 

Ever since she’d chanced upon them a few years back when they’d only shortly been re-united at the time.  

She’d always been generous and open with her admiration.  

His heart, however, wasn’t immune to its traitorous stuttering, every single time at her attentions and praise.  

Perhaps she discerns the look on his face, tapping into his emotions, or realizes the curious intimacy of her statement, she wrenches her gaze away from his. Rafayel swiftly feels the keen loss of it.  

Silence sweeps once more between them, her gaze having drifted back into the seas and with it, the steady droop of her shoulders as she curves in tighter against her huddled knees. “It was a place, similar to this one, where we first met. A lost little human meeting a young Lemurian washed ashore.” Her voice barely hikes above an octave. “I didn’t think Lemurians existed for real before that, and to know I shared a red fate with one...”  

His throat closes against a sharp inhale at her whisper, the first time she’s chosen to address their past severed bond, ever since their reunion.  

Why now. He means to ask. A question that dissipates off the tip of his tongue, un-uttered.  

“We were so young back then and I inadvertently hurt you. Ever since I moved away, and time just passed, regardless...” She pauses. “You must’ve really hated me for that, huh.” She angles a cautious smile at him. 

I did not. Rafayel means to refute and yet his tongue refuses to cooperate.  

She continues on, as if she had long perceived his answer and made peace with his supposed resentment of her, unperturbed by his lack of response. Her reaction vexes him.   

“I’ve hurt someone dear to me again. Caleb—” 

The familiar name spurns bitter within his chest. “Did he do something to you?” His fingers jam against coarse sand, snagging his thread tight against his ring finger. 

“No! No. Caleb’s a good man, he’s been nothing but kind to me.”  

Deep within the recesses of his heart, Rafayel knows it, he knows it only too well; he only wishes he could truly bring himself to hate him.  

“He...” Her fingers tense harsher against her arms. “Last night, he asked me to be his girlfriend.” 

His ring finger throbs; the missing line of its thread seeming to constrict against Rafayel’s neck.  

“I turned him down.” 

A quick, involuntary bite of wicked relief thrums at the back of his breastbone. And yet— 

Why do you look as if your heart is shattering into a million pieces? 

Rafayel’s mouth seems to form words on its own as if he wishes for his own demise. “Do you regret it?” 

Her silence is a dagger that digs pointed, deep in between his ribs, the longer she lets it steep.  

She meets his gaze, a turbulent question within hers, beseeching. “I don’t know… I don’t know if I should.” She looks as if she has more to speak, restive teeth biting into her lip to hold back unsaid thoughts.

Rafayel dares not parse the emotions he sees flittering within her eyes, dares not hope for what he cannot have. Not again, for his heart to fracture once more by setting up false narratives. He has loved and will love still for eternity — he doesn’t, however, have the tenacity to bear being abandoned again. 

And so, he shutters himself, gaze wrenching away from hers, a frown knitting tight against his brow. “Whatever it is that you want, if it makes you happy, I want you to grab onto it for yourself.” Fingers brushing against hers from where they rest within the sand, index and middle lingering longer against the base of her ring finger. Before he moves, carding hesitant digits through the fall of her hair.  

For it is the only way he knows how to love — regardless of broken vows — in her happiness, even if it would never be found by his side. 

VI. FLOW

The dream stirs vivid beneath restless lids — Rafayel hasn’t dreamt of that time of theirs together in so long, a welcome awareness of his mind’s conjuring, he embraces in that moment.   

Perhaps by-products of an exhausted, sick mind. 

Or yearning for an unfulfilled wish.  

A sweet sting of desire, just as the first time he remembers it. He lets himself drown deeper into the abyss of its calling. 

He’d cut a boring class during first semester at college — he could no longer remember the subject — in lieu of chasing the path of an ambitious sparrow within a secluded spot. Located far back along the grounds of the college and protected further underneath the dense foliage of the overgrown greenery as he’d sat perched upon a bench, motionless and silent.  

Save for the smooth rush of his pencil across his journal. Detailing the quest of the bird as it leapt across the grass towards a lazing cat, blissfully dodging the feline’s half-hearted attempt at pawing it away.  

Tranquility rippled only at a surprising intrusion; she’d walked into his private space — she always seemed to find him — and he’d startled at her presence.  

“Oh! Sorry. Rafayel, I thought I—” 

Their relationship on strained ice at the time — neither of them choosing to dig up unfulfilled childhood vows or the break of their fated thread. 

 A hastened apology she’d tripped over, for disturbing him before her eyes had flickered to the open journal in his lap and she’d breathed an awed sound. Called it beautiful — a slip of the tongue, he could tell, from her demeanor.  

They'd gotten back into conversation — albeit halting — after that.  

The moment, a pivotal one, in Rafayel allowing himself to accept her back into his life, both emotionally and physically. 

He recalls the citrus notes to her perfume as she’d tentatively seated herself by his side. The way her hair curled delicate against the curve of her cheek, beckoning Rafayel to dare a hand out and slip it back against her ear. 

The unconscious brush of soft digits against his as she’d moved to accept the proffered journal from him, when she’d asked for permission to view more of his artworks.  

The relief that had sunk into his marrow, body strung far too tight for so long — he felt each ache settle and ease, when she returned to his side. As if their bond still remained.  

As if it had never fractured in the first place. 

She moves to tug the curtains close, clipping back the last shafts of light from Rafayel’s room; his damp brow now decidedly relaxed in restless slumber, after being exposed to the heat of the sun for so long.  

He’s made a habit of drawing his windows open at night, perhaps to relieve the fevered pitch of his body off the cool breeze wafting of the sea. Restive sleeplessness; keeping him tossing until near close to dawn, when she often catches him falling, thankfully, into exhaustive sleep at the end of his long, disturbed nights.  

Rafayel had been out of sorts for nearly two weeks now; a distracted gaze and a listless stride his constant companions. Adamant and mulish in his response, at inquiring of his health, every time, that he was perfectly alright and merely plagued by the weariness of sleepless nights spent on his paintings.  

Barely a day or two into that ridiculous spectacle of his before her patience with him had expired and she’d hauled him off to his room and strong-armed him into bed.  

A rueful smile tugs at her mouth at the recollection of their silly argument then.  

“Hey, ow. Easy, you’ll break me! Aaah... too late. I think I’ve already dislocated my wrist. My life as a painter is done for. Ow.”   

“Rafayel. Shut up unless you want me to gag you as well.”  Forcing the covers over his body; she glowered at him for obedience while she hastened to take his temperature.  

Rafayel’s mouth soured deeper in distaste the longer she fretted over him. Opening his mouth, surely to protest, before she cut him off. “You’re running a low-grade fever.” 

Pressing a gentle hand over his forehead, “Please, rest now.” 

A knot twisted in between Rafayel’s brow at her plea. Threading his fingers against hers. “Alright, alright I will,” he murmured, a gentle thumb he smoothed against her furrowed brow. “So, stop making that face now.”  

His agitation at his prolonged ill-health, however, had manifested in numerous half-finished drafts and rough sketches, he’d filled sheets upon sheets of paper with, littered upon his bed.  

The subject matter of most, inexplicably similar in features; a fact that surprised her, for Rafayel had always been one for continual exploration of a wide variety of subjects in his artworks, rather than one stationary objective.  

She reaches for one such sketch now, discarded by his bedside. Predictably, it is the same subject her eyes have grown accustomed to: the graceful arch of a person’s — a woman’s — back, the cascade of her hair shrouding her gaze from view. It is ethereal, haunting. Lonely.  

And. 

She exhales an unsteady breath. Although a mere unpolished sketch, she feels Rafayel’s longing in the hastened strokes of charcoal across her visage.  An inscrutable sprout of emotion twinges at her chest each time she looks upon this faceless woman, a desire to tear her gaze away from the care put into the strokes and never look at them again and yet, it’s as if her hands are not her own, each time they sift through his sketches to reveal a new one made. She despises it, and the feeling of her selfish loathing itself. Not when she bears reason nor right to feel the way she does.  

The ring finger of her right hand throbs, an echo of her turbulent emotions manifesting in the faint red restraint flickering against the base of her digit before it winks once more out of existence. 

No.  

Her gaze instinctually jumps to Rafayel, his prone form still deep in sleep.  

She'd nearly forgotten the other reason for her undue distress these past couple of days; worry for Rafayel occupying each of her thoughts, leaving little space for much else.

She sinks, weak-kneed, onto the bed, right next to Rafayel. Carding her fingers through the soft brush of his hair, gently thumbing a line down his temple.  

She’d thought her mind was conjuring illusive tricks the first few times she’d caught that fleeting flicker of red across her finger. 

Impossible, for it had been nearly twelve years since she’d lost her bond after being forced away from Rafayel. And then, her eyes had insistently tried tracing the line of it, every time it shimmered against her finger, hoping that it would perhaps.... 

Just maybe, if a miracle were to occur— 

That it would re-connect. Back to the only person she’d ever loved. Back to him, her beautiful Lemurian. That perhaps, he’d grant her another chance. That perhaps there was a sliver of hope that Rafayel would love her back once more.  

Once more. 

 Her yearning dashed in the brutality of a truth, far too incomprehensible to her mind. 

On the day her grandmother caught sight of her glimmering thread before she’d informed her with much joy; a red thread of fate, if once severed, made an appearance once more, within the lifetime of rare, chosen… fortunate individuals. If Fate ever ordained for the individuals to find new love once more. Another love so great, it changed Fate’s threads and course itself.  

“You’re blessed, my darling girl. Most people are happy enough if they get to enjoy even one fated love throughout their lives. But you've found two in your lifetime. It is a joyous thing, my love, do not be sad. Do not weep.” 

“...Perhaps, it is time you let him — let your past go.”  

Like ice curdling within her veins. As if Fate itself were playing upon her a cruel jest. She could never. How could she ever? 

And then, her denials had crumbled entirely, shortly after that dreaded truth.  

Her oldest friend, her sole pillar when she’d lost Rafayel. The person who’d held her close and kept her heart safe—  

When she’d lie in bed all day during her earliest days, screaming from the deluging fever of her bond withering. 

—It was the day her childhood friend, her Caleb confessed.  

Even without the evidence of a corporeal bond connecting them, that had been her last straw.  

She presses her lips against Rafayel’s cheek, overwhelming emotions threatening to surge, unable to resist or hold herself in control. “I could never.” she vows under her breath, fingers stroking down the line of his cheek. “Even if you have let go of me, Rafayel, I’m—” 

She feels the roughened pads of his digits against where she touches his face, perturbed at the sudden movement. His eyes flitter, restless, beneath his lids, grasp tightening upon her wrist. “My beloved bride.”

She tries and yanks herself away from his touch, startled at his unconscious murmuring. Rafayel does not let go, nudging his cheek against the crook of her captured palm.  

“Rafayel.” She urges, her heart stuttering over its beats. “Rafayel, please wake up.”  

At long last, he listens; that beautiful, florid gaze misted with the callings of sleep still, as it focuses on her. He makes an indiscrete sound. “Is it morning already? Agh, my head hurts.” He continues to nuzzle his face against her palm.  

“R-Rafayel! Hey!” She winces, hand unbearably hot within his hold. “Let go of me now. If you’re up, have some breakfast instead. You need the energy, dummy.” 

“Don’t want to let you go. Pamper me more.” And yet, he refuses to heed her lukewarm pleas, extremely wilful in his post-sleep, feverish daze.  

She huffs out a breathless laugh, her apprehension ebbing, gentle, into silence the longer she feels his warmth against her.  

Maybe she is allowed to indulge just a bit longer.  

 VII. EBB 

An errant thread and an inexplicable long spell of heat, as if trudging up a steep path, burgeoning fast towards an inevitable destination he could not quite clutch at. Unsolicited suspicions, as to the true nature of his predicament, incessantly rapping at his thoughts.  

Rafayel feels that dour twist to his brow; darkening his features at the wheeling course of his mind. 

 She’s caught him in similar moods since his “illness” commenced, more times than he can count. The endless time afforded his way, involuntarily threading his thoughts to places he doesn’t wish to visit. He doesn’t wish, ever, to alarm or upset her, setting to ease her thoughts the moment worry mars her features, testing index and middle against the sharp knot at her forehead before his attentions — and hers — are compelled entirely her way.  

That is also something that has shifted in between them, into something entirely different. He’s been unusually attuned to her for the duration of his peculiar period of ill-health.  

She has always been his primary muse, the focal point where all of Rafayel’s tangled thoughts find eventual and inevitable convergence. However, somehow, all of those sensibilities have turned sharper, impossibly aware of... her.  

Unconsciously turning to placations the moment he comprehends her distress. Choosing to bury, in turn; soothe the heat of his body within the scent of hers. Her hands on him when she fusses to take his temperature, her clothes, he takes a surreptitious, lungful breath of, when she moves close to towel the fevered sweat off his body. Truly, he does not understand what is wrong with him.  

Two weeks in now and his need for answers has driven him to near madness. He’s loathe to admit he must consult one, perhaps, more knowledgeable on the subject than he.  

He paces into the lounge, heavy in thought, fingers worrying at the phone in hand. 

“Oh, you’re up. Are you feeling any better?”  Just as she calls over to him from the kitchen counter.  

“Of course,” he fibs, tucking the phone back into the pocket of his trousers. He ambles over to her, dressed neat in her trainee uniform as she works a paring knife around an apple. “What’re you doing?”  

“You should have something healthy to eat while I’m away.”  

“Ah.” He plucks a piece of fruit off the plate next to her, eyeing the peculiar shape. “So, you decided to cut me some apple bunnies.”  The corners of his mouth drag into a skewed grin. “I am not a child, cutie.”  

She makes an inflated motion of surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. “Really?”  

And when he rolls his eyes at her, “Of course you aren’t,” she grins. “I’ve never met any children as stubborn as you.”  

“Cheeky.” He flicks a gentle hand against her forehead.  

His eyes skim towards the wall clock and back towards her neatly pressed outfit. “You have an on-field Hunter’s exam this afternoon, don’t you? You’ll be late if you dawdle any longer. Besides, I can feed myself just fine.”  

She startles a bit as her eyes, too, take note of the hour. Hastily shoving the plate of her fresh cut fruit into his hands. “Alright, I’ll leave. You better eat, then rest up. Don’t exert yourself, alright?”  

She steps past the counter. “Come, Kiki.” A white dutiful ball of fur capers up to her as soon as she calls. Rafayel hedges further against the counter just as the white ball tumbles into her waiting arms.  

“There, what a good girl you are!” She croons over the cat, petting at that little fiend pet of her friend’s. She rises to her feet. 

“I’ll drop her off at Tara’s before heading to the centre.”  

“Good riddance,” Rafayel mutters, blenching just as she moves closer with the cat still in her arms.  

“Rude, I’m sad to see her go so soon.” She pulls a glum face at him.  “Do you want to pet her goodbye before she leaves and you start missing her?”  

“I won’t,” He dissents, even as he braves the tips of his fingers against Kiki’s head in a cautious scritch before snapping his hand right back. “Bye, white menace.”  

Rafayel’s moue of specious disapproval turns deeper with her knowing grin. “Let’s go now that you’ve said your farewells to Uncle Rafayel.” She kisses the top of the cat’s head as it purrs in elated satisfaction at her attentions. 

He quirks a flippant brow at her. “All affections for the furry feline, I see.” 

She laughs, the sound an aching balm against long-wrought nerves. “Why, is my fish jealous of a little kitten? Come here, then.”  

“I am not—!” He sputters, just as her hand curves about the back of his neck and pulls downward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.  

The previously simmering, barely tamped warmth of his body bursts forth with a brilliant vengeance, his skin set ablaze at just the graze of her touch. Rafayel has to actively constrain himself from keeling over entirely on the floor from his sudden deluge of emotions. Has to curb the quiver of his arms from wanting to steal that heat back against his body.  

She draws back, just as swift, on her feet. The pink of her cheeks is infectious, enticing. Rafayel stares at her, mute and slack-jawed, even as she backs out of the kitchen and through the front door. “I’ll see you tonight, my little fish!” And then he’s left to his own spiraling thoughts.  

Ah. Rafayel scrubs agitated palms down the length of his face in the ensuing silence of their home. His scarlet thread burns incandescent in his hind-vision, flittering in its sporadic expansion. If only she knew how entirely ruined he was at her feet, alone.  

VIII. FLOW  

“You rejected Caleb’s confession?”  

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t anticipated Tara’s baffled outburst.  

It was part of the reason why she chose to reveal the ‘news’ to her this unceremoniously, as she gently eased Kiki over into Tara’s arms while they stood at her open front door. She adored Tara but was of no mind to be sat down at length while her best friend grilled the details out of her.  

Not ready for the difficult conversations that would ensue; of her past grievances, the break of her fated thread and how she dreaded, within a dark crevice of her heart, that Caleb might turn out to be the one her Fate was once more, trying to bind her to. How could she even begin to delineate it wasn’t what she wanted?  

No, she wasn’t ready for that conversation with Tara, at all.  

“I’m going to be late for my exam, Tara.” She gives her a contrite smile.  

“Yes, I know, sorry, darling, but… why? I really thought things were well between you too. And I was sure there was something going on—! I— can’t you say?” Her friend’s gaze is weighty, imploring. “Is there... someone else?” Her eyes widen. “Is it—” 

And the longer she’s met with terse silence, the heat of her gaze wanes in gradual realization before, at last, she retreats her onslaught, a troubled groan leaving her lips. “At least tell me you’re alright. I’ve been worried about you.”  

“I know, Tara, I’m sorry. I’m perfectly fine.” She gives her free hand a squeeze before withdrawing back a few steps. “I should really go now.”  

Tara loses another sigh. “You really should. Promise we’ll catch up later?”  

“I promise.” She raises her hand in farewell, jogging down the few steps to her house.  

Tara calls out to her just as she reaches the foot of her stairs. “Good luck, girl! I’m cheering for you.”  

She flashes her friend an appreciative smile.  

With Tara, she really can’t be sure if she meant her encouragement for her qualifying physical exam. Or something else entirely.  

Knowing her friend, it was probably both.  

She reaches the examination centre just under the wire, right as the towering gates to the grounds swing shut behind her and two other late-comers.  

Toggling open her Hunter’s Watch, she hastens to join the formation up ahead of several other students, already lined in neat rows for their on-field Wanderers exam. Sidling in place, into her empty spot, just as the instructor in front drones on the list of rules for the exam, from upon his podium. “You are to form pairs of two, as per your roll numbers and enter your designated Protofields, to commence your exam. Before you begin, make sure...” 

He goes over the structures of the regulations one by one, detailing what actions would mete them points and what would deduct them in case of improper conduct.  

“These Protofields have been simulated under intensively controlled environments and contain a plethora of C and B-grade Wanderers you are to deal with, within the desired time limit. Coordinate with your partner, watch each other’s backs and follow all routine safety regulations. Violators will be disqualified on the spot.” He continues. “Keep within bounds of all marked fields, maintain your senses and you should do well. Lastly, trust your education and the skills you have acquired over the course of these years via means of your perseverance and hard work. May you reign victorious, young Hunters!” With his final words, the crowd disperses, heading towards their designated spots for their exams. 

She taps her fingers against her Hunter’s Watch, pulling up the specifications of the Protofield she is to clear, before setting out. 

 

“Gabriel? Hi.” She calls to her team-mate as she moves to join him, recognizing the man from the same class division as hers.  

He returns her greeting, the two setting to sync their data via their watches within the final minute countdown before their exam commences. The flux nexus, in front, pulses to life upon confirmation of both their identities, filtering its pre-programmed wavelength to project upon the barren field. A kaleidoscopic flitter of energy wheeling across the space once is their only indication of a protofield activated, before the two step forwards, cautious, weapons at the ready.  

“No.” Rafayel’s jaw steels in chagrin, hearing the resigned, gentle finality of the words on the other end of the line.  

“Rafayel...” Talia coaxes.  

“I said no. You’re wrong.” He gnashes out, even as the heat simmers, muggy and suffocating, within his body. Even as he continues to deny the indubitable truth of her words.  

For if he did, he would have to face the looming fate of another horrifying possibility.  

The regret of asking for Talia’s help sits heavy within his throat. Facts she utters in such certitude, it leaves Rafayel irrationally agitated. He knows it is not her fault.  

 He hears her soft sigh on the other end of the line. “You told me you’ve been suffering these bouts of ‘fever’ since the past two weeks, an ‘illness’ that refuses to abate and that your...” She pauses, as if seeking words best to voice her next. “incomplete thread has been showing sporadic signs as of late.” 

“Yes.” His voice is quiet, stiff. 

“Rafayel, you’re experiencing early symptoms of an oncoming rut and you know it. You feel it. You didn’t need to call me, when you’re well-informed on the matter yourself, even if you’ve never experienced it before.” She pauses.  “The only reason you reached out to me is that you wanted me to validate your suspicions, isn’t that right?” 

He does not respond to her astute observation.

“An unmated Lemurian cannot experience sexual cycles the same way as a bonded Lemurian. And as you are well-aware, my thread was long severed.” He refutes, contemptuous. “You know what, forget I asked. You clearly don’t understand what’s wrong with me any better than I do. Sorry for crashing your honeymoon. Goodbye, Talia.”  

“Is your thread truly severed, Rafayel?” Her voice rings, solemn, from the other end of the line, just as Rafayel moves to disconnect the call. He pauses, gaze involuntarily skewing towards his lengthening line of red thread. The frown in between his brow turns severe, as if being coerced to witness a sight against his will.  

“You’re experiencing a re-connection and you’re not allowing yourself the happiness that comes with new love. It’s a rare and beautiful thing, for your red fate to find itself weaved against a new person you would cherish.”  

Rafayel does not have the resolve to discredit her words despite his vehement disagreement; having known her experience the loss of her first love, the agony of her days after. And only years later, had she allowed herself to love once more, a happiness Rafayel was content to stand in observance to, glad at her well-deserved peace.   

He, however, was different from Talia. He’d rather his Fate dissipate entirely than for it to wind itself against a stranger. He was different, for Rafayel knew he would never love again, never cherish another, no matter the decades in between.  

For him, there would never be anyone else. 

A transitory pressure curdles heavy about her shoulders as they pace past the barrier and into the protofield. The familiarity of their training grounds dwindles away, large looming falls of thick trees rising, ominous, to blot the skies. Blanketing twilight, instantaneous, overhead. A slow, sweeping curl of gray, mists about their feet, soaking into the dank ground beneath. 

Beside her, she hears Gabriel’s apprehensive breaths. “I can never get used to this.”  

Weapons at the ready, they trudge a slow, cautious path through the simulated wilderness. Gnarled branches seize and snick at their clothes, the craggy mire beneath, a strenuous trudge to keep upright through; as if the forest itself were alive with wicked intent.  

Gabriel’s firearm is the first to go off in a thunderous shot, breaking a flock of obsidian birds to startle into the skies. She follows suit, breaking into a dash along with him; the dark, hunched figure of a fleet-footed Wanderer she aims her gun at and fires, the shot catching it right against its head. The creature lurches forwards onto its body in a seething screech of sound, following its crackling demise into a spoor of pungent smoke.  

The two maintain their steady pace of weeding the area of Wanderers, most they’re able to dispatch with ease. Reflexes and hard ingrained years of training coming into play, the more battles they win through, setting into an easy rhythm of partnership.  

The Wanderer Gabriel skews his sword through in a final thrust, disintegrates into smoke with a rattling gurgle.  She pauses to survey their surroundings, the deep, metallic skies yet to dissipate entirely: indication of a cleared exam. Up ahead, she spies a peculiar forking at the path, the protofield seeming to disperse into dense, murky mist past the intersection. Gabriel flicks the blood off his sword, moving to join her. “Strange.” 

“Yeah. I don’t think low grade Wanderers can distort protofields to this extent.” She agrees. 

“Likely an A grade, at least. Shouldn’t be harder than what we’ve handled so far.” He pauses. “Besides the fact that this one seems like it can replicate itself into weaker copies, judging from the splice it’s created in the field.” 

She frowns at his conclusion, likely accurate. There shouldn’t be an A grade on the loose within a junior hunter’s exam, to begin with; a Wanderer class reserved only for the final year senior field exam. Signals are, as expected sparse, this deep within the protofield, and with an A grade, at hand, tampering the protofield, the possibility of communications being established sits non-existent, at present. She drops a distress signal onto the Hunter’s site, regardless, moving to join him at the fork.  

“We’ll have to clear out the Wanderer, either way, if we want to leave this protofield.” She swipes her empty magazine for a new one, securing it fast back into her gun.  

“Right.” Gabriel’s own fist tightens against the hilt of his sword. “You take the right, I’ll take the left? The distortion should be obliterated on its own once we eliminate all of its copies. I’ll see you soon, partner.”  

“Right back at you. Good luck.”  

Gabriel flashes a flimsy grin at her before treading onto the left path. A swift heavy oppression belts massive across the field, the compression settling a deafening din to her ears. “Hah, Gabriel, wait—” 

But it’s too late. Her partner’s form, long digested by the roiling clouds of black before she can call him back.  

Something’s not right. An A-grade Wanderer shouldn’t be able to exert that kind of pressure. 

An electromagnetic resonance tremors across the space, as if something rattles at the confines of the protofield from beyond. Wanting in.  

Sweat gathers clammy and unpleasant across the back of her neck, her eyes skittering back towards where Gabriel vanished into the murk.  

She firms a hand around her gun, steeling her spine for courage. Whatever anomaly has occurred within the premises of their exam can be dealt with later. Her first priority; to help Gabriel out in eliminating all of the A-grade's clones and dissipating the distortion in front before they planned their next move. And help would arrive soon, once transmission allowed her distress signal to go through, they just had to hold on until then; she reassures herself.  

Moving forward to stride past the muted obsidian barrier at her right.  

The dark cloak of the Wanderer’s protofield washes across her skin like skidding, frigid fingers of emptiness, it spills an involuntary shiver down her spine.  

The cold, metallic spires of the protofield taper off into the void overhead as she steps onto the main field. A skittering figure, one, two, three; lunge, whip-swift, towards her as soon as they spot her, gaping maws and needle teeth poised to tear into her before her fight or flight reflexes jam in. She empties a volley of bullets into their bodies, sieving clean through the approaching Wanderers. Lobs of inhumane flesh, dissipating as soon as they hit the ground.  

Several far smaller figures melt out of the darkness to aim their attacks at her; one after the other she takes down in swift shots. Breaths trembling harsh and hot, her heart hammering over its frantic beats the longer the fight persists.  

A fatigued mistake; being mere seconds slow to switch her empty gun for another, costs her a hard, long gash sliced through the sleeve of her shoulder by the remaining Wanderer. Fire licks up across her arm in a sudden shock of pain, muted instantaneously underneath the roiling pump of adrenaline. She wrenches a dagger off her leg strap. Twisting her torso about to bring her uninjured arm up in a sharp arc, furiously tearing a split through the last Wanderer with a fierce yell and the remnants of her fraying stamina.  

The Wanderer’s remains snivel into a fire just as it hits the ground, the cool, metallic gloom giving way to the unraveling edges of the original forest once more. 

And just as her eyes adjust to the shadows of the protofield once more, she catches sight of a figure slumped upon the grass, unmoving. “Gabriel!” She yells, forcing her limbs underneath her through the pained grit of bared teeth. Clutching hard at her arm to stopper the slow rivulets of blood flow seeping from the gash before she stumbles across the grass towards the man.  

Her Hunter’s Watch blinks, in indication of a transmission successful — her distress signal. Collapsing to her knees at Gabriel’s side just as her watch flares to life in blaring red, an ominous warning running across the screen.  

S-Grade: Deluge Wyrmlord.   Protofield type: Memory Distortion Solo Hunters, do not engage.  

Her mouth runs dry at the far calls of her name—  

“Special Grade—!” Gabriel’s voice resounds just from across the field. “—Run!” 

The collapsed figure at her feet assimilating into thin air, a trick blanketed over her weary mind, by the workings of a high-class Wanderer.  

She feels that intense bone-crushing pressure creep across her back once more, her breath coming through in fits of raspy air. Fixing the barrel of her gun back across her shoulder, she fires, just as a great, dark talon comes across her face, drowning her in darkness.

The call has barely disconnected when Rafayel tosses the phone aside, staggering onto his feet under the heated weight of his body. His eyes drift — an involuntary reflex — towards that squeamish glow of red, his thread flickering in and out of sight, the extended length of it, an alarming sight. Vexation ticks harsh at his jaw.  

Before he’s able to reign control, the spits of a brilliant vermillion fire spurt forth from tapered digits, rushing across the incorporeal red string, in an effort to blaze the blasted thing off of him entirely.  

The fire dissipates, harmless, as expected, with the absence of a pure solid medium to burn. His thread glimmers to life once more, as if deriding Rafayel with its presence.  

Beyond agitated, fervent digits pluck upwards, summoning his Evol to life for a stronger burst of energy —   

A sudden inundating contraction pierces in vengeance across his heart, sending a bolt of excruciating pain lancing through his chest. Rafayel flounders; violently pitching to his knees from the intensity of its sensations. His breaths are hard to smother past lungs that burn for oxygen and yet refuse to inhale. 

Red throbs, vivid and urgent, across his ring finger, as if the call of a terrible siren, knelling of ill-fate and destruction.  

His own fire, begs to consume, hurtling across his skin, a throat that chokes from the fervid heat of his bond, threatening to annihilate him entirely. He feels his humane features molding against the translucent glimmer of cerulean scales, his human form scattering in response to the irrefragable call of his bond, his mate.  

She’s in danger. 

Alarming apprehension dawns upon his mind, the sole thought of her throttling his mind, his oath promised, urging to call upon the one person her thread connects to, a Fate irrefutable, a bond everlasting.  

No. 

A savage inferno tears across Rafayel’s body — scarlet and florid licks of fire — until it engulfs him entirely, leaving nothing in its wake.  

Silence is all that remains behind. 

IX. EBB  [TW for this chapter: passing mentions of domestic abuse]

White peels back from her field of vision; slowly revealing to her the dreary, stifling atmosphere of an incredibly familiar room. A young girl stands amidst a crowd of mourning adults, some in loud tears. Others who secrete their faces into handkerchiefs and shake their heads in dismay at the “poor orphan”. Nausea wrestles pungent within her belly at the sight.  

Her gaze, involuntarily shepherded, past the throng of mourners and towards the picture of the deceased — she knows that face before she sees it — her absent father who had often left her to her own devices, save for the times he was not actively trying to assault her with stray bottles of alcohol, laying in plain sight or the utensils and plates she used to serve his meals, on days he wore down all of their expenses for another swig of tepid, cheap alcohol.  

She knows the child in front of her now feels neither sadness nor remorse as people who call themselves her relatives step over, one after the other, offering words of specious pity and solace she has no use of.  

It was also the day she’d met her Grandma for the first time.  

The scene in front falls out from beneath her feet, traded for the sounds of defeated shrieks and futile violence in the tiny fists that try and shove off the social workers, from bodily dragging her away from the familiarity of her old house. The young girl screams and screams for Rafayel, begs them not to take her away, that she doesn’t want to live with her Grandma several cities across the seas; a gap so wide, how would she ever find the only person who had meant the entire world to her, once more? She hadn’t even told him she was leaving. They wouldn’t let her leave the house, for fear she might run away.  

Her head throbs in vicious pain, ominous tendrils of rooted fire curling through the recesses of her brain as she watches the girl’s — her — futile resistance. 

A gibbering shadow skates past the edges of her vision. She feels like she’s forgetting something direly important, skirting just past the edge of memory. 

The young girl never told the adults around her of the young Lemurian boy — bonded though they were. She knew of the dark whispers that coiled through the cesspool she lived within, how the Lemurians were a species, well-coveted for how steeply priced their bodies sold for, within the black market. 

Her fierce possession and numbing worry for her vulnerable Lemurian had kept her from ever revealing her thread in another’s presence. For how had any of the adults stepped up to be her protectors, ever, in the young girl’s life? She trusted no one, save for herself and her sole mer-friend. She'd promised him they’d stay together forever; she’d vowed upon the sole pair of glimmering seashells, they’d found sanded within their beach, that she’d marry him when they grew up. She had— 

Obsidian smoke curls about her limbs, seeps into her lungs; a slow, poisonous ingestion. The deep, dark dreary roar of a beast sounds from afar, within the recesses of her memories.  

“You abandoned me.” She whips on her heel, coming face to face with her young Lemurian, eyes listless, lightless.  

“No.” She totters away from the horror of her nightmares manifested.  

An ice-cold hand wraps about her torn sleeve, digits digging deep into her wound. She cries out in instinctive pain, wrenching at her arm in an effort to free it. Her wild gaze meets Rafayel’s. Older, far frigid; the present Rafayel looks at her with an insouciant emptiness, it tears at the heart bruising within her chest. “You abandoned me,” he repeats.  

His hand jams about her throat, lifting her clean off her feet. She throttles violently within his grasp, breaths coming in rapid, tapering hisses. “And then, like the rest of those shameless humans, you thought it wise to appear before my eyes once more.” The pressure upon her wind-pipe increases, bit by bit, forcing tears into wide, panicked eyes. “You wanted to capture me too, didn’t you? You're just like the rest of them.” Rafayel’s just ire, cleaves like knives shoved right beneath her breastbone, bleeding out her heart. 

It’s an illusion, Rafayel would never. A stray whisper catches at her ears.  

“Would I really never? Well, aren't your thoughts so convenient. Admit it, you’ve always known.” Rafayel’s gaze is dark in barely tamped wrath and disgust. “I despise you, you and all your kind.” 

“R-Rafayel...” The dull, grey curl of smoke — previously shifting in wait at the edges of her vision — approaches nearer, her defences swiftly waning underneath his assault. Fingers, she scraps bloody against his grip upon her throat, and yet he refuses to relent.  

“It would be better for you to perish here, no? You'll leave me free to live my own life then. I would no longer be shackled to you like some pet.”  

“Y-You were never—” 

A furious scarlet fire splinters a path through Rafayel — his body distorts out of existence for a moment before he gathers form once more. A surprised brow he raises in question at the interference.  

“Snap out of it!”  

Rafayel?  

Her swimming gaze hones in on her beloved, from across the indifferent Rafayel’s shoulder, surely another wraith of her mind; wide blown panic, turbulent within his gaze.  

“What do you think you’re doing believing that sham?” Another burst of Evol sparks across his fingers, aimed at the other Rafayel.  

“You must trust me, believe in me alone.” Another volley of enraged fire skewers through the Rafayel holding her captive — cleaving past him harmless — the latter views him as if he were an offending impediment. “That thing is not me. It’s trying to devour you!” 

“Shut up,” the colder Rafayel speaks, hand jamming tighter against her throat, causing precious breaths to come through stuttered wheezes.  

The other Rafayel steps forward, a desperate hand he holds outstretched for her; an electromagnetic interference rippling about his body, stalling his further motions. “You have to believe the truth in front of your eyes — believe me — to be free of its prison. I have never, not for a moment, held our past against you.”  

“An imposter,” the cruel one says.  

Rafayel drives another step forwards, through the whipping waves of the scape’s resistance, snicking wounds across his jaw, tearing at his clothes. “I don’t regret meeting you.” The gentle azure of his gaze sparks vivid in a deluge of emotions; misery, panic and hopeful sincerity commingling. You were — you have always been my greatest joy, my only muse.” 

The Rafayel that holds her captive bites out an inhumane bark, eyes fading swiftly into obsidian. “I hate you, I’ve always hated you.”  

“Do you remember,” Rafayel urges, heaving another step closer. “the seashells you used to weave into necklaces and put on me when we first met? You told me they made me seem as brilliant as a Sea God, your Sea God, when you did.”A splintered laugh escapes his mouth at the recollection. “Even when I told you the ocean’s gods didn’t wear necklaces made of shells.” 

His voice breaks, emotions raw and desperate within the throaty catch of it, dragging her down the spiral of fond memories. “And the songs you used to hum for us in that odd, off-note voice when you were happy, you’ve retained that silly habit long even into your adult years now.”  

Emotions spurt and tumble free-fall from the inky desolation of her heart, tearing open at the seams of doubts and guilt.  

“And when you are mad, the reckless storm that gathers at your face is endearing. When you forgive me just as easily, the smile that lights your face...” 

A distant rumble sounds through the scape of your illusions, world crumbling apart at the seams.  

“I remember it all, like irreplaceable ornaments, treasures. Without you, I—” He bites back, harsh, at his words. The curious blue sheen across his face, glimmers. 

Eyes that glisten in moisture that threatens to seep past damp lashes; Rafayel’s eyes fall shut in a scraped plea.  

Emotions fueled by the catch of a distraught mind though he were, his words snag, painful, at her throat, springing tears to flow free-fall, at the comfort of his tender confessions. She, too, remembered all there was to know about him, her Rafayel, because of how she adored him. His words and steadfast affection seeping gentle into her mind now, in swift recollection. 

The great, dark beast in front has long shed its false skins, rattling useless in the face of her realization; it wrenches away from her body as if burned. “Pestilent humans.” As it flees entirely from the scape of illusions, great, dark fractures spilling up the space with its departure. 

She drops towards the disintegrating floor, once released, heaving in great lungfuls of air. Rafayel — the wraith of her mind — lunges forward, snatching her body mid-air against his as they fall, with the demolition of the Wanderer’s illusions shattered from her mind.  

A deluging rush of remembrance; the exam, the Wanderer, of being dragged into darkness by the Deluge Wyrmlord tumbles back into a now clear mind. 

And this Rafayel, having stood witness to all her memories.  

He lands on nimble feet, upon the now revealed protofield of the Wanderer; the weight of his Evol, she feels, scatter into the air.  

“You’re injured.” He mourns softly, fingers glancing gentle against the abrasion of her throat from where the Wanderer choked her, down her bruised arm, the blood long staunched in dark red across the cut. 

“I’ll be fine.” She cradles his face within a careful palm, face softening in overwhelming gratitude. If only she, too, could tell him how much she truly loved him. 

Rafayel makes a skeptical sound of disapproval. A hand, he sifts up into her hair and curls about the back of her head. “Hold still.” And before she can finally think to question why a figment of her mind still persists outside the cast illusion, Rafayel is pressing his lips against hers, mouth moving to part hers until she feels warmth flow into her, the shock of his actions making her throat swallow around him on instinct. 

The dull throb at her arm, the cuts and bruises across her aching legs — breaths that seep in easier, with the patched abrasions of her throat — give way to strength as she witnesses her wounds stitch up, in disbelieving surprise. 

“A Lemurian’s essence holds healing properties,” He breathes, heated against her lips. “our tears, saliva—” He pauses. “You’ll feel better soon.” The fever of his skin beneath her grasping fingertips, his shallow breaths come in quick; the flush across his cheekbones feels much too corporeal to be mere figment of her imagination. 

Her eyes widen in disbelief, mind refusing to comprehend his presence. Restless hands tracing the shape of his firm body underneath hers; his neck, the strength of his shoulders, down the unyielding expanse of a solid chest. 

It just couldn’t be. 

“Are you... real?” She slips a palm about the curve of his cheek, index and finger pinching at the flesh. “You can’t be real, you can’t be here.” 

Rafayel chokes on an incredulous laugh. “What an inane question, can’t you tell, silly girl?” He sounds offended. 

A plethora of questions tumble within her mind as Rafayel bumps his forehead up against hers, moisture glistening like pearls upon his cheeks. “I can sense you. And I felt it, when I nearly lost you.” He grits out the words, chagrined; breath hitching in pain as if reliving a nightmare. 

Her heart shrivels at his admission, aching gaze tracing the outline of his Lemurian features. “But, I... I don’t understand. You look so different, Rafayel, what—” 

A great ominous roar sounds from the center of the protofield, the Wanderer now having recovered from its short rebuttal of having been torn away from its prey.  

Rafayel lets her down onto her feet cautiously. Taking her hand in his, his skin sits unbearably warm against hers, “Questions later. We have to get rid of that Wanderer right now. Come on.” 

She nods at him, the two turning to face the Wanderer before they fixate their stance. Hurtling forth in tandem towards the approaching monster; weapons materializing within firm fists. 

They rush, as one, at the large winged creature, aiming right against the base of its great talons. A shield thrown upon the Wanderer, comes half-way down with their first assault.  

Back against his, she feels him tackle down the monster’s onslaught of weaker Wanderers, unearthly fire blazing away at its minions. A shimmering, amethyst line of fetters gathers form with his Evol, to grasp about the Wanderer’s body as it rages. She feels his breaths coming in harsher, feels the way he tightens his body through each motion of offense against their enemy — in no condition to be fighting off a high-class Wanderer with the weight of his sickness slowing him down.  

She captures Rafayel’s wrist in hers, jolting him backwards. Lunging in front of him to take the Wanderer’s next full-bodied assault. “Rely on me, I’ll fight for us both!” She calls to him over her shoulder. 

She catches his mute moment of surprise, out the corner of her eye before he bursts into quiet laughter. “What a reliable bodyguard.” Curving a palm about her shoulder, his Evol, she feels resonating against hers in harmony. “But if you insist.” Weaving their Evols together to strengthen; the dark fetters that plunge forwards this time, chain about the Wanderer’s girth, firmer, breaking clean through another of its shields.  

The Wyrmlord screeches in crazed agony, ramming a heavy appendage straight for them. The two lunge in opposing directions to avoid the assault; Rafayel, a split second too slow to dodge as its claws catch at the side of his abdomen, tearing at his shirt.  

He hurtles heavily onto the ground, body rolling across the Protofield before he swiftly catches himself, teetering back on to unsteady legs. His pants come in harsher, the scales across his face glimmering in fevered sweat; his body’s condition holding him back.

“Rafayel!” She calls for him on an urgent shout, rushing the Wanderer from its side, to cleave clean through its shield of defense. “Don’t push yourself anymore and stay back! You aren’t well!” 

He shakes his head at her, holding his body high once more. His shallow wound, she sees, stitch up soon after, the incandescent cerulean glow of his scales striking against his features. “It’s not what you think it is.” Rafayel streaks forward just as the Wanderer attempts to take flight for a sweeping offensive. 

He springs for the monster, using the momentum of his run, punting hard off its body; vicious chains of static purple zipping through it, to bring it crashing down onto the ground. The Wanderer’s remaining shield shattered in one critical hit, bringing it down in a violent collision of great, dark wings and a massive scaled body, vulnerable to damage.  

“Now! Rafayel instructs. Coalescing the bulk of his powers into the clench of a fist, he lunges for the Wanderer; her own movements, complimenting against his. Raising their weapons up high, their Evols converge against the other’s in a final, galvanic purple blast of energy. 

The Wanderer screeches one final sound of agony before it skitters lifeless at the ground, its disintegration setting into tattered fragments of energy.

The protofield around them begins to wane, jagged shards of breakage appearing across the domed surface of it, as soon as the Wanderer falls. 

“It’s over.” She exhales, relief plucking sharp across the back of her breastbone.

“Let me take… a moment to catch my breath.” And with the sheer adrenaline of the fight holding him up now, gone, so too does Rafayel’s strength ebb from him entirely, as he pitches onto his feet. “Rafayel!”  Just as she dives forward to catch him within her arms before his body hits the ground. “Hey!”  

Rafayel’s breathing harder, the sweat that dampens his brow far more pronounced with the appearance of his Lemurian features, glimmering scales gradually fanning wider across his skin. “Stay with me, it’s over.”

And then she sees it, the flittering of vivid red, burning against his ring finger. Pulsing harsher with each labored sound of breath he endures through and her breath frosts within her lungs.

She feels the distant pattering of approaching footsteps just as Rafayel’s hot palm curves about her wrist in a possessive hold. “We have to get out of here. I need to get home.”  

The frantic calls of her name echo across the field; she lifts her head to catch sight of a pale-faced Gabriel, waving his hands at her from just across the area. She shouts at him to stay where he is, cradling Rafayel closer to her torso for fear of his scales being seen. 

In this moment, she cannot bring herself to care for anything except providing what Rafayel needs; the frenetic urgency to his words enough to have her obeying without questions asked.  

Calling for her teammate, once more, to let the others know they were both alright and that she’d be back at a later time before Rafayel urges her thoughts back to himself.

“That’s... enough. Come now.” He moans within her embrace, just as Gabriel utters an unintelligible question of confusion. Her Lemurian’s fingers spasming against hers, “Hold tight.” he grinds out, before they’re both engulfed in a florid sea of fire.  

X. FLOOD 

The two of them come crashing onto a hard, polished surface; Rafayel’s arms tightening about her body in protection, just as his shoulder connects with the floor, with their fall. Deposited into the empty safety of his room — she notes in shock — by his Evol already shriveling out of existence.  

He shudders in visible pain beneath her, just as she scrabbles to get off his body. “I’m sorry—” The ferocity of his strength, however, hauls her back, bodies crushed against each in a firm, searing line. 

Rafayel’s pants rattle hot against the skin of her neck; the harsh rise and fall of his chest, she feels burn against her own, even through their clothes. He keeps them enclosed within that sweltering space of silence for several, long moments. 

Reaching her fingers out to comb through his unruly hair, in comfort, the adrenaline of their fight having fast shifted into worry for his health.  

Why had he decided to come after her in the fevered state he was in? How had he even known to come for her? The questions, unanswered, careened about in an endless cycle within her mind. 

Her Rafayel shifts, face sinking deeper against her breasts. Nosing, delicate, at the space exposed by her open collar as he inhales, long. His previous labored breaths seemingly soothed in her proximity, as he continues to breathe her in.

Her next gasp soughs past her lips on a catch of barely tamped sound, Rafayel’s gaze rolls up to meet hers — hot and piercing.  

“Rafayel,” She cups a hand about his warm cheek. “Let’s get you off the floor now, you’ll worsen your fever.”  

He knocks his cheek further into the space of her palm, lashes quivering shut, in comfort. “I told you... it’s not a fever ruining my body.” He repeats the words he’d uttered to her back in the Protofield.  

“It’s you.” Her mind jostles to a screeching halt.  

“What?” 

Rafayel’s body tightens beneath hers, the lean strength of his arms coming about to lift, with an ease entirely unexpected of a sick man. He moves them both onto the expanse of his bed, seating himself down, with her firm on his lap. “I’ve been going through these feverish bouts because you’ve been calling for me.” He heaves. “I’d never experienced them before because we’d never—” his words break. Rafayel’s fingers slip a slow, cautious path along the base of her spine, it makes her shiver above him. “I could’ve lost you,” he murmurs, “back there.” Hauling her close once more to sink his face into the crook of a tense shoulder as he breathes her in deep.

“I’m here now, I’m fine.” She soothes a gentle palm down the line of his back, the mild quivers that take it, muted into rest with her strokes. “Thank you for coming for me earlier.”

“Of course I did.” His grip upon her body tightens. “You called for me.” 

She rakes her fingers through his hair. “I... did not call for you, Rafayel. Even if I did, it’s impossible for you to have heard—”  

“Silly girl.” He captures her hand within his hair, entwining his fingers in between hers. “Do you not see?” Bringing their palms up close together for her to witness—

Red flitters about her ring finger, vivid — her heart jostles over its beats — the line of it longer and far corporeal, glimmering within the dark of his room, spiraling an undulating path up, up.  

Finding its other half, caught against the base of Rafayel’s finger. Her breath seizes within her throat at the sight, wary gaze tracing the line of the previously absent thread against their fingers. Not daring to believe the implications of the sight and what Rafayel too was saying. “How could this— I thought we were—”

“A Lemurian’s very being is set to perceive their beloved, in their entire capacity. Without exception.” He brings their entwined fists up to his mouth, feathering a kiss onto her knuckles apiece. “And I have not changed since the first moment I met you.”  

The heat of his words is within her head, the frenzied hammering of her heart within her throat. She dares not breathe too loud, dares not speak for fear of this precious moment shattering. The inference of his words could not be clearer and yet. A fleeting recollection of the Wanderer’s cast illusion comes to mind, the cold Rafayel’s unforgiving gaze flashing against hers.  

“Has your heart then... changed?” He asks, the wavering azure of his gaze fixated firm upon hers.

She caresses the back of her fingers against his cheek, down the line of his jaw. “It has not, not for a single moment in all these years but—” She whispers. But could you ever forgive me for leaving you on your own? 

“I’m not asking you for anything beyond that. I don’t care for it.” He shifts a thumb against the line of her lips dampened with a nervous swipe of her tongue. “I’m asking to know if the woman I love is willing to accept me again.”  

Her breath hitches within her throat. Turbulent emotions burst forth within her chest at his words, a sweet ache quivering at the back of her breastbone, the magnitude of his words she isn’t able to comprehend. Unable to believe the words she’s been wanting to hear him say, all this time, leaving that beautiful mouth. 

She surges forward onto his lap, desperate to answer the man who’s entrusted his heart so keenly into her hands. “I never stopped in the first place.” She speaks, adamant. Her fingers brush at his face, down the length of his neck to hold. The pads of them grazing the beauty of his scales, glimmering within the moonlight that shafts into the quiet dark of his room through the gauzy curtains. “I’ve loved only you all these years and by god, Rafayel, I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.” She’s out of breath and dizzy in love, it’s a feeling she never wants to clamber out of, if it means he’d continue to look at her, just the way he is now.

She hears the audible throttle of his breath; a low, anguished sound, as if she’d told him something he’d considered entirely impossible. Rafayel had seemed so sure of her feelings, and yet, he looks at her now, with a relieved sort of devotion and desire. “Which god?” His whisper is sultry, his gaze along with the heat of his skin beneath have her feeling faint within his embrace, the flex of his arm tightening its hold about her waist.  

She tips her head closer, her lips shaping her answer a mere breadth from his. “My Rafayel, my own Sea God.” She braves a kiss against his mouth. “I love you.” She confesses, “I love you so—” 

Rafayel heaves forwards, filching the rest of her words right against the desperate tongue he sweeps into her mouth. Lips moving against each other in a mesh of reckless teeth and tongue, refusing to release from each other. Her fingers catch at the fabric of his collar, in a bid to drag him closer. Rafayel’s palms, a stable hold about the flare of her hips as she bucks against him in instinctual desire at the feeling of his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Her core grazes against the distinct line of his stiff arousal, straining beneath the placket of his trousers.  

Rafayel moans a low, throaty sound against her damp lips. “This is your fault,” he whispers, feverish. “You’re the one who has left me so vulnerable.” 

The turbulent seas within his gaze burn luminous, the gentle florid pinks of his irises swallowed within the blue that takes them. The scarcity of his scales now fleshing a path from his face. Down the graceful arc of his neck and across the expanse of his clavicle. Disappearing just under the line of collar of his shirt. She treks a reverential path about his beautiful Lemurian features; a shuddered exhale leaving Rafayel, in his inexplicable state of heightened sensitivity. “Do you know what’s wrong with me?” He seizes her exploring wrist within his gentle hold, halting her movements. His chest heaves once more in vehement, anguished pants, his skin impossibly hot beneath hers.

“No, tell me what’s happening to you. Why are you—” 

“—so sexually aroused?” He supplies, mouth skewing into a smile with the hot flush of her cheeks.  

“...I was going to ask about your humane features unraveling but that too. You're... burning up.”  

He sighs against her glancing touch, at the scales of his neck. “Each year, when the moon shifts phases and the tides ebb from the shores, bonded Lemurians go through an inevitable period of increased sexual activity. We are,” he pulses a delicate kiss to the inside of her captured wrist. “extremely vulnerable during this time, our base appetites, near insatiable, unless we bear it through with our bonded mates.” 

A streak of desire spurts within her chest, seeping down into her abdomen to pool in between her legs. “So then, all this time, you were...” 

“‘Sick’”, he continues, “because I wasn’t funneling my desires with my mate.” He tugs her close by her imprisoned hand, murmuring, hot, within her ear. “within my mate.” 

A low moan of desire breaks from her lips at his licentious provocation.  

“I’ve never experienced one before.” He confesses heavily. “I wasn’t sure what it was, when it started; the time of the year seemed to coincide with my symptoms but we weren’t bonded... not to my knowledge.” Rafayel’s gaze treks against the shimmering line of their thread, re-connected. “It’s a rarer miracle for it to find itself weaved against the ones it broke in between, more so than it is for the thread to re-emerge in between new lovers.” He laughs; a low self-deprecating sound. “Fate really played me for its fool.”

She murmurs his name, gathering his hand closer to press a reverent kiss against his ring of red at his finger. “I love you, Rafayel.” she reiterates, dragging his wide, wavering gaze back towards herself, letting the irrefutable truth of her words sink in. That it’s not Fate that tugs at the cogs of their bond now, but her feelings, unchanged as they’ve remained.  

“Promise me,” he implores. “Promise you’ll continue to see me the same, no matter how many years pass us by. Promise you’ll stay by my side this time?”  

Her answer rushed, eager, yearning to soothe. “Yes. Yes, I will. I want to stay by your side.” Stealing her arms about the broad strength of his shoulders, to pull closer.  

“Don’t let me go.” Rafayel breathes. Their mouths crush against each other in a consuming kiss; an urgent prayer he makes of her name. 

Each time she squirms atop his lap with the force of his kisses, her increasingly damp core shifts in glancing strokes above his clothed length. Her fingers jolt about Rafayel’s shoulders, sinking harsh into the skin through cloth, with a particularly ruinous lap of his tongue into her mouth.  

Her fingers fly for the clasps of his shirt, rushing down the length of buttons, generously revealing the unyielding expanse of his chest, the line of his toned abdomen. Briefly trekking the warmth of his skin with the pads of inquisitive digits before her mouth follows suit, drifting from Rafayel’s to kiss a path across the firm expanse of his chest. Slicking a gentle tongue right above his heart in devoted gratitude for the one who loves her so wholly. 

She glides a slow palm down his abdomen, appreciating the tremulous clench of muscles, underneath her touch. Her coveting digits pause at the metal clasp of his belt, gaze canting up to meet Rafayel’s in silent request.  

“Yes,” he grinds out, through arduous pants of her name. “It’s yours, I’m yours, do as you please.” She pushes off his lap, dropping onto her knees in between his legs at his affirmation. Rafayel’s breaths hitch higher within his throat, at the snag of her fingers reaching to swiftly undo the fastenings of his belt, pulling it clean from its confines to discard it onto the floor of his room. Her palm slips down the line of his zipper, stimulating him impossibly harder as she works to release him from the confines of his trousers.  

Until Rafayel sits there; her devastatingly alluring Lemurian, near-naked, save for the shirt that sags against broad shoulders, and the remaining modesty of his underwear. She takes a moment to control her shaky breaths before her thumbs slip under the waistband of his final barrier, keeping him from her gaze. Sliding the garment in one careful stroke, down the strength of his legs until she tosses it off to the side. His cock springs to full length, freed from its confines, hard; it curves, slight, towards his abdomen, the gentle slick of minute bluish scales running along the underside of his shaft. A thing of beauty, just as its owner.

The twitch of his length within her grasp is palpable as she moves to work an admiring fist about it. A lone bead of pre-cum sits upon the flared head of his cock; her tongue darts out in instinctual rapacious desire to sweep it into her mouth. The sweet-salt tang of him she hums against, in a soft moan, “I love how you taste.” 

Long, tapered digits thread through the fall of her locks, curving a loose fist at the back of her head. Her eyes traveling up his torso to meet his, bright in aroused impatience. It makes her want to flip that expression over into something entirely different. She tips forwards, lips falling apart to take the head of him into her eager mouth, just as Rafayel rewards her with his first approving groan. Tongue slicking about the head of him to lick, down, at a vein just underneath the flare of his head. His hips judder up into her face with the action, slipping more of him into her welcoming throat. “What’re you doing to me?” He moans, in gravelly rapture. “Your mouth feels divine.”  

She feels the clench of her own abdomen at his praise, wetness seeping further into the cloth of already damp panties. Her mouth slips further down the thick length of him, working him deeper into her throat as she tries and relaxes against the instinctive gagging intrusion of him. A shuddering string of words, he makes of her name, in overwhelming arousal, help her along on his cock. Until she is sliding about the length of him, back and forth, tongue drooling its spit down the expanse of his cock she cannot fit into herself.  

His fingers have tightened into a near-spasm within her hair, not nearly enough it hurts, holding her fixated in place; the pads of his digits tracing soothing, encouraging circles about her scalp as she sucks at his cock. “You’re doing so — agh — so well.” The fingers of his free hand, Rafayel brings to curve, delicate, about her jaw, tipping up; her eyes finding his, on silent instruction.  

He looks entirely gone, the rugged flush of his cheeks enticing as it dashes across his ears. Springs down the crescent of his neck and across the firm expanse of his chest. Rafayel’s cock hits the back of her throat on her next intake; she swallows against the heady swell of him, deliberate, measured, refusing to relent her gaze as she does. It immediately has the effect she desired; Rafayel’s next breath rattling out of his chest on a wrenched groan of pleasure, the blue of those inhuman eyes glistening brilliant as he propels his hips into her, in a reflexive bid for more.

His fingers skid along the underside of her jaw, where mouth meets throat, grazing for the place he knows she has him settled inside. A long, tapered index, he flicks down the line of her neck — she swallows on instinct, dragging another choked moan out of him as reward — before it comes to rest at the buttoned collar of her shirt. “Off.” He murmurs, hazily. Deftly unfastening open the first few buttons before he curves his index beneath her collar to tug. “Take it off. I want to see all of you when I come.” Pooling a blush into her cheeks at his sweetly sensual appeal. 

She pulls her shirt over her head, lured along by the nimble hands that drag her close, reaching around her, to undo the clasp of her bra before he coaxes that too, off her body. Mouth falling slack, cerulean flashing vivid, in flared arousal and want; to witness the heaving tremble of her breasts as she descends on him once more. 

Rafayel eases stray locks of her hair back against her ear to better afford himself the view of pink, moist lips parting to swallow around him once more in renewed enthusiasm. 

Her hands flitter about the length of him, slick slide aided by spit and pre-cum as she moves to work her tongue around the tip; the broad of it she teases at the slit, making Rafayel shudder above her. Slipping, slow and sure, down the generous length of him, insatiable desires flooding in the clench of empty walls, for the brimming taste of him within her throat.

Rafayel’s pants have turned far harsher, sporadic in impending release. She continues to ease her tongue about his length, her palms soothing down the tense muscle of his thighs before she moves to cup her fingers about his balls. “I’m—” Rafayel snaps.  

The skin beneath her fingers tightening, as she sucks about his shaft, to help him along the final stretch of his incoming release, swallowing up to the base of him in one forceful go. Her throat constricting in protest at the rough intrusion. Rafayel groans out loud — frenzied palms pressing at either sides of her head to force her off of his cock, just as he comes in thick, spurting strokes, across her cheeks, her nose; down the curve of her chest.  

“I can’t take it any longer,” he rasps. Hauling her onto her feet by her arm, he tumbles her back onto the cool, crumpled sheets of his bed. 

She barely has but a single moment to catch her breath — more from the surprise of his vehemence — before the shorts of her uniform, are being wrested off her body in the fervent catch of desperate fingers. Rafayel gets the material half-way down her thighs before his long-frayed patience snicks off entirely; a cool rubescent fire licks up clean across the material, blazing the offending cloth away entirely.  

She’s left dumbstruck, pleasure-addled mind wrung in between faint amazement at his precise Evol manipulation and mild offense at his ruination of her uniform. “We’ll get you a new one.” He heaves — as if he’s read her mind — in between kisses laid onto the instep of her bare leg, working up across her calf. “As long as you let me have you right now, I’ll do whatever you want.” 

Her breath seizes within her throat at his sultry request. Rafayel’s palms trace about the shell of her hips, curving about the sides of her abdomen before he caresses them up her stomach, pressing, light, into the yielding flesh. Her body shudders beneath his testing caresses. One of his hands steals down the cusp of her clothed mound, index and middle stroking at her labia above panties, before he skates them in between her folds. The two moan in unison; to feel how drenched she is for him.  

Her body squirms against his, begging for more of that sweet friction. Hips bucking up into his hand to force more of him against her aching slit. Rafayel towers above her, the delectable flush across that slack, sensual expression has her fluttering in on emptiness, her hole aching to be filled completely — as if she too has taken on the fever of his desires, writhing in phantom heat. Her drifting mind wonders for a fleeting moment, if a human bonded to a Lemurian could experience the mind-numbing lust of their cycles, along with their partners. That stray thought, she believes, with each passing second he riles her up in delirious rapture.  

Holding himself above her upon the crook of a folded arm, Rafayel descends for her mouth, covetous tongue savoring a moan against hers. She feels the hot, wet strength of his cock — already firmed to stone once more — rolling against the inside of her thigh. Just as he slips a long, tapered digit past her underwear, to curve it directly against her soaked opening. Her hips jump violently at the contact, her squeal of arousal Rafayel pilfers against a throaty chuckle. “You’re so wet.” Pressing up into her to make his point, the audible squelch of her slick, loud within the quiet night. “Are you enjoying this, my love?” 

“Isn’t,” she gasps, heat gathering, strong, into her face. “isn’t the answer obvious?” 

Rafayel hums, the skew of his smile tugging higher; a slow, relishing tongue he runs across his upper lip, end to end. And before she can think to parse the intention behind that wicked gaze, Rafayel’s palms are cupping about the soft of her ass —  digits pulsing into pliant flesh — to shear her underwear off, lifting her hips up to shove his tongue in between her legs. 

Her next sound leaves her on a shriek of pleasure, blaring stars wheeling across her field of vision. Fervid digits she convulses into the yank of his hair, in a manner that has to hurt and yet Rafayel makes no move to budge back, mouth sinking deeper against the wet flood of her heat. He curves his tongue up against her fluttering walls, sweeping at the slick. Nosing a stifled hum against her clit and that is all it takes for her over-sensitised body to break, spasming into a prompt, violent orgasm that siphons the breath from her lungs and the voice from her throat.  

Dazed in her floating awareness of the scrupulous mouth that continues to suck at her folds, laving away all of her released desire for himself. And when she sinks a quivering hand into tousled locks in whimpered protests of being too sensitive, all Rafayel offers her is an impish chuckle pressed into the soft of her thigh, right beside her mound. “You had your fun, didn’t you? It’s my turn now.” 

With that sensuous warning uttered, his mouth returns its attentions to her weeping slit once more, lips closing about the nub at her apex, sucking gentle at the bead. The jump of her hips Rafayel conquers, in the indolent arm he shackles about her waist, fingers reaching to hold hers across the quivering pliance of her stomach.  

The broad of his tongue laps a path above her entrance, catching at any stray slick that leaks from her before he eases the tip of it back into her slit, relishing the clench of her walls in a throaty groan. He continues to prolong that titillating torture of his, edging his tongue at just the entrance of her pussy, till her body burns once more within the kindled flames of a cresting orgasm.  

“Rafayel, there — hah — right there. Rafayel.”  Sliding that tormenting tongue into her walls once more, to her relief, to the mewls of his name flooding like rain from a parched tongue, the spasm of her fingers she smothers against their entwined digits at her abdomen.  

“Sing higher,” his stuttered groans smothered enthusiastic, into the drench of her slit. Tongue curling up against her frontal walls, in a drag that has her fracturing under his mouth once more. Tears sprung to lust-hazed eyes from the overwhelming arousal wrought upon her body under Rafayel’s dexterous tongue.  

He exhales a pleased sigh against her mound, each heated breath causing shivers to jump across tender skin. A kiss, Rafayel lays right against her swollen clit. 

“Once more.” Her walls clench in wrecked protest, a whimper leaving her throat at his whispered words. “Give me just one more.” He entreats. “I need your taste in my mouth again.” A flitter of kisses he strokes against the line of her pelvis, her mound; dark gaze rolling up to meets hers from in between her legs. She flushes at the intensity of their contact held, without mercy. Her wordless squeeze about her hand given, is all the permission her hungering Lemurian requires to sink back towards her wet heat.  

Tapered digits reach to shape a path about the sensitive bead of her pleasure, pinching in between steady, pleasurable strokes. Before they descend lower, coveting towards her fluttering entrance. Rafayel presses up, gentle, into her walls to coax wetness onto his digits with each drenched thrust of his fingers into her.  

His hand releases from hers, palm drifting up across the plane of her body to cup about a pliant breast. Fingers caressing a circular path about her areola in soft, stimulating strokes and she quivers at the sensation, breaths coming in short, stifled bursts of air.  

Rafayel’s mouth closes about her clit, just as the arch of his fingers hit at a particularly hot, sensitive spot within her pussy; walls spasming about his fingers, swallowing him in. His name soughs past her lips on whimpered gasps with each steady thrust of him up into her walls.  

The pads of his digits tweak about the puckered bead of her breast, thumb denting gentle at the bud, sending a jolt of arousal straight in between her legs.  

Rafayel continues to lap her up, dutiful; his lashes descending in pleased satisfaction just as her third, mind-numbing release crests through her body, leaving her skin a drenched, ruined mess Rafayel sucks at, in throaty moans of delight.  

“Rafayel,” she urges, unable to stand the searing desire he’s put inside her, body hungering for the heat of his cock in desolate emptiness. The overwhelming desire to feel his heat flooding into her, with how long he’s strung her dry for himself. She catches his face in between tremulous digits, pulling him from in between her legs to meet his gaze, dark in fervent desire. “I need you inside me now.”  

Heated obscurity scatters momentarily from his eyes at her fevered request, hips rolling against hers so she feels the hot strength of his arousal brush against her inner thigh; her gasps breaking into the air, at that brief second of contact. Burying her next moan in the vicious bite of teeth at his clavicle, when his cock ghosts across her mound, so close to where she wants him. “If you’re sure you want this...” He groans in ardent murmurs against her mouth.  

Her clambering response is swift and eager. “I want this, I want you.”  

“I’ll let you have me,” he relents in between their wet kisses. “this time, all of me. So drown with me, my beloved bride. Love me.” 

Just as he snaps his hips forwards, the head of his cock pressing her open for himself. The delectable stretch of him, so easy within the drenched warmth of her body as it ravenously sucks at him, all the way in. Rafayel’s searing groan of pleasure, he breaks against her jaw; mouthing, mindless, at the taut skin.  

The union of their bodies, have left them both winded, without breath to draw into aching lungs; several moments they take in between heated gazes and consuming kisses, unmoving. Growing accustomed to this new, exquisite feeling of being so deeply intertwined into each other, she feels she could live like this against him for the rest of her life.  

Until Rafayel begins to move and her world explodes into turbulent sparks of blinding pleasure, unlike anything she’s quite experienced before. His hands are upon her body, covetous digits flittering in between them to touch at dewy skin. Testing his touch against the trembling give of her breasts. Mouth capturing a pert nipple into his mouth, to suck until she keens underneath him.  

Her ankles hook about the base of his spine, dragging Rafayel’s propulsions deeper into her. A stuttered moan, she throttles out of him, at the stimulation before his hand steals about her ass to lift her lower body entirely off the bed. Angling his hips, Rafayel’s thrusts turn impossibly deeper, with the assistance offered in their new position; his pelvis grinding flush against hers on each fevered plunge. “You’re perfect around me, so very — hah — warm,” he grinds out in heedless praise, hips snapping against her harder, in rising intensity, in chase of a hovering orgasm.  

She moans in appreciation around the tongue he slips into her slack mouth in yearning want. “Rafayel,” she chokes out. “I’m so close.”  

“Me too,” he groans, shifting his weight forwards to lean against the crook of his arm at her side. His fingers trek up a path against her slack arm, digits entwining through hers, the line of their red thread flickering in between them both as they approach the crest of their combined pleasures.  

“I love you,” she sobs in between quivering gasps; his gaze crinkling in warmed affection and desire so acute, it drags another whimper out of her.  

“I love you.” Rafayel declares, into the catch of his kisses against her mouth, her cheeks, down the crescent of her jaw. Laving a kiss into the curve of her neck in a worrying bite of teeth, marking her for his own. He switches his pace once more, cock spearing up against her frontal walls in frenzied thrusts. “Come for me,” he beseeches. 

Jaw falling slack in a daze of undulating desire when she obliges at the heated scrap of his words, tumbling over the edge in an orgasm so vehement, her spine arcs clean off the bed. “You’re so good for me.” He worships.

Cresting waves of pleasure, she rides in the hard clench of her walls against Rafayel’s throbbing cock, pulsating hot within her until he too follows soon after. An incomprehensible swell of his cock inside, rising with its pulsations, has her gasping out a low, keening sound at the aching stretch of her pussy, it prolongs her high onto wondrous, searing moments of dizzy elation. Her toes curling into the sheets as the steady bulge of him catches at her walls and snags inside, hot spurts of cum surging into her, so much of it, she feels light-headed from how stuffed he has her. Just as Rafayel’s head falls low, on a loud, long groan of release.

Their damp breaths break against each other’s mouth for several moments that follow after, as they try and muster their senses back to themselves. Her fingers tracing absent, soothing circles along the curve of Rafayel’s spine until his trembling body stills to a gentle lull above her, quieted in the wake of their vehement orgasms.

A strange, fascinating imprint, throbs scarlet right above his heart — in the fleeting likeness of a fish — just as Rafayel’s rattling breaths abate. Captivated fingers she ventures, to trace against the edges of the mark. “...What is this, Rafayel?”  

“A sign of Lemurian loyalty.” A quiet smile tips across his face at the question.

The swell of breathless surprise, she knows is upon her face. “My devotion, here on, it’s yours to do with, as you please.” A kiss he buries into her palm in overwhelming affection. “I’m allowing myself to be trapped by you.” 

A low sob of adoration breaks from her throat at the words, just as the proof of his vow fades fast into his skin. A hand, she brings about his neck, to haul him down against her, to treasure a kiss right above where his heart thrums its beats, elated desire burning warm within her chest.  

Rafayel moves above her, maneuvering their positions until she rests at her side, within the circle of her arms, bodies still conjoined. His cock — she realizes with dazed shock — is still hard within her body. “Are you afraid?” He asks, gentle fingers carding through the mussed tresses of her hair. “I’ll need you much more times before I’m sated, you know.”  

She shakes her head at him, palm moving to cradle against his cheek. “I want all of what you have to give me, Rafayel. I’ll take it all.” 

He drags her closer by the hips at her affirmations; his touch along the back of her ass tending a slow fire back up within her weary body, as he moves to hoist her leg up against the cut of his hip.  

And she lets him show her just how profound a Lemurian’s devotion to his beloved truly runs, throughout the entirety of the night and into the greeting of dawn — a depth as unbounded as that of the Oceans.

End Notes: Tagging as requested: @samanthagnicole , @catboi-anon , @bitches4lifebro

If you’d like to be tagged in my future stories, you can fill this short form here.

You can also find me on Ao3 and twitter, if you’d like to scream with me about hot characters.

[magicdustsworld]

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 (3)

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: fluff, some profanity, reckless drunk driving(I do not condone), grave scratches(non sexual), mentions of smoking, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟑: 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

A/N: I feel like I can make an updating schedule for this, Wednesday every week (at least, its Wednesday for me)? How does that sound? wc around 2.3k (got longer than intended)

Divider credits: @cafekitsune

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐

“What’s the time?”

“Hmm?” Tossing his half burnt cigarette into the trashcan, Sukuna answers, “Quarter past eleven?”

“Right.”

Said so, you have hung up the call.

.

Sukuna knows he is reckless.

Often times has he found himself in situations due to this attribute of his. Although he manages to spare a laugh or two while recounting these situations, sometimes having you join in as well. That impulsivity is brought out by his need of chaos and to prove time and time again to everyone else that he isn’t someone they should mess with. Whereas this impulsivity—where he is driving down the expressway with his foot pressed on the accelerator, barely staying below the speed limit—is brought upon by you.

He zooms past all the cars on the road, the wind from the open window serves to tousle the fringes of his hair from one side to another.  A mild headache ripples through him a second later, the effects of alcohol finally showing its fangs. The fog of inebriation doesn’t necessarily cloud his eyes as he navigates the car past the pedestrians and vehicles; courtesy to his high alcohol tolerance.

His lips are twisted into a constant frown while adrenaline surges through his veins. And he will blame the entirety on you. What’s with you in the first place? Sure, he might have been out a little later than usual. Maybe he missed a few calls from you but that doesn’t mean you will return the same treatment. He has his reasons—good reasons. Unlike you who is just holding a grudge on him.

He clicks his tongue, rotating the steering wheel as he changes gears and just as he is about to pick up speed, the car comes to a screeching halt.

“What the fuck?!”

He curses out loud, eyes trained on the stray object lounging right in the middle of the street. Quite literally, right in the middle of the street as its eyes glow with the impertinent illumination of the headlights. The object in question is commonly called a cat.

“Not this shit,” He rolls his eyes, smacking his palm on the horn – disrupting the rather quietude of the neighbourhood and trying to get the feline to run off; It doesn’t. Instead, it lets out a yawn, nestling its head between its forelimbs and completely ignoring the driver.

Sukuna’s eye twitches. He smacks the horn again.

It doesn’t move.

Again.

It can only flutter its eyelids shut and pretend to be asleep.

At last, Sukuna has to take matters into his own hands. He steps out of the car, groggily walking up to the disturbance and looks down on it. His stare only passes the single message – Get the fuck out of here.

The cat has a bemused glare plastered on his features, probably to show that it doesn’t care.

Sukuna crouches down, extending his hand to grab hold of its collar when- “Agh- Fucking shit!”

He swears out loud as soon as the feline scratches him. He grasps his injured hand, staring at the pierced area with widening eyes and a twist of insanity causes his lip to curl up. The claws have made its marks over the scraped skin as a tad amount of blood oozes from the cuts.

“Oh, you did not just do that,” He mutters and in a second he has the cat in his grasp. Holding it via its nape, he dangles it before his eyes while the latter lets itself be held on air, without any protest; save for the unwavering glare it is shooting at him. “What? Got something to say?”

The cat merely lets out a high-pitched meow from its end.

Sukuna huffs, rotating on his heels and ready to toss the cat aside. “Fall back in your beauty sleep somewhere else.”

Slightly does he loosen his grip on the cat did it let out strangled sound; shaking its head vigorously.

Huh? He blinks, swaying the cat from one side to another which only incites displeased purrs from it. At last, he pivots his wrist and brings it closer to his face. The previous glare is still etched on its mien but the intensity has significantly lowered.

He scoffs, returning a scowl with a same fervour. “Listen here you piece of shit, my girl is already raging like a volcano and if I am anymore late then I will intrude your den and-” He pauses, “That’s a promise.”

The cat blinks like it understands anything, answering him in its language which comes out as a choked affirmation. Sukuna is about to drop it again and the same pattern as previous follows.

“Alright, what the hell is up with you?’

Irritation is flaring in his bones as the cat refuses to be let off. He takes a moment for himself, noting the physical attributes of the feline. Thick black far rustles under his palm, sharp yellow eyes and it’s staring at him with an expression which only evokes mischief.

Just a regular black cat and from his least bit of knowledge about the societal norms, he knows they are considered to be the bearer of bad omens.

For the next five seconds, he contemplates on all of his choices.

He finds himself making the worst one.

.

You are seething when he returns home.

No, you aren’t blowing up or throwing any temper tantrum as Sukuna expected. Rather you aren’t regarding him with anything at all.

When he steps inside through the doorway, purposely slamming the door with a bit more pressure than necessary to make you aware of his arrival; you don’t come to greet him let alone grace him with an answer.

As Sukuna strolls through the corridor and finally into the living room, he finds you perched on the couch and clicking through some channels on the TV before halting in one.

He clears his throat and you crane your neck to glance at him before shifting your attention back on the program.  

For obvious reasons that causes an irk mark to form on his brows. He saunters to the couch and sits beside you, calling your name; you don’t answer.

Alright, you’re mad. He squares his shoulder, “How long will you keep up that attitude?”

You pass him a look which extends a second too long and for some reason, Sukuna finds something drop to the pit of his stomach. “What’s the time?”

There’s that question again.

“I know, it’s pretty late–"

“I am asking you the time not records of your unpunctuality.”

“Christ,” He rolls his eyes. “It’s only a one-time thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, “One-time thing, really?”

“Fine,” An exhausting sigh leaves his lips. “Maybe not a one-time thing but I am back now.”

You merely roll your eyes, turning away from him. Sukuna is about to speak again but something just has to intervene.

“Meow!”

Instantly, you perk up, twisting your body from the direction of a feline’s voice. “What was that?” Before your boyfriend can answer any of your queries, said feline is striding inside the living room with a graceful yet suspicious poise which causes disbelief to cloud your visage. “Where did that come from?”

The black cat tethers a corner before halting just near your feet. It looks up at you and Sukuna has to suppress the flurry of retorts filling his mouth as the cat gazes at you with sheer innocence.

What the hell was up with that attitude earlier?

It nuzzles its head over your ankles, letting out a tender purr while doing so. Just like that, you find yourself falling under its charming spell.

“Aww come here, cutie,” Cooing, you pick up the feline, cradling it into your arms as if it were an infant.

As for the cat, when it finds refuge in your arms, it doesn’t hold back from nestling into a better position.

“Where did you find it?”

“On the middle of the road,” He replies, leaning back as his eyelids narrow. “Quite literally.”

You take your moment to run your hand on its fur, sighing out of content. “So you brought it home? That’s so sweet.”

“I tried to toss it away more times than I can count but this fucker won’t budge.”

“Hey,” You protest, shooting his a playful glare. “It’s so cute and wait-” Shifting, you reach the conclusion. “It’s a boy.”

“Wow…”

Ignoring the sarcastic remark, you pat his head, “Aren’t you such a good boy?”

Physically, Sukuna has to stop himself from cringing at the attention you’re pouring over the filthy feline. However, before he can descend into that spiral, a wave of nausea overrides him. Sooner than he can comprehend, he is rushing to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet. The expunged contents is flushed down as he takes a moment of rest.

He hears footsteps and a second later, you’re kneeling beside him. Greeted by your mien which evokes concern, your hand is placed over his shoulder.

“Hey,” You call softly. “You okay?” He nods, refraining himself from giving you a verbal answer as the sense of nausea still lingers. You rub circles over his back, trying to soothe his momentary queasiness. It does work as the tension starts to wear off. “I will bring you some water. Stay here, ‘k?”

Before he can affirm, you’re out of the bathroom. The next seconds are a blur and Sukuna refuses to let the silence mess with his head. You return soon after as you push the glass to his lips. He gulps it down in one go.

“Better?”

He nods.

“Should I get you some medicine or will you be fine?” He shakes his head negatively but he should’ve known you are stubborn. “I will get you one just in case.”

You are about to leave again but Sukuna is quick. He grips your wrist, tugging on it as he beckons you to sit with him.

Tilting your head, you ask, “Hmm what?”

As for Sukuna, he has his eyes lowered to his lap while he chews on his bottom lip. Surely, he’s got something to say to you but to get the words out is a task on his own. “I- I’m uh… fuck, this isn’t supposed to be this hard.”

In response, you can only stare at him with confusion flickering in your irises. “What happened?”

“I’m… uh, I’m sorry.”

You blink, “Sorry?”

“Sorry,” He repeats, raising his eyes to meet yours. “Sorry for… uhm not caring about the- the time and making you… you worry.”

It’s almost like he is mumbling the words to you and he doesn’t even know if you’re able to register half of it. A silence stretches and he finds himself in a position where he might’ve to repeat himself. Until he doesn’t.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips and you shake your head. “Aww, ‘kuna,” An amused smile curves up your mien and for reasons unknown a heat swells in his chest. “You’re so adorable.”

That heat now permeates to his face and he arrives to the conclusion that he is only burning with a fever. “No.”

“Aww, but you are.”

“Stop right there.”

“But baby…” You jut out lower lip, leaning forward as you hold his face in your hands. Sukuna is on the verge where he feels he might pass out any second. “I am just telling the truth, you’re so adorable. My adorable baby.”

He arches his knee, ready to leave after prying you off but you don’t relent.

“Alright, alright sorry,” You laugh, wiping a stray tear from your eye. “I accept your apology, ‘k?”

He hums, again refusing to meet your eyes before he adds, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Ay, ay captain,” You raise your hand, holding it on your forehead as a salute.

This time, Sukuna doesn’t refrain from letting that taunting grin slip into his lips. However, just when he thought both of you were having a moment until you aren’t. The new addition of life in your abode comes loitering inside the bathroom and you are swift to nestle up the cat in your arms.

“Were you lonely? I didn’t mean to leave you alone though,” You speak to the feline again, apologetically. One which is returned with an affirmative tone from the latter’s whimper.

You continue the tender conversation with the cat and Sukuna takes the moment to just watch the two. “He likes you.”  He comments after a second, garnering your attention.

“I like him too,” A wide smile has curled in your lips as you scratch behind his ear earning a soft sigh from him. “A lot. Kinda reminds me of you, don’t you think?”

“Please,” He scoffs, a frown forming on his face as if the comparison hurts. “I am far better than this annoying pest.”

“Don’t call him that,” You rebuke tersely which he returns with a roll of eyes. “Give him a name.”

“I am not going to do anything like that.”

“Sukuna…”

The warning in your voice doesn’t elude him but he isn’t giving in either. “This thing doesn’t even like me.”

“This thing is ours so you better give him a name now.” Sukuna looks like he’d rather watch paint dry, inciting a low sigh from you. You bring the feline near his face. “C’mon, you brought him home. You should name it.”

If he acquiesces to your command, you might let this charade drop. Well… The cat is black so… “Kuro.”

“Kuro?”

He nods, “Kuro.”

“Kuro, it is then.” Your eyes gleam with excitement as you rock the cat in your arms. “Do you like your name, Kuro?”

“Meow!” He replies and you take the high pitch squeal as his likeness to the new name.

Sukuna lets out a sigh, leaning back as his head rests against the basin cabinet. Maybe he can get used to a cat.

The said cat passes him such a mischievous smirk from your arms that he has to rethink his choice.

He grumbles under his breath, “Fucker Kuro…”

“Meow!”

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟒

A/N: ik the title is misleading but y'all as someone who doesn't want kids ever this is self indulgent wish + I can never see Sukuna as a genuine father so you have that lol.

Taglist: @comeonatmebruh @o-ikawaii

[tojisun]

i would loveeee to see what was like the first time simon and reader were like.. together uhum fucked…. like after they went out of the bar that they met at, yk what i mean??? my english is shit im so sorry but i loveeee how you write simon, soft and full of love 😫💞

HI ANON OMG ITS BEEN YEARS SINCE THIS ASK!! im so sorry for how late im replying :(( and no omg ur english is good, pls dont apologize for it ^v^ and thank u so so much ahhhhh <33

prev (context of the ask) // biker!simon mlist

!! smut - minors dni; praises (might be a kink but its def just simon being in luv); purity kink n dumbification but only if u squint hard; unrealistic sex (cervix penetration); female reader

simon parks the car – johnny’s old dodge; fixed it up using scraps from the shop – in front of his place, silent as he listens to you breathe. you’ve been shivering since the entire ride, quiet puffs of your breath only breaking through when simon’s playlist lapses into silence.

he’s been eyeing you from the corners of his eyes ever since you two left the bar, watching as you played with the loose thread on your sweater, eyes darting between him and the expansive road. he licks the back of his teeth, unclenching his jaw to speak, only, you beat him to it.

“wanna kiss you,” you say, so soft that it almost gets drowned by the rising crescendo of the guitar rift rumbling from the speakers.

simon’s breath hitches, the grip he has on the steering wheel tightening, and he turns as you do, your shy gaze trailing from his fists to his eyes. there’s a spark somewhere there, an instant shift that has simon changing his gait, body rippling and before he knows it, he’s reaching out towards you.

you meet him halfway, body getting jostled until you freeze when the seatbelt snaps. simon takes over, reassuring as he brushes your hair away from your face, sure fingers trailing to click at the holster so that he can finally tug you close.

you clamber to his lap with his help, trembling legs going over the cup holders before settling on top of him, mindful of the horn. simon catches you anyway, big hands spanning your back, ghosting touches along your spine.

he feels your back quiver as you breathe in, memorizing the way you feel in his touch, on his lap, emitting warmth that tickles his skin. he stares at you for a moment, letting his heartbeat settle. then, he presses forward to catch your lips.

you gasp his name, a soft little thing that makes his lungs constrict. he holds you close, steadies you on top of him, slotting his lips easily against your own. your fingers fist his shirt, bundling the fabric tight, and simon groans when you melt on top of him, a pleasured sigh filtering through, splintering into the air, before being devoured by simon’s greed.

he nips at your lips, his tongue slick as it slide against yours, and it’s all too warm, too feverish, too good. and all parts not enough.

the clack of teeth echo in his ears, ringing so loudly, ripping him into needy shreds. you two separate with a whimper. simon blinks his eyes open, catching the way you chase his lips, your own throbbing and wet and plump.

“shit, baby,” he whispers and dives into you again, unable to stop himself.

smaller hands rove over his body, rubbing from his elbows to grip his shoulders, and settling atop his head to fist the strands of his hair. he growls at the first pull and it leaves you putty in his arms, swaying your hips like molten caramel – languid and tantalizing.

he needs more. desperately.

he breaks the kiss again, nuzzling his nose on yours in apology when you whined, and murmurs, “wanna take this inside?”

simon hears the ragged drag of your breath and feels the jostling of your head as you nod.

he hums. “use y’r words, sweetheart.”

“please,” you reply instantly. “i want to. take this inside, i mean.”

simon presses a quick kiss on your lips as a reward. “of course,” he says, gentle as he tugs you closer to him. “let me take care of you, yeah?”

-

you hiccup at the first slide of his cock, gentle and tentative as it strokes past the fluttering lips of your dripping pussy, and presses in between your plush walls. you cry, burying your head on the pillows, feeling full even when simon’s cock isn’t even fully in yet.

the bulbed head breaches further, carving out space for his thickness, and you go taut, breathing raggedly, tongue dry and wet at the same time. distantly, you hear simon curse, lilted litanies of your name spilling from gritted teeth.

you feel your heart beat in staccato, pounding within the cages of your ribs at the realization that he’s feeling the same way – devoured by the intensity of your bodies matching up. you push your hips back to him, eating up more of his length, and simon’s hold on your waist gains strength, stopping you from moving any more.

it’s not like you can, not with the way your arms snap underneath the weight of your body and pleasure, and you tip into the sheets, a cry spilling from your lips. simon pauses, one of his hands leaving your waist to let his warm palm glide along your back. his touch tickles the ridges of your shoulder blades before he presses down on the valley along your spine.

he’s everywhere, it seems – deep in you, warm against your back. you don’t know what it is but it makes you sob, crashing desire razing from the base of your neck to the tips of your toes.

“shh, my love,” simon whispers, his voice ragged and thick with his own desire. “y’r doin’ so amazing for me. so beautiful. so delicate.”

you whimper, tilting your head to the side as you gasp in a breath. you try to reply but your tongue feels so heavy and your mind is blank. it is only filled with a deafening static and simon.

simonsimonsimon.

it’s all so much. it’s still not enough. it’s a miasma of carnality – ever so expanding now that you’ve got a taste of it.

simon kisses the back of your head. “can y’take all of it f’r me?”

all of it? all of him?

he’s not- he’s not fully in yet?

you garble a reply, a mix of yes and please and simon’s name. simon, in return, peppers kisses on your back and murmured words on the trembling rise of where your lungs are. he holds you again, his hands leaving your waist to wrap your fists with his warm touch instead, and it makes you swoon, unintelligible cooing noises tumbling from your lips and into the space between.

the moment simon sinks himself deep, his pelvis hitting the flesh of your ass, you keen, drawn out and long. tears trickle from your eyes and drool spill from the corner of your lips, staining his pillow. but it doesn’t matter because simon, big and filling simon, ruts his hips once, twice, three times, before he’s pulling out again.

“si-!” his name dies on your tongue when simon snaps his hips back, his cock sliding into your pussy and breaching your tight walls again. you scream, a broken cry of your pleasure ripping itself from your throat.

simon doesn’t let up, doesn’t stop – why would he? it feels so good!

sogoodsogoodsogood!

“so tight f’r me,” you hear him rumble, his lips close to your ear. he sounds so drunk in his pleasure. so drunk in you. “so good, lovie.”

“feel where i am hittin’?” he thrusts in harder, kissing somewhere deep, the thick head snug in your cunt. “feel me ‘ere?”

simon punches in his cock again, the weight of his balls slapping against your cunt, and you realize. god you realize what it is he’s hitting.

you squeal, slick gushing along the length of his cock, pooling along the wet lips of your pussy, slicking you two even more.

“yeah,” simon laughs, nipping along your neck. “s’your cervix, isn’t it, love?” he ruts his cock deep again when he says this, exchanging his fast thrusts for slow humping, making you feel every inch. every press.

you sob, nodding because yes, yes it is!

simon croons, nosing along your hair, breathing you in. “y’r takin’ me so well. takin’ me so greedily. y’r so precious, lovie. so perfect, so beautiful.”

his words slur together as he gets lost to his own pleasure, sinking into the euphoria engulfing him. you moan, choked squeals of his name lolling out of your babbling mouth. you feel untethered. floaty. you feel so full and so stuffed, your belly fluttering at every deep kiss of simon’s cock.

you feel so-

“simon! si- ah!- si! si!”

the spray of your squirt falls on your unhearing ears, a stuttering white buzz that fills your mind muffling everything that isn’t simon’s cock and your pleasure. simon curses from behind you, his face falling to the crook of your neck again, shaking as he fucks you harder and faster, sporadic thrusts turning into shallow pumps as he chases his own peaking pleasure.

and you take it. you take it like the good girl he told you that you are, limp and overstimulated, because simonsimonsimon.

-

from: soap (02:13)

> so i dropped off your bike :D

> may have heard you fucking your date.

> how are your neighbours not calling to complain?

to: soap (06:23)

remind me to block your number. <

WHEW!! not my best work :(( but i enjoyed writing this holy shit??

tagging: @babygirl-riley @teehee-47 @comeonatmebruh

[nadvs]

watch and learn (part five)

pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

content warning drug and alcohol use

summary it takes one conversation with your college dorm neighbor to know you won’t get along. rafe is loud, rude, and short-tempered. after he overhears you talking about a disappointing fling, he loses his confidence in his sexual abilities and suggests you start hooking up to both improve your skills in the bedroom. you can’t stand him, but it’s too good of an offer to turn down.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

The moon is bright and the air is brisk as you and Rafe sneak out of the lakehouse and rush towards the dock, still only in your bikini.

The stone steps leading from the porch to the backyard are slackened and a bit slippery, so you instinctually grab his hand to keep yourself steady.

He tenses immediately, his hand closing as your fingers pinch around his. He wriggles out of your grip.

“Rafe, I’m just trying not to fall,” you say, irritated.

“Watch where you’re going then,” he tells you. You scoff. Asshole.

This is just like the other night, when he warned you not to do any couple shit. As if you’d ever consider a relationship with someone so emotionally unavailable.

“You need to chill,” you tell him. “Holding hands for a few seconds doesn’t make us a couple.”

It’s too much for him, being touched by you in an affectionate, non-sexual way. You teased him the other day for cuddling you and he hated that you were sort of right about him liking it.

Rafe sighs and decides to just give in, offering his hand to you. You cup his cool palm and he doesn’t squeeze your fingers back. It’s fine. You only need the stability.

You reach the long, planked dock and let go of his hand immediately, following him towards the boat bobbing in the water.

“How’d you even get the key?” you ask, trying to push away the tension.

“Stole it,” he says.

“Wait, really?”

“No, not really,” Rafe teases, looking back at you.

You roll your eyes and smile. At least when you argue, it doesn’t last for very long. Besides, you’re both here for one reason and there’s no need to complicate things with any sort of petty conflict.

The cruiser boat’s shimmering black planes are sharp and sleek and the only covering is a glossy roof on angled pillars. You thought it’d be more private.

You stand behind Rafe as he begins to unravel the rope tying the boat to the dock.

“What if someone sees us?” you ask.

“Let them,” he grumbles.

“Rafe,” you warn.

“I’ll drive it out far,” he says, motioning towards the boat. “Go.”

You step onto the swaying boat and settle onto one of the two cushioned booths beneath the roof, watching him.

Even in the moonlight, you can see the planes of his biceps bulging beneath his t-shirt sleeves as he works on the rope. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing.

Perks of being rich, you figure. He’s probably lived such a privileged, comfortable life.

When Rafe steps onto the boat, he flips a few switches and turns the key into the ignition. Thankfully, the motor offers only a quiet hum, not alerting anyone in the house upstairs.

He slowly shifts the throttle forward with one hand, holding the steering wheel with the other. He’s so confident, so in control.

You were already turned on from the way he propositioned you upstairs earlier tonight, but watching him is making lust coarse through you even harder.

He may be a jerk most of the time, but he’s hot enough that you can ignore it.

“Do this with other girls,” you tell him. “Trust me.”

“What?” He glances back at you.

“Apparently, a guy driving a boat is hot,” you say. You almost forgot this whole arrangement was supposed to be instructional.

Rafe looks forward again, his lips quirked in a coy smile.

He slows the boat down in the middle of the quiet lake and kills the engine. The water ripples beneath you from the motion of the boat cutting through it.

He loves that you don’t wait for him to come to you. You wedge yourself between the wheel and him, pressing your body up against his, pulling him down to kiss you.

His hands find your waist, and you reach back to push them down to your ass.

“We skipping the foreplay you’re always annoying me about?” he mumbles against your lips, fingers digging into your skin.

“I hate to give you any credit,” you say, “but you already kind of did it. When we were talking upstairs and you said...”

“You can do it,” Rafe teases.

“That you could make me cum in a minute,” you finally say, body flushing with heat. “Foreplay can start hours before we even touch.”

“Damn, so… you been turned on since then?” he teases. It’s so gratifying that the whole time you were another guy, you were thinking about what Rafe would do to you.

“Shut up,” you laugh, pulling him in again, your hands cupping the back of his neck to kiss him.

Your open mouths are hot, tongues tangling together as Rafe grips your ass harder and grinds against you. His body curves into yours as he kisses you deeper, his touches growing rougher.

He pulls his shirt off and his bare chest against your half-naked body is firm and warm. His hand slides up the curve of your spine and finds the knot holding your bikini top together. He pulls the string, brushing down the straps and letting the bikini fall.

Rafe ducks to put one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking and flicking with his tongue, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

You throb with need as he licks you, taking in the sensation of the cold air pressing against your skin, his warm mouth on you, the boat gently rocking in the middle of the dark lake.

He puts his hand on your other breast, squeezing and pinching your nipple and your fingers find their way into Rafe’s soft hair, gently pulling at the roots, enjoying the grunt of pleasure you hear from him.

He eagerly pulls at the hem of your bottoms, mouth losing contact with you as he peels them down your thighs, crouching to get them to your ankles so you can step out of them.

“Damn, baby,” Rafe says huskily, taking the sight in. “Your pussy is so fucking pretty.” Your stomach numbs at his words. He’s been craving another taste of you for so long. Too long.

With his knees on the cold floor, he leans forward and flattens his tongue against your lips, earning a tremble from you. Your knees weaken as he uses his tongue to spread your lips apart, dipping between your folds with urgency.

You spread your legs and hike one up, resting your foot on the cushioned seat you were just sitting on.

“Good girl,” he says. “Spreading yourself open for me.”

You look down, moaning as he laps at you, taking in the way his eyes look in the moonlight, the way his hair is bunched between your fingers.

“Shit, that’s so good,” you purr. “You’re so fucking good at that.”

“I said less than a minute. Start counting,” Rafe says smugly. You giggle, amused and aroused and elated. The numbers sound weak as you start to mumble through them.

He starts to suck harder, slurping and enjoying your taste. Your voice immediately starts to waver and he pulls back.

“Don’t stop counting,” he orders.

“Four… five… six,” you continue breathily. Rafe closes his eyes as he savors you, already addicted to how you taste and how soft you are.

After working your clit, he shifts to shove his tongue inside of you. The sound of you trying to focus on counting while you moan from the pleasure he’s giving you is cosmic, out of this damn world.

Rafe continues to fuck you with his tongue, saliva starting to run down his chin, his nose wet from you. He moves back up to your clit, tongue flicking quickly.

“Thirty-four… oh, fuck…” you say.

“Oh, fuck? Is that a new number?” he mocks, making you smile and bite your lip as you tighten with bliss. You feel his big hand stroke up and down your middle, trapping your clit between his fingers and squeezing.

“Rafe,” you moan. “That’s so… fuck, that feels amazing.”

He smirks and locks his lips around your clit as he shifts to push two fingers into you. You clench around him and he can’t wait to be inside you.

He curls his fingers in and out of you while he sucks your clit, making you start to shake.

“Forty-one… oh, shit… okay, I’m…” you whisper, a wave of satisfaction prickling at your skin. He thrusts his fingers with more force, sucks harder, looking up at you as your mouth goes slack and your eyes squeeze shut.

Making a girl cum was always an ego thing to him. But he realizes that he loves making you orgasm simply because it means you feel good.

You unravel with a rippling rush through your body, fluttering around his fingers, bucking up against his face.

When you slowly come down from the climax, you pull your hips away from him.

“What number did you get to? Forty-one?” he teases. “What’d I tell you? Less than a minute.”

“So cocky,” you say, smiling and blissed out.

“Get on your back,” he orders, taking the condom out of his shorts before stripping the rest of his clothes off.

You settle on the hard boat floor, watching Rafe roll the condom on. You would’ve offered to put it on him, but he’s so rushed to dive into you.

You spread your legs and Rafe settles between them, pushing in with a quick thrust that makes you gasp.

He leans over to kiss you, swallowed by your slick warmth, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You tilt your pelvis up so he can get as deep inside of you as possible.

He pulls back and drives into you even harder, making you jolt from the force.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he orders you. You squeeze his taut torso with your legs, maintaining eye contact like he taught you. He’s gazing down at you, the starry sky shimmering behind him as he plunges in and out of you.

You’re so tight, so wet, so fucking perfect, that he doesn’t even want to cum, he just wants to feel the way you squeeze him.

His pace is fast, his eyes trailing over your face and committing the way you look when he’s fucking you to memory in case this is the last time.

The thought of losing this makes his skin burn.

Rafe’s palm presses at your neck, his fingers tightening around your jaw as he lowers himself and positions your head so that he can speak into your ear.

“You know he’s not gonna make you feel this good, right?” he mutters huskily. “He can’t eat your pussy like I can. He can’t fuck you like I can.”

This show of possession is just dirty talk, you tell yourself. But what if it isn’t?

Rafe props himself up again, gazing at you with his hand on your jaw as he thrusts in and out of you. How’s he supposed to be okay with someone taking you away from him?

You feel a cool drop of water on your arm. Then another on your cheek.

“Shit,” you gasp with a laugh. “I think it’s raining.”

He smiles while he looks down at you, enjoying the sound of your laugh.

“I don’t wanna stop,” he whispers. “Do you?”

You shake your head no and pull him closer so his warm cheek is pressed against yours. This is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. He’s filling you so nicely, both of you moaning and panting and laughing as the rain starts to come down harder.

You’re wrapped around him as he thrusts in and out of you hard and fast. The tension inside him finally snaps and he goes still before dissolving into pleasure, emptying himself into the condom.

He goes limp on top of you, panting against your neck. The rain is torrential and loud now, his back coated in water.

Rafe pulls out of you and you stand, laughing together as you rush to find your bathing suit top and bottom while he dresses himself, the wet clothes plastered to his skin.

You try to find shelter under the boat’s curved roof as Rafe starts the boat, watching him navigate and feeling your heart in your throat.

That didn’t feel like just fucking. The way he smiled at you was something else.

It’s late morning when you wake up, your friends still snoozing. You trudge downstairs and decide to enjoy the view of the lake that you didn’t get a chance to look at when you arrived yesterday.

You step out on the back porch, immediately thinking about how you snuck out with Rafe last night. And how you ran back inside, trying to be quiet, genuinely having fun with him. And everything in between.

You know it’s silly to overthink, but your mind replays what he said. You know he’s not gonna make you feel this good, right? He had to have been talking about Blake.

Was he jealous? The way he was smiling at you while he was inside you makes you think he does have a sweet side to him, that maybe he feels more than just lust for you.

You hear the door open behind you and turn to see Blake, adorably squinting from the sun.

“Early riser?” he gruffs, shutting the door behind him. You grin.

“You consider this early?” you say, checking your phone to see it’s almost 11:00. He chuckles.

Blake comes to stand beside you, leaning over the railing and looking at you with the same kind smile he was wearing last night in the hot tub.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, his kind eyes softening with concern. “It wasn’t too cold?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, remembering how hot and flushed you were getting into bed after your time with Rafe last night. You wonder if he’ll tell Blake about your time together. And if Blake will care.

“No, I was fine,” you say.

“You sure you wanna leave today?” he asks, his tone sweet. The boys are going back to campus tomorrow, but you and your friends agreed to stay only until this afternoon.

“Yeah,” you say. “Don’t you bros have to bond or something?”

“Don’t tell them I said this, but I’ve bonded with them enough,” he jokes.

After everything you’ve learned about Blake over text and in person, you can tell he’s a good guy. You like the way he remembers things about you, the way he always looks at you like he missed you, the way he’s always polite to you.

Rafe walks into the empty kitchen and the first thing he sees is you and Blake through the window. You’re standing inches away from each other, leaning over the raised porch overlooking the lake.

His stomach turns when he sees you laugh at something Blake said.

“Dude, I’m fucking shattered,” one of his hungover buddies says, dragging his feet into the kitchen. Rafe thinks he is, too, and it’s not from drinking. He grabs some water and heads back upstairs to lie in bed.

You eventually go inside after Blake suggests making breakfast together. Your friends and a few frat guys are ambling around the main floor of the house as you make your way to the kitchen.

As you cook and talk, you find Blake takes every opportunity he can to innocently touch you in some way, unafraid to show you that he likes you. He’s affectionate, unlike Rafe, who stiffened the second you tried to hold his hand last night, who will only touch you right before or during sex.

After eating breakfast with Blake, your friends, and a few of the guys, you finally head upstairs to pack your things and head home.

You round the corner into the hallway and almost collide with another body. You look up to meet Rafe’s blue eyes, his expression sullen.

“Hey,” you say with a smile. “Wow, did you just wake up?”

“No,” he mutters. His lips thin as he steps to the side to walk past you, brushing you off.

You try not to let his moodiness get to you. It’s such a sharp contrast from how Blake treats you. You’re not expecting Rafe to be a sweetheart, but you thought at this point you sort of had a friendship.

You make your way to your room, reminding yourself of how he was the night you met. Rafe is a jerk, unless he’s working on convincing you to sleep with him.

Regardless, the sex is too good. You’ve actually been gaining confidence from hooking up with him. You tell yourself from now on to expect nothing but coldness from him.

Rafe tries to ignore the cloud hanging over his head after you leave the lakehouse. He hates that seeing you with Blake pissed him off so much. He hates that imagining Blake looking down at you the way Rafe did last night makes his blood boil.

A part of him wants to tell Blake you’re still hooking up to prove a point, but if Blake tells him that he did something with you, too, even a kiss, he might just swing at him.

Thankfully, Sam seems like he was too drunk to even remember Rafe asking for the key to the boat. He discreetly returns the key where Sam told him he could find it last night.

Rafe realizes he just needs to fuck another girl. He’s been messing around with you exclusively and that must be what’s been screwing with his mind. He scrolls through his phone and finds the number of a girl he met at a party during orientation week.

The next evening, you’re lying in bed watching a show on your laptop when you start to hear muffled moans. Your brows furrow as you try to make out what you’re hearing.

It’s a girl moaning. And it’s coming through the wall you and Rafe share.

Rafe’s on top of her in his bed, instructing her to be loud, not sure if it’s for his ego or just so you’ll hear. He did everything you taught him, touching her and talking to her how you said he should.

It’s all working and he can tell she’s close and it feels good, so why the fuck is he closing his eyes and imagining it’s you under him?

After she leaves, Rafe gives into the impulse to text you: my bad for the noise lol

You reply: all i can say is you’re welcome.

Rafe: ya you’re kind of a genius

You: i know :)

You try to focus on your tv show. Rafe said you’d keep your arrangement up until you’re both satisfied. He must be satisfied. Maybe the night on the boat was the last time.

You’ll miss it, but whatever. At least it’s ending before your mind has a chance to spiral any further into dangerous territory like it was this past weekend. That man has two settings designated for you: he’s either annoyed or horny. You’re convinced he feels nothing else.

The next day, it’s late afternoon when you get back to your dorm after your classes. As you get closer to your door, you can hear a man yelling. It’s loud. And vicious.

You sigh, wishing they didn’t cheap out on the insulation in this building.

You quickly realize it’s coming from Rafe’s room. Someone’s yelling and Rafe isn’t saying a single word back.

Rafe’s arms are crossed while his father shouts at him. He’s trying to hold it together, telling himself over and over again not to cry.

He got a little carried away with his credit card recently. He picked up the tab for food for his frat brothers quite a few times now. Splurged on beer. Had to pay to tank up his car for the weekend trip.

Apparently that makes him a disappointment who’s not taking school seriously. His father popped by for a surprise visit just to lay into him about his spending.

You quickly put your key in the lock and figure you should just put headphones on when you get in your room.

“Is that what I pay for, Rafe? For you to party? Do you even go to your classes?”

You swallow hard. It must be his dad. You don’t want to pry, but you’re surprised Rafe isn’t fighting back. The quick-tempered man you know always has a retort.

Maybe he hasn’t had as comfortable a life as you thought.

“If you can’t take it seriously-”

“I can,” Rafe finally says, his tone agitated but low. “I am taking it seriously.”

You swing open your door and step into your room, but when you hear his father say “what are you crying for?”, you feel your heart crack.

(part six)

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[peachdues]

road head road head road head —

MDNI.

“I swear to fuck —“

“Keep your eyes on the road.” You admonish as his belt finally gives way under your demanding fingers. Sanemi’s foot inadvertently presses down on the gas as he feels you loop them through his belt loops.

Despite knowing there’s objectively nothing more stupid than letting you work his pants and underwear down his hips just enough to allow his cock to spring free while he’s pushing ninety on the freeway, Sanemi finds he is helpless to stop you. Not when he’s wound this tightly; not when it’s been so fucking long.

The first tickle of your warm breath against his throbbing cock makes him hiss; but the brush of your lips against his head — now almost purple — nearly makes him jerk the steering wheel, threatening to send the car spiraling off the road.

Reality washes over him then, a bucket of cold water dumped right on his head. This is just what he needs; to get you both killed in a crashing blaze of fire and warped metal, all because he can’t control his horny fucking girlfriend or resist her stupidly perfect mouth.

“This is a dumb fuckin’ idea.” He grinds out through his teeth, clenched hard enough to crack. “Just wait another hour til we get to the damn hot — fuck!”

The muscles in Sanemi’s arms ripple, the steering wheel creaking under the force of his grip as your lips part around him, and you take his cock straight down your throat.

How embarrassing it would be for the wreckage of any car crash he gets you into to reveal that he’d had his pants down. Maybe he’ll be lucky and the entire car will burst into flames, burning him badly enough that his sins can’t be revealed. Old piece of shit like this is bound to be liable to explode in the event of a crash. At least, Sanemi hopes that’s the case.

Though, the more your tongue glides along the underside of his shaft while you moan and swallow around him, the less Sanemi finds he can care how any paramedics may find your mangled, burnt bodies.

At least they’ll know he went out on cloud fucking nine.

—-

You try and lift your head up and away, but Sanemi manages to unstick one of his hands from the steering wheel. His palm shoves firmly at the back of your skull, fingers splaying across your hair, as he forces you back down.

He ignores your muffled whine of protest, nearly going cross-eyed at the feeling of your throat spasming around him as you gag.

“Nope,” he grits out through clenched teeth once he recovers. “You’re fuckin’ swallowing every drop. I ain’t showing up to this hotel with fuckin’ cum stains on my pants ‘cuz of you.”

in fairness she deserves it lmao

[spermeboy]

pairings: boss!henry cavill x male reader

request: where Boss henry offers picks up the reader from his house to go to work, but the reader wakes up late and is rushing out the house with a shirt and shorts on and his suit in the bag. while driving henry rests hand on readers thigh, reader is cold and begins slowly moving his thighs in order for some rubbing action hoping henry doesnt notice him moving, readers boner begins to grow but is evident with his shorts, (not sure really how they get to the sex part like does henry say something about his boner or does reader ask for a quickie idk) but henry ends up pulling in a gas station or diner parking lot and grabs reader into his a passionate kiss and puts reader on his lap for a breeding quickie, reader riding henry, henry also extra horny as theyre in public and he would love to be caught in the act etc, biting readers neck and touching his nipples and hips , when henry cums inside him they slowly kiss and reader just grinds against him and cums on henry's suit.. you can decide the ending. idk if that's good or not, im just too horny rn, lol

warning: SMUT ! , car sex, breeding, swearing, thigh kink.

MDNI + FDNI !

The sound of your alarm echoed in your ear. You subconsciously pressed snooze about 4 times before taking an actual look at the time "8:30 !" You yell out in shock, you rush to look outside your window to see Henry's car waiting."Shit!" You almost choke on your words when you realise how bad you've messed up.

You quickly rush to your wardrobe and pull out a plain white shirt and some shorts while stuffing your work suit into a bag. Henry knocks on the door and waits outside impatiently, "One minute!" You shout down as you rush downstairs, putting on your shoes. You swing open the front door to reveal your boss, Henry.

"I'm so so so so so so so so so sorry, Sir." You plead with him, "I hope this doesn't make me lose my job or anything, " you say, turning to face him. His stern face turns into a smirk. "Don't worry, you won't lose your job over it. But you will be in my debt. " he walks over to his car with a devious smirk on his face.

He opens the passenger door for you, and you climb inside. You noticed that your shorts had ridden up, but the position you were in you couldn't pull them down, so you would have to deal with the drive while your thighs are exposed.

Henry takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it down on your thigh once you feel the warmth of his hand on your leg. Your heart begins to race as you've had the hots for him since you started work there.

Henry begins to gently rub your thigh, his hand going back and forth, ever so slightly getting higher and higher, his fingers slowly dipping into your inner thigh, which causes your dick to start growing causing a very obvious bulge in your shorts.

Henry notices and begins to tease your thigh, his fingers gently go up your shorts and rub the tip of your cock. You mumble a moan slightly "fuckk" that was quickly short-lived as his hand goes back to the steering wheel.

"Awh Fuck. We're going to need to stop for some gas. " Henry's hand leaves your thigh and goes back to the steering wheel turning into the gas station. Henry gets out of the car and goes to fill up the car. You use your arm to cover up your boner.

Once Henry gets himself back inside the car, he turns to face you "fuck it" he says while smirking as he pulls you onto his lap, sliding his tongue into your mouth. Your heart races as you grind your hips against your bosses clothed dick. His hand glides up your shirt and he gently pinches your nipple while the other hand grips your ass.

Henry pulls away from the kiss and begins to unbutton his shirt to reveal his hairy chest and rippling abs. You run your hands down his body, admiring it, caressing each ab. He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you towards him "I am going to fuck you so hard, baby boy" Henry says while gently twisting your nipple, "F-Fuckk." You moan out. "We're going to have to make this quick, okay baby?" He pleads with you as he watches you grind your hips against him "yes sir." You smirk.

Henry unbuckles his trousers and pulls his dick out, "Spit for me." he says while holding his hand up to your mouth. You release your spit into his hand, and he jerks his cock to spread the spit. "Sit on it, baby." He smirks as you gently slide down onto his cock, your walls spreading to make room for his size.

"F-Fuck! You're so big, Henry." You moan out as you gently reach the base of his cock. "You're taking me so well, baby, Just look out the window. Everyone can see how well you're taking me." he smirks as your face contorts from slight pain to absolute pleasure. You begin to slowly pick up the pace as you ride him, Henry leans up and holds your waist, and he thrusts deep inside you, hitting your g-spot.

"H-Henry! Fuckin' hell" You moan out as he continues to hit your sweet spot at every chance he gets. "Fuck! I'm gonna cum boy" Henry says through his gritted teeth, as he paints your walls white. He continues to fuck your ass feeling his cum slip around your insides, coating your sweet spot in his cum. He pulls you down into a kiss, your tongues sliding around all over eachother as you gently thrust you cock against his abs, climaxing. You moan into the kiss and you pain his abs with cum..

You both breathe heavily, "fuckin' hell, we need to do this more often." Henry says while smirking, admiring the state you are in. "I am obsessed with you dick, sir." You say while blushing, "that sounds about right. " Henry smirks as smacks your ass, "how about round two back at my place?". You blush at his request. "How could I say no?" You smirk.

[sunrenity]

ANYTHING FOR YOU  、NRK

ㅤ୨ৎㅤwhenever you're with riki, all of your fears disappear.

nishimura rikiㅤ✶ㅤfemale readerㅤ ｡｡｡ ㅤest relationship, fluffㅤⓘㅤreader hates riding bikesㅤwcㅤ759ㅤℬookshelfㅤzehra's note.ㅤi have no idea how i ended up talking about ducks but here we are 🤷‍♀️.

you hated bikes. the mere thought of balancing on two wheels, feeling the wind whip past you, and the potential for a hard fall was enough to make your stomach churn. you remembered the time when you were a kid, and you tried riding a bike without training wheels for the first time. it didn't end well, to say the least.

the scrape on your knee took weeks to heal, and the fear took even longer to fade. yet here you were, standing beside nishimura riki, your boyfriend, as he wheeled his shiny black bike out of the garage, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"come on, y/n," riki urged, his voice a mix of persuasion and reassurance. "i promise, you'll be safe with me."

you bit your lip, the apprehension clear on your face. "riki, you know how i feel about bikes. i don't think i can do this."

he walked over to you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "i know you're scared. but trust me, okay? i want to take you somewhere special. just hold on tight, and i won't let anything happen to you."

you looked into his eyes, those deep, comforting eyes that always seemed to melt away your fears. with a heavy sigh, you nodded. "okay, i'll do it. but if i fall, you're carrying me the rest of the way."

riki laughed, a sound that warmed your heart. "deal."

he helped you onto the bike, his hands steadying you as you climbed on behind him. you wrapped your arms around his waist, holding on tightly as he kicked off and started pedaling. the bike wobbled slightly at first, and you felt your heart leap into your throat. but riki's steady presence was reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing just a little.

"see? not so bad, right?" he called back over his shoulder.

you managed a shaky laugh. "if you say so."

as you rode through the quiet streets, you could feel the tension slowly leaving your body. the rhythmic motion of the bike, combined with the warmth of riki's back against your chest, was strangely soothing. he steered with confidence, his movements fluid and sure. it was clear that he knew what he was doing, and that knowledge helped to ease your fears.

"where are we going, anyway?" you asked, curiosity starting to replace your anxiety.

"it's a surprise," riki replied, his tone teasing. "but i promise it's worth it."

you sighed, resting your head against his back. despite your initial reluctance, there was something undeniably exhilarating about this experience. the world seemed to blur past you in a whirl of colors and sounds, and you felt a sense of freedom that you hadn't expected.

after what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, riki slowed down and turned onto a narrow path that led into a small, secluded park. he stopped the bike and helped you dismount, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer than necessary.

"we're here," he said, a proud smile on his face.

you looked around, taking in the serene beauty of the park. there was a small pond in the center, its surface shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. tall trees surrounded the area, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze. it was a peaceful, idyllic spot, and you felt a sense of calm wash over you.

but what really caught your attention were the ducks swimming in the pond. they glided gracefully across the water, their small, feathery bodies creating gentle ripples. you watched them, entranced by their peaceful movements. riki must have noticed your fascination because he nudged you playfully.

"you like the ducks, huh?" he teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "should i get you one for a pet?"

you laughed, shaking your head. "you would do that for me? steal a duck for me?"

riki's eyes widened, and he looked genuinely panicked for a moment. "wait, i didn't mean—"

you laughed even harder, cutting him off. "relax, riki! i'm kidding. i don't actually want you to steal a duck."

riki exhaled in relief, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "good. i was worried for a second there. stealing a duck is definitely not on my to-do list."

you leaned into him, enjoying the warmth of his arm around your shoulders. "well, even if you did, it would be kinda cute."

he chuckled, pulling you closer. "i guess anything for you, but let's stick to visiting the ducks here. much easier and less illegal."

PERM TLㅤ ✦ㅤ @en-gelic @nishislcve @jakesprincess1 @ivsjake4evr @flwrstqr

[rosyblooom]

blooming season 🌷 (2) | ln4

"grief is just love with no place to go”

PAIRING: lando norris x fem nepo!reader WORD COUNT: 2.5k WARNING(S): mentions of death & blood, swearing SUMMARY: four years after she fled monaco, y/n is back on the anniversary of her father's death. however, an unexpected encounter with an f1 driver disrupts her plans.

part 1 | part 2 <- | part 3

You're not sure how much time has passed since you entered the car, but it doesn't matter. It feels like an eternity. Everything feels overwhelming today—you're the mouse in a world full of elephants, and you don't know how to cope. You want to scream, but your voice feels strained; you want to cry, but there are no tears left. All you can do is sit idly in what feels like a tiny lifeboat in an ocean rippled by giant waves crashing straight at you.

"Feeling any better now?" Lando's voice interrupts the silence, pulling you out of your daze.

You snap your head sideways to face the brunette boy, your brows furrowing as you simply stare at him.

"Hey," he sneaks a quick glance at you before focusing back on the road. "You've been quiet the whole ride. Are you feeling any better now?"

Narrowing your eyes, you fix him with a wary glare before rolling your eyes and bringing your feet to the edge of your seat, hugging your knees tightly. "What's it to you?" you finally respond, gazing through the window.

"Look, I'm trying to make things less… tense here. You could, you know, meet me halfway or something."

"How about you stop trying," you snap, glaring at the side of his face. "Just be quiet. Let's get your hand wrapped up, and then you can just leave."

Lando swallows, his eyes darting between you and the street ahead. "I don't think—"

You cut him off sharply, "Obviously, you just missed the freaking turn."

"What? No, I didn't, look," he points at the GPS that's currently rerouting. "Oh."

"Yeah…"

"No need to worry, it's already figuring out a new way. See?"

"Another inconvenience?" you ask, annoyance laced in each word. "Yeah, actually I do."

Lando purses his lips and drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "I'm guessing I'm the first inconvenience?"

"Wow, you can connect dots," you deadpan, sinking into your seat and resting your forehead against the vibrating window.

*********

The elevator door dings open, and you release a relieved breath upon finding its carriage empty. Lando enters first, settling into one side, while you press your back into the opposite wall.

"Let me guess," Lando begins, trailing his fingers up and down the row of twenty buttons, "your floor is the—"

"Sixth," you interject, your patience wearing thin as you take a step towards him and push the number six, causing it to light up.

Lando sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, nodding. "That was going to be my guess, you know?" He glances down at you, his gaze meeting yours briefly before drifting elsewhere.

Feeling hyperaware of his closeness, particularly the warmth emanating from him, you shift back into the opposite corner of the elevator, but he follows.

Your brow furrows as you grunt, "Personal space, remember?"

"Hold on a second." You feel the gentle touch of his hand atop your head, and moments later, he plucks something green from your hair, fixing you with a pointed look as he extends his palm to you. "A four-leaf clover," he exclaims, excitement glinting in his eyes. "Make a wish on it."

You swat his hand away from your face. "No thanks."

"What, there's nothing you want to have? Nothing you want to wish for?"

Sure, you have a wish—only one. You want your dad back, you want your old life back. The one that felt like summer every year, when there were no cold days.

Feeling the tightness in your throat as your vision blurs, you quickly blink away the incoming tears—you don't remember the last time you cried—and remark sharply, "No, I don't—nothing that's possible anyway. Keep it... or don't, I really don't care."

Just in time, the elevator door dings open, and you rush out of the tight space, desperate for more room.

*********

Fumbling with your key, it takes a few attempts before you finally manage to slot it into the keyhole, agitation coursing through your veins. With a satisfying click, you push the door open, only to find the apartment strangely empty.

Lando squeezes in behind you, causing you to stumble slightly before regaining your footing, shooting him a glare.

He strides down the hallway, with you trailing close behind, and into the brightly lit living room. The space is perfectly tidy, almost unnaturally so—there's not a single thing out of place.

"You sure you live here?" Lando glances back at you, eyebrows raised.

"No, I don't," you reply flatly, "this is actually where I bring idiot boys with no sense of self-preservation to kill."

Lando chuckles, his grin widening slowly. "So, you do have jokes then?"

You shrug and head down another hallway, making a beeline for your bedroom. As you push the door open, memories come flooding back—pictures of your dad adorn the walls, nestled in frames atop the dressers. It's like stepping into a time capsule; everything remains as it was four years ago, yet now it feels tainted.

Without wasting a moment's breath, you flip each picture frame on its head. The images taunt you with their stillness, incapable of conjuring the scent of Dad's favourite cologne or the resonance of his soothing voice. Pictures can't replicate the warmth of his hugs.

Once done, you kneel by your bedside table and retrieve a pair of scissors and bandages from the drawer.

"Now this looks more like it," a voice remarks behind you, causing you to startle and slam the drawer shut, rising to your feet. "This actually looks like someone lives here.”

Balling your empty hand into a fist, nails digging into your palm, you grit out, "I didn't tell you to follow me in here."

Lando raises his hands defensively. "I'm sorry, I was just worried. You were gone for a while, but uhm," he swallows, eyes flicking to the scissors you're clutching.

"Seriously?" you brandish the scissors, "I'm not going to stab you, if that's what you're thinking."

"Sure..."

With a sigh, you take a step forward, but he instinctively retreats, prompting you to shake your head and let out a chuckle—it's been awhile since you've done that.

"It's for the bandage," you remark, crossing your arms. "Also, you do realise you're the intruder here. If anyone should be scared, it's me. But I'm not a scaredy-cat, am I?"

"Neither am I," he insists, dropping his arms.

"Good. Let's head back to the kitchen, then."

*********

Lando leaps onto the counter, eliciting a groan from you as you cut the gauze into a shape that fits the wound on his palm.

Swiftly retrieving a clean tea towel from the cupboard, you situate yourself in front of him, arm extended. "Hand?"

He complies immediately, dropping his hand into your palm, and you begin to dab the skin around the cut dry. Once sure nothing is wet anymore, you reach for the gauze and carefully place it over the wound.

Lando hisses, causing you to tilt your head up, only for a sharp pain to suddenly spread atop your head. You both release loud groans, your hands instinctively moving to massage the throbbing spot on your head, while you watch Lando rubbing his chin.

"What the hell is your problem?" you finally manage after a while.

His eyes widen. "What the hell is my problem? You're the one who suddenly moved," he gestures to you, "you could've given me a heads up or something."

"How was I supposed to know you'd be hovering over me like some weirdo?" you retort.

Lando offers no response; instead, his lips gradually curve into a full-blown grin as he begins to chuckle.

You don’t react, simply staring at him blankly.

“C’mon, don’t lie now,” he says, tilting his head with a smile, “That was kinda funny, you have to admit.”

Despite theatrically rolling your eyes, a small smile betrays your true feelings. Still, you simply shrug and say, "Whatever."

"Alright, cool," Lando nods with a grin. "I'll take that. I'll take a 'whatever' anytime over all the other stuff you've been saying."

Taking the bandage from the counter, you close the gap between you, freeing his hand and delicately wrapping the bandage around the injury.

"You make me sound like a bitch," you mutter, flipping his hand over to inspect the wound. "I'm not—or at least I don't mean to be."

Lando props his free hand onto the counter behind him and leans back, raising his eyebrows. "To be honest, I thought that was the whole vibe you were going for."

You pause, setting the bandage roll on the counter and narrowing your gaze at him. Before you can respond, he quickly adds, "Hey, no judgment from me! I can handle difficult."

"Very funny," you say, shaking your head with a smile as you toss the tea towel into his face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lando chuckles, retrieving the towel from his face and sliding it out of reach. When his gaze returns to you, his smile fades, and he simply stares, causing your expression to falter and your eyebrows to furrow.

"What do you think you’re looking at?" you snap, feeling as if you're suddenly trapped in a glass cage.

Leaning forward, a slow smile dances along Lando's lips. "You’re very pretty when you smile," he nods, "you should do that more often, it suits you."

Your expression falters, and you feel your heart sink with guilt. Today marks the fourth anniversary of your dad's passing—the first time you’ve felt strong enough to acknowledge it, to face the hurricane head-on—and here you are, spending it laughing, as if it's not a day plagued with immeasurable sadness and pain.

Isn’t that selfish?

It sure as hell feels like it.

Just like that, the walls rise once more as you fix Lando with a blank expression, swiftly grabbing the bandage roll off the counter. "Let’s just get this done, okay?" Your voice is strained—it scratches at your throat.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, confusion swimming in his bright eyes.

You swallow hard and grasp his hand, continuing to wrap up the wound wordlessly.

"I’m sorry," Lando tries again, "If I said something wrong, I’m sorry."

Sighing, you shake your head, and though you feel his gaze piercing your skull, you refuse to tilt your head up to meet his eyes head-on. "Nothing to apologise for," you state quietly, focusing on the task at hand.

This is exactly why you keep to yourself—your pain is yours alone to bear; it's unfair to burden others with it. You're not the same carefree, easily agreeable Y/N you once were back then. That part of you left the world today, four years ago, with your dad.

"Done," you declare, cutting the excess bandage and patting it down. Then, you create some much-needed distance between yourselves, heading towards the sofa and collapsing onto it.

"You know the way out," you yell, squeezing your eyes shut as you focus on your breathing.

The calm doesn’t linger for long, though, when you fail to hear footsteps or the door clicking open. You shoot upright, only to find Lando at the tap, an empty glass in his hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" you ask, propping your elbows on the couch’s backrest.

"Getting some water," he gestures toward the faucet and flicks it on. "I’m thirsty."

"You can do that at your own place."

"What, go home for water and then come back?" he shoots you a perplexed look before taking a swig from his glass. "Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?"

Rising to your feet slowly, you make your way to the opposite end of the counter and lean against it, resting your hands on the cool surface. "And why would you even come back here?"

"For you to check up on me," he explains, waving his bandaged hand in the air, "make sure I don’t develop an infection. I’ve had one before, it was awful."

As if momentarily blinded by sunlight, you blink more than necessary as you process his words. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The cut, it could get infected after being exposed for so long. So, I think we should wait out the day," he shrugs, "just to make sure it doesn’t get worse."

"And why can't you just go to the hospital?" you press, confusion evident in your voice.

His lips curl into a sly smile as he scratches the back of his neck. "I don't know, you seem to know what you're doing. I trust you."

His admission knots your stomach—you can't recall the last time someone willingly stuck by you after all your attempts at self-sabotage.

You're a pusher. You push and push until people fall off the edge of the cliff, leaving you in the comfort of yourself. So, this catches you off-guard. But strangely enough, the proposal doesn’t make you squirm with disgust, but rather... want? You're not quite sure; it's an old feeling, one you struggle to understand.

"Fine, okay," you sigh, shaking your head in disbelief at your own acquiescence. "I think you're being dramatic, but fine."

Lando nods, a grin spreading slowly across his face. "Great."

The weight of today bears down on you, a stark reminder of your initial plans—ones you can't simply reschedule. No, these you can’t ignore; they're a boulder in your road. Today is the day you will visit your dad; today is the day you will see his tombstone for the very first time.

"I've got somewhere to be tonight," you say, twisting your fingers into painful yet somehow soothing shapes. "So you'll have to leave then. And I’ve got to run some errands throughout the day, so you can, I guess, join me... or you can just stay here—stay out of my fucking bedroom—and yeah, watch TV or whatever it is you do."

"Got any food?" Lando inquires, swinging open your refrigerator doors to reveal painfully empty shelves, save for a lone box of leftover takeout from last night.

"That's a negative," he answers his own question, closing the doors with a sigh before turning to face you. "Can we grab some food while we're out running errands?"

Your stomach grumbles in agreement before you can respond, so you simply nod, snatching up your keys. "We should go now, then."

Lando falls into step beside you in the hallway, and you shoot him a sideways glance, adding, "We'll handle my errand first, then we can grab food."

He holds the door open for you, gesturing for you to pass through. "No complaints from me."

4:05 ───────────ㅇ─ 4:28

TAGS: @leclercdream @evitarubio @landossainz @lottef1 @averymjn

[monster-disaster]

Can I request a bad boy Biker dullahan with a sweet chubby fem reader. He is teaching her how to ride his bike from behind but is also making it very hard when he's groping her breasts, rubbing her thighs, and grinding his cock against her thick ass. Slight bit of exhibitionism.

dullahan!Rip x human!Reader Good to know: smut

"Are you sure it is a good idea?" You ask your boyfriend for what seems like the millionth time. Your words are muffled by the way you nibble on your lower lip with a worried crease between your brows.

A low chuckle comes from behind you. "Why wouldn't it be a good idea?" He asks back. One of his motorcycle-gloved hands lands on your shoulder. The black leather is cold and soft on your bare skin as it slips up to your neck, smoothing your hair out of the way.

"I don't want to ruin it."

He laughs again. You can feel the rumble of his chest as it presses against your back to steer you closer to the bike. "How a little thing like you could ruin it, love?" Amusement laces his question.

You know he is right. At the beginning of your relationship, you called his bike 'the Beast,' and the name stuck for good reason. (You didn't know about the significance of naming a biker's bike, but it's for another story.) It's a massive thing with black and silver details. Its sides are like ribcages, hugging the bike from wheel to wheel with an eerie green light filtering through them.

"Hop on, love," Rip says, patting your hips when you say nothing. "It will be fun." His voice carries a dark undertone, but you decide to ignore it for now. You are too focused on the Beast in front of you.

"You act like you never sat on it before," your boyfriend teases while grabbing your hips to haul you onto the bike. He moves you easily.

A high squeak leaves your lips, and you grab onto the grip the moment you can reach them. The silvery ribs are cold against your legs as you adjust yourself on the leather seat.

"A warning would have been nice," you groan.

The bike dips a little when he sits down behind you. His long legs close around you, pressing to your skirt-clad curves.

"Next time," he promises, but you know he is lying. He has too much fun with putting you anywhere he wants to. "And now, go!"

"Rip!" You scowl, looking back at him over your shoulder.

He wears his usual black jacket that is illuminated by the green, misty light coming from his neck where his head should be. Instead, his head, a skull with the same light in the eye sockets, rests in one of his hands.

"Fine. Then let's do this step by step." He says it like it's a bad thing to do. "Here, put it down in front of you."

The fact that he can simply offer you his head still shocks you, even though you are touched by the gesture every time he trusts you with it.

Stupid male had a real laugh at you when he threw it at you for the first time, and you almost got a heart attack, afraid you would drop or hurt him somehow.

Holding his skull softly in your hands, you put it on the dashboard, making sure it won't fall off.

"What's next?" You ask him.

"Start the engine." Even though his skull is in front of you, his voice comes from behind you.

When you do nothing, he leans closer. "Come on, you ride with me all the time."

"In the back," you reason. " I never see over your shoulder."

"You are lucky you are cute," he sighs. "Turn the key."

You follow his instructions carefully until the engine awakens underneath you with a soft rumble. You can feel its power between your legs, vibrating and rippling through your bones.

"What's next?" You ask him with a bit more confidence than you started a few minutes ago. You can totally do this. Who knows, maybe you will get your own bike too. A pink one to match Rip's Beast.

"Slow down, tiger," the dullahan laughs as if reading your thoughts. "First, you need to get used to it. You are not my backpack now, you have to get to know the power between your legs."

He presses you down on the black leather seat by your hips. His fingers dig into your thick flesh while his chest presses to you back some more.

"Do you feel it?" He asks, amused.

Your lips go dry the more you feel the engine under you. It purrs between your legs, going straight to your pussy.

"You have to be confident and purposeful to handle a beast like this," Rip continues, making your hips rock just barely. The small movement punches a sudden gasp out of your mouth. Your clit starts to throb and ache at the friction.

"Wha-what are you doing?" You ask him, voice already hoarse.

"I am teaching you."

"It doesn't feel like it."

He hums. You know, if he could, he would grin.

"Then how does it feel?" Rip teases. His hands from your hips go to your breasts. Your light summer dress does nothing to stop his wandering fingers.

"It feels like something we shouldn't do in front of the open garage door," you tell him. Your eyes snap from his skull to the outside world. The street is quiet, but it's still daytime.

"Then we should hurry."

You frown. His thumbs ghost over your nipples through the thin fabric. "With what?"

"Making you cum."

It was not his original plan, though. He really wanted to give you a taste of how driving a bike feels like, but the moment he sat down behind you, he forgot everything. The feel of your soft flesh and generous curves tend to do that to him. He isn't complaining, though, especially not when he can have his hands on your tits, playing with their weight while rubbing your nipples until they are hard and sensitive under the thick pads of his gloves.

"Rip!" You squeal when he grabs the collar of your dress and pulls it down. Your breasts spill out into his waiting hands.

"No bra? Naughty girl." He tugs on your nipple, making you jerk back against his chest. He cages you against himself and the still-running bike.

"What if someone sees?" You ask him with a slight worry, though you do nothing to stop him.

"You think too much," he says, rubbing your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "But you really have to hurry if you want to cum before the others arrive."

"Oh god!" You close your eyes from the sensation and the reminder at the same time.

"So come on," he says, leaving your chest to grab your skirt. Your face contorts into a grimace at the loss of his touch. "Sure you don't want them to see you like this."

"Please," you breathe. Your hips grind against the leather seat, searching for the constant vibration on your throbbing center.

His touch and his words lit something in your belly, something demanding and burning.

"Oh, look at that," he coos. He pulls up your skirt until the gathered fabric rests at the base of your thighs. His hands smooth up and down on your flesh hugging his bike. "Fuck," Rip grunts. "If I would have known your legs would look this good around my bike, I would have made you sit on it all the time."

"Rip," you gasp his name. "Hurry!"

He laughs, letting his hard dick grind against the small of your back through his jeans from behind. "Why, sweetheart? You don't want my friends to see you like this? Tits out, legs spread open? Your panties are drenched." His fingertip grazes over the wet spot, making your muscles twitch at the cruel teasing. "I bet my seat is wet, too."

Embarrassment and arousal burn your cheeks. He is probably right. "R-rip," you complain.

"As you wish, love," he says, pulling your panties aside with one hand. "Let me see that pretty cunt."

You lean against his chest, spreading your legs even more at the sides of his bike. Rip explores your folds, stroking over your soft flesh until he reaches your clit. He rolls slow circles on the sensitive bud, making you mewl with need. Your hips grind against his hand, demanding more friction while he hums and laughs at your despair.

"Fuck," Rip says. He lets go of your panties to put his hand back on your breast. He squeezes and gropes you to his heart's content until your back arches, and you press yourself even more into his large palm. "Look at you, my good girl, being an absolute slut on my bike." His words punch a cry out of your dry lips, and Rip's hips buck against your back. You are not the only one affected by his words. "Did you think about it before? Cumming on my bike? Grinding your wet pussy on it? Do you know a few of my friends will smell it? They will know what you did, sweetheart. They will know I had your pretty cunt soaking my seat."

"Rip," you gasp his name. "Don't-" You shake your head but say nothing else. His thick, gloved-covered fingers prod at your entrance, gathering your wetness to use it as a lube.

"Don't what?" He asks, chuckling. "Don't tell the truth? You don't want to hear how my friends know your scent? Why not? It's fucking delicious. I wish I could taste you."

His words send you spiraling. Your muscles are taut, and a thin layer of sweat glistens on your heated skin as you stare outside the garage door. The street is still empty, but you can't help but imagine his friends arriving while you are still on Rip's bike, exposed and at the edge of your orgasm. The thought terrifies and excites you at the same time.

"Fuck," he grunts. The dullahan doesn't waste more time. He pushes two of his fingers inside you. The rough texture of his glove rubs over your sensitive walls, stretching you in the process.

"Fuck," you agree. "Fuckfuckfuck. More. Please, Rip."

"So eager," he hums with satisfaction. "You can't wait to cum around my fingers, huh, sweetheart?"

You don't even bother with answering. You can only moan and groan as he pushes his finger deeper, prodding and stroking your tightening walls around his digits. His thumb is on your clit, rubbing over it the whole time.

"Cum around my fingers, love," he urges you. "Soak my gloves so I can smell your pussy every time I go for a ride."

Your blood burns in your veins as your walls flutter around his fingers. The heavy coil in your stomach gets tighter and tighter with each passing second.

"Maybe I shouldn't let you cum," the male behind you teases. "Maybe I should wait for the others so they can see you stuffed with my fingers. I bet Rust would die for your tits."

Of course, they are just words. He is much more possessive than letting anyone touch you or see you, but it has the desired effect on you. You grab onto his knees as your whole body spams, and you cry out his name repeatedly.

"Cum, Y/N," he commands impatiently. "Fuck, Y/N, soak my gloves, pretty girl."

Your pussy flutters and tightens around his fingers as you fall over the edge. Your vision gets blurry as you stare into the skull's empty eye sockets in front of you on the dashboard. You know it's just your imagination, but it grins back at you. Rip taps your clit several times, making your body stretch and arch. Your voice is high and hoarse as you moan. His name rolls off your tongue like a prayer.

When you slump back against Rip's chest with his arms keeping you on the seat securely, he hums and whispers into your ears the whole time. The eerie green mist lingering around his neck is cool and soothing on your sweaty skin.

"Good girl," he says. "So fucking pretty."

"Rip." You need several seconds to find your voice. "Maybe I should get my own bike."

The dullahan laughs. "We will see, love. You need much more lessons." The thought excites you, and he chuckles again with amusement. "Real lessons."

"I would like a pink one."

"Of course, love."

[ammoniteblue]

Not a Hero, Just an Author (p.1)

kenji sato x reader

Her latest novel a flop, Y/N is starting to worry she wasn’t meant to be an author. She’s 24, lives alone and most of her college friends are either married or in more traditional jobs. she feels like she’s being left behind. That is until a charming baseball player finds his way into her life and shows Y/N that it takes more than talent to be a star.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

“-And we’re expecting light showers this afternoon with heights of 17 degrees celsius. So make sure to pack an umbrella. In other news, the Giants are about to welcome legendary Japanese baseb-“

The morning radio rambled quietly in your car, some light background music on your morning commute to work. Today you’d left too late, a delay caused by your alarm clock not going off on time, and now you were paying for it. The traffic jam was long. At this rate you were going to be late for work.

You sighed, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. If you were even five minutes late your editor was going to kill you. this was a super important meeting, one Sana had been fighting for for months. It could make or break your career, taking you from a small time author to the real thing. An international bestseller. A book adapted into a screenplay. A movie. A show. World wide recognition. A dream come true.

You could feel that dream slipping away as the traffic in front of you crawled forwards.

There was a ding. Your phone. No doubt Sana asking about where the fuck you were. A cursory glance at your watch informed you had twenty minutes to get down town.

fuck.

Was your heart racing from the three cups of coffee you chugged this morning or the stress ?

Another ding. And then another. Oh my god.

It was wrong, perhaps even evil. something you’d never admit aloud. but a tiny part of your brain wished, just for a second, that a Kaiju would drop down from the sky and rid the streets of traffic.

A great scream tore through the air. It was unlike anything you’d ever heard before. Beyond animalistic. a noise only a monster could make. Horns began to blare ahead of you and as you strained your neck to look up you realised why.

“Be careful what you wish for…” You hissed to yourself, as a towering reptilian figure appeared ahead of you.

It was easily taller than the surrounding skyscrapers. The Kaiju resembled a lizard, a knock off version of Godzilla. It’s beady yellow eyes didn’t seem to blink and as the creature took a step the ground trembled. earthquake like ripples shook the earth, sending your cup of coffee teetering over in your car.

People had begun to panic. Pedestrians turned and ran in the opposite direction, not afraid of pushing each other out of the way. In your rear view mirror you watched as an office worker knocked an old lady over in his hurry. He didn’t bother to stop.

Now you’d never call yourself a hero. You weren’t particularly brave or even outgoing. Maybe that’s why you became an author. It was a great gig and one you got to do alone. So it came to a shock to you when you found yourself getting out of your car and rushing into the crowd.

People barrelled past you, mothers clinging to their children, workers evacuating buildings. even cats and dogs had taken to running for the hills. You did your best to push through them until you were there, standing over the old lady.

She was struggling to pick herself back up, her cane discarded to the side. Quickly, you grabbed it and with your free hand helped her up to her feet.

“Thank you my dear, you shouldn’t be putting yourself in danger.” She said her voice wobbling a little.

A quick glance down informed you that she’d been hurt. blood was trickling down her left leg. she needed medical attention.

“It’s okay, we need to find you hel-“ You began to say only to be interrupted by a thundering roar.

A ray of purple light shot only metres past you both. It hit a row of cars near you, each one vaporising into nothing but debris and ash. From where you were huddled you could feel the heat radiating off of it.

The old lady let out a scared scream and as you glanced up you realised why. The Kaiju’s snakelike eyes were trained exactly on you. You blinked as your body suddenly went numb. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. To be under the glare of a creature so big, so terrifying. A primal instinct in you told you to run. to leave the old lady and turn and save yourself. But you didn’t. You stayed. Whether that was out of nobility or fear you didn’t know.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not when in mere moments you would be dead. reduced to nothing but ash on the sidewalk. No big meeting, no movie deal. You’d die a small time author no one has ever heard of. Your parents. What would they think ? their only child dead. They wouldn’t even get to say goodbye.

goodbye mum. goodbye dad. I’m sorry.

There was nothing you could do but try to shield the old woman as the Kaiju opened its mouth and roared. There was a great flash of purple and heat. heat unlike anything you’d ever felt. and then nothing.

Moments passed and you realised you weren’t dead. Neither of you were. The attack hadn’t come. But how ?

A feeble glance informed you how.

Stood only mere feet away from you, shining in silver and red was Ultraman himself. The city’s hero returned after months of absence. He was here. He was back. He saved you.

“Ultraman.” You breathed, staring in wonder up at him as he used a shield to divert the attack.

It was almost beautiful. the way the purple ray clashed with the blueish shield creating a symphony of light and colour.

The attack stopped and his shield dropped. Before the Kaiju could move, he raced forwards and tackled the beast into the ground. the impact sent tremors through the earth, one’s that almost sent you and the old lady toppling over.

“Quickly, let’s find shelter.” You slung her arm over you and used this diversion to try and drag you both to safety.

Soon after the KDF arrived, and emergency services. A paramedic saw to the old lady, Mrs Tanaka, who repeated endless apologies to you. She held your hand in hers and said:

“my dear you saved my life. i can never repay you. i am forever in your debt.”

Then as you started to cry, overwhelmed by stress and sheer relief at still being alive, she brought you into a hug. it was warm and homey. it felt like you were a kid again. like everything would be alright.

When you did finally turn up at your editors, six hours late and covered in scratches and blood, some yours and some Mrs. Tanaka’s, Sana flung herself into your arms. Your boss bitch editor, the self proclaimed Ice Queen of publishing, bawled in your arms like a homesick baby. The meeting was pushed back till you felt better and she demanded you take a few days to rest and de stress.

By the time you got home you were a shaking mess of nerves, trauma and exhaustion. if not for the blood and dirt you would’ve flung yourself on your bed and promptly passed out. But a shower was sorely needed and after the shower you realised how hungry you were. Saving an old lady’s life hadn’t left a lot of time for lunch.

There was a ramen shop below your apartment. a nice cosy spot run by a sweet old man who’d gone out of his way to actually read your book, after you’d finally told him you were an author. you’d been a regular there since you moved into your apartment a year ago. A nice warm bowl of ramen might just be the thing you needed.

In sweats and glasses you padded out of your apartment and down the stairs.

It was only nine thirty and the streets of tokyo were very much alive. People shuffled up and down the streets. groups of giggling university students, no doubt on their way to a bar or club. Oh to be young. Office workers were only just now leaving work, slumping down the streets like zombies. Their briefcases hanging limply in hand.

You shuffled into Mr Ozami’s ramen shop to be greeted with the savoury smell of veggies and meat. It was fairly quiet, a lull between the dinner crowd and night walkers. The booth in the back, your favourite spot, was free. Mr. Ozami didn’t even give you a menu, he nodded from behind the counter and went to whip up your usual.

It was nice. the pair of you exchanged barely any words but had somehow forged an unlikely friendship. right now it was just what you needed. quiet company and a warm meal.

Prompt as always, Mr. Ozami slid a bowl in front of you, popping a pair of chopsticks down. He nodded again and like that returned to his spot behind the counter. He knew you’d leave the exact amount of change for the meal after. Never a tip. you’d tried the first time you came and he’d immediately handed it back.

It was perfect. down to the last minute detail. Warm broth flowed into your stomach and slowly your nerves began to fade. an ease settled over you. tonight you’d sleep well. despite the absolutely harrowing day, you’d sleep well.

Or so you thought, until a stranger walked into the shop.

at first you didn’t notice. your whole face was almost in your bowl of ramen, too fixated on slurping noodles to realise someone else was in the shop. Maybe that’s why you were so startled to notice a guy standing by the counter, examining a menu in hand. Or maybe it was because the longer you stared the more you realised he looked familiar.

Too familiar.

And that’s when it hit you.

Tall, lean and dark haired. the man in front of you was Kenji Sato. New addition to the Giants and legendary baseball player.

Holy shit.

He looked up not giving you any time to wipe the broth off of for your face. a noodle hung limply from your mouth. for the second time today you were shocked still. The moments of eye contact were unbearable. His eyes flickered over you and you could see in his mind he was weighing you up.

Of all the days to be wearing sweats and slippers.

Thankfully he must’ve registered you as disgusting because he glanced away and back at the menu. With his eyes off you, you were free to slurp the noodle up and wipe the broth from your mouth, while trying to ignore the gentle stab in your gut.

Of course a superstar like Kenji Sato wouldn’t find you attractive. He wasn’t just a stupidly talented athlete, he was also good looking enough to be a model. in fact he did model. you’d seen the giant billboards with his face on, the flying blimps with him eating food or drinking something. not to mention in one fashion magazine there’d been this pic of him half naked with fake tattoos a-

No that was enough. stop it. today had been hard enough and you came here to relax. this person, because at the end of the day Kenji Sato was a person just like you, would not ruin that for you. You needed to sleep tonight. You needed to stay calm.

“Hey I saw you staring so i thought you might want this.” And there goes staying calm.

Kenji Sato was stood in front of your booth, looking like sin itself in his varsity jacket and sunglasses, holding out a signed baseball card to you.

For the third fucking time you froze. seriously it was becoming a problem. clearly you could only take action when it came to saving little old ladies. but anything else ?? nope not happening.

“Here then, i’ll just leave it on your table.” He half chuckled, sliding the card next to your bowl.

It wasn’t till he turned away that your brain finally started to work and your stupid mouth opened.

“O-oh uh thanks. that’s very nice of you but maybe you should save it for someone else ?” oh my god. what the hell were you saying.

Kenji paused and half turned to face you. one of his eyebrows was raised.

“It’s just,” you quickly tried to save yourself, “i’m not the biggest baseball fan and there’s probably a fan out there who’s really like it.”

nope yep you made it worse. why were you telling like the best player in japan, maybe the whole world, that you didn’t like his sport ?? Did you hit your head today and just forget ? It had to be the exhaustion talking, it had to be.

Amazingly, Kenji didn’t balk at your words. Rather the corners of his mouth twisted into an amused smile. He considered you for a moment and maybe he would’ve said something in response, if Mr. Ozami hadn’t come over with a take out box.

“Here.” He said plainly, handing the box to Kenji.

Kenji took it with a thank you, maybe a little perplexed at Mr. Ozami’s blunt way of speaking. he had been in the states almost his whole life. They probably did things differently over there.

“So um yeah…here you go ?” you held the card out to him, trying not to blush in embarrassment at your awkwardness.

everything that had come out of your mouth since he walked in felt stupid. it was like you were a completely different person. Why were you acting like this ?

Kenji glanced between you and the card. His amused smile never faded.

“You know what,” he grinned, “keep it. might just make a baseball fan out of you yet.”

He gave you one last look and it took everything in you to not turn bright red under his gaze, before turning and walking out of the shop.

It wasn’t till many minutes later that you glanced away from the doorway where he’d disappeared through. The card in your hands was shiny, a small laminated rectangle.

There he was, bat in hand, dark eyes shining, a self assured smile on his face. at the bottom was his signature scribbled in dark ink.

you flipped it over, expecting to find nothing but a blank white space. what you saw sent your heart into a cacophony of thumps. the blush you’d been holding back spilled over. every part of you felt red and hot and horribly unnerved.

scrawled across it in lazy handwriting were the digits:

+81 3 1234-5678

Kenji Sato’s phone number…..

[zweiginator]

stepbro!patrick pls?🙏🙏🙏

like im imagining that patrick is a few years older than you; he never went to college but you go to a big university a few hours away. his dad and your mom moved quickly, so he has never met you. all he knows is your name, how old you are, and that you're in school. didn't give a fuck to remember what you're studying.

school is out for the summer and patrick's dad took your mom on a trip. you don't have your car at school, so they tell patrick he needs to drive to pick you up. he's livid; the school is three hours away and they insisted that he get there before noon.

groggy and in baggy sweatpants and an old ratty t-shirt, he drives to get you. your mom gave him your number, so he texts you.

hey, I'm here. black jeep out front. u need help moving stuff?

you're standing by the entrance. you have about 4 suitcases full of clothes, shoes, and knickknacks.

you see his jeep, but the windows are tinted. you wave. you're wearing a cropped white tank top, no bra. little linen shorts and tennis shoes with cute frilly socks.

"jesus christ-" he tilts his head back. why does his fucking dad have to test him like this. he's just like his dad--hotheaded, thinks with his dick. he realizes he's taking too long so he gets out of the car, opens his trunk.

you just blink, holding the handles of your suitcases. his hair has pretty little curls, and the muscles in his back ripple as he easily picks up your heavy suitcases that you ran out of breath trying to roll down the fucking stairs.

you snap out of it. sure, he's objectively attractive. so are a lot of guys. but this one is off limits. clearly.

that makes it harder.

the car ride is awkward. patrick never turns the music above the low volume he turned it to when you got into the car. the lack of conversation lingers, adding tension. you play with your cuticles; patrick taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

"how was this semester?" he asks.

you shrug. "it was okay, got good grades. just one more year."

patrick tries not to keep noticing your perky nipples showing through your tank top. it's hard. he is hard.

you tell him you need to pee.

"sorry, i drank a ton of water before you picked me up."

"no worries, i need to go too."

patrick parks. he goes quickly and waits for you as he pumps gas. when you walk out, a man in his thirties whistles at you. says some nasty comment about your ass.

patrick yells at him.

"what the fuck did you just say?" he spits in his face. tells him to fuck off. "fucking creep."

the whole ride home, you're clenching your thighs together, soaking wet from how he stood up for you.

[misseviehyde]

CONFISCATED - PART 2

Beth cursed as the clutch on her car made another unpleasant grinding sound and the automobile leapt forward a few inches. Yanking the gear stick hard, she managed to regain control and finally pulled off into the traffic at a reasonable crusing speed.

This car was a total piece of shit, but since finalising the divorce with Lawrence she'd been struggling financially and the last thing she could afford right now was a new vehicle.

Lawrence and her had split up amiably enough and he always paid his alimony on time, but Beth knew they were both struggling to manage. Bella was at a difficult age and their separation had affected her most of all. She seemed to think money, popularity and status were all that mattered and she was addicted to her mobile phone.

Beth was still hopeful that Bella would mature and realise there was more to being a woman than how you looked and what you could get out of men. She herself despised gold-digging bimbo's and was uncomfortable when she had found Bella looking at breast enhancement websites.

Bella had inherited Beth's flat chest and she seemed determined to find a way to cheat nature. She'd already told her Mom she was determined to get implants as soon as she was able - although she'd gone suspiciously quiet about it recently, almost as if she'd found some other way to get what she wanted.

Beth just wished her daughter could be happy the way she was. She didn't want her daughter becoming a spoiled gold-digging, fashion obssessed bitch.

A ripple suddenly seemed to pass through the air. A faint vibration that made her shiver and the hairs rise slightly on her arms. Beth's mobile phone on the passenger seat suddenly buzzed and the screen lit up.

CONNECTED TO BRAT APP. DOWNLOADING SOFTWARE.

Beth didn't look at her phone, she assumed it was just a message and she would read it later.

BRAT APP INSTALLED. CONNECTED TO ACCOUNT LOREN. UPDATING... UPDATING... UPDATING...

Beth's phone began to throb as an upload bar began to rise on the screen.

And on the steering wheel her nails began to lengthen into slutty acrylic claws...

***

"Mmmmh, OMG I'm like sooo fucking hot," giggled Loren as she admired her slutty reflection in the mirror. Moments had passed since she had pushed the button on Bella's mobile phone and the electrifying transformation had taken hold. She was still tingling with the orgasmic pleasure of becoming such a bitch. She felt fucking yummy.

Loren could taste sexy pink lipgloss on her lips, she could smell girly bodyspray rising from her clothes and she could feel her long blonde hair tickling her neck and shoulders. Her stupid cock was gone, replaced by a superior pussy. Her large perfect breasts hung heavy and pleasingly obvious on her chest. Her ass was perfect and her long sexy legs went on for miles.

And it wasn't just the physical changes. It felt like her head had been dumped in a bucket of water. The rush of the change had disorientated her and reset her mind. She was thinking in terms of female pronouns, she could only think of herself as Loren now.

She still remembered that a moment ago she'd been Lawrence, Bella's Dad - but now that seemed almost like a crazy memory belonging to a different person. This new persona that Brat App had created had taken control. The man she had been was gone.

Or was he?

As Loren examined herself, she felt some aspects of her old personality resurface and fight back. It isn't easy to completely alter someone and as enticing as this new body and mind was, some element of Lawrence was fighting back.

Looking down at Bella's mobile phone... NO... Loren's mobile phone now, Loren saw that the Brat App was open. There was a menu open.

REFUND PERIOD - 24 HRS. CLICK HERE FOR A FULL REFUND AND REVERSAL OF ALL CHANGES. AFTER 24 HOURS YOUR REFUND IS NULL AND VOID, ALL CHANGES BECOME PERMANENT.

Loren's finger hovered over the button. So... she COULD go back to being Lawrence. She could end this with a single click and reverse all the changes.

But then again she had 24 hours. So why not use them?

Loren knew she'd regret it for the rest of her life if she didn't take advantage of this new body. She felt new hungers, new desires. She was a teenage bitch now and she wanted to know how that felt. She closed the menu. She definitely wasn't ready to end this yet.

Thoughts of wearing slutty clothes, manipulating and controlling boys, bullying other people they began to run through her evil new mind. The Lawrence part of her was uncomfortable at these wicked thoughts, but he was currently too weak to fight as Loren took control.

She picked up her phone. She needed some porn or something. She was horny. She stopped as she saw there was another menu running in the app, she looked at it curiously.

MAKING REALITY ADJUSTMENTS TO SUIT UPGRADED LIFE. ADJUSTING FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS. BITCHY RICH MOM PROGRAM RUNNING.

Loren looked at the app nonplussed. What the fuck did that mean? Was someone else being transformed? She wondered who and a slight tingle of excitement thrilled through her that another person was being corrupted in order to make her life better. It felt good to be the centre of attention.

The thought made her tingle and she brought her hand down to her pussy. Mmmmh oh yeah...

She opened the app and her lips twisted into a smile as she saw a name. Beth.

Loren saw that there was now an avatar of Beth on the screen. Upgrades were already happening, but she had the power to adjust things to.

She began to finger her tight pussy as she began to fuck up Beth...

***

Beth groaned and her car swerved as a sudden pulse of pleasure shot through her body. "Wh... what the fuckkkk?" she hissed, her body tingling pleasurably and her head spinning.

She looked down.

Her hands seemed different somehow. The nails long and slutty, the fingers dripping in expensive rings. Her usually pale skin seemed tanned and smooth. No... wait, this is what her hands always looked like. She loved a sexy, expensive manicure.

The car beneath her was changing. The seat became expensive leather, the interior more sumptious. The gear box became automatic and Beth leaned back and purred with satisfaction.

On the seat the phone throbbed and the upgrade bar rose higher.

She loved driving this Mercedes... just like she enjoyed all expensive things. Money, wealth and power were all that mattered. It was a lesson she was teaching her daughter Loren, oh and possibly that other wretched daughter of hers Bella.

No... wait... who the fuck was Loren? Bella was her only daughter? No...Bella was the daughter she hated and wish she'd never had.

Beth groaned as conflicting memories and feelings throbbed through her mind. Reality bent and buckled as the Brat App adjusted her to suit it's new narrative. Loren needed a Mommy. A rich, spoiled, mean bitchy Mom. Bella was no longer important. She was being relegated to the unpopular daughter.

In this new reality, Beth was an evil gold digger who only cared about money and status. She doted on her daughter Loren and bullied her othet daughter Bella relentlessly.

Beth moaned in pleasure and her seat belt twanged as her tits began to inflate.

Beth's chest began to tingle. She had no idea that across town Loren was pushing the button for bigger and bigger implants. She wanted her Mommy to be absolutely massive.

"Fuck yessss!" moaned Beth as her once flat chest blossomed out and two massive silicone milkers stretched and grew out. Her clothing transformed to accommodate her new bust as her lips filled with collagen and her hair became silkier.

"I looooove my big tits," she hissed.

Beth remembered now - her massive fucking boobs made her SO much better than other women. She was better than them in every way.

When Lawrence had died, the money from the insurance had paid for these tits. Soon after she'd married a millionaire, a rich black man named Logan. Now she was super happy with him. He was successful and he spoiled her rotten.

Beth... no... that wasn't her name. Bethany... she went by Bethany... recalled all the cruel and evil things she had done to get ahead. She loved being a bitch and she'd taught her daughter Loren everything she knew.

Latex, big tits, sex appeal - it was all a woman needed. She loved being a cruel fuckdoll who took everything she wanted.

Her silver Mercedes Benz purred beneath her hands... her designer dress hugged her body. She effortlessly cut through the traffic not caring about speeding. The police were in her husbands pocket as was half the city.

She owned this town.

Driving through the electric gates of a private mansion, Bethany pulled up and swapped seats with the Butler. He would park the car in the underground garage for her.

Striding into the house, her panties wet at the thought of how Logan would fuck her later she glanced around. "Where is Loren?"

"Your daughter is in her room Madame," whimpered a pathetic maid. Bethany made a mental note to have her punished later.

"Where is my husband?"

"By the pool Madame."

Bethany smiled and adjusted her massive tits within the tight latex dress she was wearing. "I will go see him first then..."

***

Loren moaned... her pussy exploding as she squirted again.

"Ohhhhh fuckkkkk."

Making Beth into an evil latex bitch was so wrong. Turning her against their own daughter was perverted. Loren loved it.

Doesn't it feel good to live only for pleasure and being a bitch?

Loren slid her three fingers back into her tight pussy and began to moan again.

"Noooo this is wrong, this is fucked up," she hissed - but doing nothing to stop. "I shouldn't be doing this."

You love it. You are Loren now and you are all that matters.

Loren glanced down at the Brat App. She still had plenty of time left before she had to activate any refund. She needed to experience more... she needed to learn more about her life as a teenage bitch.

The house had changed around her to a mansion and she now had a bitchy Mom. Going to her window she looked down at the pool where her Mom was riding her step-dad like a pornstar.

It was fucking hot.

Loren giggled and smirked. Being an evil little bitch suited her. She still had so much to find out before deciding if she should go back to being Lawrence.

And most important of all - she had a sister to take care of. Loren squirted again... then wiping her sticky pussy clean, she walked to the wardrobe to get dressed.

It was time to find more out about being a bitch and have a little heart to heart with her sister.

End of Part 2

[rivetingrosie4]

Duet

(Part 1/2)

RDR2 | Arthur Morgan x Female Reader | Rating: Explicit | tumblr masterlist | Ao3

Summary: Arthur takes you out for a much-needed, fancy date. Though you both thoroughly enjoy the whole evening, you’re both eager to get home and make love. When you finally arrive home, Arthur invites you to take a steamy shower with him.

Tags: modern au, post gang, romantic angst, romantic smut, loving marriage, hot date, parenthood, eventual shower sex

Chapter word count: 6,097

𑁦𐂂𑁦

This work is partially inspired by the following song lyrics. It’s been my sincere goal to capture both the spirit of the lyrics and the feel of the song's music in this work. Please consider giving this beautiful song a listen at the link below.

-Penny and Sparrow, “Duet”

It’s a starless night in the city. Arthur pulls the steering wheel to the right, and the city’s bright lights, stark in their atmospheric places, reflect in a swirling mirage off the black hood of his pickup.

There you are beside him, your still form a steady breath of soundness amidst the rushing streams of blurred people along each side of the vehicle.

He sits back in his seat and breathes it in deeply—your presence. He’s always hated coming to the city. Where the buildings grow taller and tighter together. Where the voice of the stars is hushed to muted, then silenced by the blaring insistence of humanity’s crush. Where strangers are forced into each other’s spaces. But with you, he feels none of it. Feels only that breath of soundness that floods and fills the inside of the truck cabin, here and now. That follows the two of you wherever you go.

So, what was once a loathsome chore to be avoided is a pleasure, with you. And he’d been eager to carry it out.

It had been long past due anyway. He can hardly remember the last time the two of you had gone out for a date. Which is a sin in itself. It must’ve been before the baby. Had to have been after the private little wedding. Too long ago, either way. He’s always wanted to keep the feelings of excitement and specialness alive anyway, to repel any atrophy that could creep into your relationship over time if either of you failed to notice. To make you know that he hasn’t tired of you. Never could. And enough has happened since then. So he’d made a point to finally take you out, and to make it a thing both easy and sure. Not to let it slip from the calendar. To assure you the baby would be taken care of, that everything would be.

He’d even enjoyed the easy familiarity of getting ready in the same rooms. The sounds and smells of your preparation. Your heady, sensuous perfume that so easily undid him like the tail of an old, ragged 3-ply strand of yarn. The sight of you leaning toward the mirror to clasp the sparkling black pearl and diamond cluster earrings that he’d gifted to you moons ago to your lobes before turning to him.

God, had you shown out. A tiny slip of a number. Black silk that drapes along your form like shimmering river water, its bias cut showing your every bodily curve and setting his nerves aflame. The straps that display your dogwood petal-soft skin and highlight the elegant outlines of your shoulders, straps that are sure to be slid away when he gets you home and secreted away, alone in the quiet. He’s only too eager help them off and to see the gown fall in one moment to the floor around your feet, transformed to nothing more than a heap of rippling satin without you to fill it.

It was something—not a wonder to him, but something—that you could still so easily make him so crazy. Inside, like a wild dog with his tongue hanging from his head. How you knew just what to do, to make him so. And did it with quiet simplicity.

Because the reality is he knows you. He knows more about you than he knows about anyone, things he couldn’t put into words if he tried, maybe even knows you better than yourself. And one thing he knows is how deeply, how painfully difficult it’s always been for you to let anyone see your skin and body. Knows the reasons, what you’ve lived through, both in yourself and from others. Knows the pressure put on you by the world and by yourself to be some form of perfection. Knows how you like to cover up with covert layers, with sleeves and baggy, flowing frills.

But without asking if he’d like it, without even a single word, you’d done it. Worn a dress this evening that makes his own knees and body turn to mountain lake melt. Shown off your scars and stretch marks and rolls. Put your deep trust in him and unyielding love for him on bright neon display, in a way only he could know.

Christ alive, the mere thought of your trust swells his heart full of love and sends him wild with pulsating desire and need. And there won’t be anything to keep him from you tonight.

Silent in your seat beside him, you watch the show of neon lights on the hood of the pickup as it rolls down the city streets.

It had gladdened you heartily when Arthur had invited you out on a date of his own volition, unprompted. You’d gotten to a place where such things weren’t remotely on your radar anymore. And the invitation alone had quickened things inside you, like the sparked flicker of an incipient flame. You’d smiled and agreed, and he’d smiled, and the moment had been like widened lungs amidst the ruddy, laborious muss of daily life.

And you’d so wanted to be good for him. In your own mind, had wanted to be something less messily human and more put together. To be something with its unsightly bits tucked away, something easily and naturally suave and gracefully sexy. Wanted to remind him that you still cherish him so deeply and still so dearly long to be and feel cherished by him, though behind your fears, you always already know you are.

But you’d seen a black silken slip dress in the back of your closet with the tag still on it. And you didn’t have any other reason to wear such a garment than for an imaginary sexy date, by which time you would have magically become a different person—one without gnarled scars on the backs of your shoulders left by body acne in years passed, or flab hanging from under your arms, or silvery stretch marks from gaining weight and losing it and gaining it and losing it again, or rolls of fat above your pubic bone.

You’d pulled it from the rack and run the pads of your fingers over its shine, knowing it would never see the light of day—or dark of night—if not now. Hoping that Arthur could still feel something physical for you in it. Finding in yourself ample trust in him, that even if he didn’t, he’d never, ever hurt you, and would only behave in a way to make you feel special.

So you’d tried it on and decided to leap.

And from the master bathroom, you’d stolen peeks to watch Arthur dress in the connected master bedroom. With his hair already pomaded and already dressed in his black slacks and white ribbed undershirt, he’d slid his arm into the sleeve of his crisp white button down, then the other arm, then had stood before the full-length cheval mirror and had tugged and straightened the collar before looking down and slipping each button into its hole, working upwards. Then he’d tucked his shirt neatly into his slacks and had snaked his black leather belt through the loops, finally buckling it closed with a faint jingle. Each movement, each sound, had unraveled you from warp and weft to mere fibers.

You’d told yourself you needed all this intel. Because you’d also seen when he’d turned away and flipped his wrist to unbutton each cuff, rolled his sleeves to the elbows, and checked his antique 1899 pocket watch before slipping it into his pocket. And then you’d heard the low, deep clacks of his brightly shining black dress shoes against the hardwood floor, and you’d seen the faintly pronounced ripple of a few muscles in his back through the white fabric and the way it was stretched by his broad shoulders, hard arms, and tapered waist when he moved. And you’d known you would be the one to undo each button and remove each article when you both returned home tonight.

Though after years, you know well the order of all the garments and undergarments he wears, as he knows yours.

And when you’d turned towards each other, him entering the bathroom to dab on cologne, you entering the bedroom to slip on your shoes, the expression on his face had been a memory you will cling to and wear like a jewel until the reaper calls to fetch you. It had turned your spine and knees to oil and had heated your chest and face as if with steam.

He wanted you. Good God, did he want you. One fractioned moment of a glimpse had been all it’d taken. And it had silently stolen your breath. He’d said something like how stunningly beautiful you are, though you can’t recall the exact words. Because his eyes and face had said much more, and you hadn’t wanted to miss it. Nor had you missed when he’d fought to softly smile and not appear so ready to have you.

How deeply and fully you’d wanted him too, just the same. Like a guttural pull to his physical form in your belly, in your throat. Its inexorable urgency would only prove to continue to snowball steadily throughout the night.

Then you’d toed past each other, and he’d donned the bay rum cologne that always makes you weak and wet and delivers you into his arms, until you’re finally arching your back.

Sometimes, in your life now, a few moments catch you. Snare you. And you think. Of all the things you’ve been over the course of your life thus far, at turns. Young and stupid; an awkward whelp; a reckless thief; then a sly con; and, briefly, a friend among friends. A wife, and now a mother as well. But alone was the thing you had been for most of your life. Much more alone than the average person, for longer, and alone in every way that mattered.

Then Arthur had come and made you a woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body. A woman who has carried a part of him inside you. Things that had been so other—so distantly removed from what you were and had always, always been—that you’d never been able to conceive of such an existence or its experience. To be one—to actually be one. Now you are one. A woman that a man wants. A woman who knows a man’s body.

Then Arthur had come and taught you things about life and love you couldn’t possibly have ever known on your own. Things no one could have ever told you. That love could have such a brutally frightening quality and texture to it—what if the one you loved came to harm? That to be united with someone meant risking yourself—that if he or she died, part of you would decay with them. That love isn’t always something one must do, as is often with blood. That love could be just as strong a tie or stronger when one chooses to love. That the absence of shared blood dulls and fades nothing. That two may share one heart, and therein is the strongest of bloods. That the decision of love itself is not merely a flippant fancy, but a fixed rock of reality. Then Arthur had come and given it all to you.

Who would have ever thought? Who could have? Certainly not you.

The drive into the city and to the restaurant had been punctuated with quiet coos to each other for directions through the tight streets. He’d opened every door for you, from the car to the inside of the restaurant. Had rested his large, calloused outlaw-turned-rancher hand very gently on the bared, dimpled skin of your lower back, to show you through each of the doors.

Holy God, did it switch every nerve inside you to electric, flipped the fluttery animals inside your chest into a swarming frenzy. The considerate gestures had put you into the pocket of his palm like warmed, dripping honey. But just as moving for you, it also plainly told the whole wide world: you were his.

Once inside the ritzy restaurant he’d chosen, he’d even pulled your chair out for you. Your shared supper had featured smiles and genuine, familiar laughter over the white linen tablecloth. And even that had been his gift to you, that you’d felt in your body. Laughter’s soothing, comforting effects flooding and lulling you as the tightness of stress left you. And the thought had occurred to you—how grateful you are for a spouse who can make you laugh, who wants to, and whose ability to do so has never faded with time. He’s never even seemed to shy away from sharing in moments of laughter, not when it comes to you.

It was his marked attention that—for reasons you couldn’t quite explain—had brought you close to tears behind your blithe smile. He’d hardly ever taken his eyes off of you. It was truly like you were the only woman in the room. And rather than it being a possessiveness that had made that so special for you, it had been the fact that he didn’t need to see any other woman. That you were the only one who did anything for him. That he was spoken for. Then there was the fact that if anyone had gawked and ogled him or flirted with him, you could glory in the simple truth that a man with his heart and his body would be going home with you tonight. No one else.

But more than any of that, his generously given attention had filled and satiated your soul. Things you never—or hardly ever—received from any other human: sincerely absorbed and thoughtful conversation, the clearly apparent desires to hear your inner life and thoughts and to smile and laugh with you. The fulfilled longing to just be with you. It welled inside you, because it was everything you craved from him and everything you wanted to give him as well.

You’d been completely relaxed and at ease all through your date. Every time you’d released a rested breath, you’d noticed some lovely new thing about your surroundings. Dimly glowing light from the scrolling sconces and the faint clinks of several types of silver cutlery on fine china. Classical piano, violin, and bass played live in the corner and the brush of luscious velvet on your skin from the seat back. A divine yet light meal of delicately crafted scallops and the finest fresh oysters. You’d reveled in the briefest sensation of the oyster filling your throat and slipping down, each time you’d swallowed one.

For dessert, chocolate ganache and a mound of macerated strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries, tossed with mint and Grand Marnier, topped with scratch-made whipped cream, and dusted with fine honeycomb sugar. Sparse sips of bourbon barrel-aged Cabernet for him, and for you, a glass each of Chardonnay and later ruby port, from stemmed glasses. Undivided attention and meeting each other’s eyes with a wellspring of affection.

It had been just what your soul had needed, and he’d known it.

Arthur slows to a stop at a red light, inwardly groaning at the obstacle drawing out your journey home. He quietly sighs through his nostrils and taps his thumb against the wheel. He glances to you at his right side, and you exchange sincere smiles.

Facing forward again, he glances down at his left ring finger. A simple ring—a rounded silver band inset by a much narrower black one—rests upon it.

In a blink, he’s taken back to those early days, before the whelming thrum of daily life, before the visceral clutch of those terrifying days in the hospital, before Grace, before you’d even become pregnant.

How he’d loved you, in a raring, aflutter, dithery way; in a way that engulfed himself sweepingly, wolfishly; in the natural way, it often seems, of new love. Though he’d kept himself tempered and even, until he’d known with surety you’d felt the same.

Then had come the quiet little ceremony, and you’d spent over a year in honeymoon bliss. Trying all the while to become pregnant, knowing you only had so much time. Then you had. And effervescent couldn’t begin to describe the two of you. Your very body, your miraculous and wondrous body, had caressed and carried all those other dreams Arthur hadn’t been fully aware that he’d still had.

Then Grace had come. A month and a half early, and earthshakingly beautiful. But her lungs had wanted to fail her, when she’d only just had a chance to greet and grace the world with herself. And in one swoop, that same beautiful new world had threatened to shatter and crumble in on itself. The blistering maelstrom of vicissitudes had nearly spun his head off his shoulders. At the time, he could only imagine all that you were going through.

Together you’d watched her every ragged breath, every labored rise of her tiny, ruddy chest, from morning until night, in days that blended and stretched to insanity. Had been forced to remain on the other side of a glass cocoon that smacked too familiarly of a coffin to him. A tiny coffin.

It had nearly killed him, your loving protector, to have to watch you go through such intense heartache and not be able to do a single thing to inoculate you against it. To watch his new infant daughter struggle to hold onto life, when he could do nothing. It had been a sort of pain concocted especially for him.

Still, the two of you had clung to each other for strength.

But hadn’t you been the bearer of all the strength? Because when turmoil and uncertainty had crushed and clamped in on him, the very worst of his hideous fears had come pouring out of him. Instead of stalwartness and fortitude, he’d proven a source of splitting chaos and weakness. After a life with some seasons of swindling and criminality, spans of cool violence and masked cavalierness towards tenderness and endearment, it had been a tiny, helpless babe that had shredded him and turned him inside out. Coming apart at the seams; bloodying his knuckles with the trunk of an oak outside the hospital; in the culmination of his inner storm, whispering insidious, nonsensical fears through the pale, eerie, hospital-room gloam that the recompense for his life was to blame and that you’d be better off without him.

With seeming great effort and a quietly tremulous voice, you’d told him, without turning, that he was the only thing keeping either of the two of you alive. That such thinking was preposterous. And that you both loved and needed him now. And forever.

Of course, his special brand of fear and self-loathing had turned out to be the very last goddamn thing you’d needed to hear, and once he’d remembered your own anxieties and insecurities, he’d been flooded with remorse.

When he’d been coming apart, you’d been holding together. When he’d left his family to beat against the tree, you’d been the one to remain at Grace’s side. And when he’d whispered the lies his mind had convinced him of, you’d quietly, though quaveringly, spoken the truth aloud to right him.

It was you who was the strong one. You who had borne the immense weight of his fears. You.

And you’d continued to prove it when the two of you had finally been able to take Grace home. She’d been so frail. So helpless. But together—just as you had been to see her struggle—the two of you had been witness to the unfathomable mystery of the simultaneous fragility and resiliency of…life. Because she’d strengthened and flourished and breathed.

He recalls somewhere in the days afterward, when you’d sought to bathe her in the tub on your own, without the aid of a plastic doodad. You’d hastily offered promises he hadn’t asked for: that you’d be sure to keep alert and wouldn’t let her drift below the water’s surface.

It had been then that he’d noticed the faint, receding shadows beneath your eyes. He’d had to ask himself if he could remember whether they’d previously been darker than they were in that moment, and whether they were beginning to brighten. Either way, he’d realized the toll the ordeal had taken on you, that you’d never voluntarily alluded to—the fullness of which he’d somehow missed, having been caught in what he deems his own silly, self-focused storm.

In memory, he can still see you from his secreted place behind the threshold, seated nude in the tub with the naked babe on your arm, skin to skin. Can still make out the tinkle of the water droplets falling from your fingertips onto her tender crown and the soft babbling of Grace’s healthy coos. Can still hear your quiet, broken plea—

“Wouldn’t you like to stay with Mama, baby? Won’t you stay? Stay with me? Please-” you’d whispered, and had sniffled when you’d wept, “Stay.”

It had put his heart and soul through a sieve. Thoroughly riven, he’d silently leaned his crumpled face into the wall, resting his forehead and eye socket against the doorjamb. He had reached up and felt wetness upon his cheek.

It had been you who had been the strong one.

He remembered being forced to ponder: how close had he come? Had he been a cobweb’s thread away from losing Grace? From losing you? He’d never know. Didn’t want to. And in those moments, shadowed in the bedroom, he’d been thrust into the experience of how it could’ve been: what would he do? How when, in search of an answer, his head had poked through a firmamental membrane to find the black mist of—nothingness.

Willing himself back to the present moment just in time, he swallows thickly, and gives attention again to the onyx light of evening.

Such shoulders, he thinks, envisioning that elegant outline of your neck exposed by your black silken gown without needing to turn and look at you. They’ve surely borne more than just those thin straps.

You watch placidly as Arthur takes the truck to the left, and the traffic ebbs and flows as you roll through the night.

Somehow, it’s enjoyable to simply sit here with him. His passenger seat princess, sharing in the sweet, silent glances and smiles. Needing no words to know that he’s on pins and needles to get home and make love to you. And ruminating in the knowledge that you feel exactly the same way.

It had taken no convincing for you to agree when he’d invited you out, though he’d been ready anyway with explanations of the provisions he’d planned, having foreseen your thought for Grace. He’d spoken them before you’d even fully opened your mouth to form the question. And you’d had to smile, because Arthur didn’t normally tip his hand to show—well, much of anything; but of all things, certainly not eagerness.

Your current train of thought flits to Grace, and though you know you should try to remain in the present with him, you can’t help but wonder if she’s cooing and smiling, enjoying time on her belly or struggling with it, or maybe drifting off to well-fed sleep.

Four months ago, you’d been so caged with guttural worry, you hadn’t been in a position to imagine time away from her for a romantic evening. Four months ago, when you’d pushed her from your body too early, and her little lungs betrayed her.

An unmooring. That was what it had felt like. Snagged and suspended in a strange, amorphous abysm with no corners, no boundaries. Hovering somewhere in life that looked on fate.

You’d tried to be steady for her. Remained there, in her room, beside her glass case. With your body still wracked by the huge task of childbirth, you’d clawed to hang on by a wisped fiber. You’d held yourself and slightly swayed by the waist at times, to cope. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t ready for her to become nothing more than a lifeless shell. Weren’t ready to see these newly sprung fears become reality. Weren’t ready.

Arthur had held you up. He’d been the only witness to the crystalline dew of your tears in the early hours as they teetered and finally rolled down your skin. Had been there every moment of every morning, every afternoon, evening, and early dawn. Right at both your sides.

When your weak, poisonous mind had told you all the worst—that you were to blame, that your despicable body had failed her when she’d needed you most—he’d held you and poured into your ears the antidote: that all of it was beyond your control, that your amazing body had been a loving home to her, and that both he and Grace loved you.

And when you’d finally required sleep, he’d forced himself to keep awake. And you’d discovered him in the same place when you’d blinked awake. But that was when you’d noticed the stark rim of red all the way around his eyes, from more than just fatigue. And he’d quietly told you he needed to step outside.

When he’d returned, he’d looked worse than when he’d left. As you’d been watching Grace sleep, he’d walked up, arms hanging haggardly at his sides, and uttered the poison in his own mind with a sheer, ragged breath.

Hearing it had split a rift in your heart, and you’d fought not to let it feed the fear wanting to grow inside you. For so long you’d fought your own anxieties that you weren’t enough to keep Arthur from leaving you. He couldn’t have known that during those days and nights of worrying for Grace, this fear of yours had been exacerbated and magnified by thoughts you couldn’t seem to keep at bay: what you’d heard once somewhere, that even the most loving, devoted couples often part after the death of a beloved child. Surely, for him to leave you after such a loss would be too selfish, too cruel. But he had been cruel. Hadn’t he? He had, to others. Why not you? It would only be a different incarnation of cruelty, for him to leave you. Was it enough that he’d changed, that you’d seen it in him, that he loved you?

Roiling and scattered and warring against fears that seemed to leap to others like lily pads, you’d tried to work it all out inside, without a word across your tongue. You’d even inwardly berated yourself for such thoughts over your relationship with Arthur, while Grace was right there, fighting for life. But you couldn’t help it. You loved them both. So it was that the fear had grown to monstrous inside you. And to hear him speak nourishment to that beast… But he couldn’t have known. And in that moment, you’d had to consciously choose to use all your might to force yourself to believe it was only his extreme fatigue and worry talking.

But after you’d gently spoken the fruits of that internal fight aloud to him, you’d known he would be reminded of the history of your personal anxieties, like a clap of thunder to the back of his head.

You’d caught sight of his weary back hunching as he succumbed to all of it—the truth, the memories, the remorse, the renewed constancy, the overwhelming drain.

As he’d resumed his place at your side, you’d quickly fallen to sleep again, without having realized it. And when you’d awoke that time, you’d found his body had given out. Slumped back in his padded chair, head hanging to the side and mouth open, the fabric of his shirt rumpled to a wad. The journal left open and hanging haphazardly on his lap, his pencil limp in the pocket of his curled hand upon the armrest.

It was only then that you’d noticed the bloody damage to his knuckles, what looked like tiny fragments of tree bark left in his wounds. He hadn’t merely pounded a tree; he had hit it and dragged his fist through the jagged, toothy bark.

You’d called a nurse into the room and asked her to fetch you a first aid kit, planning to tend to him yourself. While she was gone, your eyes returned to the journal.

Since you’d been together, he’d voluntarily made it your shared journal, a place only the two of you could go. A haven. Nevertheless, since it’d been his custom for so many years beforehand, he always seemed to use it a little more than you did. There he was again, retreating to that sacred, secret, communal place.

You took the journal from its sliding perch on his thigh and saw the messy sketches of Grace in her cocoon, of you in your sleep. And you read in his beautifully old-fashioned hand, though it now bore a touch of needling worry to its scrawl, .

Grace Ada Morgan~

For a moment, I forgot. It was this insanity gettin’ into my head. I’m so exhausted, sweet babygirl. I forgot that leavin’ doesn’t ever fix anything. Please forgive me. I promise I didn’t forget that your mother and you are everything to me. Just forgot the right way to show it. Forgot that you both need me too. But I’m not goin’ anywhere. I swear it. I ain’t ever leavin’ you. Either of you. So please, don’t ask me to go into the ground. .

It had broken loose something inside you, and you had wept until, when you’d started cleaning his wounds with soapy water, he’d begun to wake. You’d quickly brushed your tears away, tried to smile, and kissed him, though you’d known he couldn’t miss the puffy redness of your eyes and nose.

Jointly, the two of you had renewed your commitment to never let Grace go without the knowledge of your love. You’d both affirmed the reality that you already had been loving her and would continue to love her through every moment of her life, short or long, including the moments of pain or difficulty.

Arthur had been your strength, even when he hadn’t realized it. He’d unwittingly been the catalyst to processing things you’d needed to, and had spoken aloud things you’d desperately required to hear. And before then, his broad back had carried the cumulative load of the fraught situation, his own fears, and your anxieties. He’d been much stronger than he’d known.

Having left city borders several minutes ago, the black truck’s headlights slice through the indigo night as Arthur begins the pickup’s slow ascent to your mountain home. He’s given the familiar sights of stately pines and dancing moths and a craggy dirt path. Ensigns of the home he’s made with you.

He can’t keep his mind from ambling again to all the times he’s been alone in these woods with you. Night fishing, skinny dipping. How often, even in the midst of such pleasures, his doubts and fears would surface. He would warn you of them, that to be with him would only bring you some sort of pain or cause you irreparable harm.

You’d always reply something to the contrary; different variations, but always the same meaning. That he couldn’t know that. That you loved him. And that to be without him would do you a deep pain you were certain of.

He pulls onto the winding road hidden by thick foliage that begins your shared property and leads to the homestead. Further down, he stops at the metal gate, hops out to open it, drives the truck through, exits again to close it behind you, and continues up the road.

Once he’s parked at the house, you’re happy to let Arthur hurry around to your truck door and open it for you one last time.

Out of habit, you try to hide the roll of your belly with your forearm as he leads you from your seat. You’ve never felt the urge to do so more strongly than you feel it now, after carrying your baby and acquiring even more flab and stretch marks than you’d had before. But it occurs to you that he’s told you numerous times there isn’t any need for such things. That he loves you and craves your body, just exactly the way you are.

Internally, your mind has always warred to believe that it isn’t too good to be true, that such spoken words are not only pitying sentiments and niceties. You’ve told him multiple times, even early on, that he deserved better, could easily get better, and that you harbored fears he would realize it all too soon for your heart. Fears that he would leave you all together, throwing you away like you just might deserve.

But he’s sworn himself to you, in heart and in body, over and over again. It’s as if you are shattered potsherds, scattered upon the floor, unable. Presumed by yourself to be worthless. He gathers you—every discarded splinter—dressing and filling the cracks of you with his own love, not hiding your history but honoring it. And binding you, until you’re stronger than before.

And in this way, he joins himself to you.

Have you done enough of the same for him? You think on it all through entering the empty house, hardly noticing the moon’s glimmering cast that strikes his wedding band as he unlocks the door before you, hardly hearing him toss his keys on the counter. You think on it as you both slip from your shoes and quietly pad into the bedroom, and you’re finally cognizant of your surroundings. You think on it as you turn and watch him walk into the room.

What his love and loving him felt like, at the beginning.

Like the sharp tip of a jagged pane of glass thrust up into your belly, channeling through your ribcage, pausing when it reaches your heart, and slicing slowly with a surgeon’s motion into the organ. Never had anyone but you seen the inside. Fear wouldn’t have captured what you’d felt. Because there would be no earth that could withstand the force of your knees when they hit, if when he saw the inside he tossed it aside, and turned away to depart.

But when he had seen, the moment of his seeing had imprinted you with the inside of his own splayed heart—a thing more primal than a name—on the inner walls of the atriums and ventricles, on the abdominal aorta, on the pulmonary valve. On dredged parts of you that you’d never thought another human would glimpse.

And now, you think on what that same love feels like, after all these years.

Seeing him, all of him, as he is. Being known so thoroughly by him. Splayed heart meeting splayed heart, clotted that way, the bloody cells fusing and knitting themselves anew. Grown over and healed to a scar. But healed. Forever one flesh and one blood. The mess of a deepening, steadfast, stronger love.

A love that stays. That chooses to. There was never anything more romantic to you.

Arthur flips on the bedroom light and gazes at you where you stand removing your earrings and setting them aside, waiting for him. All he can think as he ventures towards you is loving you, and feeling your love. The full scope of it, in its history, and in this moment. How it had started, so heady and engulfing, it had swallowed him whole; though it had hardly been ready for life’s travails. How it’s still those things, but much more. How he knows you. Better than he’s known anyone. How he’s seen you in your every form, in every turn of life’s capricious road, and loves you the more for it. How your heart understands his.

This love has long drawn a rich burgundy, like the Cabernet he’d sipped tonight. This love that has long taken anchored grasp, its taproot reaching down into the core of him. It has flowered and fruited several times over. And like any goodly, fragrant fruit, it refreshes and sustains him. Gives him life.

He takes his time gazing over the exposed skin of your shoulders, doing what he can to ready himself to show it to you. This shared love that has matured and sweetened and ripened to something devastatingly deep and forever lasting.

a/n: Part 2 will pick up with the very next moment in the story. Comments always welcome! Reblogs always greatly appreciated! Thank you so much for your gracious support.

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[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐆𝐨 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐆𝐨

There had never been a real need for you to visit your local mechanic. Your car was sturdy and stubborn, taking hit, after hit, after hit, and you just rolled with the punches. Until you landed in a tough spot — stuck on the side of the road, conveniently close to Barnes Classics Restoration. 

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✯ Mechanic!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✯ 2.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✯ Fluff, flirting to the extreme, Bucky is a show off

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✯ Well, this was self-indulgent to the max, sue me.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔 ✯ Flower by Moby ✯ Break My Baby by KALEO

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✯ @buckybarnesevents Into an Alternate June-iverse 𝗖𝟮 — Mechanic AU — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The first splutter and clunk of your engine set you on edge, but with how fast you lost power it was even more concerning – you were stuck, in a car that refused to cooperate for the few blocks it would take to get to the closest mechanic: Barnes Classics Restoration.

“Come on, please,” you begged, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline. “Just get me there!”

The garage came into view not a moment later, and your car – as ever loyal and hardy as it was, choked and gave up the ghost. “No! God,” you groaned. Your phone came free from the cradle with a pull and you shoved it into your bag. “Just what I needed today, fucking hell.”

Your shoes, a beaten-up pair of Chucks, scuffed the crumbling surface of the road as you walked towards the garage where classic cars were parked on the side of the road – panels and chrome shone under the midday sun and you marvelled at the sight. You weren’t one for cars – having gotten the cheapest and safest option to get you from point A to point B – but the sheer power that seemed to just roll off from the parked vehicles gave you a small pep to your step. 

It was nothing compared to what you felt when you strode up the path towards the open doors of the garage. 

A couple of men were milling about, grease stained but no less attractive. What caught your eye, however, was the broad back of a tall man slumped in the engine bay of a car, his back covered in a red Henley that rippled with every movement of his shoulders. When he moved his arms into the light, you could see the dark intricate tattoos gracing his muscled and veiny forearms, and when his head appeared from the shadows of the popped hood, you couldn’t help the small, quiet gasp that left you. 

The man’s hair was long, almost to his shoulders and he had a scowl etched on his face while he spoke to the blond man next to him. You clutched your bag to your side and took a few steps closer – you needed the help after all, regardless of how drop dead gorgeous or intimidating the man was. 

They paid you no mind as you neared, clearly too engrossed in their conversation to pay attention to a potential customer – you couldn’t tell if you were grateful or disappointed with that fact. 

“Excuse me, I was wondering-” You tried, but stopped when they both looked at you suddenly. The man wearing the red Henley nodded at the blond before gesturing into the garage, and the blond strode off into the garage, tool and rag in hand. 

It was hard to find the words to pinpoint what you were feeling as the full attention of the Adonis- man focused wholly on you. Stormy grey eyes searched your face and he quirked a brow in question. “How can I help you?”

Oh, his voice. You prayed that your thoughts didn’t flicker across your face at the low timbre and downright sinful tone. 

“My car,” you gestured over your shoulder and the man glanced up and nodded once. “It, um–kicked the bucket, you could say, while I was making my way to you. I was headed home but I kind of can’t now. Can you take a look?”

You watched while the man looked over his shoulder, his stance changing from professional and aloof to open, welcoming. It was a relief. “Stevie!”

“Yeah?” A voice called out of the garage, and a mop of blond hair suddenly appeared from under a car. It was the man he was talking to. 

“Watch my shit, I’ll be back.” The man turned back to you and smiled, holding out his hand to shake. “I’m Bucky.” His calluses were rough against your skin and you smiled back, offering your name. 

Bucky gestured towards your car, and you took the lead. “So,” you began, looking over at him, taking just a second to appreciate the way the sun casted its rays down on his brown hair, and the beautiful tattoos that were visible under his rolled-up sleeves. “You’re the owner of the garage?”

“That I am, doll,” Bucky smiled, meeting your gaze. You hastened to look straight ahead; eyes only slightly wide at the endearment. Get it together! “Your car,” Bucky continued, staring ahead with narrowed eyes towards your sorry heap of machinery. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Uh–I’m not sure, it was fine the other day and then this,” you offered, watching as Bucky came to a stop at the hood and gestured for you to pop it. The sound that it made forced a deep wince to warp your expression. “That was doing that when I bought it.”

Bucky only chuckled while he pushed the hood up and secured it, and you did all you could to not stare at his arms as he did so. Oh, your friend would have your head on a platter if you did nothing, you swore on it. 

The sounds of Bucky tinkering around the engine of your car filled the silence and you watched, entranced with the way he worked his hands and his strength to manipulate the many, many parts you couldn’t even begin to understand. 

It took a second to realise that he had started speaking, because when you looked up, he was staring right at you with a sly smirk. “You alright, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” you squeaked, and Bucky laughed. The bastard, you cursed.

“As I was saying – this should be an easy fix, though it is a lengthy one.” Bucky stood and brushed his hands on his dark jeans. “Do you have a way of getting home?”

“I can get a cab, hang on,” you said, digging in your bag but Bucky held up a hand to stop you, and you froze. 

“Let me take you home,” Bucky said simply, as if there wasn’t a flock of butterflies in your stomach and your mind wasn’t on cloud nine from such a simple offer. “That way while I work on your car, I know you’ll be safe. I can come get you in the morning, too.”

Silence followed his offer while the connection to your brain and mouth caught up, you felt foolish for standing there opening and closing your mouth like a damn fish out of water. Bucky took your silence as rejection, and your heart seized at the small frown on his pretty lips. “You don’t have to, but let me walk you back, you can call a cab from the off-”

“No, no, I-” you interrupted. Your hands were trembling and you willed them to be still. “I would appreciate that, a lot.”

A blinding smile brightened Bucky’s expression and his nose scrunched. You sighed quietly, the sound covered by the creak and groan of the hood slamming down. What had you gotten yourself into?

You couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit giddy on the short walk back to the garage. Bucky, the gentleman, had continued to insist on driving you home so he knew you would be safe – and not only that, he had moved closer to you as you walked, his shoulder brushing yours occasionally while you two shared a comfortable silence. 

“Where do you live, doll?” Bucky asked as he stepped into the office. He pulled down a jacket and a set of nondescript keys. You offered your address and he nodded, gesturing out another door. “C’mon.”

Stevie, the blond from before caught Bucky’s attention and saluted, but Bucky waved him off while rolling his eyes. “Ignore that punk, I do.”

“Is he your friend?” You asked, falling into step beside Bucky while he led you into a small car park – it must have been for the employees only because cars in varying states of restoration filled the spaces. 

“Unfortunately,” Bucky mused, chuckling. He stopped and gestured in front of him and you glanced at the car, then did a double take, your mouth falling wide open in shock. Your reaction must have sparked something because Bucky just grinned widely, a flicker of pride in his bright eyes. 

“This is your car?”

“Yeah, it’s mine,” Bucky answered, and he placed a hand on your lower back to urge you towards the passenger seat. 

You dug your heels in and he turned to look at you, a brow raised while that grin made your heart flutter. “It’s the car from that movie, isn’t it?”

Bucky laughed, and you found you would do anything to hear that sound again. “It isn’t the car, no, but I restored her from the ground up.” You stepped closer and placed your hand over the sloped arch of the fastback Mustang, in awe of the sleek shape and the pepper grey paint, accented by black racing stripes. Bucky brushed past you and opened the passenger door to reveal a neat leather interior. “Hop in, sweetheart. I can take you for a spin before I take you home.”

Starstruck, you walked forward and took Bucky’s offered hand while he winked. “Madame,” he said, his tone low and husky. 

The interior of the car was just as beautiful as the outside – leather and chrome accents shone under the sun and you looked to the shifter, a singular white circle surrounded a red button, the words GO BABY GO etched into the finish, and you grinned. You shuffled in your seat and strapped the harness over your body as the driver’s door opened. “Bucky, this is exactly like Eleanor, I swear.”

“You are seriously one of the few people that have made that connection,” Bucky hummed, shuffling until he was comfortable, and then he strapped himself in. “Makes me all the more happy that I’m taking you home.”

“What?” You floundered, staring at him wide-eyed, your surprise a catalyst to his laughter.

“What?” Bucky repeated, shrugging. “Gotta take a pretty dame home so she’s safe, don’t I?”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, gripping the belts of the harness in shock. He was flirting – Bucky was flirting.

The keys in Bucky’s hand jingled and turned in the ignition, and the Mustang roared to life, the vibrations rattling your bones. “Alright, you ready, sweetheart?”

You stared at Bucky and he just smirked back, completely unabashed. “You are insane,” you pointed out. “You are absolutely insane.”

“Not the worst I’ve been called, doll, c’mon,” Bucky pouted, grabbing the shifter and jostling it. “I wanna take a pretty girl for a spin, you gonna let me?”

Heaven above, you were gonna melt into the leather seat if he kept staring at you like that. “Fuck it, take me for a spin, Bucky.”

“Hell yeah,” Bucky breathed, and he pumped the clutch as he put the Mustang in reverse. The engine purred with the low speed and you watched as Bucky turned the wheel with one hand, and the other shocked the shit out of you by coming to rest on your thigh. A noise of surprise left you and Bucky looked over at you sharply. “Too much?”

A sudden burst of courage flooded you and you shook your head. “Never enough,” you grinned, and Bucky laughed. You watched the garage pass by slowly and the sound of the engine echoed around the small driveway, the rumble and timbre still rattling your bones. 

“Oh, hang on,” Bucky said suddenly, and the Mustang stopped just outside the front roller doors. You watched in the side mirror as Bucky’s employees gathered and pulled out their phones and pointed them towards the car. The opening notes of a song started and you gasped, gripping the belts across your chest. “What?” Bucky grinned, gripping the wheel and your thigh simultaneously. “I have to show off to the classics, don’t I?”

“Oh my god!” You cried, grinning like a fool. 

Bring Sally up, and bring Sally down, lift and squat, gotta tear the ground.

The engine revved, lowered to a purr, revved again, and Bucky put his boot to the floor. The following symphony was priceless; the engine roared like a beast and the back end dipped, and before you knew it, a cloud of smoke engulfed the back of the Mustang. You heard Bucky’s feet on the pedals and the shifter clunking as Bucky tore through the gears, but only barely – blood was pumping through you and muting all sensation except for the exhilarating feeling of losing control. 

Somehow, you had reached the end of the road in the blink of an eye and you gasped for breath, working through the scorching adrenaline in your veins. The engine settled to a low purr once again and you felt Bucky looking at you, his grin manic and bleeding arrogance. “You with me, doll?”

“I’m with you,” you rushed, returning his grin. “Take me home, handsome.” The prideful gleam in Bucky’s eyes gave you no cause to regret the slip of your tongue, and you settled into the seat for the drive home, heart still racing. Words escaped you for the entire drive, but the smile never left your face, nor Bucky’s. 

Before long, Bucky pulled up out the front of your house, and he killed the engine with a happy sigh. “Here we are,” he said, looking at you with such a frightening softness, as though he was already fond of you – like his flirting wasn’t just a game. “Let me walk you in.”

“Okay,” you agreed shakily, and Bucky reached over to unclip your harness before he stood from the car and stretched, groaning as he stretched. Blessedly, his shirt rode up and you caught a peek of the tattoos on his lower stomach.

Taking a deep breath, you walked towards the front door of your home and Bucky followed you, and that giddy feeling returned in earnest. “I had fun, I-” You hesitated, then plunged on. “I don’t know how to thank you, Bucky. I know it was such short notice and-”

“Come get a drink with me,” Bucky interrupted, voice soft but confident. “Whatever it is you drink, and I’ll consider it all repaid,” he said, finishing with a wink. “What d’you say, doll?”

You nodded hastily, not even ashamed of the eagerness. You dug in your bag and pulled out your phone to unlock it before passing it to Bucky. “Here, give me your number, and you can text me in the morning.” 

“Or tonight?” Bucky questioned, taking your phone with a cheeky smirk.

You ignored how your stomach leapt at his words, instead you smirked back. “I dunno, handsome,” you began. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed but his smirk grew, almost predatory. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, handing back your phone. “I best get back and get back to work if I want to be free tonight, I’ve got a pretty dame to talk to, after all.”

You stood on the step by your front door and watched him walk back to his Mustang, firing it up and blowing you a kiss before he tore down the road, the roar of the engine still audible even a few streets away. Curiosity gripped you like a vice and you unlocked your phone, only for his contact to be the first thing you see. 

Handsome.

“Damn,” you muttered, shaking your head and grinning happily while your fingers hovered over the keyboard to text him. “I’m so doomed.”

And doomed you were.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁