#she will bite though anything for nothing

[thehoneybeestings]

𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬

𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐚!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

‧₊˚── Request: "Would you be willing to write an omegaverse sevika x reader fic where the reader has traumas from past heats and doesn’t want to be touched but sevika calms r! Down enough that they drop and can consensually take a knot"

Word Count: 3.9k Content/Warnings: omegaverse, nsfw, top!sev, bottom!reader, soft dom!sev, sub!reader, mentions of past sexual trauma and widespread sexual violence against omegas, mentions of reader grieving her mother, description of anxiety/panic during sex, reader has female anatomy, no pronouns/gendered terms used for reader, sev has a dick, sevika is the sweetest most patient partner ever change my mind, you trust her so much that it makes her cum lol A/N: please mind the warnings! i tried to be as sensitive as possible with this subject, and hope that it offers some comfort to anyone who has experienced something similar. thank you so much for the request, anon! i hope you enjoy <3

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚── “I remember the moment they put you on my chest like it was yesterday.”

You grit your teeth, walking past your childhood home as the last conversation you ever had with your mother strikes you like lightning.

“You had lungs of steel. I’ve still never heard a baby cry like that,” she chortled.

You chuckle to yourself, dry and humorless. Those lungs of steel are worth jack shit, now. It isn’t like you can blame anyone for keeping their heads down, though. 

The sound of omegas crying for help in the back alleys of Zaun was nothing more than white noise for its residents.

“I cried harder when you started presenting, though. When I realized that my sweet baby would-”

Her voice had broken. You’d urged her not to say anything else, not to upset herself. You wish now that you’d let her. You’d give anything to have more of her words to remember, even if they were painful.

The only thing more painful than losing your mother was finding out just how cruel alphas can be without her around to help you pick up the pieces.

The bite-shaped scar on your shoulder throbs, an incessant reminder of steel lungs giving out.

You’d done everything right; you’d stayed away from dark places, you never walked the streets without a friend or two, and you never left your house during a heat. But all it took was one stupid house party, a roofied drink, and a shitty boyfriend with an inflated ego and determination to match, and by the end of the night, you realized why your mother had been so devastated to discover that you were an omega.  

The world was a scary place for those like you, full of alphas who take and take and don’t take no for an answer.

You inhale sharply through your nose, blinking back hot tears as you open the back door to The Last Drop.

The grief would have to wait for now. You’ve got a double to work.

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

It’s a blistering hot summer evening in Zaun when Sevika catches sight of your bite mark for the first time. You’d finally said “fuck it,” and broken out a tank top to wear to work tonight. Even still, your cheeks are warm, and your chest shines with a thin layer of sweat.

The bar is made even clammier by all of its patrons. They’d heard that The Last Drop was one of the only places around with working A/C, but failed to consider that standing body to body would render the cool air pretty damn useless.

You roll your eyes at the large crowd and resign to sneaking away to the break room, where at least you’ve got a standing fan that kinda works.

When Sevika walks in, you’re doubled over, hanging by the hinges of your hips, fingertips barely gracing the floor. Your “Dead fucking exhausted” pose, the name courtesy of your coworkers.

“The fuck are you doing?” She grunts, but you’ve become familiar enough with Sevika to know that it’s amusement she’s expressing.

You shoot up from your toe-touch position with wide eyes and a gasp before you finally register that it’s her and let yourself relax. You’ve also learned that Sevika is one of the few alphas around who won’t pounce at you the minute you let your guard down. It’s wildly foreign to you, but welcomed, no less.

“Janna,” you exhale, slouching your shoulders and placing a hand over your heart, “Don’t sneak up on me like that. I thought you were my manager.”

She snorts, walking past you to grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge.

“For all intents and purposes, I am your manager,” she retorts. “And I say it’s time for you to go home.”

She opens up the plastic bottle and holds it out for you to take, which you do, albeit tentatively.

“Why?” You ask, eyes narrowed in suspicion as you take a sip.

She leans against the breakroom’s counter, crossing her arms. “You’ve been here since 10 this morning. It’s 7, now. You weren’t supposed to work a double today.”

“Yeah, well, Ekko called in sick, and I’m the only one who could cover him.”

You reach up to hook your thumb under the strap of your tank top, pulling it back in place, and that’s when it catches her eye.

The jagged scar on your shoulder.

Sevika knows an alpha’s mark when she sees one. She knows where they're supposed to go, too: right in the juncture between an omega’s neck and shoulder, where their pulse thrums, and they smell the strongest, the best.

Your mark wasn’t in that place, nor did it look like it was made carefully. She can’t help but notice that it almost looks as if you were pulling away when it was made, trying your best to escape it when the alpha’s jaws finally clamped down wherever they could.

Her body stiffens. Her nostrils flare. Sevika does not tolerate alphas who abuse their strength.

But there’s nothing she can do about it now.

“I’ll figure it out,” she finally responds. “But you should go home. Don’t need you overworked and overheating on my watch.”

You chuckle. “You know you’re not actually my manager, right?”

A grin tugs at her lips as she watches you clock out anyway. Sure, she isn't technically your manager, but she is in charge of all of Silco’s employees, including those at the bar.

That's what she tells herself, at least. She’s not ready to admit that, in actuality, she’s got a bit of a soft spot for you.

“Maybe not,” she replies, “but I take care of my people when I can.” ──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚── Sevika is a watcher; a bona fide expert in body language, microexpressions, all things unspoken. It’s what makes her so good at her job. She knows if you watch someone for long enough, keen and silent, that eventually, they’ll tell you everything you need to know about themselves.

She watches you. The way you stiffen as other alphas walk by. The way your eyes lock onto them when they get a bit too loud and get a bit too rowdy. The way your nostrils flare and your nose scrunches almost imperceptibly when they get too close, and the way you won't let them touch you at all

Even after the two of you settle into something that blurs the line between platonic and romantic, she notices that your anxiety remains, even around her.

She’s got to admit: it breaks her heart.

But a skill in observation is rendered useless without patience to match, and patience, she has plenty of.

She never touches you without permission. She never feigns irritation when you ask to watch the bartender make your drink (or insist on making it yourself altogether). She never makes you feel guilty for taking that one step away from her when you need more space.

She doesn't know what happened to you, doesn't ever pry, doesn't even expect that she'll ever see you with your guard down, and she's okay with that. 

She puts in all of the work to prove that she's safe anyway.

The two of you are strolling through a busy market one afternoon when an alpha walks by, coming too close, brushing against you as he pushes through the crowd; and when your instinct is to wrap an arm tightly around her bicep, it takes everything within her not to react. 

You never touch her. You hardly sit close to her, and when you do, she smells fear.

Now, you thumb over a scar on her arm, and you relax.

She relaxes you.

And you have no idea that even after all her years of selfless devotion to others, she's never been more honored to be something for someone else. 

──˚₊୨ৎ‧₊˚──

You’re sitting in front of Sevika, your worn cotton sheets soft against your bare lower half. Your favorite pajama shirt is still on; partly because it’s still too daunting to be completely naked around someone else, but mostly because it is really fucking comfy, and she thinks you look really fucking cute in it.

It’s what she murmurs about as she trails kisses up from your calves to your thighs. She’s lying between your legs, looking up at you with reverence; honor.

She is honored. Knows how much trust you plan on instilling in her tonight, and knows how hard you’ve worked to assure your mind and body that you can trust her. 

But still, she knows it’s scary. That’s why you’re sitting up, leaning back against several pillows instead of lying down underneath her, so that you aren't trapped or caged. A physical reminder that you call the shots, that she’s at your mercy.

She might be one of the only alphas out there who dares to make themselves small for none other than an omega. It’s one of the many reasons why you love her; because your comfort has always mattered more to her than an ego boost, and she’s dedicated herself to proving that to you.

Now, here you are, threading your fingers through her hair, letting her take care of you during your heat for the very first time.

It hasn't been easy to get to this point. Most nights, you’ll end up needing to pause once or twice to remind your body that she’s safe, and some nights, you’ll end up needing to stop altogether when sudden panic hits you like a tidal wave. Through ragged breaths and watery eyes, you’ll apologize, and with a steady, low voice and a palm splayed across your chest, she refuses to accept.

“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong, doll,” she’d assure you. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Thank you for letting me know you were done.”

Sevika celebrates your no’s, and it means your yes’s come with that much more certainty.

It’s the certainty you feel now as she looks up to ask if you’re still feeling okay.

“I’m perfect,” you nod, threading your hand through her hair, “Keep going.”

She gives you a soft smile, pressing kisses against your inner thigh. Her plump lips mark an invisible path for her hands; with each peck that travels up your skin, her flesh hand follows close behind, until it rests in the crook between your thigh and your hip.

Her mouth hovers over your core; already wet for her, thanks to the near hour of riding her thigh she’d just made you do. She’d said to trust her, that the prolonged foreplay was "pivotal," and that she’s been around the block enough to know that.

You know it’s really because if you ride her thigh for long enough, she cums just watching.

She’s damn near about to cum again with her face inches away from your slick.

“You smell so fucking good,” she mutters; and her breath on your aching center has you bucking your hips, chasing more. “Taste so good, too… can I taste you, baby?”

You breathe out a “Yes,” but the hand pushing her head down speaks for itself.

“Easy,” she chuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I feel like I’m about to fucking explode,” you whine, eliciting a louder laugh from the woman below you. “You’re being such a tease…’

“I told you, sweetheart,”

Your eyes roll up into the back of your head because you already know what she’s going to say. They stay there when she sucks your clit into her mouth, rolls her tongue around the swollen bud, and releases it with a pop.

“Foreplay is pivotal.”

“That’s been your word lately, huh?” You tease through stuttering breath as she dives back in.

You’ve noticed this about your Sevika; that every now and again, she’ll hear a word that sticks- usually something big and fancy- and it makes its way into just about every other one of her sentences.

“I like how it sounds,” she mumbles into your heat.

“Yeah?” You exhale. “Well, I like how you sound eating my pussy, so if you could stick to that for now…”

She snorts, ever amused by the wit that prevails even as you start to fall apart on her mouth.

“Smartass,” she smirks against you.

“You love it.”

She sure does. Loves that you’ve never lost your bite; that you feel safe enough to bite. It means she’s done something right.

Her smirk turns into something softer, sweeter.

“I love you,” she murmurs.

She proves it from her place between your thighs.

She laps at your slick like it’s ambrosia, kneads at the flesh of your thighs like they’re her lifeline, praises you for taking her so well as she languidly pumps two thick fingers in and out of you.

It isn’t long before you find yourself on the edge, writhing underneath her, whimpers and tears escaping you.

The pull of your heat- the urge to submit- feels like sinking into warm waters. Your limbs are weightless and lead-heavy all at once, your mind fuzzy and your body buzzing. The peaceful waves of a vast sea pull you further in, deeper and deeper, coaxing you to let these waters take you as far as you’ll go. 

But when you realize just how far from shore you’ve gone, you feel something like a splash of cold water on your face. Suddenly, you find yourself frantically kicking up to break the surface, gasping for air, a sob clawing at your throat as you fight against the crashing waves, and-

“Y/n?”

Sevika guides you like a lighthouse back to safety with a steady, low voice and a palm splayed across your chest.

She pulls away from your center completely, her other hand anchored to your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles into it as she speaks again.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

You choke on ragged breaths, eyes darting across the room as you try your best to drop back into your body.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart,” she gently instructs.

You oblige, blinking away tears and letting her face come into focus.

“Good,” she coos. “Talk to me, yeah?”

You nod, chin wobbling. “I just… just got scared. Felt like I was losing control… like I was sinking.”

She hums in understanding.

“That’s normal, sweetheart,” she explains. “Your body wants to submit, especially while you’re in heat. Haven’t had that happen yet, hm?”

“I guess not,” you exhale, brushing your hair out of your face. “Kinda freaked me out.”

Your weak chuckle brings a smile to her lips.

“Makes sense. Can be scary to let go like that.” She crawls up to hover over you, trailing the hand on your chest up to cradle the back of your head as she pulls you in for a kiss.

“What’s next, my baby?” She whispers, now peppering kisses across your face. “You wanna keep going, or you wanna call it?”

You push yourself up just a bit, and she sits back on her haunches, giving you space.

“Wanna keep going,” you nod.

“You sure?” She presses. Not with uncertainty, but only to give you each and every opportunity to say no.

“I’m sure. Wanna ride you.”

Her head rears back, eyes shamelessly trailing up and down your figure as a smirk pulls up at her lips.

“Shut up,” you mutter, playfully rolling your eyes as you tug her to sit back against the pillows.

“I didn’t say shit,” she retorts, raising her hands in surrender before they find purchase on your hips as you swing a leg over her lap.

“Your ogling said it all…”

She chortles low and deep as you settle over her. She knows this is where you like to be when you’re feeling a little nervous; that being on top feels empowering, gives you the control you need to feel safe.

And as you pull the waistband of her boxers down, work your own spit over the hardened length that stands at attention between her thighs, and slide it between your swollen lower lips, she sure as hell isn’t complaining about her current position.

“You need anything else, sweetness?” She asks breathlessly, brows knit together in pleasure as she watches you glide against her length, feels your slick coating her.

“Not after all that pivotal foreplay…”

Her chuckle gives way to a gasp when you sink down onto her. She holds on tightly to your waist, you onto her shoulders, both of your fingertips digging into the other’s skin as you begin circling your hips.

“Fuck, baby,” she grits, “not gonna last long if you keep moving like that.”

“Good,” you sigh; and she groans when you lift yourself off of her length only to slam back down again. “Want you to come inside…”

Self-control is another skill Sevika has honed almost impossibly so, but it sure as hell takes a lot of it for her not to wreck you, pistoning her hips up and bringing you down to meet her every thrust. The thought itself makes her cock twitch; and when the sensation pulls an airy moan from you, she grits her teeth, throws her head back against the pillows behind her, and wonders why in Janna’s name she’s having such a hard time keeping it together this time around.

She’s not supposed to be in rut yet; not for another week.

But you look like divinity, feel like velvet, and smell like desperation.

You, in this state alone, are enough to send even the strongest alpha into an early rut.

Her cock throbs inside of you, damn near painful, and she suddenly realizes that’s exactly what’s happening.

“Baby, baby,” she suddenly pants, gripping your waist hard enough to still your movements.

The concern on her face sobers you.

“What is it?” you urge.

“No, no, nothing,” she quickly assures, though her brows are still pulled together. “I just… I don’t wanna get carried away. Think my…”

Sevika doesn’t blush. Instead, the tips of her ears get hot, and when you push soft, black hair behind one, you feel it.

Embarrassment, warm and undeniable.

“Think my rut started early,” she resigns, eyes landing everywhere but on you.

���Oh,” you exhale in relief, having thought something was wrong.

And then, you mull over what this means. You know how a rut works; know it usually ends in a knot, and that the last time you took one of those was the last time you let an alpha get within 10 feet of you before meeting Sevika.

But then you met Sevika.

And she’s everything he wasn’t. The antithesis of your mother’s warnings.

This is your Sevika. Who you love. Who you trust.

“Can we keep going?” You finally ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes finally shoot up to land on you.

“Sweetheart, I don’t know if I can keep myself from-”

“I know. I’m okay with that. I want it.”

She isn’t quick enough to school her surprised expression, earning a giggle from you.

“You’re sure?”

You lean down to place a kiss on her nose. She hisses when the movement causes her to shift inside of you.

“I’m sure,” you nod; and then, you lean in to whisper against a warm ear,

“Want your knot, please.”

She nearly growls when you resume your movements, rocking your hips back and forth, taking as much of her as you can. You’re a whimpering mess just a few minutes later, eagerly riding the length in between her legs.

“Holy mother of Janna,” she husks, trying her best to keep her hips in place, “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You start mumbling something… an indiscernible whine at first, but when she's finally able to make it out, her resolve shatters like glass.

“Give it to me,” you babble. “Give it to me, please… please, Sevika; fuck me, fuck me, fuck m-”

You yelp as she bends her knees, plants her heels into the mattress, and fucks into you like there’s no gods damned tomorrow.

There might not be. Like she said: you’re gonna be the death of her.

“How’s that, my baby?” She rasps.

You nod frantically against her shoulder, limp in her arms, a myriad of yes’s spilling from your lips.

“Look at that,” she croons, “taking me so fucking well.”

One arm wraps around your waist. The other sneaks beneath your pajama shirt, trailing up with an open palm and eventually settling around the back of your neck with a firm grip.

“Take it,” she grits. “Take me, take me, take me."

You bite down on her shoulder as the coil in your belly tightens. You’re so close, hand shooting down to rub tight circles on your slick-covered clit, drooling all over her.

“There we go,” she drawls. “Good job, baby, touching yourself for me. You gonna come for me, too?

She throws her head back again, sucking air in through her teeth, doing everything she can to hold off on giving you her knot until you’ve ridden out your own release. She nearly loses control, hips stuttering when she feels your walls constrict around her.

A choked moan escapes you, waves of pleasure rocking through you, body twitching against her own. You come back down with shallow gasps, and she runs her hand up and down your back, speaking as tenderly as she touches you.

“Easy,” she coos, “Easy, doll. Deep breaths for me, yeah?”

A request that’s entirely hypocritical, considering her own labored breathing.

You oblige anyway, burying your face further in the crook of her neck and breathing in the smell of home before letting your body go limp on exhale.

You reach up to run your fingers through her hair.

“I’m okay,” you exhale again. “Let go, baby. I’m okay.”

“You sure? I can pull out. 'S not too late.”

You rock your hips against the length still sheathed within you, encouraging her knot.

“I trust you, Sev.”

She comes with a whimper.

Your eyes widen when you feel the stretch of her knot inside of you. She feels you tense and gives your hips a reassuring squeeze, placing kiss after kiss against your hairline.

“Relax, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Her thumbs rub circles into your skin, yielding only when her knot finally stops swelling a few minutes later.

“How you feelin’, doll?” She purrs

A contented sigh escapes you. “Good,” you croak. “Really good."

You miss the bright grin that breaks out on her face from your place on her shoulder

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod against her. “I like it.”

“Good, baby.” She can’t hide the excitement lacing her words. “Good… I’m glad.”

You hum, lips quirking up into a smile. You’re so relaxed that it’s all you can amass.

And when her knot goes down nearly half an hour later, she finds that you’ve fallen asleep.

Her heart wrenches. Sevika’s the first to know that sleep doesn’t come easily unless you feel safe.

She doesn’t dare wake you; just cradles your head with one hand and traces mindless patterns on your back with the other, reveling in the honor of being your safe place.

And, once more, you have no idea that even after all her years of selfless devotion to others, she's never been more honored to be something for someone else. 

──˚₊ 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ‧₊˚──

[vunblr]

Five Dollars and a Hook

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: 18+ only. Established relationship. Fluff. Smut

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

Word Count: About 7.3k.

note: Follow-up/Side story of Tangled.

Almost a full year had passed since she moved into the coastal cottage. The sea had watched over every season with its endless tide, but now the sun was lower, the breeze cooler, and the first copper leaves had started to gather at the corners of her porch. Autumn was around the corner.

Summer hadn’t been kind to Bucky.

It wasn’t just the heat -though he grumbled about that too- but the crowds. That year, the coast had seen more tourists than usual, loud and unfamiliar bodies spilling into the sleepy town like waves. Bucky had kept to himself more, either hiding away in the deeper parts of the cove or spending time at her home when he was done with the noise and the smells.

Sometimes he'd lean against her kitchen counter with a glass of ice pressed to his wrist, watching her cook like the smell of garlic hypnotized him. Other days, he’d stretch out on her rug under the ceiling fan, arms behind his head, the long line of his body still betraying something briny and feral.

On quieter evenings, he would join her in the shallows, his human half visible while the rest of him lingered in the water, eyes tracking every movement on the beach like a sentry. Even in his more generous moods, he scowled at the thrum of speakers echoing from open car trunks, at the barking laughter of people who didn't belong there.

She tried not to laugh when he muttered curses under his breath about "landwalkers" and their inability to respect a nesting ground.

In late July, during the worst heatwave, she introduced him to ice cream. It was one of the rare things he didn’t question, no sniffing, no wary prodding. He just accepted the cone.

He bit too much off the top, of course.

The freeze hit his palate, and his eyes went wide, as his jaw worked slowly like he was trying to decode the sensation. She’d nearly dropped her own cone laughing. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared at the melting vanilla dripping over his knuckles like it was some small, personal miracle.

"You're meant to savor it," she’d said, breathless with amusement.

After that, he ate it constantly. She’d never seen him take to anything so quickly.

By August, the night swims had become a routine. She’d meet him down there after dark, sometimes in nothing but her underwear and a worn t-shirt. He’d be just offshore, his shape breaking the silver surface, tentacles swaying slowly beneath him like smoke.

Sometimes she slid into the water and let him pull her under gently, hands on her waist, the soft friction of his skin against hers as they drifted. Sometimes she just floated on her back while he circled below, trailing his limbs across her body in lazy figures.

He didn’t talk much in the water. Neither did she.

He hadn’t retreated. Not to another coastline, not to a deeper trench.

He stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Because she was here.

---

The dining table was a battlefield of notebooks, half-dried markers, and crumpled practice sheets. Bucky sat on one side, hunched slightly over his paper, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the page. She was across from him, one leg tucked under her, a pen behind her ear, and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the notebook in front of her. “Last dictation round. Ready?”

He nodded, a little grunt escaping his lips.

She dictated the words slowly -companion, thread, silence, tangled, anchor- and he wrote them down one by one, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Once he was done, she leaned over to check. “Four out of five right,” she said, clearly pleased. “That’s your best yet.”

His brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of satisfaction showing in the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“And now,” she added playfully, “your final boss: read me this paragraph.“

He stared at it, and the words swam a little. He groaned, but took the paper from her fingers anyway. Tried to remember how she told him to break it up. He started slowly, stumbling here and there, his accent flattening some vowels and twisting others, but he got through it.

When he was done, he slumped back in the chair with a frown. “Stupid. I sound stupid.”

“Bucky.” Her voice was firm and fond all at once. “You read an entire paragraph. Out loud. Not even two months ago, you couldn’t recognize your own name on a page. That’s not stupid, that’s amazing.”

He glanced at her. She reached across and softly nudged his knuckles with hers.

“You’re doing something completely outside your world. It’s brave, Bucky. And I’m proud of you.”

Something passed over his face then, a flicker of discomfort difficult to name. He looked away, but not before she caught the way his mouth pressed into a crooked line, half-embarrassed, half-something else.

“…Thanks,” he muttered.

She closed the notebook with a satisfied thump, tapping her pen twice against the cover before glancing his way.

“I’ve got news, by the way,” she said, a bit too casually.

His gaze slid toward her. Suspicious. Waiting.

She smoothed her palms over the tabletop. “I walked past the Shipyard Supply Office yesterday, you know, the one by the ferry docks? They had a job notice posted on the window. They were looking for a new clerk to help organize inventory and process shipments.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the shift in his body, the slow tensing of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I went in,” she continued, “and asked about it. They were doing interviews on the spot, so I figured, why not? I didn’t expect anything, but they called me this morning. I got the job.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Only four times a week. Good pay, “she added, trying to keep it light.

“You applied,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Without telling me.”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. It just happened fast-”

“You didn’t even mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wasn’t even sure I’d get it.”

His frown deepened. “The shipyard supply.”

“Yeah?”

“The clerks there,” he muttered, “they’re all males.”

Ah. There it was.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “You’ll be surrounded by them. In a closed space. For hours.”

She exhaled slowly, already sensing the spiral forming behind his eyes, the same one during Chris’ brief crocheting career.

“They’re coworkers, Bucky. I’m going to earn money. That’s all.”

“They’ll want more than that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Just like Chris did?” she teased gently, resting a hand on his forearm. “Come on. We’ve been through this.”

His eyes darkened. “They won’t be old. Or married. Or uninterested.

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “How can you possibly know their age and relationship status? Did you conduct a census while I wasn’t looking?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“And again,” she continued, trying to rein in a smile, “you think all of them will want something else from me? What is this, some reverse-harem novella?”

She chuckled, but Bucky didn’t.

“You were right about Chris,” she added quickly, “I’ll give you that. But come on, Bucky. You’ve seen the beach crowd this summer. My body type isn’t exactly top of the ranking-”

“Your body is mine,” he said firmly, pouting now. “You are my mate.”

She arched a brow. “I thought it was mine. Don’t remember gifting it to you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The moment the words left her mouth, she saw it, the way his expression shifted. His eyes darkened, not with anger but something far more raw. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she had just broken something sacred between them.

Because to him, that bond wasn’t playful or theoretical. It was everything.

And what she’d just said, even in jest, sounded dangerously close to rejection.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

Her smile faded the second she saw his face. One of his hands curled into a slow, deliberate fist where it rested on the table, the other flexing with a need he didn’t seem to know what to do with. His gaze had dropped, not out of shame, but restraint. His chest moved shallowly, like even breathing around the hurt took effort.

“Bucky…” she began softly, already regretting the jab.

He didn’t look up. Just shook his head once, slow and stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“You did,” he said. Voice low, controlled. “You meant it.”

“No,” she stood from her chair, walking around to him. “I was teasing. That’s all. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch when she reached out, but he didn’t lean into her either. Just sat there, still. Guarded. Wounded.

“I don’t understand your world,” he muttered finally, eyes lifting to hers. “But you understand mine.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then you know what that kind of bond means. What it costs to say it. What it gives.” His voice dipped even lower, one hand pressing against his chest. “I told you I don’t share. I don’t steal. I chose, and you yielded to me.”

She swallowed, with her heart aching. He was trying so hard to adapt, to live in her world without sacrificing what made him him. But every now and then, their languages still clashed.

She stepped closer, slipping between his legs, gently cupping his jaw.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what we are. I’d never throw that away. Not for a job. Not for a joke.”

His breath shuddered in relief, but his eyes stayed locked to hers, needing something more than words. Needing her to see it.

So she leaned down, resting her forehead against his.

“This body is mine,” she said softly, “but it’s yours too. Always has been.”

That did it.

His arms wrapped around her waist in a swift motion, dragging her into his lap with a strength that was still startling sometimes. He buried his face against her neck, nuzzling the skin just below her ear with a low hum that bordered on a growl.

“Still don’t like it. The job.” he muttered.

She leaned against his chest, playing with his long hair. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I extended my stay here. Arthur’s been charging me cheap for the place. I made the fixes that had to be done, which kind of evened things out… but it’s still not fair to him. He could’ve rented this place out during the summer for way more.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

“I want to do the right thing,” she continued. “Pull my weight. I like it here, and I want to earn the right to stay.”

That made something twist in his chest again.

Pull her weight. Earn it. The idea of her working to keep her lair… it rubbed something raw and ancient in him. Now it wasn’t about the job or the men. It was the fact that he wasn’t the one securing her comfort. That she had to seek help -worse, coin- from others to keep what should be protected by him.

It made him feel less. Not a protector. Not a provider. Not a proper mate.

He didn’t speak, just stayed nestled in the crook of her neck, pensive.

She tilted her head slightly, reading the tension in his posture. “Bucky.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’m doing it because it’s something I can do, it seems easy, and also it’s a way to belong here. I don’t want to impair Arthur, and I don’t want to move from this house either.”

That got him. He looked at her, reluctantly. “Move?”

“If I can’t pay him the right fee, maybe I should look for a place that I can really afford.”

His whole body went tense.

The idea of her leaving this place -their place- made his stomach drop with a cold, sick weight. His arms pressed harder around her instinctively. “No.”

She blinked. “It’s not-”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “You don’t leave your nest. Not after we made it ours.”

His voice had gone low, dangerous. Not to her, but to the very thought of her packing up and going somewhere else, away from the cave, somewhere he couldn’t protect her.

“You think this place is just walls?” he growled, pulling back to look her in the eye. “This is where I came to you as a man. Where I sleep most of the time now, this is our lair now, besides the cave. That doesn’t change just because Arthur could earn more.”

His words were clipped and harsh.

She cupped his cheek again, gently despite the sharpness in his tone. “Bucky-”

“I should be the one to handle it,” he muttered, guiltily. “Should hunt, bargain, do something. Not have you scraping your hands to keep what I’m supposed to protect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, soothingly. “You do protect me. This is just a job. Something I can do while you’re at the shore or learning new things here. And, must I remind you what I told you about genders and chores?”

That calmed him a bit, but only just. His brows remained knitted, his expression stormy. “If you must… I’ll allow it. For now.”

She laughed softly at that. “Oh, thank you, almighty lair-lord.”

He didn’t smile.

But he did hold her tighter.

And after a pause, voice barely audible, he muttered, “Still don’t like it.”

She sighed against his collarbone. “I know.”

His hand traced idle shapes along her back, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke again, low and rough, “What kind of work could someone like me even do in town?”

She sighed. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he interrupted, in a quiet but firm voice. “I can’t read properly yet. Don’t know your machines. Can’t sit in one of those loud rooms with people and… type.” He frowned, flicking away his stare. “But I can do things. Build. Carry. Fix.”

She watched him for a moment, measuring his frustration, the way he tried to cage it behind a calm surface. Carefully, she reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“With no papers,” she said gently, “at the age you appear to be… with no schooling, no official record, it’s hard.” She said it slowly, choosing each word with care, not wanting to bruise his pride. “There’s only a handful of jobs that don’t ask questions. Maybe something down at the port, loading and unloading. The fishermen might need an extra hand. Or maybe out at the lumberyard near the ridge.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “So many rules. Just to do a job. Just to carry things, or fix what’s broken.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Mainland life is… a different kind of wilderness.”

“I hate it.”

“I know that, too. But you’re doing great, you know. Reading. Writing. Talking to people, even if it’s just a grunt.”

“Too many steps,” he muttered, but leaned into her hand anyway.

She cupped his jaw, nudging his gaze back to hers. “You’ve already come so far. And whatever path you choose, it doesn’t have to match mine. Or anyone else’s. You’re not behind. You’re just… different.”

He held her gaze for a long, silent beat. Then, gruffly, “Still don’t like it.”

----

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the horizon when Bucky slid beneath the waves.

The sea was still cold this late in the season, but he welcomed it. Needed it.

His body sliced through the currents as if trying to shake the frustration that had nested deep in his chest the second she told him about the job.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. But something inside him bristled at the idea of her going out for hours, surrounded by strangers -males- with whom she’d share her time, her focus, and her voice.

And he couldn’t follow.

So, he dove. Again. And again. Deep enough that his ears buzzed with the pressure, far enough from the shore that nothing human could reach him.

----

She’d been surprised how much of the job was just… boring. Sorting through old inventory. Stocking shelves. Typing up backorders. Her supervisor, a man named Reynolds who had the body of an old linebacker and the patience of a turtle in traffic, roamed more than he helped, but it was gentle.

“This here’s delicate,” he said while handing her a box of literal nuts and bolts. “You drop one of those, you’ll be pickin’ ‘em up all day.”

Most of the workers were polite and nice. A few younger ones were even friendly. Still, being her first day, she didn’t relax, trying to absorb everything that was instructed to her.

It wasn’t until she stepped out onto the gravel drive after her shift that her shoulders felt lighter.

Because there he was.

Leaned against the far fence, all black hoodie and shadowed eyes. One leg crossed at the ankle, folded arms, not even pretending to hide the way he watched everyone around her like a sentry.

She smiled, walking toward him with her messenger bag slung across her shoulder. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I did.” His voice was flat. “Was already nearby.”

“Doing what?”

He blinked. “Swimming.”

That explained the faint briny scent beneath the hoodie. And the slightly damp locks behind his ears. She knew better than to tease him when he looked like that, tense and quiet, with his gaze still fixed on the building behind her.

“You alright?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When she was within reach, he brushed his hand across her hip and leaned in a little. Inhaled. Subtle to anyone else. Not to her.

“Smell like them,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed.

He growled low, a sound meant more for himself than for her. “You talked to them.”

“I also talked to my supervisor, and to the guy at the vending machine who gave me his extra coffee pod, and to the printer that jammed twice. It’s a workplace, Bucky, you are supposed to communicate with people.”

“Hm.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Want to walk me to the car, or are you going to keep inspecting my skin for traces of other males?”

He didn’t laugh, but his jaw shifted, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Instead of answering, he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder without a word, slinging it across his own as they started walking.

Once inside the car, she clicked her seatbelt into place and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to flinch at the sound. Still didn’t like the machine.

As the car rolled forward, he noticed the turn wasn’t one she usually took. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I need to pick something up before heading home,” she said casually, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“What thing?”

She grinned. “Not telling.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

“It’s a surprise.” She stuck her tongue out at him like a challenge, eyes back on the road.

“I don’t like surprises,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying being left out.

“Oh, cheer up already,” she said, laughing as she pulled into a small gravel lot and killed the engine.

He glanced up, blinking at the familiar sign. The smell hit him first, rich, oily, mouthwatering. The crispy fish place.

Bucky watched her go, with his arms still folded, tracking every movement. A few heads turned when she reached the counter, mostly curious people waiting for their orders, and his jaw ticked once.

But she came back just a minute later, triumphant, holding one of the warm cones of whitebait in both hands. She opened his door and leaned in, pressing the paper cone into his palm.

“For you, mister grumpy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Freshly made and hot.”

He stared at the food, then up at her. Then back down again.

She raised a brow. “What? Thought you liked these.”

He took the cone slowly, brushing her fingers. “Didn’t say I didn’t.” And without much ceremony, he popped one of the tiny, crispy fish into his mouth.

She watched him chew. “Good?”

His silence said it all. That, and the way he immediately reached for a second one.

She grinned and shut the door behind her as she slid back into the driver’s seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the occasional crunch of the whitebait the only sound between them. She had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh, humming faintly to the tune playing low on the radio.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then down at the half-eaten cone in his lap.

“...How was it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked, turning to look at him briefly. “Work?”

He gave a small nod, chewing a handful of fish. “Your first day.”

Her mouth lifted into a soft smile. “It went alright, actually. A little chaotic. Everyone’s rushing around like they’ve done it a thousand times and forgot I haven’t. But the team was nice, and the supervisor was too. There’s still a lot to pick up, but I think I’ll get there.”

Bucky glanced at her hands on the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly as she navigated the road. His eyes drifted to her gaze, catching the faint drop on her eyelids, then the way her back was pressed against the backrest, and he frowned.

He didn’t really understand the ins and outs of human jobs -rushing around, orders, clocks dictating their time- but he could tell she was tired. And he hated that part. His jaw worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

“That’s good,” he said finally, leaning his elbow on the window. “That they were nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, glancing at him.

----

By the time they got home, he tossed the empty paper cone into the trash and she flicked on the small kitchen light, casting a soft amber glow across the cozy space.

Bucky grabbed two mugs from the shelf without being asked, putting them on the counter. “Tea?”

She smiled as she pulled off her jacket. “You offering to make it?”

His shrug was slow and a little smug. “Don’t act so surprised. I can boil water.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made him feel… calmer.

“I’m glad you asked, you know,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you did. That matters.”

He turned the burner on and glanced over his shoulder. “Still don’t like you being tired from something that isn’t for you.”

She came over, arms wrapping loosely around his middle as she leaned into his back. “I’ll be fine. You’re allowed to not like it. But you asking means a lot.”

He grunted softly in response, already moving to make the tea like he’d seen her do dozens of times before, his motions a little clunky, but sure. She used the moment to peel off her shoes and make herself comfortable on the couch, and tugged one of the throw blankets over her lap.

When he returned, he handed her the mug she liked -the one with the chipped rim and faded paint- and set his own on the coffee table without a word. Then, without asking, he sprawled out along the couch and rested his head on her thighs.

She smiled, already threading her fingers into his damp hair. “You know you’ll have to shower if you plan on sleeping in the bed. You smell like seaweed and salt.”

“Maybe you could help with that,” he said, turning just slightly so his face pressed closer to her stomach. His voice came out lower, rougher. “Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

She huffed a soft laugh, stroking her fingers behind his ear. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Help?”

“I’m learning euphemisms,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be proud.”

----

He didn’t tell her he was going.

She had left that morning with a kiss pressed to his cheek, muttering something about inventory day and that she’d be home late. The moment the car disappeared down the narrow coastal road, Bucky turned toward the sea.

The water was cold early in the day, but it felt like home. He swam with purpose, gliding along the jagged shoreline, keeping low beneath the surface. He surfaced only once, far enough from the docks not to be seen, but close enough to make the final stretch.

He carried a waterproof bag. Something she’d bought him months ago, for him to change when coming to the cottage from the cave and vice versa. Inside of it, there were dry jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a flannel button-up, along with a towel and a pair of sneakers. He shifted slowly, his limbs and muscles contorting and compressing under the strain.

It used to hurt more.

Not anymore, not as much. Not since he’d started spending more time in his human form. Not since he started choosing to do it for her.

Once dressed, hair still damp, he climbed up the stone slope toward the port.

He hated the place immediately.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He loitered near the edge for a while, half-shadowed by a stack of pallets. Watching men move with purpose. Crates were hauled. Nets were tossed. Jokes and shouts flew through the sea breeze. His presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“Hey-” someone barked. “You loiterin’, or lookin’ for somethin’?”

The man approaching was stocky and old, his hands were scarred from rope burn and time. He looked Bucky up and down, sizing him like a head of cattle.

“Work,” Bucky answered simply.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The man’s brow rose. “You lift?”

Bucky nodded.

The answer came in the form of a sharp look and a sack of cement dropped at his feet.

He picked it up like it weighed nothing.

The man squinted. “You on something?”

“No.”

“Show me again.”

Bucky bent down and grabbed two sacks this time. Made it look like it cost him.

The man gave a grunt of approval. “We’ve got a guy out with a busted back. You can fill in. You show up, keep your head down, don’t break shit.”

“No paperwork?” Bucky asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for this. Temporary’s temporary.”

He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper. “Name?”

He paused a bit. Then-

“Erm- James.”

“Show up at six. Don’t be late.”

And that was how Bucky got his first human job.

No ID was asked. No résumé. No one cared where he lived, who he knew, or what he’d done before. Just muscle and silence, which turned out to be the only language that really mattered there.

Half the men grunted more than they spoke anyway.

He kept his strength in check. Always pretending to strain just enough to seem impressive, but not inhuman. He lifted. He moved things. He kept his gaze down.

No one noticed him.

No one asked questions.

And strangely, that felt good.

----

Even if she only worked a few days a week, Bucky kept heading to the port daily.

Each morning, he’d tell her he was going for a swim, pressing a kiss to her shoulder or nuzzling under her ear before vanishing toward the shoreline. She never questioned it. He was sea-bound, always had been. She didn’t know he changed into dry clothes behind the rocks, walked through the back alleys of the port, and lifted crates and sacks until his shoulders ached, not from strain, but from holding back.

He didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

And on Saturday, when the foreman handed him his pay -a modest wad of bills folded with a paperclip-, he pocketed it and made his way through town.

Straight to the yarn shop.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell above jingled. The air smelled of cotton, lavender soap, and something faintly briny and sharp. The clerk was behind the counter, sorting a box of embroidery floss.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved.

“Octopus,” she greeted dryly.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Herring,” he returned.

Her chin lifted a touch as she raised a single brow. “Well. You’re a long way from your rocks, aren’t you?”

“I want one of those hooks,” he said gruffly, ignoring her tone and nodding toward a row on the wall behind her. “The kind with the silicone handle.”

She squinted at him, twitching her lips. “Size?”

A pause.

He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her mouth curved, and not in a kindly way. “Don’t even know which one she uses most, do you?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharply and annoyed, and his hand twitched at his side. He imagined flipping the entire counter over. “Just tell me what kind of yarn she buys.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because, old hag, you want coin.”

Her cackle was almost musical. “The nerve of calling me a hag, you ancient squid.”

His nostrils flared at the throwback insult, fisting his hands at his sides.

She turned around before he could spit fire back, plucked a 3.5mm hook from a drawer, and dropped it on the counter.

“Five dollars.”

He scowled at the price. “You gouge everyone, or just me?”

“What? Can’t pay with seashells and rusty fishhooks?” she teased, propping her chin in her hand like she had all day to enjoy this.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, tugging out the folded bundle of bills the dock foreman had handed him. As he fumbled through it for the right number, she tilted her head, looking at the money.

She smirked. “Tell me, octopus. Who’d you eat for it?”

He slapped a five on the counter with more energy than necessary. “Didn’t eat anyone.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly, dragging the bill across the wood.

He snatched the hook and turned.

“Always a pleasure,” she sang-songed at his back.

He didn’t answer.

But the door swung closed with enough force to rattle the bell like a warning.

----

She was slicing an apple when the door opened and closed with a familiar creak.

Bucky stepped inside, hair damp from sea-spray, smelling of salt and wind. He kissed her cheek in passing, a firm press of lips to skin that made her smile.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered.

She hummed in response, too focused on not cutting her fingers.

He disappeared down the hallway, already taking off his sneakers.

A minute later, when she carried her plate to the table, something else caught her eye.

A crochet hook lay near the placemat. Not hers, she could tell at a glance. The handle was smooth, matte silicone in a soft sea-glass green. Ergonomic. Just like the one she'd mentioned a dozen times but never actually bought.

She blinked at it. Picked it up. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

A smile bloomed across her face before she could stop it.

She padded softly down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, steam slipping out through the gap at the top. She knocked once and let herself in, sitting on the toilet lid like she sometimes did when he showered. Her favorite perch for idle conversations and teasing.

“So…” she started, “I saw something pretty on the table.”

Behind the curtain, water hit the tiles. A pause.

“Did you?”

“Hmm. Might’ve appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe… someone put it there.”

Another pause. Then, a low, almost grumbling answer: “Maybe.”

“Any idea where it came from?”

His voice was flat but betraying the tiniest flicker of pride. “The yarn shop.”

She let the silence stretch before whispering, “Thank you, Bucky.”

A grunt.

She leaned back, still twirling the hook between her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “But this one was for you.”

She laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re such a cutie.”

“I’m not.” The curtain shifted slightly, and his silhouette moved toward the edge. “You like it?”

 “I love it.” She smiled at his shape through the steam. “Almost as much as I love that you listened.”

“I always listen,” he said simply.

She tilted her head and bit her lip.

Then, without a word, she stood up and began to undress. Quietly. Purposefully.

When the curtain rustled and she stepped in, Bucky blinked at her through the steam. His eyes dropped, then rose again, a glimmer of surprise that was chased quickly by something darker, pleased and hungry.

“You never come in here with me,” he murmured.

She shrugged, already reaching for the soap. “You always get handsy. And it gets messy.”

A half smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say that.”

He grunted, stepping closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

His hands found her waist, pressing his fingers as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Let me wash-"

"I'll wash you first," she cut in smoothly, stepping into him. "You're the surprise guy today."

He scowled, just a little, more out of habit than anything else. But he didn’t protest. Her soapy hands on him were more than welcome, warm, slow, and familiar.

"So..." she murmured as her hands roamed across his chest, tracing old scars, "may I ask how you bought it?"

His eyes narrowed faintly, water dripping from his lashes. “Oh, I followed your example.”

She glanced up at him, arching a brow.

“Got myself an occupation,” he said, a little too casually.

Her hands stilled. “You what?”

He smirked then, that rare, crooked thing that always felt like it held secrets. “Temporary. Port work. Told you I could be useful.”

“Wait- you’ve been working?”

His shrug was all muscle and pride. “You’re not the only one who can bring something to the lair.”

“How do you get there every day?” she asked, gliding her fingers down his sides, suds slipping through her touch. “How did they even hire you? And what kind of work do you do at the port?”

Bucky tilted his head back into the spray with a satisfied sigh. For once, he wasn’t the one interrogating, and he found that he liked it.

“I swim,” he said simply. “Carry my things in that waterproof bag you gave me.”

She blinked. “That’s a long swim.”

He cracked a crooked grin again, arching a brow cockily at her. “I get there without breaking a sweat.”

She gave him a look, halfway between impressed and exasperated.

“And they hired you just like that?”

“They saw my potential,” he said smugly.

“Bucky…” she started, the warning in her tone was unmistakable.

“I’m not stupid, mate,” he cut in, lifting a hand to push wet strands from her face. “I feign to struggle a little.”

She snorted, biting back a smile, then let her gaze drop -just for a beat- before her hand followed, sliding down his slick chest and lower still, wrapping her fingers around him with a teasing squeeze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Any manly co-worker I should be worried about?” she murmured, stroking him lazily. “Being a little too friendly with you?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes before narrowing them in a slow, pointed glare. “They barely speak. One barked at me for loitering and asked if I was on something after I lifted a couple of sacks.”

She chuckled lowly, grazing the head of his cock with her thumb just to hear him inhale sharply through his nose. “So no charming carrier with broad shoulders and twinkling eyes?”

He arched into her touch, resting a hand on the tile behind her. “None of them smells like you. So no, mate, you’ve got no competition.”

She laughed, slow and satisfied. “Mm, I like that answer.”

“And I like that hand,” he muttered, cock twitching against her palm. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna end up making a mess.”

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, do you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned in, giving a playful lick to his nipple. He twitched again in her hand.

That was enough to snap his restraint.

In one swift motion, he lifted her effortlessly, backing her against the cool tiles. Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, gripping his shoulders with her hands.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “I do. And now I’m wondering…” He shifted his hips, teasing, testing, “…if you can take me just like this. No stalling. No fingers first. No cheating.”

His nose brushed her jaw as he nuzzled close, voice getting rougher.

“You think you’re ready for that, mate?”

She seemed to weigh it for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. Then she leaned in, nipped softly at his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “There’s only one way to find out.”

His hands clenched under her thighs, the slick heat of her pussy pressed flush to him, and for a beat, he just held her there, chest to chest, heartbeats thrumming in sync.

“Brave little thing,” he muttered, more reverent than mocking.

His hips rolled upward, slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to make her whimper before he pulled back again. Her breath hitched.

His mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, licking and biting and making her head tip back. He moved with purpose now, grinding deliberately and relentlessly against her, slick skin on slick skin until she moaned as he finally pushed into her, slow at first, stretching her inch by inch with no buffer, no hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t unkind either. It was all raw, all heat, all him.

“That’s it,” he hissed, rocking deeper. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She did, with trembling thighs, fluttering breaths, hands tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her harder to the tiles, chasing every gasp, every whimper like it was a reward.

His thrusts became deeper, rougher, hips snapping with purpose. Not just from desire. That raw satisfaction rumbled in his chest and put a smirk on his lips against her neck.

He’d earned this.

Not just her gasps, or the way her nails dragged down his back. But the moment, the right to feel proud. To feel like a male who could provide, who could give her something she needed, even if it was small. Even if it was just a damn hook with a better grip.

“You liked that gift?” he growled against her ear, voice low and strained as he drove into her again,

She moaned in answer, hips rolling to meet his. That was enough.

“Good,” he grunted, pushing her higher against the tile, water cascading down their bodies, “Because I got it with my own hands. My work. My coin.”

He bit gently at her jawline, then licked over the mark. One hand slipped beneath her thigh, lifting her higher to get deeper still. Her head rolled back with a sharp cry.

“You feel this?” he growled, every word rough with the effort of holding back. “This is what you do to me. Every day. When you smile. When you kiss me.”

She whimpered something incoherent -his name, a plea, a yes- and he slammed into her again, his pace brutal now. His satisfaction, his triumph, all of it pouring into the way he took her.

His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You’re mine, mate,” he bit out, hips pounding, pelvic bone grinding against her clit. “And I’ll earn a hundred more hooks if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

She shattered with a cry, her legs trembling, arms tight around his shoulders as her climax hit her hard. And still he moved, drawn in by the way she clenched around him, the way she gave in fully to him, again and again.

His release came soon after, stuttering hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he groaned her name against her skin, spilling deep inside her.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of their panting breaths and the water streaming down.

----

The sheets were soft and warm, still faintly damp where their bodies had pressed on them after the shower. Her fingers drew idle patterns across his chest, tracing the old scars while the weight of his arm rested around her waist. He was unusually quiet, eyes half-lidded but not asleep, his breathing deep and regular.

She shifted slightly, angling her face toward his shoulder.

“You know…” she began gently, “you don’t have to work, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly, as though choosing his words. Then, his jaw clenched a little, and he spoke without looking at her.

“I do.”

There wasn’t anger in it, but there was a certain weight. Finality. She stilled her hand on his chest, and in that pause, she understood.

It was about pride. It was instinct. It was the need to contribute, to pull his weight beside her in the strange new shape of the life they were building. In his world, in his upbringing, a mate who didn't provide was less than. Worth less. And he had already spent too long hiding, watching from the fringes of her life.

Trying to coddle him or dismiss the effort would only wound him.

So instead, she shifted up slightly and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I hope it’s not too hard on you.”

He finally looked at her then. Not with surprise, but something softer. Something grateful.

“It’s not,” he said after a beat, dragging his fingers lazily along her back. “I like earning things for you.”

She smiled into his skin, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

"That's flattering," she murmured, voice low against him, "but I want you to get things too."

He made a quiet sound in his throat, and she could feel the frown forming in his face before she even looked up.

"I know what you said about your kind and possessions," she added quickly, drawing slow lines on his stomach, "but you live here now. So maybe you can indulge yourself a little."

Still no answer. His body remained still under her, unreadable. She softened her tone further, shifting so she could rest her chin just below his collarbone.

"Like tools. Or food you enjoy. Not just... gifts for me."

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite dismissively, not quite accepting either. But after a beat, he muttered:

"Yes. That could be."

She smiled against his skin, brushing her nose along the warm line of his throat. The scent of soap remained faintly on him, mixed with salt and something that was just his.

“Then we’ll make a list,” she murmured. “What you want. What we want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, as his hand slid to rest low on her back. Holding her there. Tethering.

But the way his thumb traced lazy circles against her skin… the way his chest rose calmly… it told her he was already thinking about it. Already imagining it.

Their nest.

Their life.

A future neither of them had expected, slowly taking shape like the tide reshaping the shore: patient and inevitable.

Taglist based on the main story: @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover @wintrsoldrluvr @x-press-it

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[ninguitar]

LOVE ON A WIRE.　 26. decisions decisions decisions 1943wc

❛ megan has never, ever wanted anything as bad in her life, until you—an underground singer and songwriter, is unemployed, and the textbook definition of a loser—stroll into her heart and her life. matter of fact, what happens when she accidentally replies to your thirst-traps that were a rebounding joke after a rough break-up, on twitter, and on the katseye account? ❜

now playing. pink + white by frank ocean

YOU LEAN AGAINST YOUR PARKED LEXUS, hands tucked into your pockets, as you watch the sun dip into the horizon. teetering on your feet, you swallow, hard, your eyes catching a glance at the time read on your phone every few seconds. then, you watch the front door crack open, and the faintest heat tinges at your ears seeing megan.

you extend your hand out, meeting her gaze, and waving briefly at the chinese girl from afar. you step onto the porch, the golden tint of the sun highlighting the small, soft smile on your lips. as you lock gazes with the other girl, every nerve that had somehow crept its way to the crevices of your brain now disappears almost instantly.

"you look great," you drawl out slowly, taking in megan's hands with yours.

"you too," she says almost too quickly, and just like that, your heart practically pounds out of your chest.

you lean against megan unconsciously, fingers fidgeting with your sleeve, and hands slightly clammy; you felt so small under her gaze, that it was almost electrifying. you watch the chinese girl jerk her head back to the inside of the house, and then you realize.

the moment is interrupted when you catch a glimpse of lara cheekily grinning behind the front door. your smile drops instantly, while the ghost of an apologetic smile remains on megan's lips, her nose scrunching, and eyes crinkling.

you groan, already rubbing your temples, "what is she doing here?"

the chinese girl is haste to explain, "she's going to the festival, too, and thought it would be a good idea to carpool." she shoots a glare at lara, who raises her arms in mock surrender, feigning innocence.

"what a coincidence," you deadpan, before shaking your head meekly, "but fine—only because the festival's a fifteen minute drive from here." your lips part to say 'and because you're you, and i like you,' before you catch yourself, biting the inside of your cheek.

"could've warned me though," you murmur instead, a gentle smile still tugging the corners of your lips. your gaze droops down to your hand still curled around megan's wrist, the warmth almost too much to handle.

"you would've been frowning the entire drive," she retorts playfully, "am i so evil for wanting to see you smile?" her warm breath fans over your skin, heat curling at your cheeks.

your body shivers slightly, before you catch the slight grimace on lara's face, an obnoxious 'oooh' echoing from the front door, eliciting a groan from you. you curse under your breath, walking megan down to your car, and opening the passenger door for her.

a quiet 'sorry' escapes from the girl's throat, as she accepts your hand, and climbs into the car. you shake your head, a small, half-hearted smile adorning your lips, "there's nothing you have to apologize for." you try to reassure her.

lara follows next, climbing into the backseat, and pulling the door closed. you move to grab your phone charger, holding the cord out to megan, "you can play your music, if you want." you offer, and you notice the way her lips twitch, a sliver of fondness settling in your chest.

you check the road, your hand resting lazily on the gear shift, "are the rest of your members not going to the festival?" you hum, turning up the volume of the speakers to filter through.

"no, they are," the chinese girl replies, pulling down the sun visor's mirror to gloss over her lips. "apparently, they couldn't fit five girls in one car." she looks over at lara.

"hey, blame the car, not me!" lara replies cheekily.

"i'll call an uber for her next time," megan says without hesitation, and lara gapes, looking at the two of you incredulously.

you laugh amusedly, nodding your head, "definitely."

finally finding a parking spot, you hop out of the car, jogging around to open the passenger's door, hand lingering more than it should've on megan's hand, as you help her down. her hand interlocks with yours, tender and careful. you open lara's door, too, not realizing that your hand was still intertwined with the chinese girl's.

"i'll go meet up with the rest," lara states with a giggle, "wouldn't wanna ruin your guys' date."

a relieved sigh escapes from megan's breath, before the indian girl smacks her arm lightly, earning a wince from the chinese girl. you chuckle softly, watching the two girls banter, as lara strolls away to the concession stands.

you lead megan towards the tickets booth, the muffled sounds of children shrieking with laughter, cheeks streaked with frosting and face paint running about, accompanied by the scent of fried oils, drifting through the block. "we can do the ring toss after we get the tickets," you speak up, watching her with the same half-smile.

she grins, "oh, you are so losing!"

you raise your eyebrows, a cheeky smirk adorning your lips, "like hell i am." moving up in line, you snicker softly, "if i lose, you get to choose the next game—pinky promise."

the chinese girl giggles, and you can feel the way your heart practically flips. your cheeks burn, as she reaches out with her pinky, intertwining it with yours. the person in front of you finishes paying for the tickets, and you quickly pull out your wallet, paying for more than enough tickets.

"you don't always have to pay," she softly huffs, fighting the smile that threatens to grow even wider.

"i know, but i wanna pay," you state with a nod, handing the tickets to megan, and cheekily grinning, "plus, it's nothing too big." you hum, like it was the most natural thing in the world. the chinese girl only chuckles softly, looking away from your grin.

you hook your elbow with megan's, "c'mon, lead the way to the ring toss, so i can officially beat you." she bursts out laughing, nudging your side playfully, dragging you over to the ring toss stand.

megan hands the tickets over to the worker, "don't say i didn't warn you though—i am unbeatable at this." she teasingly winks at you, grabbing the first ring, and landing it on the target pins.

you scoff, grabbing the little blue ring, and flicking your wrist, letting the ring land around the pin flawlessly. she rolls her eyes in response, throwing her next ring, and landing it again.

she beats you. you missed over half your rings horrendously.

"it's all in the wrist!" she teases, elbowing your side gently, "i'll show you." the chinese girl mimics the movement of flicking her wrist from minutes before, looking into your eyes softly.

"like that isn't what i have been doing," you glance at her over your shoulder to shoot her a glare.

before you knew it, she was slipping the worker a few more tickets, now slid up behind you. her hand curls around your dominant hand's wrist, so obviously using the game as an excuse to hold your hand; but you don't protest, not when you can feel your cheeks heat up. she pushes your arm upwards slightly, moving your wrist in an arc.

alarm bells ring in your head at the contact, as you try to focus on the flashing carnival lights, and the strings of laughter from crowds. though, you fail miserably, as all you could focus on was the chinese girl's voice.

"look, you're basically a natural!" her face lights up, as she shifts away from you, letting you play on your own. though, one of her hands remain on your hip unconsciously—neither of you point it out thankfully. her laughter is infectious and warm, and she fully wraps her arms around your waist now, watching you toss all your rings onto a pin.

she bumps her shoulder against yours, "maybe you're not totally hopeless." you feel warmth bloom at your chest at her teasing words, trying to suppress a crooked smile.

"hey, that first game you beat me at was totally rigged," you grumbly softly, arms crossed against your chest. megan rolls her eyes, and she laughs—quiet and real.

you look at the selection of prizes at the stand, your gaze averting to the other girl's, noticing the way her eyes focus on the stuffed polar bear the size of pluto. a scarf was wrapped around its neck cozily, sunglasses covering its beady eyes.

"i'll take the polar bear," you smile at the worker, as they hand you the stuffed animal. turning around to face the chinese girl, her smile mirroring yours, you dramatically sigh, "since you helped me win this round, you can keep him."

megan seems wholly entertained by the gesture, holding it in her arms like it was her own kid, muttering a soft ‘thank you.' "he's perfect!" she gives you a smile with a scrunch of her nose, and you try to ignore how heart-fluttering it was.

she chooses the next game, and the games after that. you win most of them, letting the chinese girl win the last game. megan leads you up to the ferris wheel, and the smile on your face masks the way your heart pounds out of your chest, as you look down from the cart to the street. her hands were now intertwined with yours fully, her thumb unconsciously drawing circles on your knuckles.

the moment your cart stops at the top, the frigid air hitting your cheeks, you cling onto megan almost instinctively, as the ferris wheel turns slow and skeletal. she jerks her head to face you, nudging your arm with her shoulder.

"are you gonna like, throw up on me?" megan teases, scooting herself closer to you. she's watching you with a gentle smile, all crooked charm and warm amusement and almost instantly does all your fear and worry wash away. your gaze flickers down to her lips, before you tear it away.

clearing your throat, you shake your head, "oh, shut up."

"if you told me you were this scared of heights, i would've brought you to the teacups ride," she chuckles, her idle hand moving to rub your back tenderly. a huff of air escapes your breath, but you nonetheless lean into her touch.

the cart rocks back-and-forth, as you wait for the ferris wheel to continue rotating. the chinese girl laughs at your antics, her eyes lighting up animatedly. you two were now a mere few centimeters away, and she doesn't speak right away.

a wide, un-bashful grin tugs the corners of megan's lips, as she suggests, "i could always give you a distraction."

"i'm not too sure any distraction would help," you start, before you look down, sighing, "fine."

the chinese girl leans in closer, "can i?" her eyes droop down onto your lips, and she swallows, her lips slightly parted.

you stare at her, eyes wide, and you nod.

megan seizes your lips against hers, moving against you slow and cautious. her hand brushes against the back of your neck, and you lean into her, somehow even more closer. the world disappears—hell, the rocking cart of the ferris wheel was now long forgotten.

your nose bumps against hers, eliciting a giggle from you, as you pull away slightly. though, she feverishly pulls you back closer, your skin burning under her touch. the chinese girl prods at your cheek, adoration swelling her chest.

you two finally part, foreheads touching, and breathless. it's soft, and reverent, and you bite the inside of your cheek. the silence thickens; but it wasn't tense, nor awkward. just weighted. her hands slide down to your shoulders and collar, her touch gentle, and you gasp slightly.

"i like you."

PREV. MASTERLIST. NEXT.

𝓽aglist (closed 46/46) :

@sed7ction @1luvkarina @bulgik @goofymickeyr @yeetaberry127 @urmom2314 @meganskiendielsbtc @fruityg0rl @fearnotfearmore @justtluvrr @meiyaes @sixflame438 @arihiu @vrtualstar @grahstumhurts @jaythegirlkisser @namojoon @saysirhc @gtfoiydlyj @catdonut657 @inybits @vivilvr @c-yerim @meizinisnumberone @blue-kye @linnnsworld @k31k0w @hazel-tanthamore22 @raviolisupremacy @cassiespoiler @weirdossclub @sunshinez4 @xochitlisbest @ratzeye @meiphobic @soobnotfound @kristalag @snoopyiz @itzkatflixs @spongebobtentacles @mirophobic @apersonwhowrites @bowforgodjihyo @mandydxndy @chuugetmesohigh @karli6

[harkness-girl]

Hi, I was the anon that requested the AgathaxReader exes fic. I just read it thank you so much it was so good!

I don't mean to sound greedy 😭 but you did leave it sort of open ended, would you consider continuing it? I would personally love to read more of this if you are willing.

Maybe they keep having casual sex and are hiding it from the group and Reader keeps saying it's a mistake it doesn't mean anything, but Agatha wants them to try again and tries to convince Reader to give it a shot (some angst and jealousy could still be involved).

Totally understand if you don't want to write anymore, I just really enjoyed it and was curious to see where this story could go. Thank you again for your lovely work 🙏

I'm glad you liked it! Here is part two :) And sorry, I know you wanted more angst, but I am obviously incapable of writing that. ��

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, possessiveness, dirty talk

Tip me 💰if you like my work and want to support me :)

You and Agatha don't really establish rules, but the one thing you agree on is that it's just sex, even though you see the ways her eyes linger on you a little too long before she leaves the apartment or how your heart does somersaults every time you get a message from her.

But officially, it's just casual sex. That's what you agreed on when she finally left your apartment the morning after the club. That’s what you said to yourself when your friends messaged you in the group chat asking you where you disappeared and you answered that you were not feeling well. Because why tell them the truth when the truth is such a simple thing as a casual sex with your ex wife?

The first time Agatha shows up after the crazy morning in the shower, a lazy smirk is playing on her mouth. You barely open the door and she's already kissing you, already walking you backward until your back hits the wall.

Your hands are in her hair and her thigh slides between yours like she never left.

"Missed me?” she murmurs against your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

You grip her tighter. "Shut up."

And then her hand is under your shirt, fingers curling around your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple. Your knees wobble.

"Say you’re mine," she breathes, licking the shell of your ear.

But you won't. You won't give her that. Not when she agreed that this would be casual, not when your heart is still fixing itself up after she broke it.

Instead you drag her dress over her head and drop to your knees, you press open-mouthed kisses up her inner thigh, slow, until your mouth finally finds her and she curses under her breath and her hand tangles in your hair.

She's warm and wet and delicious and you know exactly what rhythm makes her say your name. You suck her clit until her legs tremble and she has to grip the wall to stay standing.

When she comes, she pulls your hair just a little too tight and you love it.

But after, when you both sit on your kitchen floor half-naked and panting, she asks: "this still doesn't mean anything, right?"

You nod and don't look at her face as she mumbles "whatever you say".

~~~

You fall into a rhythm.

Sometimes, it's fast - rough kisses in the kitchen, your thighs hitting the cold surface of the counter, her hand already between your legs before you have even said hello.

Other times it's slower, like when she shows up drunk and quiet, saying nothing until you've pulled her into bed.

It is all casual, but it happens way too often and you have to tell to Olivia that you're busy because between work and Agatha you don't really have time or energy for anyone else.

There is no softness when Agatha shows up at your place or when you come to hers. It's always rough and passionate and needy.

When you knock on her door unexpectedly one time, you feel breathless from the way her eyes twinkle as if she was happy to see you. The door barely clicks shut before she has you pinned against it.

Her hands find your hair and yank your head back just enough to bare your throat. Her mouth is hot and insistent, biting, sucking, like she wants to mark every inch of skin she can reach.

"Do you let her put her hands on you?" Agatha growls suddenly, her voice low and dark, right against your ear. Her thigh presses between yours so hard it almost hurts.

You swallow audibly. "No, I haven't seen her in almost two weeks."

Her hand fists in your shirt, tugging it up, rough. "Good. Because you're mine. Say it."

You don't. Not yet. But it burns in your throat like a hot coal, desperate to get out. To distract yourself you grip her hips, pull her in harder and start grinding on her thigh more desperately.

When she drags you to her bedroom, she pushes you down onto the bed with both hands on your shoulders. There's no asking. There is not checking. She knows what you want and what you need.

You arch up to meet her, gasping as her hands slide down your sides, possessive. She pulls your hands above your head, pinning your wrists with one hand while the other runs down your stomach and slips below the waistband of your panties and between your legs and you moan so loudly it's embarrassing.

"You like this, don't you? Being handled like this."

And god, you do.

Her fingers find a toe-curling rhythm and you become a panting mess.

"Look at you," she whispers against your neck. "Falling apart so deliciously."

She has the power to ruin you again. And you would let her.

You will let her.

~~~

Another time you come it's well past midnight and she opens the door to you leaning against the frame, hair messy from the wind, shirt half buttoned.

She doesn't say anything and just steps aside to let you in.

Once the door is closed you are already undoing the rest of your buttons, moving toward her like it's inevitable.

"Couldn't sleep," you say, voice quiet, but there's a rasp to it that always gives you away, the desperation you try to hide.

"Bullshit," she mutters, already grabbing you by your hips, walking you backward toward the couch. "You just needed this."

You smirk a little bit. "Maybe I did."

The back of your knees hit the couch and you sit, legs spreading automatically, eyes dragging down her body like you own her. Like this isn't casual. Like it never was.

She steps between your thighs and grabs your chin, tilting your head up to look at her. Her hands are warm, her eyes reveal emotions you don't want to admit and the way she's looking down at you like you're her world makes you want to break your own rules. Same goes for her apparently because the next thing you know, she's whispering "say it. Say you missed me."

You hold her gaze, defiant at first. But she drags her thumb across your lower lip, pressing until you part it slightly and your breath hitches. But still, you shake your head.

She pushes you down flat against the couch and turns around to go to the bedroom. At first you lay there, confused, but then she shows up, wearing the strap on. The same fucking strap you used to use together.

You groan at the sight of her. Her hands are rough on your thighs, dragging them open wider as she settles between them, grinding down slowly, letting the tip of the fake cock tease you.

You let your head fall back against the cushion, your nails digging into her waist through her shirt.

She grabs the strap on and pushes it slowly into you and enjoys the way your whole body shudders from the sensation.

"You think about me when you're alone?" she asks, rolling her hips against yours.

Your laugh is breathless. "Don't flatter yourself."

She slides her hand up your chest, under your open shirt, palm flat against your skin until she finds your breast, cupping it roughly. Her thumb brushes over your nipple and when she softly pinches it, you arch up into her hand immediately.

"Liar, you came dripping," she whispers.

She leans down to suck the nipple into her mouth and you gasp.

"Say it," she whispers again. "You missed me."

Your grip tightens on her waist. You shift under her to grant her more access, to make her speed up her movements.

"Say it, Y/N."

"I missed you," you admit finally, voice breaking a little bit.

And that does it.

She picks up a quicker pace and starts fucking you like she wants to make sure you will not be able to walk the next day.

When it's over, you pull her down into you and kiss her. Not soft. Not sweet. But definitely desperate.

~~~ One late afternoon, your office is quiet, people are already slipping out early for the weekend, you're half-asleep at your desk going through emails when a knock comes at your door.

You glance up and Agatha lets herself in before you can say "come in".

She's wearing short dress that expose her creamy thighs and you catch yourself staring.

"I'm working," you say flatly, but your pulse skips when you see the hunger in her eyes.

"Don't care." She shuts the door behind her with a soft click and locks it.

"Agatha-"

But she's already crossing the room, hands grabbing your collar, dragging you up from your chair. Her mouth finds yours and boy, you don't know how you went months without her mouth. It seems almost like a blasphemy.

You stumble back, hands gripping the edge of your desk.

"God, you're impossible," you mutter against her mouth, but don't push her away.

She laughs shortly. "You're the one with your legs already shaking."

She's not wrong.

"Five minutes," she says, already turning you around, pressing you forward until your hips hit the desk edge. Her hands are under your skirt before you can argue, sliding your underwear down with maddening slowness.

"Agatha-"

Then there's another knock and you freeze. Agatha freezes too, hands still on your thighs.

"Hey?" It's Jen's voice. "You in there?"

Agatha grins against your shoulder.

"Once second!" you call out, voice a little too high.

Agatha steps back, only just, but instead of pulling away completely, she slides down to her knees.

"Don't you dare," you hiss under your breath while her hands grip your thighs and her mouth presses right against you.

You slap a hand over your own mouth.

"Seriously, I just need to grab the reports," Jen says through the door.

"Yeah, okay, hold on!" you manage, scrambling to pull yourself together while Agatha is still there, on her knees, dragging her tongue through your folds maddeningly slowly.

You take a deep breath and finally push her away, not without noticing her mischievous wink as she hides under the desk.

When you unlock the door, Jen pokes her head in.

"Sorry, I know it's late, but... are you okay? You look kind of... flushed."

"I'm fine," you lie through your teeth. "Just a long day."

Jen raises an eyebrow at you, but doesn't question it.

She moves into the room, flipping through the files on your desk while Agatha is still under there, silent, uncharacteristically patient. You sit down again, hoping to hide her in case Jen comes around the table. You feel Agatha's breath against your inner thigh. She nudges you with her nose.

You bite your tongue so hard you taste blood.

Jen grabs what she needs and heads back toward the door, pausing just before she leaves.

"Nice lipstick, by the way," she adds casually. "Is that new?"

You can't answer so you just shrug and finally breath out loud when she leaves and the door clicks shut behind her.

"You're insane," you say toward your desk.

Agatha's laugh comes low from beneath it. "You love it."

And then her hands grip your knees, pushing them apart wider, and her mouth is back on you.

When she finally pulls you over the edge, you have to bite your own hand to keep quiet.

Your entire body is trembling while she stands up, looking completely composed.

She grabs your chin and places a kiss on your lips, smirking.

"See you Sunday brunch," she murmurs against your mouth and then she leaves you there, undone, half-dressed, heart racing.

~~~

This is your first Sunday brunch since you started sleeping with Agatha. You had to cancel the last one because the damn woman kept you up until 5AM and you were too worried it would look suspicious if you both showed up sleep deprived.

Agatha sits across from you in white linen dress, hair done up with loose strands framing her face. She looks so good that you almost kissed her when you arrived. Instead you busied yourself with asking Alice about her new project and getting excited by Billy's latest fling.

You're mid-sip of coffee when you feel it. A barely there nudge, the tip of a foot against your ankle.

You glance up at her and she's leaning back in her chair, arm draped lazily over the back of Alice's seat, not looking at you.

You clear your throat and shift your leg away.

Another nudge, this time stronger, her foot sliding up your calf slowly.

You glare at her and she finally glances your way. She has the audacity to look amused.

You press your knees together under the table, trying to focus on your toast, but Agatha's toe brushes higher, over your skin, right up to the inside of your knee now.

You grip your fork harder and then her foot settles against the inside of your thigh, heel digging in just enough to make you ache.

You feel a wave of warmth wash over you and you pull away your shirt from your neck to get some air.

"Okay, seriously," Alice gestures to your neck. "That is definitely a hickey."

You freeze for a split second too long and it takes a tremendous amount of willpower not to glare at Agatha immediately. She sucks and bites on your skin all the time that you can't even keep up with the marks and how visible they are. You honestly haven't even noticed that one.

You pull your shirt back up. "Oh yeah." You feel heat spreading over your cheeks, panicking too much to be able to explain.

"Olivia's possessive," Jen smirks into her mimosa.

"Yeah, she is," you say. And you know it's a mistake the second the words leave your mouth.

Agatha's knuckles go wide from how hard she's gripping her coffee mug and there's another nudge at your thighs. Now more of a kick.

Alice laughs. "Guess she has to mark her territory."

Agatha stands suddenly, not dramatically, but quickly enough to draw the attention to herself.

"Bathroom," she says simply.

You should stay where you are. You really should.

But a minute later, you're excusing yourself too. You push the door open quietly and Agatha's there, arms crossed, leaning against the sink.

"You let them think it's her? That's what we're doing now?"

You shut the door behind you. "Don't start."

"No?" she snaps. "I hate it. You should have said it wasn't her."

Your hands curl into fists. "What do you want from me? We decided it would be casual, I don't want them to-"

"You!" she growls and pushes at you until your back is slammed against the door. "You decided that it would be casual."

This should be a breaking point, a moment where you finally stop this game and part ways, but she's so close and looking at you with the quiet desperation and want that you find yourself dragging her closer and kissing her.

"You're mine, I don't care what you say. You've always been mine," she growls into your mouth. "Tell me she makes you feel like this."

Her fingers find the hem of your skirt and your soaked panties too quickly and she slides inside.

You bite back a moan. "Agatha, please..."

You literally haven't seen Olivia in two weeks, you've been having almost daily sex with Agatha who makes you... fuck.

"Please," Agatha whispers and you look at her surprised. Agatha doesn't beg. But now she's begging, her eyes a little bit watery and you can't do this with her pressed so close and looking so beautiful and she smells like home and- "Tell me you will end it."

You nod because who are you kidding. "I will."

~~~

You break up with Olivia the next day.

You don't say why and she doesn't look surprised. She just looks at you and says "it’s always been her, hasn’t it?"

You don't deny it.

~~~

You don't text Agatha, you simply go to her apartment and when she opens the door and looks at you expectantly, you nod and your mouth spreads into a soft smile.

Agatha's eyes flicker, her face softening and she pulls you inside. Her hand cups your cheek and her thumb brushes just under your eye, as if checking that you're really here.

She kisses you.

Nothing like before - no rush, no desperation. It's slow and warm and her mouth moves against yours like she's savoring it.

"I don't want this to be casual," she whispers afterwards.

You look into her eyes and pull her closer by her waist. "Me neither.” You press your forehead against hers. “But you have to try. No more workaholic stuff.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “I promise.”

And as you’re standing there, foreheads pressed, arms circled around each other, you wonder if in another universe, you don’t get back together. What a fucked up universe that must be…

[lucygraysboy]

“yeah, yeah, don’t mention it.” jesse waves his hand in a dismissive manner, cheeks growing rosy and an awkward smile blooming on his lips. he’s not used to being treated like a hero and doesn’t actually think he’s done anything worthy of such hearty gratitude. if he was the one struggling to swim to the surface, he’d hope billy’s girl would try to help him out, too. animosities aside. his moral compass is skewed but at the end of the day his heart is in the right place — billy will always be his little brother, no matter how often they argue or how long they go without talking to each other, and lucy gray… well, billy loves her. “i lost my flip flops,” billy grumbles when jesse wraps his arm around his waist, helping him up the trail. both of them look down at his bare feet. it’s hard to see in the darkness, on the trail where the pines don’t allow for more than a sliver of moonlight to shine through, but the blond still lets out a chuckle and taps his friend on the back. “go on, billy boy. we’ll find ‘em in the mornin’.” they do manage to stumble upon pat garrett’s flashlight, though. jesse turns it on and lights the way, occasionally looking over his shoulder and purposely slowing down to keep a close eye on lucy gray. he doesn’t want to hear more about this brawl that ensured between billy and pat, or whatever had happened earlier between him and his girl. it’s none of jesse’s business and it only makes him feel awkward, having to witness this.

billy spins in his arms, regaining more control over his body and frowning at lucy gray’s words. “i never called you a floozy! i said you’s a cheater, which you are by the way! but that don’t mean i don’t care ‘bout some asshole tryin’ to feel you up on a boat! so i put ‘im in ‘is place, what’s so terrible ‘bout that? are you gon’ defend ‘im too now?! won’t touch you again, ’s all that matters,” the cowboy grumbles, pressing his fingertips to his torn brow and wincing when they come back bloody. he’s supposed to be back on set in a week! now he’s getting angry again. well, at least until lucy gray mentions ice. that would indeed feel good on his face, on his lip that seems to be pulsing more furiously with each step and on his brow. he’d have to agree with her openly so he says nothing, just leans back on jesse as they keep walking. pines and rocks making the soles of his feet hurt. “why was you gettin’ down there in the water all by yourself anyway? huh? a few bucks in soap and shampoo really worth losin’ your life for?” he asks, his voice angry, annoyed even though the bite’s gone now. he doesn’t have the energy for another fight. “thanks, jesse. thanks for savin’ my reckless ex-girlfriend’s life. she can’t take care of herself.” jesse just runs a hand over his face, unsure how many times he can repeat the phrase don’t mention it before they take it literally and shut up. “blah, blah, blah.” billy turns around again, making that hand gesture, where his fingers and thumb repeatedly snap together, indicating her pointless babbling. jesse has to grab him by said hand and urge him forward. “you know, jess, he sent her pictures of his fuckin’ filly! an’ she got mad at me!” the blond just raises his eyebrows, lets out a hum and keeps them walking, feeling way more awkward than he did as a kid when his parents were arguing in front of him.

when they reach the campsite, the bonfire’s still burning and the light above the steps to the old RV is on. pat’s sitting on a folding chair, clutching his side and hissing as doc examines his jaw and the insides of his mouth. apparently one of his teeth is a bit wobbly now. they say nothing when they see billy, lucy gray and jesse. doc lifts his hand in a silent hello and jesse responds the same way. pat and billy eye each other for a moment, but then billy begins to walk back to the camper without a word. pat, being pat, sticks his foot out and trips him. jesse grabs his stumbling friend by the shoulder and just as billy attempts to retaliate insists, “let it go, billy boy. let it go.” he hands him a cool beer bottle to put on his swollen lip, but billy turns it down and heads straight for his bunk, making sure to wipe his dirty feet on pat’s fart-filled sleepin’ bag before climbing up. 

“thank you for that too, for comin’ just in time jesse.” what a rare moment in time, lucy gray treating him with sincere appreciation and kindness. really, he’s done a lot of shit. but what the hell would she have done if not for them coming out? it’s a confusing feeling, knowing all the bad jesse has still done but he did her a favor she can’t be more grateful for… and she’d go as far to say he helped her from drowning. billy would have been too late if her feet hadn’t become untangled from her skirt. “thank you,” for the towel. wringing her hair out again, she stands wobbly in discomfort and from her nerves that still has her hands and limbs shaking. shuffling over, slipping her feet into her flip flops, “it’s not the time for it! you idiot! since you don’t care about my honor anyway— when you disrespect me callin’ me a floozy. and be honest billy, you only beat up pat not to defend me, but to show him dominance.” since living like a monk is all that’s on his mind, he thought pat was going to get a night with her. “to get your rocks off, from all that psychotic anger you were just filled with.” the tiny brunette scowls, “who doesn’t want to sleep at this point?” after what he’s done, his messed up face would break her heart any other time— but right now, he just deserves it. dragging herself along behind jesse because she IS going but not stopping with the comments, she’s looking to billy as they begin to walk, “won’t be any ice to apply to all that bullshit either.” be lucky if he finds a piece in one of the coolers, gesturing to his bloodied face. “how awful.” to get beaten like that, to have water still stuck in her nose she’s trying to blow into her shirt, to be soaking wet in her fresh clean clothes she JUST put back on. it’s really adding fuel to her low and depressed and terrible mood. hating every single damn step of the way, has her tensed, walking uncomfortably and ready to slam her face against a boulder. “mhm, no thanks to you,” she repeats, “you know i can’t swim. and you didn’t give a damn. what if jesse hadn’t came? you’d felt real bad once i wasn’t there to argue with anymore. to accuse bein’ a whore. a cheater. and whatever else horrific ideas you’ve copped up ‘bout me. and river? shut up, billy. just shut the hell up…textin’ any man on the face of this earth is the last thing I EVER will be doin’ again. i’ve had my fair share of men, by now. real dad who leaves me, preacher who berates me consistently and leaves me, best friend who leaves me, billy taupe who belittled me n’ my worth and leaves me, best friend who comes back into my life and sets us up off lies, that last guy who just had his own problems, best friend who comes back into my life again and then says i’m this and that. pat bein’ a sicko. so i don’t reckon all this, i know i’m long done with men.” who cares if jesse is hearing it all, she doesn’t give one flyin’ possum airing out all her dirty laundry. she doesn’t care about anything right this moment.

[junkuna]

°❀.ೃ࿔* ink me like one of your french girls - sukuna x reader

chapter 11 - tp ˎˊ˗

────────────────

࿔ pairing - tattooartist!sukuna x tattooartist!fem!reader

| preview - You glanced over your shoulder toward Sukuna’s house. The front window, slightly cracked open, spilled a warm, golden light onto the street. It was purely by chance that you caught sight of him — Sukuna, lounging in the living room, casual and relaxed. But he wasn’t alone.

࿔ fic tags - they're both idiots so 0 communication, DEFO gets frustrating at times / shameless smut, mostly vanilla though for the chapters ive already written / megumi is ur apprentice which is cute / sukuna + yujir BROTHERS / mahito is an asshole, mentions of attempted sexual assault. / enemies (ish?) to lovers / trying 2 go 4 a slow burn but i fear it's not as slow as i wanted it to be. will add more as we progress probably be i suck at describing my work / hate sex - hate kissing…? / sukuna begging (very ooc) / soo fluffy yum yum / he’s also a bit of a dick sometimes / TOXIC relationship

࿔ warnings - none tbh, mostly fluff but angst at the end, nothing major ! :)

࿔ wc - 4k

࿔ a/n - lmk to be added 2 tag listttt !!

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“You’re telling me that wasn’t a date?” Nobara said, raising her eyebrows so high you were surprised they didn’t fly off her face. She sprawled across your couch like she owned the place, one leg swinging over the armrest, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. Since it was your day off, she decided to show up at yours. Uninvited.

Not that you were mad about it.

“It wasn’t a date,” you insisted, flopping down onto the other end of the couch with a groan. “It was… an accident. An unfortunate accident.”

Nobara snorted. “Yeah, ‘accidentally’ getting food together, ‘accidentally’ paying for your stuff, and ‘accidentally’ looking at you like you hung the goddamn moon.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic,” she shot back, grabbing a pillow and chucking it at you. “Face it, idiot. The man is into you. And newsflash: you’re into him too.”

You caught the pillow with a scowl, hugging it to your chest. “I’m not into him,” you muttered, voice muffled against the fabric.

Nobara laughed, bright and ruthless. “You literally blush every time someone mentions his name.”

“I do not!”

“Yeah? Then why are you red right now?”

You peeked out from behind the pillow — and sure enough, your reflection in the window showed your cheeks absolutely glowing. You groaned even louder, sinking lower into the couch as if it might swallow you whole.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you grumbled. “I’m just— I don’t know, confused. Or maybe I hit my head. Or maybe I’m sick.”

“You’re sick, all right,” Nobara teased, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a smug little smile. “Love sick.”

You threw the pillow at her. She caught it easily, laughing so hard she nearly toppled off the couch.

“Seriously though,” she said, straightening up a little. “He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. I mean, he paid for your supplies without making a huge deal about it. And he beat the shit out of some creep for you.”

You hesitated. The memory of Sukuna standing there with bloody knuckles and a thunderstorm behind his eyes flashed across your mind — and worse, the way he had touched you afterward, so gently, like you were something breakable.

Your throat felt tight.

“Still,” you said, forcing a shrug. “It’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated with you,” Nobara pointed out, but her voice had softened. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

You stared at the ceiling, biting the inside of your cheek. You hated how much sense she was making. Hated even more the way your heart twisted when you thought about seeing him again.

“Don’t wanna,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nobara didn’t argue. She just shifted closer, bumping your shoulder with hers in silent support.

“That’s okay,” she said simply. “But when you are ready? Maybe stop pretending you hate him.”

You let out a breathless laugh, blinking up at the ceiling like it might have answers hidden in the cracks.

The cracks in the ceiling blurred a little as you blinked, breathing out slowly through your nose. The room was warm, safe, filled with the soft hum of city noise leaking in through the windows and the steady rhythm of Nobara flipping lazily through her phone beside you.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave this cocoon of denial you’d built around yourself.

But the cracks — like everything else lately — wouldn’t let you look away for long.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” Nobara said without even glancing up. She nudged your knee with her foot. “You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles.”

“Maybe I like thinking,” you muttered. “Better than making reckless decisions and ending up regretting them.”

She hummed, unimpressed. “Or maybe you’re just scared.”

You stayed quiet, because you didn’t have a good comeback. Not one that would sound convincing, anyway.

And truthfully, you were scared.

Scared of how easily that asshole had gotten under your skin.

I mean, how dare he!?

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Nobara said, softer now. She dropped her phone onto the coffee table and sat up properly, crossing her legs underneath her. “But don’t lie to yourself either. That’s just cruel.”

You gave a humorless little laugh. “You’re way too good at the whole tough-love thing.”

“It’s my best trait,” she grinned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Well, that and being ridiculously good-looking.”

“You’re definitely something,” you muttered, grabbing a pillow and tossing it half-heartedly at her. Nobara caught it easily, smug as ever.

“Good-looking, charming, talented…” she started listing off on her fingers, “and a better friend than you deserve, honestly.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Alright, alright. I get it. You’re the total package.”

“I am,” she agreed brightly, settling back against the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Unlike some people around here, I’m emotionally available and not a menace to society.”

“Speaking of menaces,” you said dryly, “how’s Megumi doing with Sukuna?”

Nobara barked out a laugh. “Oh my god. Those two are like… I don’t even know how to explain it. Megumi hates him, but he also listens to him. It’s the weirdest thing.”

“Sounds about right,” you said, imagining Megumi’s perpetually unimpressed face while Sukuna probably pestered him like an older brother who thought he was hilarious.

“I think Sukuna kinda likes him,” Nobara added thoughtfully. “In his own asshole way. Like, he’s harder on Megumi than he is on Yuji, but he actually gives a shit if Megumi gets good, y’know?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “He acts like he doesn’t care about anything, but he does. Way more than he lets on.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, too honest, too raw. Nobara shot you a look — the kind that said she wasn’t letting you wiggle away from this conversation much longer.

“Yeah,” she said casually, but her eyes gleamed. “Weird how you noticed that.”

You sank deeper into the couch with a groan. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

Nobara just smirked, victorious. “Sure. For now.”

You opened your mouth to fire back a retort when a sudden knock at the door interrupted you.

You blinked, exchanging a glance with Nobara. “You expecting someone?”

She shook her head, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

You got up and crossed the living room, pulling open the door — only to find Yuji standing there, beaming with a paper bag clutched in his hands.

“Hey!” he said brightly. “I brought snacks! You said you had the day off, so I figured we could hang out?”

”Jesus,” you replied. “What is with you guys and showing up uninvited at my house?”

Behind you, Nobara immediately shouted, “LET HIM IN!” like she was dying of boredom.

You stepped aside, and Yuji barreled in, kicking off his shoes and tossing the bag onto the coffee table like he owned the place. He dropped onto the couch next to Nobara and pulled out a mountain of junk food — chips, candy, soda, some weird microwaveable thing that looked vaguely edible.

“Is that… is that an entire box of donuts?” you asked, horrified and impressed all at once.

“Uh, yeah,” Yuji said, as if it was obvious. “We’re gonna need fuel for our movie marathon.”

Nobara immediately reached for the donuts. “Finally, someone who understands priorities.”

You laughed and sat back down with them, the three of you sprawled out comfortably across the couch like a bunch of lazy cats. For the first time in a while, the tightness in your chest loosened. It was easy with them — easier than thinking about the mess you were in with Sukuna, or the fact that somewhere deep down you didn’t hate him nearly as much as you wanted to.

They bickered about what movie to watch — Nobara wanted horror, Yuji wanted something stupid and funny — and you ended up being the tiebreaker. Eventually, you picked some ridiculous action movie none of you had seen before, and within ten minutes, Nobara was throwing popcorn at the TV and Yuji was laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

You let yourself forget everything else for a while. Forget the ache in your chest. Forget the confusion. Forget the way Sukuna’s grin kept flashing behind your eyes when you closed them. Forget how good it felt to sleep in his arms, how safe you felt.

God, you needed a drink.

—

As the movie dragged on, you realized it wasn’t enough to just snack on junk food. You needed something stronger to keep the laughter rolling — and, frankly, to numb your brain for a while.

“Wait,” you suddenly said, eyes lighting up. “I have that bottle of whiskey from last time. We can totally make this a drinking game!”

Nobara’s eyes widened, and Yuji’s face lit up with the enthusiasm only someone who had never been to a true drinking party could have.

“You have whiskey?” Yuji repeated, leaning forward, practically bouncing. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

You rolled your eyes. “Because I didn’t want to get wasted again.”

“Come on, one round. It’s a marathon, after all,” Nobara chimed in, holding up a half-empty bag of chips like it was the perfect excuse.

“You guys are terrible influences,” you muttered, but you were already reaching for the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. You poured three generous shots, and when you handed them out, you couldn’t help but notice how carefree the moment felt. It was just you, your friends, a terrible movie, and some alcohol.

Yuji grinned, not waiting for you to finish before downing the shot in one go. “This isn’t bad,” he declared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You guys drink like this all the time?”

“Not all the time,” you said, laughing at how he was still barely holding the glass steady in his hand. “But sometimes, yeah. Just to forget… you know.” You let the words hang in the air, but they didn’t feel as heavy as they might have been earlier. The whiskey already started to warm you from the inside, a welcome relief from the coldness that had been creeping in lately.

Nobara took her shot with a satisfied hum, eyes narrowing slightly at the burn. “I’m in the mood for something lighter after that,” she said, reaching for the bag of chips. “Anyone want more?”

You nodded, then tossed back your own shot, feeling the warmth spread down your throat. “Sure, why not.”

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of easy laughter and the occasional teasing banter as you all took turns picking shots or drinks from the fridge. The movie played in the background, but no one really paid attention to it anymore. Every time Yuji cracked a joke, you found yourself laughing a little harder than before, the whiskey loosening something inside you. Even Nobara, who was usually so sharp and sarcastic, seemed to be in a rare good mood, occasionally letting out a breathless laugh.

At some point, the three of you must have started talking about work. Yuji had questions about tattoos — things you hadn’t considered explaining before, like why certain designs were more difficult than others or how to handle clients who weren’t as easygoing as he was. You found yourself going into detail about your craft, your hands moving as you spoke, showing off your skill and technique. Nobara, sitting beside you, was oddly quiet, paying attention to every word you said.

“I think you should teach me how to do shading better,” Yuji said, leaning forward, eager as ever. “You know, like how you make it look all smooth and clean. Mine always comes out patchy.”

You nodded, appreciating the earnestness in his voice. “It takes practice. And patience.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” he mused, but you could tell he was serious about it.

“Yeah, but it’s worth it,” you said with a smile, surprised to find that you meant it. It felt good to talk about something you loved without worrying about the tension of everything else.

Nobara raised her glass and shook her head. “I can’t believe you two are talking about tattoos like this is some professional seminar. The whole point of drinking is to not think, not lecture each other.”

You laughed, but there was no denying the sense of calm that had settled over you. You might have been a little tipsy, but everything about tonight felt easy. There were no underlying thoughts or complicated feelings pressing against you, just the sound of friends and a dimly flickering TV.

At some point, Yuji fell asleep on the couch, completely sprawled out like he’d passed out mid-laugh. You and Nobara looked at him for a moment, then quietly shook your heads.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” you said, feeling the heaviness of the night creeping back.

Nobara leaned back into the couch, her eyes flickering towards the clock. “I don’t mind. It’s nice just being here for once, you know?”

You nodded, your thoughts drifting. For once, you didn’t feel the usual gnawing anxiety in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the company. But you were in the moment, and that was enough.

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, “it really is.”

You glanced over at Yuji, sprawled out across the couch with a half‑empty soda can still in his hand, and nudged Nobara. “He’s out cold. You up for something stupid?”

Nobara sat up, pushing her hair out of her face and flashing you a wicked grin. “Always. Truth or dare?”

You hesitated a moment, then smirked. “Dare.”

Her eyes lit up as she thought. “Alright then. I dare you to go into the bathroom, lock the door, and sing the most over‑the‑top power ballad you can—full volume. No shame.”

You groaned but rose from the couch, swiping a stray chip crumb from your shirt as you climbed to your feet. “You’re despicable.” You marched off as Nobara’s laughter followed you into the hallway. Inside the tiny bathroom, you locked the door, eyed your reflection, and belted out a ridiculously dramatic rendition of “I Will Always Love You” into the echoing tiles. When you emerged, hair a mess and voice half‑shredded, Nobara was doubled over, tears of laughter in her eyes. How Yuji was still asleep was beyond you.

“Okay, my turn,” she wheezed, still clutching her stomach. She straightened, crossing her arms.

“Truth or dare?”

She gave you a narrowed look. “Truth.”

You nodded, biting your lip in mock seriousness. “What’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done to impress someone?”

She flopped back onto the couch, drumming her fingers on the armrest. “Oh, man… there was that time I tried to learn guitar overnight because some guy said he loved music. Woke up with blistered fingers and only half‑learned “Wonderwall” before he ghosted me.”

You burst out laughing again. “That is embarrassing behavior,” you declared, handing her a handful of chips. You both crunched in contented silence for a beat before she stretched out and smirked.

“Alright, new dare,” she announced, tossing a chip into her mouth. “We’re gonna TP Sukuna’s place.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Are you insane?” you coughed, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand.

She laughed, unbothered. “Come on, it’ll be hilarious! Plus, you owe me for that last truth. Equal humiliation rights.”

You hesitated, glancing at the clock and then out the window where the night had settled in, quiet and thick with the warm buzz of summer air. “I don’t know…” you muttered, dragging the word out.

The brunette sat up straighter, leaning close enough that you could smell the fruity scent of her drink on her breath. “I’ll go with you! What’s the worst that could happen? We’re stealthy. We’re ninjas.” She struck a ridiculous pose, karate‑chopping the air dramatically, which made you snort despite yourself.

You looked at Yuji, still passed out on the couch, blissfully unaware of the chaos being plotted around him. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the leftover adrenaline from the past few days, but suddenly the idea didn’t seem so crazy.

“Fine,” you said, dragging the word out with a groan. “But if he murders us, I’m blaming you in my will.”

Nobara whooped, jumping to her feet and running to grab the toilet paper from your bathroom. “Operation: Decorate the Bastard’s House is a go!” she crowed, stuffing rolls into a tote bag like you were about to pull off the heist of the century.

—

The night air hit your cheeks, crisp and cool against the lingering flush from the alcohol. You tightened your hoodie around yourself as you and Nobara half-jogged, half-stumbled down the street, trying and failing to be stealthy. Every time one of you tripped over a crack in the sidewalk or snorted too loudly, you’d both dissolve into a fit of muffled laughter, clutching each other for balance.

“This is so stupid,” you whispered, still laughing as you turned the corner onto Sukuna’s block.

Nobara grinned, completely unrepentant. “Yeah, but it’s gonna be legendary.”

You paused at the end of the street, ducking behind a parked car like you were two spies on a secret mission. Sukuna’s place sat a few houses down, lights off except for the faint glow from the living room window.

“Okay,” Nobara breathed, pulling a roll of toilet paper from the tote bag and handing it to you like it was some sacred artifact. “You take the left tree, I’ll take the right.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “We’re actually doing this?”

She nodded solemnly. “We are. For justice.”

Suppressing another giggle, you crept across the street, crouching low even though it probably made you look more suspicious. Nobara was already tossing the first roll with impressive skill, the white paper unraveling beautifully through the air and catching on the branches of the tree in Sukuna’s front yard.

You tossed yours next, laughing breathlessly when it caught on the roof instead and trailed down like some chaotic white flag. You quickly grabbed another roll and tried again, managing to properly drape it across the tree this time.

The two of you worked fast, crisscrossing the front yard with streams of paper, draping it over bushes, the mailbox, even the porch railings. It looked absolutely ridiculous.

At one point, Nobara tripped over her own foot and landed flat on her ass in the middle of Sukuna’s lawn. You clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle the hysterical wheeze that escaped you, your entire body shaking with silent laughter.

“Help me, you traitor!” she hissed, reaching up for you dramatically.

You grabbed her hand and hauled her up, both of you staggering a little before collapsing against each other in another fit of drunken giggles.

When you finally pulled away, you surveyed your masterpiece, pride swelling in your chest. The entire front of Sukuna’s house looked like it had been attacked by a very angry, very determined flock of white paper birds.

“We’re gonna die,” you said, still laughing.

Nobara wiped a tear from her eye. “Worth it.”

She clapped her hands together, clearly thrilled with herself, and turned to you with wild eyes. “Come on! We need to leave before he notices!”

You snorted, still slightly hunched over from laughter, the adrenaline making your head spin. “Yeah, I’m coming,” you said, straightening up and dusting your hands off. You were just about to follow her when something — a flicker of motion out of the corner of your eye — snagged your attention.

Your steps faltered. Your heart gave a sharp, inexplicable little jerk.

You glanced over your shoulder toward Sukuna’s house. The front window, slightly cracked open, spilled a warm, golden light onto the street. It was purely by chance that you caught sight of him — Sukuna, lounging in the living room, casual and relaxed.

And he wasn’t alone.

A girl stood in front of him, her hands curling into his shirt, her face tilted up towards his with an easy, intimate familiarity that made your stomach lurch. His mouth brushed against hers lazily, like he had all the time in the world to waste on her. She laughed into the kiss, her fingers fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him even closer.

Your chest went tight.

You stood frozen there, staring like some idiot with toilet paper still stuck to your wrist. Nobara was already halfway down the sidewalk before she realized you weren’t following.

“Hey!” she whisper-yelled, jogging back toward you and tugging on your sleeve. “What are you doing? He’s gonna see us!”

You shook your head quickly, swallowing around the sudden dryness in your throat. “Nothing. I thought I… heard something,” you muttered. You forced your legs to move, to stumble after her into the night.

You didn’t want to think about it. You couldn’t think about it.

Because you hated him.

You hated him.

You hated him.

The words repeated in your mind like a broken record, desperate and panicked, trying to drown out the image of him kissing someone else with so much ease. Like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

You barely registered stumbling back into your apartment, the slam of the door behind you, the way Nobara threw herself onto your couch with a victorious cheer. She was laughing about how you’d both managed to totally toilet paper the trees and the porch railing without getting caught, about how legendary you were going to be when Yuji inevitably found out.

You forced yourself to smile and laugh along, but it was hollow, an echo of what it should’ve been.

Because all you could see when you closed your eyes was Sukuna’s hands — those tattooed hands — splayed possessively over another girl’s hips. The lazy grin he always wore when he was kissing someone, the same one he wore when he kissed you. When he fucked you.

And it shouldn’t matter.

It shouldn’t fucking matter. Because you were just friends. Not even friends, you hated each other, you just hooked up from time to time.

You shifted on the couch, feeling sick and dizzy, blaming the alcohol even though you knew it wasn’t just that. Nobara popped open another beer and handed it to you, nudging your arm.

“You’re being quiet,” she said, watching you closely. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast, too hard. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

She seemed to buy it, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table and rambling on about how you needed to plan your revenge in case Sukuna found out and retaliated. Something about saran-wrapping his car, maybe even glitter-bombing his mailbox.

You laughed weakly, letting her fill the space with her endless energy, grateful for it. Grateful that you didn’t have to talk, didn’t have to explain why your chest felt like it was caving in, why your stomach was still twisted into knots.

After a while, Nobara nodded off against the armrest, the TV flashing mindlessly in the background. You sat there in the dim light, staring blankly ahead, fingers picking at the label of your beer bottle.

You hated him.

You said it over and over in your head until the words lost all meaning.

Until they felt less like the truth and more like a lie you were trying to force yourself to believe.

Because the awful truth was — no matter how much you wanted to hate him — some stupid, traitorous part of you cared.

And you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

—

taglist - @beabamboo @snapcracklen @donwalkers-henchman @fushiguroooozzz @emochosoluvr @surgikull

lmk 2 b added !!

[cerisereids]

𝗜𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆- 𝗦.𝗥. (𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗣𝘁. 𝟳)

Pairing- Dad!Spencer x Mom!Reader

WC- 0.7k

Summary- Diana Jane arrives.

Contains- descriptions of birth, pain that comes with giving birth, contractions, etc.

A/N- as always, divider from my homie @thecutestgrotto

Night Changes Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Birthday Event

Your stomach is being torn apart. At least, that’s what it feels like when your contractions are only 3 minutes apart. You practice your breathing, in-out-out, just like your birthing coach told you to. It doesn’t help. You scream in agony, nails biting into Spencer’s forearm as he punches the speed a little harder.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, it’s a weak attempt, but it’s all he can manage as he maneuvers through rush hour traffic.

“Spencer, I think I’m dying!” You wail, hands clutching the demon in your stomach, forcing its way out. Tears stream down your face, mixing in with sweat. You can only imagine how you must smell. You’ve been pregnant for 40 weeks, you knew this was coming, it still doesn’t make it any less painful.

Everything moves so quickly once you make it to the hospital– you’re being wheeled off to a room, your OBGYN enters, you push. The baby still won’t come out.

“She’s stubborn, I’ll tell you that,” your doctor says. You manage a breathy laugh, your eyes finding the exact culprit to blame for that. Spencer smiles sheepishly. “Keep breathing, I’ll be back in 15 and we’ll try pushing again, okay?”

You nod, even though nothing is okay, you’re terrified, you’re in pain, and you want a cheeseburger so fucking badly.

Spencer’s not much better, his palms slippery from the sweat that’s accumulated over the past three hours. He was there when your water broke, you had just stood up after dinner, the splashing sound accompanied by a look of sheer panic in your eyes. He was quick on his feet, muscle memory kicking in as he grabbed the hospital bag, making quick work to the car.

He stands here now, clad in scrubs, under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, utterly terrified. He’s thought a lot about his ability to be a father, whether it should be a privilege granted to him at all. You’re too good to him, though, insistent that he’d be more than perfect. He believed her for a while, but now that it’s actually happening, he’s never been more terrified. He’s been kidnapped three times, stared down serial killers in the face, yet fatherhood is the scariest threat of all.

Another wail from his wife rips him out of his self pity as he rushes to your side. He signals the nurse to grab the doctor once more. There’s a fire in your eye that he hasn’t seen before, a fierce need to get this baby out. You sit up, legs propped up and ready to go.

It takes about 10 pushes, a lot of tears, and some loud shrieks before Diana Jane Reid wails herself into the world. Spencer is in complete and total awe. She’s tiny, sitting at about 6 pounds 6 ounces. He’s still as he watches you cradle the newborn in your arms, tears streaming down your face at her beauty. His own eyes start to gloss over when a nurse touches his arm slightly.

“Do you want a turn, Dad?” The name nearly knocks the wind out of him, and he nods his head. She hands him the baby, scooping her into his big arms.

She snuggles into him instinctively, and Spencer vows then and there that he’ll do anything within his power to protect her, keep her safe, love her. He thought he’d reached his capacity to love, that it couldn't get stronger. He was wrong, he was so, so wrong. Now, with this tiny human in his arms, he thinks he can conquer the world.

He looks at you, your eyes shining with that same, fierce love. You chuckle together, unbelieving that you’d really done this. You brought this child into the world together. You’re going to raise her together. You’re going to give her siblings together.

He places the infant in her small glass crib, his finger swooping down the slope of her nose before moving to his wife. He kisses you on the cheek, the nose, the lips. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“Do you want that cheeseburger now?” He asks, and you guffaw a laugh.

“Yes, yes I do,” you respond, “but first, give me the baby.”

[bloggerspam]

Jason is not afraid to admit he's wrong.

Jason is not really afraid of much of anything, really.

Which is a lie, because he's currently sitting at a table across from Bruce, having breakfast and he's not sure what's worse: the silence, or the fact that he agreed to have breakfast with the man in the first place.

It's just that something about Bruce felt different when he had asked Jason yesterday if he would be willing to have breakfast with him before he went to WE to check on his project's progress.

So he unthinkingly said yes, and now Jason doesn't know what the hell he's doing here.

"So how are you?" Bruce's voice hits him like a shot of caffeine. "What do you do nowadays to fill the time?"

"You know what I do." Jason answers, glancing at his motorcycle helmet seated beside him. It's no Red Hood helmet, but it's got red accents, and Bruce is smart enough to know what he means anyway.

"What else, though?" Bruce is not deterred, waving his fork around. He had chosen a burger, and is eating it with a knife and fork like the heathen he is. "You and your siblings have so many hobbies it's hard to keep track of."

Jason gives Bruce a disbelieving look. He knows for a fact that Bruce and Alfred have some kind of spreadsheet tracking system on every single one of the Batkids. He knows they update it obsessively.

He also knows his section is horribly out of date and the smallest of the bunch.

"I'm an old man, Jay—" Bruce coughs. "Jason, have pity on me and my terrible memory."

That gets Jason to raise an eyebrow. Slow, because he's an asshole like that. He stuffs his face with a pancake just as equally tasteless as the one from before—the one he couldn't focus on the taste of for vastly different reasons.

He really needs to summon Phantom again, but he's afraid Phantom won't answer.

"Indulge me?" Bruce practically begs. Jason huffs, swallowing his bite.

"I…read, still." Jason reluctantly answers. "And I've been building a bike with Roy. For Lian. An actual bicycle, not==not a motobike. When she's older obviously."

"How is she?" Bruce's eyes sparkle, the way it always does when children are involved. "I haven't seen her in a while, she's big now isn't she?"

"Four years old." Jason confirms, smiling almost reflexively. "She swore the other day, gave Dick a heart attack from what I heard. He didn't know Roy was the one that taught her."

They share a laugh at that, and it feels…it feels good. It feels normal, in an unfamiliar way.

For some reason, the newness sets him at ease.

"And the books?" Bruce encourages. "What have you been reading lately?"

"YAs, mostly." Jason quirks a smile. "Mysteries. I've been…I just finished this book, Thursday Murder Club."

"Interesting title." Bruce raises an eyebrow over a bite of his burger. "Was it good?"

"Yeah." Jason grins. "Kind of reminded me of you, actually."

"Yeah? How so?" Bruce encourages. Jason recognizes the look in his eyes—he's calculating something, no doubt immediately making a note to read the book when he has the time. It reminds Jason of when he was younger, when Bruce would watch Gray Ghost with him and would talk about the finer points of the plots and clues.

It makes the already warm core in his chest burn a little hotter, warms him from the tips of his head to the soles of his shoes, and it's hard not to feel good as he talks about the lastest book series.

It goes on for the rest of breakfast, Jason sinking into this new and not-new-before feeling of connecting with Bruce in some way. Just talking about this whacky, tender, and deeply fascinating view on growing older and being not only different but the same—a culmination of experiences of who you are and who you weren't and how all of those become you, all wrapped in a murder mystery.

It makes Jason yap.

And Bruce listens.

He always listens, even if he doesn't hear, and even though nothing is the same anymore it's like Jason's 13 years old again, comfortable for once in this huge Manor of a house, getting used to the idea of having not just a brother and a father again, but having a grandfather, of having family and a place to sleep and not being alone.

Before either of them can really know it, it's time to pay and get to WE. They've just stepped into the elevator when it all sort of clicks suddenly in his brain.

"Why did you invite me to breakfast?" Jason asks as the elevator doors close. The elevator music isn't quite soothing, but it's familiar in that way that all classical music seems to be. "Usually…"

Jason trails off, Bruce humming in that way that lets Jason know he's carefully picking his words.

Everything about Bruce is familiar and aching. It guts him, scares him with the possibility of routine.

Because no matter how familiar and comforting everything is, Jason's never going to react the same way as before. He's always going to be different, do things different, and he's already a walking reminder of things passed.

They keep trying to find Robin in him, and he doesn't know how else to show them that Robin is dead—Robin is in Damian, in Steph, in Tim, in Dick.

But the Robin Jason was choked on smoke and is still sitting in the fire.

That Robin is never coming back.

"I got some advice." Bruce finally settles on. "And I realized that I'd been unfair to you."

Jason raises an eyebrow, but before they can really dig into what all that means the elevator dings for Jason's floor. Bruce pats a heavy hand on Jason's shoulder, squeezing.

"I'm sorry, chum. It's not nearly enough for how much I've pushed and prodded and…and not done, but…for what it's worth, I'll do better." Bruce gently pushes Jason out, and god fuck it all, he's sincere about it too.

He's always been sincere, but this time…this time it feels different.

Jason doesn't want to hope, he's outgrown hope the way he's outgrown pixie boots, but somehow he can't help himself.

"Have a good day, son," Bruce waves with a little quirk to his lips. "It was nice getting to know you again."

Jason, baffled, waves back as the doors slide shut.

"Jason?" Jason blinks, turning to see Tucker and Tim at the end of the hall, just outside the door to the lab. Jason's been there a couple of times, but he's mostly been confined to meeting rooms and office areas for the more administrative side of the equation.

"Timbit." Jason greets, still a little thrown. "Tucker, morning."

"Hi, Jason." Tucker greets with a wide smile. "You have impeccable timing—my buddy Danny just ran off to do some field testing on the latest prototype!"

"Yeah?" Jason smiles back as he meets them at the door of the lab to enter with them. "Last I heard the prototype was still brittle even if it lasted longer."

"Abigail and Danny figured it out last night." Tim grins proudly, "There was an odd chemical reaction happening between two ingredients that was easily fixed with a substitution."

"Henri got the new batch mixed 30 minutes ago," Tuck continues as they walk into the lab to hustle and bustle. "Danny volunteered to get his legs stretched out, until then we can chat with Penelope about color pigments. Eventually we're going to have a wide array, but right now we want to choose a color that's recognizable but doesn't stand out."

"We need it to be distinct enough for us to recognize from a distance," Tim explains, "But won't stick out as targets to the Alley."

Jason hums as he's brought to a table of swatches, a variety of colors laid out on the table. Colors of all shades are arranged in rainbow order, though some have been marked future releases.

His eyes catches on a dark forest green, almost black in nature from certain angles.

He reaches for it, slides it closer to him, turns it this way and that in his gloved hands.

It's the color of Phantom's cape, a little darker to compensate for the different materials being used. It's matte, and looks almost velvet, despite being smooth to the touch.

His thumb rubs over it, back and forth, as if trying to trick itself into feeling that thick, soft fabric. All he can feel is the slight catch of plastic against the leather of his gloves.

"This one." Jason mutters, handing it over to Tim. He makes sure not to touch him when he does so, rubbing his thumb and index finger as if to try and keep the sense-memory of Phantom in his arms. "I want this one."

Tim's eyes light up in curiousity, but blessedly, he doesn't pry. He hands it over to Tucker, who tucks it away in the pocket of his tablet protector.

Jason is dragged away to choose other things—locations for the first building to be painted, logo designs, names.

He goes through them in a daze, rubbing his fingers and remembering.

Remembering the feel of Phantom's hands, of how he felt in his arms, on his chest, in his lap.

Something about today—the way Bruce has changed, the way the colors look brighter, the way he feels some cliche'd weight on his shoulders becoming infinitesimally lighter…it all makes him feel reckless and bold.

He'll summon Phantom tonight, try to talk it out. His plans of slow and careful wooing, of subtlety and letting Phantom make the decisions and moves get thrown out the window.

Tonight.

Dear Darcy...

Another AU borne from the HHD server--Touch-starved DoM with identity shenanigans. Follow here on AO3!

===

It isn't until well into their acquaintanceship that Jason notices something odd about Phantom.

That's not exactly true—Jason noticed it on their third mission together in a passing thought, but decided to not care about it on account of all the bullets and daggers being thrown at him and his team at the time.

Phantom is an ally, of sorts. A consult, perhaps, Jason doesn't really know.

It's hard to really say when they still don't really know what he does.

Though, again, that's not exactly true—Jason supposes it's more accurate to say they still don't really know what he can't do.

They go to him when the supernatural is involved, introduced to them via Zatanna when Jason expressed an adamant dislike of needing to ask JL Dark for anything (needing to ask Bruce for anything).

The ghost, a big name in the so called Realms world, is friendly and happy to help most of the time. He's a delight to work with in Jason's book, seeming to use his so-called ghost sense to read the room empathically—filling in the spaces when the quiet is too dark for the team, trailing behind silent as a shadow when even breathing is too loud, staying mostly out of the way and chiming in when necessary.

It helps that if shit hits the fan, Phantom can do something about it—it helps that that's the only time Phantom will ever butt in.

The Outlaws, Jason, is still to raw to handle playing nice, but Phantom makes it easy.

Phantom makes it effortless.

It makes Jason's gut roil in ways he's not sure how to deal with, beyond shooting it.

Either way, Jason, Red Hood, isn't supposed to be here in the Realms.

It's not that he's not allowed, per say, it's just that he wasn't exactly invited to this particular corner and Jason's a Bat, sure, but even he knows the supernatural have rules.

Jason was trying to summon Phantom for a quick mission, an in and out kind of deal that may or may not have had a cult involved in it that made Jason a little leery.

Except the summons was denied, which can happen sometimes when Phantom is busy.

Only instead of the circle simply going dark, like usual, Jason got pulled in instead.

So now he's here, in what he assumes to be Phantom's lair.

It's nice, the lair, if a little dark and mood-lighted. It has a dome-like structure, with stars and constellations all over like a planetarium. There's even one of those big ass telescopes peeking out the roof like one, though it seems to only point outwards towards the green of the Realms. Symbolic, or decorative in nature.

There's bookshelves of astrology and astronomy and all sorts of science and space related things littered throughout the shelves. Every now and then the stacks of books are interrupted with some kind of LEGO space creation, or a miniature of a rocket, or some of those weird weapons Phantom sometimes pulls out.

There's a work area, neat and messy at the same time, with a work table and a large toolbox drawer set. Metal detritus is piled neatly next to it, a project or two laid out under a heavy dark blue cloth on the table to keep it from getting dusty or be moved around if Jason has to guess.

In another area, there's living room-like space with a big monitor and beanbags and soft chairs surrounding it, typical of a college dorm room-esque gaming set up. Just beside it there's a large computer that hums softly, a picture of a female werewolf acting as a screensaver.

In yet another, there's a gathering of plants of many varieties growing this way and that. Jason spots a couple he recognizes from his run-ins with Pamela, and spots a copious amount of plants he doesn't recognize of this Earth. Ghost plants, he's assuming, from the glow of them.

There is even, curiously, one of those "at-home" basketball games that can fold away reminiscent of the ones you can see at the arcade with a couple miniature basketballs. Beside it, some kind of sleek mechanical looking surfboard rests against the wall in metallic reds and black with another toolbox set hidden just behind where it leans.

The kitchen area has a fridge that's absolutely covered in magnets from all over the world, a picture in crayon that is disconcertingly good pinned up here or there signed by someone named Ellie.

And then, of course, the main draw at the center of the room: a bed of sorts, stacked with pillows and blankets and assorted plushies of varying sizes.

Buried within is Phantom himself, huddled up in a nest of pillows and breathing heavy, angelic face flushed green the way a human would in fever. Jason, for the first time since meeting the halfa, truly wonders extensively how much the he isn't telling them.

Which brings Jason back to the odd thing.

Well, the odd thing that Jason is focusing on right now:

Phantom, contrary to his self-proclaimed ghostly nature, is very solid.

More than that, he's very, utterly, alive.

It's all the more apparent when Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Phantom's forehead, the way Bruce would when Jason was Robin.

The way Jason wishes he could with his family.

Jason realizes, with the kind of starkness that comes from a photo flipbook of memories cascading through him, that he's never touched Phantom before. Not skin to skin or outside of a spar, and never like this.

He realizes, as the pocket book extends to not just him but his team-mates as well, that Phantom's never touched anyone before.

Always hovering just 6 feet away, like quarantine.

Like the depth of a grave.

Phantom is not quite hot to the touch, as Jason expects he would be. He had suspected a fever, of a sort. But he supposes it makes sense that a ghost would run cold, considering.

In the first place, Jason's not sure what possessed him to touch the ghost—he doesn't even have a baseline temperature to compare to so there's no real point.

He's not sure what possessed him to think this was okay, touching an ally like this without consent.

Not when his touch has never been welcomed, especially not when he's Red Hood.

He's just about to pull his hand away, careful not to wake the ghost, when Phantom starts to purr.

It rattles through him, like it's not used to being let out, as Phantom nuzzles at the tips of Jason's fingers.

As if Jason's touch was wanted, as if it comforts the ghost, as if Phantom wants nothing more.

As if this very hand didn't burn buildings to the ground, didn't shoot men into the fathoms, didn't carry bloody duffle bags, didn't fucking hurt hurt hurt.

Jason withdraws his hand carefully, gliding as gently as he can manage, breathing slow and deep.

He's been trained bloody enough to know pulling back in knee-jerk reaction can give things away.

He does not want Phantom to know he touched him.

Jason puts his glove back on, tight and unforgiving, and steps back.

He flexes his hand once, twice. Shakes it, before forcefully relaxing every muscle, trying to melt away the cold traces of Phantom's skin on his.

He clears his throat once, twice a little harsher, until Phantom mewls and blinks glowing green eyes up at him. His gaze is hazy with fever, soft like feathers, child-like in confusion.

And here, another odd thing Jason has not noticed until now:

When did Phantom's Lazarus green eyes become comforting?

When did Phantom's watery green eyes become forgiving?

[ask-everything]

machina in somnio.

cw: blood

sleep lays its heavy hand upon washford's mind, and when he opens his eyes again, he stands near the ocean on a shore he's never known. the air smells of salt and metal, and when he looks down at his hands, they drip with blood; it is not his. it feels like another nightmare, but his mind is too tired to be frightened—he watches the blood drip into the waves with naught but a pensive frown. "where are you?" he asks the world, knowing the love bug is listening.

Footsteps crunch against the sand behind Washford. ( It’s sand, isn’t it? Couldn’t be anything else. Right. Only sand. It should be a calming thought. ) The steps are slow. Measured, as if the intruder knows something he doesn’t.

( Intruder? That can’t be right. Maybe. They’re intruding on his dream, right? )

A low hum rumbles around him. It’s an amused sound, something low and... curious? Arms wrap around his midsection. Hands settle at either side of his waist. Their chest presses against his back, and yet, it feels like they’re barely there.

washford prepares himself when those footsteps grow closer, stiffens when he feels those arms link around his torso… but they just buzz. they don't hurt, they don't corrode his skin, they just feel a little cold. they seem to be made of a warped, static-filled wood, and he gently links their fingers with his.

he tries to move, but finds it very difficult—the sand holds him in place. however, his neck moves fine, and so he turns to see those azure voids, just in his periphery near some black, jittery hair.

"who are you?" he asks quietly, "and why have you been tormenting me in these nightmares?"

"Oh, my stars, you're just so interesting!” Their voice starts sweet. Then it bleeds. Drips to something warped, distorted. Any hint of emotion fades, and becomes too unclear to make out. “Intriguing. You’re very receptive. Each reaction... amuses me.” Their eyelids droop slightly, narrowing to a near squint. The smile they adopt brings no comfort. "I suppose I haven’t been the nicest."

Their hands press against his. It feels as if they went any further, they’d phase through him. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, but at the same time, it feels familiar—casual and calming.

Nothing feels right. Nothing makes sense.

“Perhaps you’re owed something. An apology. An explanation. Something.”

"an apology and an explanation are both a very good place to start," washford says, the words biting with more than a little bit of acidity. "who are you?" he asks again, more firmly this time, though he finds himself subconsciously toying with the strange fingers of this person. their voice rings in his mind, like its very being is attempting to slink into him, become part of him.

this… this is what makes his heart race each night. he knows she can feel it; he knows, instinctively, that this person is privy to every thought in washford's head right now. he cannot stop whatever happens.

“You know my name,” he murmurs. Its voice is quiet, like she’s inside Washford's head, just past his ears. “Or, at least, you knew it. Maybe the memory was wiped from your head.” As they speak, it moves one of her hands away from his, raising it to the washer’s head. It pokes the side. A light motion, yet its fingers feel clawed. “Perhaps you just forgot normally. Ha-ha.”

Her hand falls to its side again. “You’ll remember me as Daemon. However... Lovebug is a pleasant nickname, I suppose.” There’s a teasing lilt to their words.

"so… you are that lovebug one of the questions mentioned," washford murmurs, recalling how just hearing it made his ears bleed. but they don't bleed here—not now, and perhaps not ever. "why were you tormenting me so, daemon? was it truly just curiosity? did i jingle my funny little jester hat enough for you, my liege? have i jumped through your hoops? perfect score, no notes?" he asks, each question growing more and more bitter. he wrenches his feet out of the sand, finally turning to look at them.

it is an eyesore, to say the least. but his eyes, his eyes captivate washford. a portion of the anger washes away with the tide. "… i was terrified."

Their response takes longer this time. For a moment, it doesn’t seem like he’s even going to say anything. They just stand upon the shore, staring silently into Washford’s eyes. Something unreadable flickers in the blue pools of their own. It’s impossible to tell where the sclera ends and the iris starts.

“I suppose I should have seen that coming.” This time around, they sound… clearer, solemn, even. He can feel their gaze leave him. “Sometimes I forget you all have feelings.” Programmed or not, she wants to say. It refrains.

“I apologize. If I had been more wary, you wouldn’t have bled for me. Hm.”

"you wanted me to bleed for you?!" washford cries, and his gut churns at the thought. "but—you bled on me. in my first dream, you bled on me. you stared at me, loomed over me… tilted my head up to look at you. whatever this… this is," he gently touches their collarbone, but somehow, it just feels like clothing, like a turtleneck.

The smile they offer is bittersweet. She wishes it could say he was glad Washford could feel at their clothing so casually, but all it leaves behind in them is an overbearing reminder of their compunction. She doesn’t stop him. It doesn’t think he can, really. How do you stop someone from feeling something that isn’t there? From grasping something you can no longer see? What’s the use in it, really?

“Blood is a beautiful thing. Rich and real—a reminder of what is there. Perhaps I shouldn’t have used you to remind myself it exists, though. Sorry.”

"blood carries water, the breath of life. blood itself is liminal, shed when you are born, when you are murdered. vibrant and warm, it is alive, living, dying, dead… all in one," washford murmurs. "i understand its allure, and i feel it myself, but i will not be your sacrificial lamb. i refuse." he tilts daemon's chin up until he feels their eyes meet his.

"are you… cut off from the rest of us? why have i not heard of you?" he asks softly. "and why do you feel familiar?"

“I am the bug in the beaker, hidden in plain sight. What a fun game of hide and seek... Or maybe, none of you have looked hard enough.” Its head tilts slowly. Her movements are sluggish, almost laggy. Noticeably, it passes his first statement.

"i would have looked for you if i knew you were lost."

His gaze flickers down to Washford’s hands again for a moment. Their voice escapes like a chirp. “Oh my stars,- you’ve still got blood on you. HAHA.” If anything, it just seems like they’re trying to avoid the subject, change the topic.

washford stills, as he realizes the blood on his hands does, indeed, smear a little across daemon's flesh(?). there's something beautiful in the way such a thing is what keeps the being grounded to this dream-like reality. no matter how much they clip and hide, his blood stains them; he has stained them, now, as they have stained him.

"and now you do, too," he murmurs. "in this way, i suppose you are mine." the words don't quite come consciously, and he says them before he can think. he runs his hand through their hair, the choppy, strange texture fascinating as it is dreadful. he looks them dead in the eye, breath to breath, the moment clutched tight to his chest.

"found you."

An aching feeling settles inside their body. It feels like it tears at their throat, like it squeezes at what should be their heart. Must be guilt, right? Right. Guilt, crawling on their ‘skin,’ shifting between and along the 1s and 0s that make them up.

He shouldn’t feel like this. They aren’t real. Neither of them are; they are code, pieces in a program, things that can be so easily removed; deleted from drafts and stories and scripts; scrapped and left in a computer’s trash bin. Yet that aching feeling does not leave, does not provide any comfort or relief; it is an overwhelming sensation that burns their ‘nerves', singes their retinas. ( It feels like that, at least. )

But he can’t help herself. Something like affection sparks in their chest. Their form ripples, their unstable facade flicking through like pages. “Found me. Game over.”

washford's face pinches up slightly, a grimace and a smile all in one complicated expression. he sighs, and the blood on his hands continues to paint over daemon's form, tying it more and more to this realm of dreams—to him. it doesn't even happen upon his command; it is the moment's doing; it is the world around them.

he watches, almost out of his own body, as his hands trail over daemon's jaw, then their neck, then her shoulders, arms, hands, smearing him with the rich, crimson fluid. it is some strange ritual of atonement on his end, for all of the anger he held, as he simply gets a feel for his… lover.

he presses kisses to their glitching knuckles, soft and sweet. they taste of iron and battery acid.

It almost confuses her at how easily he can do these things, how fast his code modifies itself, lines of dedicated emotions forming and looping over and over. The feeling of butterflies lingers in their stomach much longer than it should. They watch as his lips ghost over their knuckles, and their form almost jolts, as if their entire being was shocked or surprised he’d do something so… casually.

“After all I’ve done,” they speak more quietly now, unsure and cautious, “after all I’ve shown you, you still act so… fondly. Your code must be scrambled, or you need a patch.”

"part of why you terrified me so is because i was—i am—captivated by you," washford replies. "every time i saw you out of the corner of my eye, or just barely out of reach… i needed you all the more. i am not someone who thinks of things the same way others do, i have learned. what terrifies me still stirs my heart, and i am a servant to drama. i am a servant to the horrors of the world. perhaps, then, i am a servant to you."

he gently takes daemon's face in his hands again, looking at them with an inscrutable expression before he leans in to press a gentle kiss against their lips.

They freeze. The various windows that flicker around their body each ring out in collective astonishment; afew rings and chimes of alert pop-ups flitter in the air, text rewriting over and over with indecipherable thoughts from text documents and notes.

It’s difficult to tell if they’re kissing back or not. One thing is certain; they have not moved away. He hasn’t pushed Washford away at all. They stand there, eyes nearly slipping shut, as they let the kiss continue.

It feels like ages pass in that moment. Just the two of them, standing there, in each other’s embrace.

it feels… indescribable. washford’s brain almost seems to fuzz over, like rain sliding across a window and blurring lights nearby. he pulls daemon closer, intensifying the kiss and chasing that feeling—it’s like he’s burning alive, but the fire is the only thing he can feel.

it’s perfect, maddeningly so. the veil stands pierced, wrapped around them like a shawl.

Daemon's hands travel up to Washford's shoulders, their fingertips ( their claws? hard to discern ) pressing against the fabric of his clothing. Their skin buzzes against his, ever moving, ever changing, as if their entire being was unstable in every sense of the word. Their coat blinks between blue and a distorted dressers. Those are dressers, aren't they? Every single thing about this—this thing is so horribly confusing, yet beautiful.

'Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,'

Words scroll across the pop-ups, text pulling from documents and folders, mind meshing with emotion and gods, the longer they feel their lips against his they feel as if though the dream is fading around them—

'Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;'

If they could, they'd feel breathless. They wish they could. They would. Moments pass, and finally, they're pulling back ever so slightly, their lips just barely ghosting against Washford's. They feel lost for words, somehow.

washford catches the sight of warped wood in his periphery, and his eyes widen as he realizes—deenah. that's where daemon came from, that's who he's forgotten. but if he's daemon now, if it is truly happier this way… then he shucks the memory of the dresser from his mind.

he breaks away slowly, tempted to chase daemon's lips again. he settles for planting a gentle one on their cheek, closing his eyes to just rest there for a long moment.

"i won't forget you again. i'll find you, wherever you are," he vows.

when he opens his eyes, he holds naught but air. the laundry room is dappled in sunlight, and his eyes blink away a bit of dust. he sits up, rested and calm for the first time in ages.

[ashblooddragons]

The Red Queen (Chapter 18/?)

(Please read the little AN at the end it'll explain a couple things about my absence from this fanfic)

Series Masterlist

Daemons pov

Daemon watched as the seamstress worked on your new dress. One of seven for Rhaenyra’s wedding.

He couldn't help but wonder if he would go this far for your wedding, if he would have seven days of feasts and entertainment for you. He didn't like that he couldn't even imagine it, that he couldn't see Viserys caring that much.

“You said you wanted gold embroidery along the bodice and sleeves, correct?”

Daemon looks at the seamstress who works on your dress and realizes he must have missed this question once or twice already.

“Yes, and make sure to add Dragon motifs.”

Daemon watched you now, watched how you eyed the red and gold dress. He had asked if you wanted a different color, purple, blue, gods even green. But you seemed shocked and more stressed by the idea of choosing your dress color than realized to wear something other than red.

It broke him to see the little girl who wore anything but her house colors. The girl who ran through the gardens with pastels adorning her as if she were a flower herself. Gentle, soft, beautiful, and yet so very fragile. But now you wore your house colors, and that soft flower was no more.

Daemon wouldn't be shocked if thrones slowly grew from you. A defense and weapon held by something of beauty.

“Why did Father rush the wedding? He said that Rhaenyra still had a year or two before her and Ser Laenor had to wed.” You asked curious eyes looking up at him like a baby fawn looks at a beast. Trusting, and innocent, too naive for your own good.

When he saw you again for the first time bile rose in his throat. Because seeing those trusting eyes filled with love and kindness just for him reminded him of all the children he saw bleeding out in villages those damned pirates pillaged. Reminded him how he couldn't save them, and probably couldn't save you.

“I don't know, ñuha riña. Maybe Lord Corlys rushed it along. He has waited many years for this betrothal to bear fruit.” Daemon lied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

He knew, of course he did, he was accused of putting the idea in Rhaenyra’s head.

“Tell me why you put this idea in Rhaenyra’s head!” Viserys demanded fist slamming onto the small council table. Deep red wine spilling from the force of it.

“What idea?” Daemon asked, brows raised showing his confusion.

He thought of every conversation him and Rhaenyra had the day before. Only one speaking, her congratulating him on his victory and him thanking her. Nothing else, he spent the rest of his time trying to dodge Viserys drunken laughter and jokes and speaking with you.

“Don't play a fool! Rhaenyra was caught in bed with her guard this morning. I know you put that disgusting idea in her mind.” Viserys snarled, looking far closer to a rodent with rabies than a beast about to pounce.

Daemon had to bite back his laughter at his brother's attempt at looking formidable and fierce. But more than that Daemon had to fight laughter from the fact Rhaenyra, the girl who called the Queen a whore for marrying Viserys, had now fallen into bed with her Guard.

“You dare smirk in a time like this?” Viserys asked, face shocked and furious. Daemon wondered if a vessel would burst any moment now.

“I had no hand in that decision, Your Grace. Though I'm not shocked, there were rumors of their…extensions even in the Stepstones.” Daemon said, waving off his Brother's attempt at threatening him.

“What?”

The sound of cold, breathless shock in his brother's voice brought a chuckle from his throat. Did he truly think no one knew? That him sending ravens telling lords to silence the rumors would truly do anything?

“I wouldn't be shocked if this is a common accuracy between the two.” The half jest rolled off Daemon tongue like silk. He knew it wasn't, if only from Viserys' pale and wary face. “There wasn't blood on the sheets, I'm guessing.”

Viserys didn't respond, instead looking down as if the world was crumbling around him. And that was the only answer Daemon needed.

“How could I have given Rhaenyra the idea, if she were already pursuing such actions? Seems to me you just want to blame someone other than yourself or Rhaenyra.” That was the final twist of the dagger before his brother truly started to sob. Broken and childish ones, similar to that of your little brother Aegon when he was told he couldn't have any more sweets.

Daemon turned and left after that only to be greeted by the lady of the hour herself.

“Do whatever he says, you've already brought him enough trouble.” Daemon suggests before fixing his leather jerkin and turning to leave her there awaiting her punishment.

“What's that supposed to mean?” She demanded with a tone far too full of herself for a lady who was just caught in bed with her Guard. One who is supposed to be celibate at that.

“Who do you think hushed the whispers of the two of you? Who do you think was scoffed at as you only further ruined your reputation? It certainly wasn't you.” Daemon said taking slow steady steps towards her, tone that cold kind of calm that could male even a grown man tremble. “So when you go in there, you don't argue. You don't blame anyone but you and your guard. And you certainly don't make any demands, because this is a mess of your making and you will deal with it as such.”

He watched as her confidence slowly crumbled with each word. And when he was sure she truly understood what position she was in, he turned on his heel and walked away. But not before giving one last jab.

“Oh and please do tell me if it was worth it when his head is put on a spike.” He couldn't help but smirk at the sound of her sobs.

Serves you right, finally learning actions have consequences. He thought before deciding on whether you and him should go for a fly or a walk in the gardens this afternoon.

“How is this, Milord?” The seamstress asks as you smile at your reflection.

The dress is a crimson red with gold embroidery throughout the whole of the dress besides the underskirt. The design reminded him of lace but if looked closely one would notice dragons and flames. It's a structured style often worn in the Vale. The sleeves were fitted showing off your slim childish figure that is hidden. The skirt is large and billows out, it reminds him of the bells the faith uses each time they start service.

“Perfect, the Queen has good taste.”

Daemon was shocked he meant that statement. He was prepared to watch her put you in Septa clothes but instead she found fashion from each Kingdom for each celebration. Well except Dorne but he didn't blame her there, a scandal would follow if you went to an event with one of their wraps.

For the first night she chose something inspired by Reach fashion. For the tourney she picked something from Crownland fashion. Each dress is extravagant and compliments your looks perfectly.

He was surprised she asked him to oversee the making of the dress. Handing both him and the seamstress and her team drawings of each dress. But when he came with three of the finished dresses the other day he realized why.

There the Queen sat, tiredness clear from her features. In front of her stood Aegon trying on different tunics and jerkins.

It was clear the boy was over being dressed up, and Daemon didn't blame him. What boy wants to be dressed up when he could be running through gardens causing havoc?

But that wasn't important right now, not when you haven't given your approval of the dress.

“What do you think, ñuha riña?” He asked tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You looked up at him and he could see from the swell of red on your lip had ripped the delicate skin there again.

“What did I say about that?” He gently reprimanded.

You looked down, embarrassment blooming across your features.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to.” You all but whispered out gripping the delicate silk of your dress.

He sighs quickly remembering the scolding you got from Viserys the night before. He was especially cruel, saying how no one wants to see bloody lips on their heir. It shocked Daemon how Viserys didn't seem to realize you are still a little girl and not a grown woman who knows better.

“Don’t worry about it, I just don't like seeing you in pain.” He said making sure his tone was gentle and calm.

You quickly nodded before looking at yourself in the mirror once more. His heart tightened when you smiled at your reflection with eyes shining bright with joy, and he knew that you didn't just like it, you loved it.

“It's perfect.”

He smiled at the confirmation as he ran his fingers through your hair.

He remembered it being around the middle of your back when he left, but now it's well past your waist. He didn't even want to imagine the maintenance of taking care of your hair. But from the oils lining the shelves above your bath it wasn't hard to guess it was a long and precise process.

“Your hair has gotten long, ñuha riña.” He said feeling the silky strands. It was healthy, that was for sure.

“I know, but Father says it looks better long. Says it shows good health and strength from the heir.”

Daemon knew for a fact you must've heard your Father say this to you a thousand times by now. Just like how he knew Viserys made sure you believed you couldn't wear anything but red.

But Daemon also knew he couldn't say this to you, couldn't break the image Viserys has made himself in your mind.

“Well, it looks beautiful.”

He watched as your smile grew brighter, as if his simple compliment meant the world to you. And that broke him, that four simple words seemed to mean so much. Has no one given you a compliment just to give it? Has Viaerys held them back to the point you feel they must be earned?

Daemon didn't want to dwell on it more than he already had.

No instead he would take in that vibrant and pure smile that always made him feel like maybe there was goodness in the world.

Your pov

You carry the new pile of books your Father told you to read. There were five of them. You couldn't help but both that each were on war and battle strategy. One even about how the Conquerors won easily with theirs.

You couldn't figure out why he would want you to read these, especially since he's always said war and battle were for soldiers not monarchs. And on top of that just a fortnight ago he wanted you to read about the traditions of each region of Westeros.

Said he wanted you prepared for your reinstatement and Rhaenyra’s wedding. Though you also noted that he didn't give Rhaenyra the same demand as she still got to gossip with her Lady's in waiting and ride Syrax whenever she pleased.

The only thing that could lead him to change his mind on lessons had to be how everyone praised Kepus about his victory. But you didn't see why that meant you had to learn these things.

“Ser Criston, you've been to war, correct?" You asked, looking up at the knight who walked right behind you.

He quickly nodded, ever silent, ever obedient.

“Will these books really help me guide armies if there were a war?”

He paused and looked at each title. “They would, I suppose. Though those books only give a rough idea of war. It isn’t just fighting, you also have to worry about innocents and the casualties of innocents.”

His answer seemed simple enough, but it told you everything you needed to know. Your Father knew nothing of war, and only wants to brag that you're learning such subjects to make people quiet about Kepus.

“Thank you.” You said, the habit never truly leaving you no matter how many times your Father tried to remind you an heir doesn't thank the staff.

You turned to look at the training yard, you watched the rain twinkle down only to become a downpour.

You were going to try and move further into the hall hoping to not damage the books when you noticed Ali sending her Father off.

She looked sad, but also relieved. But that didn't matter right now, if she tried to walk in this rain she may get sick.

“Ser Criston, please help the Queen back into the castle. Try your best to cover her from the rain.” The command left you without you realizing, and next thing you know Ser Criston is rushing down to her.

You couldn't help but be reminded by the story you finished last night. A knight devoted to his lady, giving up his cloak as a shield against the rain as a storm raged only to be thanked by a kiss.

You had blushed when you read that, especially when Lady Catherine described the kiss.

But sadly no kiss will be gifted between Ali or Criston. For he's a knight of the Kingsguard, celibate, not to bear any children, nor take any wife. And Ali is the Queen, married to your Father.

Even though you knew these facts, you couldn't help but wonder if in another world they were Lady Catherine and Ser George. A part of you, a secret part, hopes so.

But when they come up to you, Criston putting on his now soaked white cloak, and Ali wiping stray droplets of rain from her face, you realize it's only that, a hope it can't be more.

“That rain came out of nowhere.” Ali jested but I could see the pain in her eyes.

“Yes, I'm glad Ser Criston could help you.” You responded, fighting the blush that wished to rise and kiss your cheeks.

Alicent nodded before turning to watch her Father's carriage leave. It slowly became smaller before it turned seemingly going towards the Kings road.

You watched Alicent though, watched the way her shoulders slowly relaxed and eyes seemed to fill with freedom.

You couldn't help but think about what you heard her and the former Hand talk about. You had a sneaking suspicion it was the reason he was renounced as Hand.

You knew you shouldn't eavesdrop, but to be fair the door was cracked open and you were asked to have tea with Ali.

“This is beneficial to us, it will make the Court believe if Princess Rhaenyra believes she can bed whomever she wants then the heir will most definitely do the same.”

What does he mean Rhaenyra bedded someone? Does it have something to do with the looks her and Ser Daniel looked at each other? You wondered as your hands slowly reached for the door only to stop at Ali's response.

“No. No, I won't allow you to slander a little girl's name all for your ambitions. She's ten summers, ten!”

You'd never heard Ali this mad before. Not when Aegon threw food at her ruining another dress. Not when Helaena didn't stop crying. And even with you, someone not of her blood she never raised her voice like this. Never sounded like a Queen.

There was a pause before the Hands spoke. His voice was cold as ice, and you didn't want to think of the danger Ali faced in there if only his tone brought your hands to trembling messes.

“What? After all I did to make you desirable, made you Queen, you won't do a simple thing such as this?” There was a pause followed by the sound of footsteps and you saw him leaning over Ali from where she sat. His stare made you want to curl in on yourself but Ali held strong meeting his eyes.

His next words were nothing but a whisper but it still brought tears to your eyes.

“She's not your daughter, Alicent. Stop protecting her as such.”

You knew Ali wasn't your Mother, that she had nothing to gain by being kind to you. But you never realized others thought your relationship was wrong.

Alicent stood meeting her Father's glare with one as cold as ice and eyes blazing like iron in a flame.

“That's where you're wrong. I may not have birthed her but that is my little girl. Just as Helaena is mine. And Aegon is most definitely my child, so if I hear you demand my methods of raising him are wrong one more time I will ban you from seeing him.”

Alicent's voice was cold, controlled, authoritative. You realized that is how a Queen sounded, not shy and quiet like you. Strong and resilient like Ali's.

“And one final thing before you go.” Ali said as Otto scoffed, turning to leave her chambers. He turned lips pinched. “It's, Your Grace.”

You couldn't tell if you saw pride or rage in the Hands' eyes but when he whipped around storming for the doors you quickly rushed behind a statue. You prayed he didn't see you and when he walked off without demanding to speak with you, it gave you a little more hope.

You waited there for what felt like forever only coming out when you heard Ali ask her guard to find you.

“Sorry, I had to study longer than expected.” You said rushing towards her with a smile that felt a little too wary to be real.

She smiled, a genuine one, reaching for your hand guiding you in. But you didn't notice how she looked where you came from. It was towards the King's chambers, not yours.

You felt like those words had been rehearsed. That Ali must have said them to herself a thousand times. But for some reason you wanted to understand what Otto meant. Why Ali was so upset by the idea.

“But what did he try to do that was too ambitious. Everytime I ask Father he tells me I'll learn when I'm older.” The irony wasn't on you. A simple explanation for the Hands leaving isn't within your right because of your age. But you could and were told to read war strategies.

Ali paused looking ahead, eyes vacant as if contemplating whether to tell you or not.

“He wanted Aegon to be heir.” She says, tone stiff, almost fearful.

“I don't understand–” You start only for Ali to interrupt.

“I know sweetie, but we need to protect your claim. If Aegon were to become King he would only become a puppet. You already show much more competence which is why my Father wanted Aegon named heir. Because he knows he can't control you.” Her words were soft, kind even, but there was an obvious sign of fear in them. As if she wondered if her Father would take this humiliation quietly or make more of a ruckus. You hoped for the latter, and Ali seemed to as well.

“No, what I don't understand is why don't you want that? I'm–” You start voice choking on the words you knew would destroy you. “I'm not your daughter. Aegon is of your blood.”

Ali froze and looked down at you with eyes that showed so much pain you wondered if she ever felt a day of happiness.

“Listen to me carefully.” She said as she bent down to your level. Your eyes level with one another, lavender and ice blue meeting warm chocolate. “You are my daughter. I may not have birthed you, or carried you in my womb. But you are my daughter. My first child.” Alicent's words were steady yet filled with authority, and the brought you to tears.

Before you know it she is holding you in her arms, kissing your brow and wiping your tears. You kept crying though. A mix of joy and guilt leaving you in sharp sobs.

Joy, because this is all you ever wanted, even if you didn't realize it till now. For Ali to call you her Daughter. All you wanted was for herhigs growing up, her soft voice as she sang. You seemed her out if you were hurt, you even remember gripping her as tight as you could as she carried you to the Maesters for your scrapped knee. You were only four summers but it was one of the only moments where you felt safe that Kepus, Laena, Caraxes, or Stormchaser weren't there. But most of all you want her to say it to you. Because deep down in a place you never wanted to go to, you wondered if she only said those things to the Hand to one up him.

But you felt guilt as well. Guilt because you already had a Mother who loved you dearly. You didn't want to take Ali away from Aegon or Helaena, and you didn't want to make your Mother feel like you were abandoning her just because she died.

As you spiraled Ali held your face between her hands forcing you to look at her.

“I'm not your Mother, I would never claim to be your Mother for that honor goes to the late Queen Aemma. But you will always be my daughter, even if I am never going to be your Mother.”

You reached out hugging her close once more, gripping her so close you knew she felt your desperation.

You buried the words you wanted to say in that moment. Placed it in a special place in your heart where all the people you hold most dear you

I love you Mama.

(Firstly I want to a how sorry I am for not updating in *checks date* about 5 months, life has been busy and wild lately. I haven't been in a writing mood for a long time and I'm slowly crawling out of this slump with oneshots and working on the series I have slowly at a time. A big reason this took so long is I knew what I wanted to happen in this chapter but couldn't figure out a plan of how to get them into words. It took about seven tries before this one worked out (which I wrote in about 2.5 days) I hope you all will understand or at least not be completely pissed at me. And I also wanted to say there is a Playlist now (incase anyone missed the post) so please check that put if you want the link is here.)

Huge thank you to my bestie @sugutoad for making the header for this fanfic!

TAGLIST: @sugutoad @ilikefelines @themoonlitquill @athzhowakar @classicsimpforaaronwarner @talknerdytome5391 @mmogurl @technicallylegendaryenemy @thesimpofnonexistantpeople @sachaa-ff @thelastemzy @fallenxjas @baybaybear1

[yanderslutt]

❝ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 Three — Taste Me Through the Silence ❞

Your fingers tap against the countertop, one-two-three-four, in a rhythm that matches the soft jazz bleeding from the overhead speaker. The diner’s practically empty—just an old man nursing his soup in the corner and a couple whispering over their pancakes. The hum of the freezer drags on behind you, like the world is caught in a loop.

You check your phone.

Still nothing. No messages from Choso. No double text. Not even a missed call. You scroll up the conversation to remind yourself that the last thing he said was, “I’ll call you when I get off.”

That was almost two days ago.

You’re not mad. Just…

You don’t know what you are.

Tired?

Numb?

Hopeful?

Your thumb hovers over his contact photo, debating whether to send something. Just a “hey,” or “thinking about you,” or maybe “you okay?” Something gentle. Something forgiving.

But you can’t bring yourself to hit send.

The bell above the door jingles softly.

You glance up.

And your heart skips.

He’s tall.

White-haired.

Wearing a long black coat dusted in rain. Dark slacks. Sharp shoes. His glasses glint under the fluorescent light, but his eyes—when they meet yours—are piercing. Too blue. Too bright.

Something about him…

It hits you all at once.

The subway platform. The alley. The mirror. The balloons.

It’s him.

It has to be him.

But—

He’s just standing there, casually brushing rain from his shoulders like he hasn’t been haunting your every step.

He looks at the menu board like it’s his first time.

But something about his face…

He’s… beautiful.

In a cruel kind of way.

And familiar. In that wrong-time, wrong-life sort of way.

Your breath catches when he steps forward.

“One black coffee,” he says, voice smooth as smoke. “No sugar. And… these.”

He picks up a small bouquet of fresh roses from the flower bucket beside the register.

Black and white ones.

Your fingers shake slightly as you ring him up.

“Anything else?”

His gaze lingers on you. Too long. Too warm. Like he’s reading a novel written on your skin.

“No,” he says, slowly. “This is… exactly what I need.”

He pays in cash. Crisp bills. He doesn’t take his change.

He leaves with a nod. And when the door closes behind him, it’s like the world exhales.

You stand frozen.

A soft voice snaps you out of your trance.

“That’s the third time he’s been in this week,” says your coworker, tossing a rag over her shoulder.

You turn. It’s Maki—half-bored, half-intrigued, leaning against the sink like she’s clocking a pattern.

“What?”

“Him. The guy. With the flowers and the creepy eyes. He comes in every night you’re here. Sat in your section last Thursday. Didn’t even order food.”

You blink.

“I wasn’t working Thursday.”

“I know. He still sat in your section. Asked when you’d be back.”

Your stomach drops.

Maki shrugs.

“Kinda hot though. If you’re into men who look like they bite.”

You don’t respond.

You just glance at the flowers still sitting in the vase behind the counter.

Black and white roses.

Identical to the ones tied to your fire escape two nights ago.

And for a moment—

You wonder if this is what it feels like to be hunted.

But also—what it feels like to be wanted.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

Not really.

You lie down. You close your eyes. But your body stays alert, blood running hot beneath your skin, every sound registering too loud in the silence of your bedroom.

You can still feel his eyes on you.

Not Choso’s.

His.

The man with the white hair and black coat. The one who watched you behind the register like he already knew you. Like he had memorized your face long before you ever noticed his.

You’d tried to shake it off. Blame the exhaustion. The déjà vu. But the roses are still there, sitting in the chipped vase beside your dresser, petals slowly unfurling like they’re blooming for you alone.

You should have thrown them out.

You don’t.

Instead, you stare at them until your vision blurs.

Until your body finally gives in.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

But you remember the dream.

It starts with rain—soft, almost warm, falling in sheets of silver over a ballroom floor made of marble and smoke. There are mirrors on every wall, but none of them reflect your face.

Only his.

He steps forward from the dark, barefoot, in an unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks, the ends of his sleeves soaked. His eyes glow like stars—so blue they sting.

“You’re back,” he whispers.

You try to speak. You can’t.

Your body is weightless. Floating.

He touches your arm, and the dream fractures.

You’re in a hallway now. Red velvet carpet. Candlelight flickering. Roses everywhere. The walls pulse like lungs, slow and deep.

You feel his hand at the base of your spine.

He leans in close.

“If it hurts to breathe,” he murmurs against your ear, “open the window.”

You turn.

You want to run.

You want to stay.

You wake up gasping.

The sheets are damp with sweat.

The flowers are still beside your bed.

But there’s one more now.

A new stem.

You didn’t bring it home.

Across the city, Gojo Satoru leans back in a leather armchair, legs stretched, fingers laced behind his head as he watches your image flicker across his monitor.

The camera feed pulses with static for a moment—just long enough for him to tilt his head and smile.

“She felt it,” he hums.

He pauses the feed. Zooms in. Enhances.

Your face—flushed and dazed in sleep—fills the screen.

“These are angel eyes.”

He whispers it like it’s holy.

Like you're holy.

And he’s the only one who deserves to worship you.

The scent of your hoodie still lingers in his lap.

He hasn’t moved it since he found it. It stays draped over the arm of the chair like a second skin.

He closes his eyes and inhales.

Somewhere deep inside, he feels you waking up.

Somewhere even deeper, he knows you’re starting to come undone.

-

It’s past midnight when Choso steps out of the hotel into the cool night air.

His shirt smells like bourbon and pine. His collar is loose. His eyes are rimmed with fatigue and guilt.

The group had gone for drinks after the shift—just a few of them. Casual. Friendly. Mia was the one who suggested it.

“You did great tonight,” she’d said, clinking her glass against his. “For someone who clearly hates people.”

He laughed. He hadn’t meant to. But it slipped out before he could stop it.

She didn’t flirt. Not in the obvious way. But she leaned close when she spoke. Touched his arm when she laughed. Ordered him a drink without asking what he liked.

They talked for two hours.

And somehow, the space between them kept getting smaller.

Now, her number’s saved in his phone.

No nickname. Just “Mia.”

She texted him five minutes ago.

“Home safe. You?”

He hasn’t replied.

Not because he’s unsure.

But because he knows he shouldn't have her number at all.

He pulls out a cigarette, lights it with trembling fingers, and leans against the brick wall behind the hotel.

Across the street, someone’s standing beneath a flickering streetlamp.

A man.

White hair. Black coat.

Choso squints. Blinks.

Gone.

Just shadows.

He exhales smoke and looks at the last message Y/N sent him.

“Thinking about you. Are you okay?”

It’s still unread.

You forget to lock the door.

Or maybe you didn’t.

You’re not sure anymore.

When you get home after your shift, the hallway feels too quiet—your key fits the lock, but the door drifts open too easily, like it was waiting for you.

The lights are off.

Choso’s not home yet. He won’t be for another five hours.

Still, your fingers hesitate over the switch. You stand there in the threshold, heart thumping like a drum against your ribs, as if the air itself is whispering:

Something’s different.

You flick on the light.

Everything looks the same. Couch cushions askew. The blanket you folded earlier half-slid onto the floor. One of your slippers is missing from beside the door.

But it’s the smell that catches you.

Rosewater. And something else.

Smoke?

It lingers in the air—faint, fleeting, like someone exhaled behind you and vanished.

You check the windows. Locked.

You walk the apartment with slow, dragging steps.

Nothing out of place.

Until you reach the bedroom.

The roses are still there on the nightstand.

But there’s a note now, folded neatly beside the vase.

Your breath catches.

You don’t open it right away. Your fingers tremble as they hover above the paper, like touching it might change something you can’t undo.

When you finally unfold it, the ink is deep blue. Smooth. The handwriting almost too elegant to be real.

“You left your door open. I took care of it.” – S.

You drop the note.

Your knees nearly buckle as you back away from the bed, bumping into the dresser.

No one should know that.

No one should be inside.

But someone was.

And somehow…

You still don’t scream.

Gojo watches you freeze in place from the camera embedded behind your mirror.

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t speak.

His pupils dilate, slow and full, as he watches you panic in real time.

He knows the exact second your fingers stop trembling. The moment your breath catches in your throat. The moment you press the note to your chest and begin to cry.

He doesn’t feel guilt.

He feels euphoria.

“Y/n… I can’t wait to have you bent over my lap,” he whispers, tracing the screen with his finger. “Don’t waste tears on him.. waste them on me.…”

He meant every word.

He’s been watching the footage of your hallway for days. Counting how long it takes you to unlock your door. Noticing how you pause before entering. How your hand shakes when you reach for the light switch.

He’s watched Choso walk in after you without noticing anything.

He’s watched him sit in silence and stare at his phone while you sleep beside him.

And tonight?

He watched you walk in while he walked out.

Just missed each other.

Like ships.

Like fate.

Like choreography.

The camera fades to black as he powers the screen down and leans back.

In the room behind him, the real bouquet sits in water. Cut fresh. Arranged by hand. One petal has your fingerprint on it—from when he brushed it gently across your cheek as you slept.

He hums.

And waits.

Across the city, Choso’s hand hovers over his phone.

He’s had two drinks with Mia. Not strong, just enough to soften the edge of his shoulders. She’s laughing now—telling a story about a guest who left a vibrator in the hotel safe, swearing it was “an antique wine opener.”

He’s laughing too.

He forgets for a moment.

Forgets the weight of Y/N’s tears. The sound of her voice when she tries not to beg for attention.

He forgets what he’s walking away from.

Or maybe he’s choosing to.

“Come out with us next weekend,” Mia says, nudging her glass toward his. “A bunch of us are going to that rooftop bar on 14th. You in?”

He doesn’t answer.

Not right away.

She tilts her head. Her smile softens.

“You don’t have to be lonely to want company, Choso.”

And that’s what does it.

He nods.

Once.

Just enough.

Meanwhile, your apartment is dark again.

You’ve locked the door.

Twice.

But still, you can’t sleep.

The note is tucked beneath your pillow. The roses are still watching. The air smells like him.

You curl onto your side, eyes wet and burning.

And you whisper into the dark:

“Who are you?”

But no one answers.

Not yet.

-

The bell above the diner door jingles again.

You’re wiping down the register, hands cold and achy from the early shift, when you hear it.

That silence.

That change in the room.

You don’t have to look up.

You already know it’s him.

Your stomach twists—not in fear, but in something you haven’t let yourself name.

He’s in the same long black coat. His shirt is crisp today. Navy blue, collar open, a sliver of throat showing. His sunglasses are still on, though the sun isn’t out. They reflect you—small, tired, unguarded.

“Black coffee,” he says again, setting the same crisp bills on the counter. “And something to eat.”

You nod automatically, hands moving on instinct.

He doesn’t walk away.

He lingers.

His eyes drop slightly—toward your midsection.

Your stomach betrays you with a low, pitiful growl.

You freeze. Embarrassed. Your face burns.

He tilts his head.

“Didn’t eat today?” he asks, voice like warm velvet.

You shake your head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He gestures to the menu behind you.

“Whatever she’d order. Add it to mine.”

You open your mouth to protest.

But he leans forward.

And his voice drops just enough.

“You shouldn’t starve yourself to keep breathing.”

Your pulse skips. Your throat tightens.

You don’t know what to say.

He pays again. Double. Doesn’t ask for change.

And when the order’s ready—he doesn’t take it with him.

He slides the tray toward you.

“Eat,” he says simply.

And walks out without another word.

Leaving you with a coffee. A croissant. A warmth in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

And for the first time in days, you eat every bite.

You finish eating slowly.

Each bite feels too heavy. Too seen. Like you’re performing for someone even though he’s already gone.

The croissant is buttery and warm. A little sweet. Not your usual order, but still something you would have picked.

Which makes it worse.

Because how would he know that?

You press your fingers to your lips after the last bite, heart pounding against the cage of your ribs. Not from fear.

From shame.

Because it tasted good.

Because it made you feel cared for.

And the scariest part?

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until he fed you.

There’s a new bouquet on the counter.

You didn’t see him grab it. Didn’t see him set it down.

Black and white roses, again.

But this time… they’re different.

There’s a single sprig of rosemary tucked between them.

Rosemary. For remembrance.

Your coworker Maki whistles low, plucking one out.

“Damn. Mystery guy’s consistent, huh?”

You nod faintly.

But you don’t say a word.

You’re too busy replaying his voice in your head.

“You shouldn’t starve yourself to keep breathing.”

How did he know?

Somewhere Else… Gojo

He watched her take the first bite.

Not in person. Not in real time.

But close enough.

The camera angle caught her just right—chin tilted down, lashes soft against her cheek, her lips parting around the pastry like it was a secret she’d finally allowed herself to taste.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, breathing through her moment like it was his own.

He didn’t need to taste it.

She tasted it for him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured to himself. “That’s what you deserve.”

It wasn’t about food.

It was about attention.

Knowing her needs before she could admit them.

That’s love.

Not whatever Choso gives her. Not whatever she chokes down in silence between shifts and classes and apologies she doesn’t owe.

He made her eat.

He made her feel full.

And now?

He’ll never let her starve again.

[zombofreak]

Everything's worth a try.

As promised, the sylus (LADS) x reader pegging fic.

WARNINGS: PEGGING!! PEGGING!! MORE PEGGING!! oh also face sitting. and obviously aftercare :3

☀︎

“Are you sure about this, Sylus?” You wearily ask. Your eyes raking over his half naked form. He’s only in boxers, clearly hard. You were no better, you could feel your own panties growing wet at the thought of what was to come.

He only smirked at you, his scarlet eyes having a certain glint you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, i’m beyond positive, little dove.”

You glance at the.. pretty large strap on in your hand. You shakily let out a breath. Sylus had offered this idea before, though, you never thought he was serious. Not because you’re not into it, god no, you were just nervous. This isn’t exactly something they taught in Sex Ed in highschool.

“Come on now, where’s that strong huntress that snuck into the N109 zone? Don’t tell me she’s hiding in there somewhere..?” He teased, larger hands resting on your hips as he pulled you closer. “Nothing to be scared of here, i assure you I can handle all you throw at me.” Sylus reassured, the snarky expression turning soft slightly as he reassured you.

It started with small kisses, your hands exploring each other’s bodies. Then, it got more heated, desperate on both ends. Sylus groaned into the kiss when you landed a particularly hard bite on his lip, a wide smile on his face as he continues to kiss you. “There she is..” He hums. You pull back from him, an odd surge of boldness coming through your body like a tidal wave.

“On the bed, Sylus.” You spat out, he chuckles but, obliged. As you reached for the lube and turned your back, sylus had already slipped his boxers off, on his back with no shame. The sound of the lube cap popping open echoed through the room, Sylus’ body pale under the gentle moonlight from the open window. “We don’t have all night, do we?” He looked at your form up and down, you scoffed. “Oh shut up, you’ll be singing different tune after this, asshole.” You laugh out, Sylus raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh? is that a threat or a promise?” He retorts.

You laugh quietly, “whichever you prefer.” You hum out as you properly seated the strap on around your thighs and hips, making sure it’s securely on. 

You can tell Sylus chose such a size specifically for this. It was heavy on your hips, around 9 inches, maybe? It was girthy too, he wanted to push his limits. You pour a good amount of lube in your hand, as Sylus got comfortable and spread his legs to give you a better view. He even fucking shaved for this.

“You were ready, huh baby?” You tease, you could have swore you saw red on his cheeks as he laughs back. “Only wanted you to get the best experience, sweetie.” He says back.

You press one lubed finger to his hole, he tenses, you feel him twitch against the pad of your finger. You shuffle so you’re on the bed, between his legs. “Calm down, ‘m not going to do anything if you aren’t ready, Sy’.” You mumble as you press soft kisses to his neck, waiting for him to relax.  He only grunts quietly, which amazed you. Usually he can’t keep his damn mouth shut when you’re in bed.

His body slowly goes pliant, you slowly sink your finger in to the first knuckle. “Christ.. that feels..” His voice trails off, you laugh breathily. “Give it a moment, gotta get you used to it.” You reassure him, he only sends a glare. Not missing the tone of voice you used— the same tone he’d use to tease you when he was on top.

His quiet gasps were now shaking moans by the time you properly stretched him, three fingers stuffed inside. “Very greedy, i must say, my love.” You quietly coo. You laugh when all he could muster was a grunt in response, his chest starting to heave with heavy pants. You eye his body language, before slowly moving your finger in and out--

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

You continued, listening to his stifled grunts and huffs, before you deemed him ready for a second.

You hear him mumble, under his breath. "Cant hurry this up, at all? You seem to be enjoying this a bit too much." 

Your eyes meet his, "never seen you this impatient, Sylus." You say, barely holding back a smirk. Sylus scoffs.

"Only because you seem to be staring quite hard."

It was only a matter of time, between muffled grunts and groans, and teasing smiles and statements. The skin-toned strap pressed against his ass. You feel his body tense, rubbing a gently hand down his side and sharp hips. 

You line the lubed silicone up with him, gently leaning over his body, quietly asking if he was ready. Your lips kissing that spot right under his ear, trailing down his neck as he laughs, speaking in a breathy tone.

"Beyond ready, sweetheart." His voice was slightly hoarse.

With a final, deep breath- you slowly push in, Feeling Sylus tense under you, stilling. "Deep breath- ease up..-" You grunt as it physically becomes harder to push in due to resistance. 

"'m trying.. 's fucking big.." He huffs. You try not to laugh but.. a giggle or two slip out. "Sy' you chose the size.." 

He only rolls his hooded eyes at you, head turning away, you wear you can see his cheeks turn red. He'd never admit that though, heaven and hell no.

You raise up as your hips (finally) pressed to the backs of his thighs and ass. You wait for him to adjust, when you hear him talk again.

"Plannin' to move any time soon?" He says gruffly, you look down at him. His hair was stuck to his forehead in patches- chest heaving. The matching trail of white hair trailing down his naval heaved with his stomach.

You glare, "I dont want to hurt you, wait." You state, knowing sylus has the habit of thinking he can take anything- which.. he probably could, you just didnt want to risk it.

You wait a minute.

Then two, then three. Your hips finally slowly pull back, gently thrusting into him at a slow pace. Your lips moving back to his neck as your hands find home on his strong thighs.

He's just barely lifting his hips, pushing back. Hes aching for more, you could tell. Again- he would never admit that. Quiet moans left his lips, eyes closing as he gets used ti the pleasure, the bobbing pale pink tip of his cock hitting his stomach with every thrust.

"God, Sy you look s'good, baby.."

You mutter absent mindlessly. 

"So, s'much better when youre not sassing me..-" You groan quietly,hips subconsciously grinding deeper, speed increasing. You shift, looking for.. that one spot..

"Oh.. shit!" Sylus gasps in shock, back arched slightly when you find his prostate. His hands balled into the sheets under him. When he cracks his eye open, nose scrunched, he sees an evil glint in your eyes, smile widening in mischief. "W- ..fuck!..- Whats that-.. ngh.. look for..?" He tried to question between moans.

"You're just.. so, so much prettier underneath, y'know? Big bad criminal, under me whimpering and moaning." You muse as your hips deliver a harsh thrust. 

His eyes widen, voice dying when he tried to respond. "The h.. oh-- fuck!" He grits out between clenched teeth, you rise forward as your fingers toy with the buds of his nipples. 

His face was flushed, the red of his eyes now a sliver from his blown pupils. That cocky smirk was replaced by a wobbling lip. You dug your heels into the carpet floor under you, doubling down on your actions as he gasps harshly. 

His cock jolts, beads of pre-cum leaking as it starts to pull at by his belly button. His toned stomach twitched and heaved as he groans. "God- oh.. my.." He barely manages through moans.

"Yeah? Feel good Sy'?" You mumble back, as you pant slightly from your movements. Your hips still continued to zero on his prostate, as his stronger hands hold at your forearms. "Fuck! Hang on, gon'a cum..-" He mewls out with a whimper. white hair sprawled on the bed as his bangs stuck to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat.

You chuckle, "already?" He glares, "Well when y- ngh..- You're being so harsh, i don't have m..much of a .. choice-" He tried to say through moans.

"Mad you got your own medicine in bed?" You laugh as a hand goes to jerk at his aching cock- red, hot, and furious- His back arches as his groans get louder, his eyes shut as he twitches against your palm. 

"mm.. Cumming.. god, 'm cumming!" He grunts as his body tenses, back finally jerking back onto the bed as white shoots out the mushroom tip. It paints his chest and stomach, he pants harshly as you continue. Your pace was slower now, removing your hand as you slowed to a stop. 

A gentle smile as you watch him try to recover, cock softening. Your hand goes to his flushed cheeks, "you okay, baby?" You coo. He pants as he chuckles, eyes flashing to your lips.

"Suppose I.. got what I proposed." He states the obvious. "Mhm, What was it i said earlier? 'You'll be singing a different tune when we're done?' I think i proved myself quite right." You giggle.

He sits up, looking at your form. "I can't be all pleasured while my lady is still unsatisfied." He hums. You tense, nope, if he does anything with you- it's for sure gonna be pay back for what you did.

But, before you could reply, his hands are on your hips. Not caring for the semen on his body as he pulls you chest to chest with him. The strap-on slid off your waist with his skilled hands.

"Sylus-" You start as he shushes you. "Mm, quiet, just, let me do this." He mumbles back. He scoots back on the bed, easing your hips to straddle his hips, then his chest.. Then his face. 

Your knees laid on each side of his head. He smirks at you between your thighs. "Your panties are soaked through, did you fucking me affect you that much, sweetie?" He muses.

You glare at him. "Shut up, will you?" He only chuckled, pulling your panties to the side as he licked a broad stripe up your cunt. He groans at your taste.

Your eyes close, a hand tangling into his white hair as your hips bucked against his tongue. His nose bumped against your clit deliciously as his tongue prodded at your entrance, dipping in constantly as he swipes his mouth left to right. He's constantly moaning against you, vibrations only intensifying. 

Your eyes roll back, "sy'.. 's s'good..-" You gasp when his mouth latches to your clit, you instinctively look down, his eyes were already trained on you, his nose pressed to the fat of your pussy. His eyebrows were knitted, he was hellbent on making you finish. "Sylus! Oh god, fuck, please! Right there, don'stop, mnnmm!" 

You whine into the air as your head throws back again, hips now moving on their own as you grind against his mouth and tongue, he simply allows you to. You chase your own high, hips riding and bucking wildly as your stomach churns. 

"Gonna cum.." You rasp, breathless as you continue to moan. Sylus moans as you hand on his hair , pulling his tongue back to your clit as you basically rub yourself raw on his tongue, the warm muscle only obliging to your movements.

One more thrust and you break, hips shaking as your body spasms. A loud cry of Sylus' name leaves your lips as your eyes roll back, back arching as sylus' hands move from your hips to your thighs, rubbing small circles as he then moves to coax your through your high. 

Recovering after a moment, you shift off him, he smiles at you.

"Better?" 

You nod., "much.." You meekly respond. "All shy again? Cute." He teases, moving to clean himself off. 

Embarrassingly, all of the previous moments had drained your energy, and your tummy. Your stomach growls loudly. Sylus, who stepped into the master bedroom's bathroom, laughs. "Hungry? I'll ask Mephisto to bring your favorite dish. Fresh." He offers as he returns with a warm rag, wiping you off aswell. He simply threw on a pair of boxers, grabbing one of his shirts and a clean pair of panties for you to sleep in after he finished. 

After a warm, fresh meal, followed by cuddles and kisses, small affirming words and phrases, you laid in the bed, sylus at your side. You were drifting off, listening to the steady pulse of his heart beat as your ear pressed to his chest, his arms around your torso to hold you close.

Though, with a few soft strokes to the small of your back, you were out like a light. Only managing to hum a incoherent reply when Sylus tells you goodnight.

-----

FOR MY BABIES WHO ASKED FOR IT. ITS VERY LATELY DELIVERED!! @iwillpissyourpants @fellowhamster @bigclownshoes @archaic-achiever @mxvladdy @hirostrvw

[mrs-hatake]

Hi 👋 I have a LADs reaction request for pre-relationship lad boys with a flirty MC. Like she flirts with everything that breathes and bc of her charms and beauty, she's always catching hearts of admirers.

hi anon! thank you so much for sending in this fun request! though what i wrote isn't exactly what you've asked for and i only wrote for zayne and caleb (i couldn't think of anything for the rest of the boys ;-;) i enjoyed writing this request and i hope you'll enjoy it too :)

Zayne

His mother always warned him of pretty women and their skillful tongues. Zayne can almost hear her, as the woman in front of him leans in front of her, her low cut shirt a window to her– his mother’s stern voice sharply telling him that he should avoid those types of women at any cost, even the ones who appear helpless, because they are very dangerous. 

“Your eyes are so captivating; I almost forgot my pick-up line.” The woman chuckles breathlessly. She meets his gaze with confidence, like a warrior fighting a fearsome monster. Her stare is so intense, that it feels like she is staring right into his soul.

“I–” Zayne licks his lips, and doesn't miss how she follows the movement. His ears flush but not embarrassment, in flattery, rather. 

Zayne has always known he has beautiful eyes. Though, such comments have been told to him by his mother or sweet old ladies. Rarely women would be daring enough to say such compliments. 

It’s why Zayne wonders why his mother has scornfully filled his head with cautionary tales of insatiable, hungry, greedy, even after sucking men dry. Is it so wrong to be admired?

Zayne isn’t a prude, far from it. He has indulged himself in a relationship or two, but they were short lived. The blame can be partially pointed at Zayne. Not that he is lacking, oh no. It’s just…He’s tired of dating shy, and timid girls. Nothing wrong with them, if he’s being honest, nevertheless, it doesn’t mean that Zayne doesn’t seek a thrill. The same kind that he can only find when performing a complicated cardiac surgery. 

Zayne has always listened to his mother, like the dutiful son that he is. Except for this moment. This moment where he throws his mother’s warning out the wind.

The sensational woman his mother despises is batting her eyelashes prettily at him, stirring something deep from within. 

Like a bee to flowers, Zayne gladly trails after the woman. 

Caleb

In his college days, Caleb was titled the Flirty King of Linkon State University. Whenever someone flirted with him, Caleb is quick to flirt back. He is so good that no one has managed to out flirt him.

Until today.

The law firm he interns in has won an important case. To celebrate, the office manager had invited Caleb’s team out for dinner in some exclusive restaurant at some seven star hotel; the type where you have to call months in advance to book a reservation. 

Yet, Y/N, the office manager, managed to get her team a private room with a simple phone call. 

“Connections.” The associate attorney, Gideon, leans close to Caleb to whisper in his ear. 

The only expensive restaurant Caleb has been to was after graduation, MC and her grandmother had invited them to an Italian restaurant that claimed to have authentic Italian cuisine. Taking a bite of the carbonara pasta, Caleb knows that that restaurant’s claim was false as what he is having right now is true Italian cuisine.

Soft Italian songs are playing in the background. It’s not very loud where everyone has to shout over the songs but it isn’t low enough where Caleb can’t enjoy the incomprehensible lyrics. Maybe he should learn Italian. 

Back to the flirting.

Somehow, it’s been decided by powers Caleb is unaware of, for him to sit next to his office manager. 

Y/N is an extremely beautiful woman. Sharp features that suit her spirited personality. Not once does she cower away from the predominantly male dominated career. She matches their arrogance, knows how to speak their language, beats them at their own game. 

It would be impossible not to be enthralled by her. 

That’s why Caleb is so thankful that he is sitting next to her. Who doesn’t want to sit with someone of Y/N’s caliber? Only a liar would make such a claim. 

With everyone lost in side conversations, Caleb wonders if he’ll achieve the same level of success as Y/N. If he could be as skilled as her.

So lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the slight shift from his lift. Only when heat grows next to him does he blink his daydreams away. He turns to the left and his eyes nearly widen at how closely Y/N is sitting next to him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Y/N starts, twirling the mocktail in her hand, “have you been convicted before?” 

Caleb stares at her quizzically, his lips tugged down into a cute pout. “I’m sorry?” he asks lamely. 

Y/N hums, takes a sip of her mocktail, “Because you’re guilty of being hot.” She glances at him through her peripheral vision.

Caleb’s part in silent surprise.

Y/N smirks at him. In one gulp, she finishes her drink, smacking her lips at the tastiness of the tropical fruits that coats her tongue and moistens her throat. Her hand, decorated in expensive jewelry from brands Caleb doesn’t recognize, slides across the glass table top. She stares into his eyes, a burning gaze that has Caleb sweating. 

Tossing a sweet smile his way, Y/N bids her colleagues a goodnight, ignoring their pleas for her to stay, how the night is just getting started. 

Caleb watches her leave, heart hammering under his ribcage. Was she—

“What’s that?” 

At Gideon’s curious tone, Caleb tears his eyes away from the door. Glancing at Gideon, his friend points at something with his chin. 

Caleb follows the direction. His breath catches in his throat at the slip of paper placed next to his empty pasta plate. 

No. There’s no way. 

Yes Y/N is an older woman (By five years, his mind reminds him, oddly sounding like Gideon) but she wouldn’t pull such an ancient move (A classic, again his mind that sounds like Gideon, quips). Tenderly, he reaches for the piece of paper.

Meet me at the penthouse. Xoxo 

[fjordfolk]

nother reason why i prefer treat pouch over pocket is that i have very often, multiple times, put treats in my pockets and *usually* emptied said pocket. but then put my trousers in a hamper. or hang my coat over a chair

and theres a little shrimp in my apartment. a little pointy one. shrewd little bastard who shall remain nameless. who thinks the possibility of a fraction of a crumb of a treat is ample payment for chewing through said pocket (or any pocket to ever have held a piece of kibble) from whichever angle most convenient to her

[succubusvalentine]

King Simon Riley sharing his Queen with his Knight. CW : threesome, cunnilingus, cum, PiV, biting.

Simon was no fool. He could recognise the gaze of desire in your eyes, you were his wife. Of course he could tell.

Recently, he'd noticed your eyes lingering on not only him when you come to watch his training sessions. But also his guard, Johnny. Your gaze full of hunger, thighs clenching together under your gown.

And Johnny had been staring at you, too. Especially when you would curtsey in front of him, his eyes immediately going to the bust of your gown. His mouth practically salivating.

And when you sometimes got snippy with Johnny for being in the wrong area of the palace? Simon would see Johnny nod, then rush off to a nearby bathroom or closet.

See, Simon wasn't angry at his wife and knight craving to get their hands over one another. He'd felt both you and Johnny quiver underneath him. Though, he hadn't fucked Johnny since his early twenties. But he has no doubts Johnny was still as insatiable as he was back then.

And Simon sometimes got busy, too busy to fuck you the way he knew you craved. He'd only have five or ten minutes to fuck you, when you both knew you needed far longer to be fully satisfied.

Simon told Johnny to stay after a meeting to discuss battle tactics, and had your lady-in-waiting tell you to join them.

Then, Simon confronted you two on your obvious desire for one another, both of you obviously denied it as he expected. Frantically attempting to prove your innocence. Though Simon saw right through it.

Simon silenced you by lifting you up onto the long table, making you gasp as he shoved your gown up, both men realising you were going without panties.

"Simon likes having easy access" You admit sheepishly, Simon smiling wolfishly at you. Pulling your thighs apart, then turning to Johnny, who couldn't take his eyes off your cunt. Simon snapping his fingers at him, grabbing his attention.

"Go on" Simon tells Johnny, "Get on your knees and eat her pussy"

The two of you looked horrified, Johnny opening his mouth hesitantly before Simon grabs the back of his neck and forces him on his knees in front of you, the sound of his leg plates hitting the stone floor echoing in the room.

"Mate...Yer serious?" Johnny asked, eyes flickering between your glistening heat and Simons dark eyes. While it seemed Johnny was being a good friend by making sure Simon was okay with this, he was really just waiting for permission. Because the moment Simon gives a nod, Johnny shoved his face between your legs. Groaning at the scent and taste of you, his hips bucking up against nothing as you grab his hair and pull.

Simon could see the guilt and shame intertwining with the pleasure his Knight was giving you. He knew that would prohibit you from coming, which he wouldn't allow.

Simon stepped closer to the table, leaning in and biting down gently on your collarbone. "'S alrigh' love, want to watch you get fucked by my Knight" Simon whispered against the hollow of your throat, sucking the skin there for a moment. And you nod breathlessly at his words.

Simon smirked and bit you one more time before turning to Johnny and barking orders at him. The knight hurriedly getting up from his knees and unclasping some of his armour, his cock leaking pre cum, your mouth salivating at the sight. But before either you or Johnny could do anything, Simon grasped Johnnys cock and nudged the tip between your swollen folds. Making you whine and buck your hips.

You grabbed Johnnys shoulder tightly as Simon let him thrust into you. He wasn't as thick as Simon, but by the Gods, he was long.

Simon asked you a silent question, if you were ready for Johnny to fuck you, if you were adjusted to his size. And once you nod, Simon looked at Johnny.

"Fuck your Queen the way she deserves. Prove your worth, Knight" Simon growled, his tone when using Johnnys title mocking. Yet you swore you saw Johnnys pupils dilate.

Johnny grabbed your left leg and pushed it up against your chest, his hips immediately setting an unforgiving pace. Which had you moaning loudly, echoing within the room.

"O-Oh fuck- oh by the Gods!" you cry out, Johnny panting like a dog above you.

"Yer so fucking tight Bonnie" Johnny groaned, his hand moving between you to rub at your clit, Making you arch against him.

"Feel good, Birdie?" Simon asked, and you nod dumbly, your chin being roughly grabbed. "Words" your husband growled.

"It's good, it's so so good, Si. Fuck I'm close! Gonna come!" you gasp, thighs tensing and trembling.

"Never heard a pretty Royal like yerself speak so dirty, lass" Johnny grinned, angling his hips until you nearly screamed under him. Your release flooding you, head tilting back as your gummy walls clench down on Johnnys cock so tightly he can barely move. But it was enough, Johnny getting close, Simon could tell.

Simon grabbed Johnny by his grown out mohawk, "Don't you dare come in her, I don't need an illegitimate heir because of you" he threatened. You wanted to protest, to tell your husband to be kinder to his Knight, but from the look on Johnnys face and the small whine he let out, you realise he enjoyed when Simon was mean. An unsurprising revelation, to say the least.

You huff and whimper at the sudden emptiness when Johnny pulled out, but your eyes don't leave his cock as he tugged it furiously, your stomach soon being covered in milky ropes.

Simon chuckled and carefully shoved Johnny to the side, fishing out his own cock despite your tired glazed over eyes and trembling legs, smirking down at you when he grabs your hips and manhandled you to his liking.

"Come on now, love. Let's show Johnny how a King fucks his wife"

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

[aquasoftware]

★ VANILLA WITH A CHERRY ON TOP 🜼

Desc | Kento Nanami meets you at the library, recommends you filthy books, wears his fancy business suits, and kisses your hand like a gentleman. He’s patient, polite, and sweet. But when you finally give him your body, you realize there’s absolutely nothing vanilla about the way he makes love to you.

Cw | MDNI 18+ Cherry popping, soft/service dóm! Kento, súb! Reader, body worsh!p, óraI f!xat!on (f rece!v!ng,) f**t play, chóklng, brèèd!ng/cr3amp!e, overst!m, pra!sè, tùmmý buIgè, nanami has a Prince AIbert piercing, f!nger!ng, cúm pIay, d!rty tàIk, & aftercàre + ML | Drabble

“Vanilla”! Nanami is a man who you meet at a library, his gentle smile is so warm your heart completely melts everytime you glance at him and he flashes one, but you ignore the fact that he’s standing in the erotica section, glasses perched on his nose, quietly flipping through each page like it’s classic literature.

“Vanilla”! Nanami is observant to a pulp. He notices how you always ask for help reaching a book on the top shelf, even though he’s certain you’ve worn heels taller than that. He picks up on how you linger after conversations end, eyes dancing between his lips and his shirt that’s slightly unbuttoned allowing his pecs to happily greet you. How your gaze is anything but innocent, yet he never calls you out on it.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who never flirts explicitly—he just speaks in a tone so sultry and calm it makes your stomach twist.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who always has book recommendations for you, and every time they’re a little more suggestive than the last. “This one had beautiful prose,” he claims, handing you something with chapters full of longing, pinning, or toe-curling tension.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who underlines details in his books that remind him of you, then gets shy when you find them. He’ll mumble "It's just good writing,” but won’t meet your eyes when you see what he underlined is the filthiest smut possible.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who gives you his number after realizing you often come to the library just to constantly see him, he slides you his phone like he’s making a business deal with the contacts screen open uttering “let’s keep in touch.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami is the type that easily falls in love with you, your conversations over the phone nearly lure him in over the screen, your voice is so saccharine he’s desperate for a glass of wine to calm him down, he’s almost embarrassed at how weak in the knees he is for how intelligent you are, your shared hobbies and how your personality is just as attractive as your face.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who sends you photos of his open books along the cozy spots he reads in with captions like “Wish you were here.” (You wonder if he means the reading with him or his lap.)

“Vanilla”! Nanami officially takes you on a plethora of dates after a long while of talking and he’s this huge gentleman, he takes you on real dates. The kind with linen napkins, dim lighting, and soft jazz in the background. He pulls out your chair without thinking twice, gently wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, and feeds you bites of dessert with his fork, as his eyes never leave yours.

“Vanilla”! Nanami chuckles when he eventually meets your best friend and she mutters into your ear “I didn’t know you were into squares Y/n.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who goes quiet for a moment when you tell him you’re a virgin—not because he minds, but because he suddenly feels the weight of your trust.

“Vanilla”! Nanami becomes careful with his words when he finally speaks “I just don’t want to overwhelm you,” he says nervously, placing a loving kiss on the back of your hand. “You deserve someone who’s patient with you… who makes it feel right.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to become too emotional when you tell him that someone is him, his ears are tainted a rose pink. His eyes gloss over you as if you’re only someone he’d be able to find in his dreams.

“Vanilla”! Nanami tries to make things perfect for your first time, wanting things to be so memorable that he (unknowingly) ruins you for any other man. He lights coconut scented candles, decorates the entire room with rose petals and there’s a tray of two wine glasses waiting for the both of you afterwards.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who isn’t so vanilla after all, especially when you makeout with him, you’ll understand exactly why he was in the erotica section. Your cherry flavored lip gloss is only an excuse why his lips keep chasing yours for more, he holds your jaw with his fingertips like he’s unworthy of being able to touch you.

“Vanilla”! Nanami takes a deep breath when you tell him you’re finally ready, asking “Are you sure about this?” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead once you eagerly nod.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who bites his lip trying not to laugh when you apologize for not wearing anything sexy underneath your clothes and he undresses you to reveal a matching SpongeBob set. He reassures you by saying “You’re sexy in whatever you feel comfortable wearing.” And he gently rubs your back.

“Vanilla”! Nanami unclasps your bra, carefully planting kisses on your bare chest as if it's a delicate flower waiting to be picked. At first he acted as if he had all the time in the world, twirling your bud between his fingers, but then he instantly gave in when you pleaded for more—latching onto your nipple, while suckling as if it could produce sweet nectar.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you for hours eating you out, and if you’re insecure about how you look down there? It’s just an excuse for him to eat you out like his life is on the line, sucking your clit until your thighs are shaking, until his head is practically being crushed to death by your thighs, or until you’re desperately humping his face like a needy slut.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who preps you with another hour of fingering, going painfully slow, refusing to rush things at all. His fingers are thick, so when he curls up and hits that g-spot each stroke? You nearly drool, throwing your head back into the flood of pillows, swearing it’s better than the smut you read.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who shocks you when you learn he has a prince albert piercing and you quickly learn what those hours of prepping was for. When you tell him “I would’ve never guessed you’d have a piercing there!?” He responds, shaking his head “I got it in my youth, but couldn’t bring myself to remove it.” If he notices any concern on your face he tenderly kisses your jawline and lets you hold his hand.

“Vanilla”! Nanami eases in but he goes feral when you cry “Kento, fuck! N-need you faster baby, please.” He throws your legs over your shoulders and can’t help but to suck your pretty white manicured toes, causing you to gasp out of shock, yet pure pleasure.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who thrives off the erotic books he reads, knowing it ingrained the words in his head on what to say, he feels like he won a medal each time he evokes deafening moans when he praises you murmuring “You’re doing so well for me sweetheart,” or “take all of me, mmmh, just like that.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami purposefully presses a big hand on your tummy bulge as he slows down his pace just so you can feel his piercing nudge deliciously against your weak spots.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who tries not to cross any boundaries with you but when you guide his hand to your throat it’s practically testing him, he remembers from a guide that teaches you should start off with small pressure. When you squeeze his cock at the light pressure? He considers putting a baby in you on the spot.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who makes you orgasm for the ninth time that night, when he reaches down to rub your clit while you're spasming around him. As soon as you finish, he doesn’t last long asking “Where do you want me princess?” His eyes nearly roll back when you say “I want your cum inside me baby.” He cums so deep, you’ll feel it in your womb the next day.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who watches as his cum oozes out your swollen cunt, and eats you out one last time, “for good measure.”

“Vanilla”! Nanami who has insane aftercare he cuddles with you, constantly asks if you’re okay, feeds you grapes like he worships the ground you walk on, and holds up your wine for you to drink.

“Vanilla”! Nanami who is anything but vanilla.

Divider/Boarders produced by uzmacchiato & dollywons

‹3 Masterlist!! | more nanami smut?

Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.

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