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not-neverland06 · 6 months ago

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paranormal love

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x fem!reader

a/n: Bucky is going to be very OOC for the first half of this. Just trust the author on this one, it will all make sense in time. (Toxic relationships, paranormal happenings - you have been warned)

Summary: Moving into this house was supposed to be the blessing your marriage needed. Instead you only seem to be twisted against each other. Something lurks within these walls, something angry, something lonely. Someone wants you gone, and he’ll do whatever it takes to have his revenge on the woman who left him behind. (Part of my Halloween Palooza)

“Okay,” you say, balancing the camera in your palm, zooming in on James’ back while he unpacks the kitchen boxes. “Wanna smile for the camera?”

He gives you a glance over his shoulder before turning and waving to the camera. He chuckles a little, glancing down at the lens and then back at you. “What are you doing?”

You sigh, placing the camera on the counter and letting it record. “Well, you know how the lady said this place was haunted?”

He rolls his eyes and glares at you. “I told you not to listen to her, that chick was off her meds.” You swat at his arm but he bounces away from you playfully.

“Shut up,” you mutter, holding back a small laugh. “I just thought that if there were any supernatural happenings,” you nod towards the camera, “we’ll need proof if we’re going to make this a tourist trap.”

James smiles, leaning over to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Good call, babe.” You smile after him as he heads back out to the truck to bring in more boxes. Your eyes briefly dart to the camera before you shake your head with a disbelieving chuckle.

Do you believe in the supernatural? Yes. The metaphysical? Depends on who’s trying to sell you their tarot cards. But you do know that when that woman handed you the keys after you bought the place, you’d never seen such stark relief.

That poor old woman was terrified of living in this house alone. Of course, the old bitch didn’t tell you about all the horrific things that happened here until after you signed the deed. If you had known this place was haunted, even if it’s not, you never would have bought it.

Sadly, all your money and savings are now tied into this home. James says not to worry, that there’s nothing wrong with the place. But he’s always been a cynic and he’s never really believed in anything so miraculous as ghosts. Besides, he’s the type of guy to argue with you until he’s purple in the face that the sky is red when he’s in a mood.

There’s no talking him out of this. And you can’t begin your newlywed life arguing with your husband about the place you just made your forever home. Anyways, it’s not like you’ve noticed anything bad yet.

The camera is mainly a joke to mess with James and make yourself feel better about the whole thing. You’ll turn it off tonight, be done with it, and hopefully get over this irrational fear of yours.

12 AM

You spit the toothpaste into the sink and rinse your mouth with water. You’ve noticed a strange metallic taste with all the unfiltered sinks. You're worried you might have to call a plumber or someone to check it out. You don’t want to get lead poisoning your first night here.

You freeze, still bent over the sink, and your jaw snaps shut. Eyes are boring into the back of your head, hateful and angry. It’s not James, you would know if it was. This is something different, the hair on the back of your neck is standing up, goosebumps rolling up and down your arms. There’s a rush of cool air, like something running past you, and your head shoots up in surprise.

You scream when you see James in the mirror’s reflection. He jumps back in shock, lowering the camera and giving you an exasperated look. A second ago you’d been completely alone and he’d been downstairs, where the fuck did he come from?

“What the hell, James?” You wipe your mouth off with the back of your hand and whirl around on him. He glares at you, eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction.

“Talk about an overreaction. What the hell is your problem?” He snaps, taking that tone with you that you know means you have to be careful. You don’t feel like getting into another fight with him. Especially not tonight.

“You scared me,” you trail off into an awkward laugh, hoping to ease up the mood a little. He slams the camera down on the counter. Your shoulders jump and you flinch back from him slightly. “What’re you doing with the camera?” You ask, glancing down at the lens and frowning. You spot the red blinking light and realize he’s still recording, your brows furrow in confusion.

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” His tone is short and you huff in disappointment. You hadn’t realized something as small as a little scare would piss him off. You used to be good at reading his moods. Since the wedding, though, he seems to have just gotten more and more unpredictable.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling over the floor as you kick your legs. You hate how tall the damn bed frame is, you have a horrible paranoia that something’s going to grab you one day and yank you under. James, of course, had just laughed when you told him this and then bought it. He thought it was funny, that it would help you overcome your fears.

You still have goosebumps from earlier, the same breeze from before tickles the pads of your feet. You glance down with wide eyes, yanking your legs into your chest and scooting back from the edge. James flips the lights off in the bathroom and walks to the end of the bed. He’s dragged out the tripod and has got it pointed at the bed.

You tilt your head with a coy smile, “Planning on having some fun tonight?”

He glances between you and the camera, a confused furrow between his brows. You scoff out a laugh as the realization dawns over him. “If you’re up for it, I wouldn’t mind some after-dark fun.” You roll your eyes and tug the covers over your legs. He leaves the camera and crawls on the bed towards you. “But that’s not what it's for.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over his shoulder and then turn back to him with an odd look. “Don’t tell me you’re buying into the supernatural junk?” You tuck your head into his chest, letting him pull you closer as he flips the lamp off. “You’re supposed to keep me tethered to reality, remember?” You tease, looking up at him.

He glances down at you and shrugs. “The lady did say the master bedroom is the worst, I’m just curious if we’ll catch anything.”

You shoot the camera a concerned look and shake your head. “I hope not,” you mutter. You snuggle in closer to him, trying to dismiss the feeling of someone watching you. You’re sure it’s just from the camera being on you. Besides, you always get too deep in your head about this stuff.

3 AM

You shoot up in bed, chest heaving as you stare down at your feet. James shifts behind you, grumbling as he flips over and steals the rest of the blankets.

Your heart is pounding loudly in your chest as you simply sit there, staring at the end of the bed. You pause, holding your breath like the room might tell you its secrets.

You’re normally a heavy sleeper, not even a fire would get you up. But something just did, you were ripped violently from your slumber. You almost want to dismiss it as an incredibly vivid nightmare. Yet, you can’t ignore the throbbing, almost freezing pain, that’s shooting up and down your left calf.

The muscle is spasming sporadically and you can still feel the phantom touch of someone squeezing your leg. Your hip is sore from where you’d been dragged down. You’ve had pretty vivid dreams before. You’ve woken up with your feet sore like you’d been running, or your muscles cramped from twitching around so much. But this is a lot.

You take in a deep breath, slowly pulling your legs into your chest. You slump over your bent knees, hoping to catch your breath and settle your racing mind. It’s impossible to ignore how cold your leg feels, you feel like you’re losing blood circulation. You can’t just go back to sleep with it like this, you’re gonna have to go downstairs and get James’ heat pack.

You’re seriously starting to lose feeling in it now. You’re wondering if something didn’t drag you and maybe you’ve got a blood clot screwing your circulation up somehow. Hundreds of different possibilities race through your mind, each more worrying than the last. You can't sit up all night scaring yourself, you’re just gonna have to suck it up.

You briefly consider waking James up so you don’t have to go downstairs alone. You hate how those stairs look in the dark, you feel like something is standing at the end, waiting to reach through the banister and drag you down. A ghost, however, sounds more inviting than making James grumpy before he has to go in for work tomorrow morning.

With a heavy sigh, you force yourself off the bed and blindly grope through the dark for the wall. Your left leg is practically dead weight as you drag it behind you. Your hands skate along the dusty walls and you grimace, making a mental note to dust tomorrow.

You’re trying to take it slow, to squint out as many shapes in the dark as you can. It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re going to hit the stairs. You can only pray that you don’t go toppling headfirst down them.

Slowly, you inch your toes forward and curl them around the edge of the step. From there it’s a long, arduous process of just trying to get down the stairs. It feels as though with each step you take, the house only grows darker.

You wished you had taken the risk and turned the lights on. The feeling of eyes following you only gets worse as you finally reach the kitchen. The further you get from the bedroom, the worse your leg begins to throb. You can only be happy that you still feel it at all.

Your hand skates along the wall until you feel the cool plastic of the light switch. As harsh as it is against the linoleum, it’s a stark relief from being all alone in the dark. You dig around in the moving boxes until you find James' heating pad. You toss it in the microwave and pull yourself on the counter, drumming your fingers while you wait for it to warm up.

He hates you. He hates that you live in his house. He hates that she’s gone. Bette, he’ll miss her, the way the old woman’s face would screw up in terror always brought a sick satisfaction to him.

You press the warm pad to your leg and hiss through your teeth as feeling begins returning to your calf. He has to admit, he hadn’t meant to grab you quite so hard. He just wanted one good scare, to either get you out of here or show you who's in charge. Your leg has turned an odd color in the shape of his handprint and it makes his lips curl up.

There’s a loud ringing from upstairs. It grates on his already frayed nerves and makes anger roll off of him in violent, tangible waves. Your nose twitches, your face screwing up as you look around. There’s a suspicious glint in your eye, one your little husband doesn’t share with you.

He has to admit, you’re smart enough to realize the truth of your situation, at least. Your husband doesn’t share the same characteristic. He seems alarmingly self-assured, not that he minds, those are his favorite types to break.

He can hear upstairs, better than you would ever hope to. He listens as your husband picks up the phone, quietly yelling at someone on the other end. A woman, if the timbre is anything to go by. They both sound incredibly angry. He’s not interested in listening to something as trivial as this.

He turns away from you and moves towards the stairs. He pauses at the base of them, glancing over his shoulder and really taking you in. You look so small, curled up on the counter with the look of a frightened child.

You scream as the lightbulb above you explodes, plunging you into complete darkness. He smiles to himself, drifting up the stairs and lingering at the end of your bed. Your husband’s head shoots up in alarm and he pulls the phone away from his ear.

The name Martha lingers on the small screen before he quickly flips it off and rushes out of bed. He blows right through the man at the end of his bed, flipping on the lights and racing down the stairs. He calls out your name, voice frantic and bordering on paranoia.

He hadn’t thought you two would get scared quite so quickly. He’d been hoping to enjoy this a bit more. Perhaps he should slow down, and savor the long fall into madness before he claims you both. He hovers at the top of the stairs, watching as your husband comforts you.

He’s got his arms wrapped around you, trying to keep you quiet and get you to calm down. From a distance, he could almost be the perfect husband. But that look is all too familiar, he’s seen it a hundred times before. It’s only now that he recognizes it for what it is. There is no love in your husband’s gaze, only the fear that you’ll find out his little secret.

He goes back into the bedroom, swipes the phone off the nightstand, and retreats into the shadows.

“Don’t,” you slap James’ hands away from you, glaring at him. He purses his lips, huffing out a sharp breath and taking a step back. Anger brews under your skin, warms you up, and makes your jaw ache from how hard you’re clenching down.

“How can you say I made it up?” You shout, no longer caring how loud you are. Your voice cracks at the end as you take on a shrill pitch. You yank up the leg of your yoga pants, shoving your leg towards him.

Not only has the skin dipped in the perfect shape of a hand, but it’s also turned into an unnatural shade of green and purple. It’s like no bruise or injury you’ve ever had before. James looks down at the mark like it’s a bug to be squashed or a pile of dog shit he just stepped in.

He fixes you with a sneer and shoves it away from him. You let out a harsh breath and stumble slightly into the counter. “Would you quit fucking showing me that? It’s freaking me out.”

You throw your hands up in the air, giving him an eat-shit look. “How do you think I feel? It happened to me.”

He shakes his head and turns towards the coffee pot, pouring himself another mug. You can’t believe how dismissive he’s being about this whole thing. You have indisputable proof burned into your flesh, and he’s completely ignoring your worries.

“We need to get you to the doctor, okay?” He shakes his head, giving you the look of a disapproving parent, rather than the supportive husband he’s supposed to be. He hadn’t even been worried for you last night, just mad that you’d woken him up for nothing.

“It’s probably a blood clot, not a damn poltergeist.”

“James-” His phone ringing cuts you off, and your eyes narrow in disbelief as he reaches for it. It’s closer to you on the counter so you snatch it up before he can grab it.

“What are you doing?” He demands, taking on a concerningly low tone.

“We’re going to talk about this, you’re not getting out of this one, James!”

He whispers your name in a voice you haven’t heard before. His face is dark, brows set in determination as he slowly extends his hand. “Give me my phone.”

You glance at the Nokia and then back at him. The fear that’s been ever-present since last night turns into something else. Anxiety and suspicion make a wicked and nauseating brew in your stomach. “Why?” You whisper, eyes narrowing on him as he takes a step closer. You stumble a step back, holding the phone out of his reach.

You feel your hand tremble with its vibrations before it begins to ring again. You look towards it just as James lunges forward. His shoulder nearly barrels into you as he grabs your wrist. His grip is so tight you almost feel the bones creaking together. “James!” You gasp, the phone tumbling from your palm and into his hand. He shoves you back, tucking it in his pocket and glaring at you.

“Don’t touch my phone,” you open your mouth to argue and he takes a large step forward. His foot slams against the ground and you flinch back from him, eyes wide in surprise. “Do you understand me,” he demands, slowly and his voice low.

You nod, your jaw gaping as you stare at him. He runs a hand through his hair, refusing to meet your eye now. Dark strands fall onto his forehead and he looks more disheveled than you’ve seen him in a long while.

He looks at his watch and clenches his eyes shut. He pauses, taking in a deep breath as he straightens his tie and rounds the kitchen island. “What are you doing?” You ask, your voice so quiet you’re surprised he even hears it.

“Going to work,” he snaps. You can’t look at him, you just keep your eyes glued to the floor as the door slams shut. You hold your breath until you hear the car going down the driveway. Ever so slowly, you peel yourself away from the counter.

Your hand drifts, without thinking, to the imprints on your wrist. “What the fuck,” you mutter, a stunned sort of silence taking over. You can’t help but just stand there, completely dumbfounded by how quickly a simple argument escalated.

He’s always had a shorter temper than most, but that was extreme. A door slams upstairs and you scream, leaping forward and whirling towards the noise. “What the fuck!” You shout again, stumbling towards the knife block behind you. You can hear footsteps running upstairs and swallow around a ball of fear sinking in your throat.

You almost call out ‘whos there,’ but that’s a little too stupid for you. You’re not planning on being the bimbo who dies first in every horror movie. As much as James likes to tease you for being a little simple sometimes, you are equipped with basic survival skills.

You look towards the coffee maker, the port where your home phone should be is empty. You rush towards the windows, glancing out the driveway and cursing when you find it empty. You were hoping that James might still be in his car, steaming before he comes back in to apologize. But, no, he’s really gone.

Another door slams and it feels a little petty. Despite the way your heart races and you’re struggling to catch your breath, you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. The looming presence that hung over you last night is gone. James had dismissed the lightbulb exploding as an old house and bad lighting.

You know better, despite the claims otherwise, and you sincerely doubt that there’s an actual person upstairs. And whatever it is, was smart enough to steal your phone. You slink towards the end of the stairs, just barely craning your neck so you can see into your bedroom. Except the door isn’t open like you left it.

Light comes through the crack of the closed door. You take a tentative step up, eyes squinting as you try and get a glimpse under the door. A shadow darts past, like rushing footsteps. You gasp, leaping back and covering your mouth with trembling hands.

The hair on the back of your neck stands, and the loose hairs from your braids blow across your cheeks, tickling your sensitive skin. Old vents, that’s what James told you. His attempt to explain the inexplicable breeze that seems to be following you everywhere you go. You’re bundled head to toe in fuzzy socks, warm pants, and a too-big sweatshirt. And still, you feel your fingers nearly go numb and you can barely feel your nose anymore.

That’s not a poor AC system. And those aren’t feet under your door. You’re so focused on simply watching the movements under the door that you completely forget anything else. You’re blind and deaf as you watch whatever is moving about in your room. A loud clank breaks through the silence and you nearly scream.

Your bones almost jump out of your skin as the ice machine starts going and rattles up the old fridge. You clench your eyes shut, taking in a deep breath and glaring at the white machine. “Fuck me,” you mutter, holding your chest and just barely calming yourself down.

You’ve only been here a night, you shouldn’t be so fucking terrified. You’re ready to just go out into the backyard and wait the rest of the day for James to come back. If you could drive off, you would. But you’ve only got one working car right now and he’s taken it to work. You move to grab your laptop off the couch when something creaks behind you.

Old hinges cry out as they’re slowly forced to work. The sound of steps going down the stairs occupies the space behind you. You can’t find the bravery to turn around, too scared to see what might be there. Something ice cold passes through you. It nearly feels like a violation, as though something was rooting through your insides like it belonged there. It couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds but it was more than enough to have you nearly vomiting up your scarce breakfast.

The moment it’s over you feel yourself calming down. As though an instinctual intuition has been activated, you know the danger’s passed. Whatever it had been trying to accomplish with that little show, it did it.

You turn back to your room, the lights off and the door open, looking just as you left it. You glance over your shoulder, looking into the kitchen before starting up the stairs. You give a hesitant peek into the room like you expect it to be a wreck. But it looks spotless, the camera is in the same place James left it, still recording.

You file that away in the back of your mind. Maybe the camera picked up what happened last night, or maybe James is right. You really are just getting too far into your head. A shrill ringing goes off near James nightstand and you frown. Your phone buzzes on his side of the bed, MOM lighting up the square screen.

You let out a short huff, quickly snatching your phone and answering. Maybe she can talk some sense into you, or, more preferably, come over to keep you company. “Hey mom,” you answer, smiling slightly to yourself. It’s been a little while since you’ve been able to talk to her. James had banned phones after the honeymoon and then you’d gotten caught up in house stuff, jobs, and the aftermath of the wedding ‘incident.’

An older voice than you’d been expecting answers on the other end, saying your name in a confused tone. Your brows furrow and you frown, “Mrs. Barnes?”

“Honey,” she sounds strained, like she really hadn’t been expecting you to answer. James must have taken your phone by accident. It makes sense, they’re both the same model, but you put a little pink charm on your Nokia so you’d stop making this mistake. Yet, when you look to your left, you see your charm lying on your nightstand. When had you taken that off?

“Where’s James?”

“Um,” you’re still a little thrown off by her voice and take a second to answer. “Work, I think he took the wrong phone,” you laugh a little, disconcerted that it’s not your mother’s comforting voice.

“Must have,” she answers, she sounds like she’s a million miles away, her tone distant. “Well, um, just tell him to call me back.”

“Alright,” you hesitate, concerned by how off she sounds. “Is everything alright?” You know things have been tough for her since her husband passed on. James’ sisters have been helping her adjust, but the wedding had taken him away from his family for a little while. He hasn’t actually shown any signs of wanting to reach out and it makes you feel guilty, like you’re keeping him away from her.

Mrs. Barnes, a living saint you swear, has been nothing but kind as she welcomes you into her family. This is the first time she’s ever been so distant to you. You act more like her family than James does nowadays.

“Has, uh,” she coughs, clearing her throat. You can almost hear what sounds like Francesca on the other end, hollering at her. The sound of James’ older sister’s voice makes you smile a little wider. “Has James said anything to you?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head in confusion, even if she can’t see you. “About what?”

“Oh, crumbs,” she huffs and you have a feeling whatever she was about to say was important, but someone is snatching the phone away before you can hear the rest of it. You’d been so focused on her voice that you hadn’t even heard James come back in.

He glares down at the phone, face pale and eyes wide like he’s expecting something horrific. When he places it to his ear and hears his mom’s voice, his shoulders slump in relief. You narrow your eyes at him, disoriented by the strange behavior.

“Mom,” he interrupts her rudely, “I’ll call you later. Okay?” He hangs up before she can answer. He tugs your phone out of his pocket and tosses it next to you on the bed. “Answering my phone now? What are you, my secretary?”

You slip your phone into your back pocket, not looking at him as you get off the bed. “I thought it was mine. I think my charm broke off.” You put some distance between the two of you, glancing down at his phone and then back at him. “Why are you being so weird about it?”

He flinches like you’ve just accused him of something far worse than being overly protective of his phone. “I don’t like you digging around in my phone. That’s a problem now?” You open your mouth to argue, but he just keeps going, cutting you off, “You’re so goddamn paranoid. First the ghost, now this,” he gestures vaguely at you and you scoff, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

You two are devolving far quicker than he had anticipated. It must have been a fragile relationship, to begin with. James slams the door and you slump down on the bed, you almost look like you want to cry.

He goes down the stairs, watching through the window as your husband lingers on the front porch. He calls someone, his mom, and starts yelling at her as he gets to his car. Looking away from the window, he sighs.

He’d been close, if James hadn’t come home he probably could have pushed you over the edge immediately. He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or happy that his game gets to go on a little longer.

You come back down the stairs, eyes rimmed red and shoulders slumped in defeat. You brush through him, not even noticing the chill he leaves behind in you. You have the camera in your hand and a cord in the other. He grins, excited to finally have you see the truth of what happened last night.

You plug the camera into your laptop, scrubbing through the footage of last night. He leans over your shoulder and watches as goosebumps rise along your skin. You sigh, tugging a blanket over your shoulders, but he knows that won’t do anything to help you.

Nothing will unless you leave. But your husband has made it clear that you’re not getting out of here until he has actual proof anything supernatural lurks inside these haunted walls. Right here, in your lap, you have your proof. A phantom wind blows up the sheets of the bed, an unexplainable tug of your leg that drags you halfway down the bed. It’s violent and he almost feels sorry, he really hadn’t meant to hurt you, only scare you.

His fingers drift over your leg and you jump, whirling around, wide eyes looking right through him. He can’t help but admire the way fear makes them shine. You’re quite pretty when you’re terrified, he couldn’t say the same for the hag that used to live here.

You’re slow to turn back to the computer, but when you do, there’s a slight curve to your lips that he appreciates. “I fucking knew it,” you whisper, slamming the screen closed and getting to your feet.

You’re giddy, he can taste the satisfaction overpowering the fear. You round the couch, taking in a deep breath and shaking out your arms. Your face sets in determination and you start working on clearing out the moving boxes.

He doesn’t feel the urge to mess with you any further. He leaves you in peace, lounging in your armchair and watching you work. He’s got a nice surprise worked up for you tonight, no need to take today’s playtime any further.

You’re efficient, only occasionally getting distracted as you smile at pictures of your wedding day. You put those up on the mantle, beside some family photos. It’s clear how much you value your familial bonds, even your husbands. You put it front and center in the home, reminding him of how it once looked.

There’s a stark sense of deja vu as he watches you work, a nauseating feeling of what could have been. He can practically taste the newlywed bliss you’re going through. Even with your husband being a piece of work, you still value him, love him. He’d once known that love, hell, he’d reveled in it.

But the curtain always has to come down. The magic’s never real. He’s doing you a favor by showing you the truth of it all. His gaze drifts away from you cooking dinner and he looks towards the pictures on the mantle.

James’ mother reminds him of his own. He always wondered what happened to her, what her life was like after he was gone. Neither of them ever got what they wanted. She died wondering what happened to her only son, and he died without getting to say goodbye.

He thinks of Bette, and feels that familiar white-hot rush of anger, your scream comes a moment later. He glances towards you, confused, before he follows your eyes and sees that he’s accidentally shattered the frames of the pictures.

You gasp, sucking in shallow breaths as you stumble into the counter, brows furrowed in terror. He clenches his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, and tamps down on the anger overwhelming him.

The door opens and your socked feet go rushing towards it, you nearly slip on the hardwoods, arms spinning wildly as you right yourself. James flinches away from your frantic hands as you grab his jacket and drag him inside. “The fucking pictures,” you stutter out your words and point frantically towards the mantle.

James grimaces, tugging at your hands and looking towards him. He doesn’t see him, of course he doesn’t. But he does see his little accident. James scoffs, face screwing up in anger, he turns towards you. His face is set like a disappointed parent. “You broke them? Our wedding pictures, seriously. All because of a stupid fight?”

He jerks away from you, storming towards the glass and kicking at it. “You didn’t even clean it up,” he says your name, tone increasing in anger. You stare at him, disbelieving and open-mouthed.

He sits back on the armchair, thoroughly amused. He hadn’t even had to do anything to turn him against you. Your sweet James has just been waiting for a reason to get mad. “This is fucking petty, even for you.”

“What, James,” you stumble over your words, taking a hesitant step towards him. He thinks you’re pretty when you’re scared, but not like this. He doesn’t appreciate the way you approach your husband like he’s a rabid dog. You shouldn’t be scared of him, not yet at least. He hasn’t even had his fun with him yet.

“It wasn’t me, I swear-”

“Not this ghost shit again, seriously-”

“I have proof!” You shout, your voice is desperate as you try and make yourself louder than him. You run towards your laptop, and ignore the burning smell coming from the oven. He gets up, drifting towards it and turning it off before either of you can notice. No point in having the house burn down. Where would that leave him?

You plug the camera in, turning the screen towards him. James doesn’t make a move yet, simply glaring at you like you’re a bug to be swatted. “Please,” you beg, pathetic and needy. He huffs, rolling his eyes as he watches you both. It’s all so familiar to him, he feels like he’s watching his unfortunate disaster of a marriage play out through you.

You scrub through the times, cussing as you pass over the clip of you getting dragged. There’s a frantic look in your eye as you hit play. It almost makes him feel bad for what’s about to happen.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” James snaps.

Your face falls and you move the mouse forward and back, looking like a madwoman as you try to find the right moment. You won’t, he made sure of that. Nothing but static plays when you get to the parts that would prove your innocence.

James tugs at his tie, shaking his head in disappointment. “Not only did you fuck up all our pictures, you didn’t even have dinner ready.” He shoves past you, heading up the stairs and muttering to himself. He pulls out his phone, lingering on a contact he shouldn’t before pressing call.

You stay still in the living room, looking at the shattered glass and then the oven. “I made your favorite,” you whisper. You suck in a shaky breath, swallowing hard as you kneel down to try and pick up the remnants of your wedding photos.

3 AM

He sits on the bed, glancing towards the blinking red light of the camera. There’s a clear wall between you and your husband, even if neither of you wants to acknowledge it. You lay curled up in yourself, like a child afraid to seek comfort. He pities you, truly.

He remembers the happiness of youth, the rush of being married to the person you believe is the love of your life. He will never forget the pain of realizing the person you’ve given everything to turning into someone you don’t recognize.

His hand drifts over the swell of your cheek. Your lashes flutter, nose wrinkling at the cold brush of his touch. But you don’t flinch away from him, instead leaning into him and looking almost happy by his touch.

He looks to your husband, eyes narrowing on his relaxed form. He sees the phone lying near him and his face sets in determination. He’s not going to let you fall into the same trap he did. And he certainly isn’t about to let another soul cramp the already stuffy walls of his home.

It’s been quiet around the house. Less strange events and more strained dinners between you and your husband. You’ve taken to bringing the camera everywhere with you. But anytime a light bulb explodes or a frame topples over, the video goes static.

You should have given up the hunt for evidence but you can’t give it up. You just need James to see, you need him to believe you. Or, at the very least, you need some assurance that you’re not going crazy. You’ve begun to consider the possibility.

The bruise on your leg is gone, the constant chills that rack you are still very much present, but there’s nothing else. Everything that happens can be explained by the age of the house. You’ve only briefly discussed it with James’ sisters. Elizabeth gave you the number of a medium she knows.

James had gotten angry when he found the business card after her visit. He didn’t like her filling your head with more nonsense and indulging you. You didn’t like how dismissive he was. It’s been a few days since the fight and you still have no desire to reconcile with him.

It’s becoming easier to simply ignore his presence around the house. You know it’s not healthy. You’ve only just begun the marriage, you don’t need to have communication issues tainting it before it’s even on its legs.

Still, it’s as though something’s keeping you from him. Every attempt at speaking with him is interrupted, thoughts of apologizing just to placate him are struck from your head quicker than they come.

You stand up from the kitchen table, placing your pictures to the side. You’ve finally gotten new frames for them all, you only need to put them back up. You have no problems putting up the family pictures. Yet, the moment you make to grab the wedding picture of you and James, you grow inexplicably tired.

Your eyelids flutter shut and you sway on your feet. Your bones grow heavy like you’ve been working all day. But you’ve only been up a few hours, and you had so much more to do today. You try and fight forward, leaning on the table and reaching for the portrait again. You almost feel like you’re nudged back, moved towards the couch.

A short nap, you promise yourself. Just long enough to get your energy back.

He followed him to work. That’s never happened before. He’s never been able to follow someone out of the house. He tried, with Steve, he tried to make every aspect of his life hell. But he couldn’t.

Yet, with this one, he has no problem following him. Maybe it’s the odd resemblance they have. A haircut and a shave, they could be identical twins. But then again, he hasn’t seen his face in a long while, perhaps he’s misremembering it.

It’s difficult to maintain this control. Half of him lingers in the house, with you, the other half is here. He’s being drawn closer to James and further from you. He doesn’t know if that’s conducive or an interruption to his plans.

He only vaguely sees you, in his mind’s eye. He leads you to the couch, lays you down, and keeps you away from the reminders of James. He’s gotten good at keeping you both separated. It was easy to begin with, all he’s doing is showing you the truth of the man you married. If only he could really show you.

James phone rings and he focuses on him once more. It’s Martha again. He hasn’t figured out the truth of their relationship, he’s sure he already knows it. He’s lived this life once, knows the truth of why a husband would act like this. The late-night calls, the constant misdirection of anger.

He’s paranoid, terrified you’ll find out the truth. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. The perfect housewife at home, and the mistress who fulfills his every desire. At least, that’s his theory. He still needs to be completely sure.

He ignores James, focusing once more on his connection to the house. He finds you right where he left you, deep in your sleep and completely oblivious to the world around you. He kneels before you, sweeping some hair off your cheeks and tilting his head as he takes in your restful face.

You look so peaceful when you’re like this, a slight curl to your lips as you wander through dreamland. He wished he could keep you like this, wished he could completely get rid of James. But without him, you wouldn’t be able to keep the house. You’d leave it, leave him. He can’t have that. He’s been lonely for so long, he needs you, craves you.

6 PM

“How was work?”

“Fine.”

Chewing fills the cavernous silence of your dining room. Forks scrape across porcelain, shallow breaths as you both dance around the tension that threatens to tie a noose around your marriage. You reach for your wine, hoping for another heady swallow. Just like before, you’re dissuaded from it.

You grow tired at the thought of drowning your sorrows in the alcohol for another night. You clench your eyes shut and take a deep breath, moving the glass away from you and turning back to the roast you made.

James’ brows furrow as he watches you. “Everything alright?”

You hum, “Tired.” He scoffs and your face falls flat. He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he cuts more aggressively into the meat. "Something wrong?” You demand, sucking on your teeth as you anticipate his answer. You’re sure it’s going to be the same broken record he’s been playing since the honeymoon.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, tone dismissive. He pauses, taking a deep breath before laughing sardonically. “It’s just funny.” You hate how he does this, drags out his answers, and forces you to take the bait.

You’re not playing this game of his tonight. You won’t do it again. You can’t keep going in circles with him, can’t keep indulging him in these childish tantrums. He waits, eyebrows raised and pretty blue eyes boring into yours, demanding attention.

Those damn eyes. You wish he was just a little uglier, maybe then you wouldn’t have been so blind to how fucking awful he really is. You almost resent his mother and sisters for this. They could have warned you off, told you the horror stories of his past before the wedding. Instead, they’d warned you after it was too late and your entire life was entangled in his.

“I work all day, come home, want a peaceful meal. What do I get?”

He falls silent again and you let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, James,” you drawl, bored of this already. Your patience for him is practically nonexistent nowadays. You used to be able to endure these conversations with him, or at the very least soothe him. But you’re tired of feeling like a babysitter and not the wife you’re supposed to be. “What do you get? A homecooked meal, a clean house, someone to come home to. Tell me,” you demand, slamming your hand on the table and surprising him. “What the fuck do you get?”

“A nagging fucking wife who does jack shit all day and complains about being tired! I work for us, so you can stay home and live out your little housewife fantasies!”

Your jaw drops and you suck in a sharp breath. You can’t even form words, nearly laughing at the audacity and ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “Oh my god,” you can only scoff, shaking your head and leaning back in your chair. You smile and roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” He stands, leaning on the table and trying to make himself bigger than he is. It only paints him in a more pathetic light.

You cut him off before he can say anything else, scooping up your plate and storming into the kitchen. “You’re the one who insisted I quit my job. You,” you turn and gesture towards him, a disgusted sneer on your face, “wanted a fucking housewife. I was just the dumbass that listened to you. You have no right to throw that in my face. You wanted this, James!”

“Yeah, well,” for a moment you think he’s speechless. His jaw opens and closes, nothing but air leaving his parted lips. You should know better by now, he’s always got some bullshit to spew. “I didn’t think you’d be so incompetent at this.”

You drop the plate in the sink, leaning on it for support and closing your eyes. You take in deep breaths, trying to cool down the heat racing under your skin. Your blood’s pumping so hard you’re surprised a vein hasn’t burst yet.

“Fuck this,” you push off the sink, shoving past him and moving towards the front door.

“What are you doing?” He demands, watching as you grab your coat and your keys.

“Going for a walk,” you tell him shortly, slamming the door behind you. You just need some time away from him, away from the suffocating shadow that seems to linger behind him all the time now.

You pull the business card Elizabeth had given you and dial the number. You don’t know if this anger is coming from whatever the hell lives in that house or if this was always coming. But you’re not going to just roll over and let this thing ruin your marriage.

7 PM

You’re out for an hour. He’s upset the entire time. He wants to drive James’ head into the corner of the counter over and over again until there’s nothing left but unidentifiable mush. It’s the same fight he used to have. It always started over something so stupid, he could never say anything right.

No matter how many times he thought he finally figured Bette out. Every time he thought he had avoided some trigger for her, a new one formed. It didn’t matter how perfect of a husband he was, he would never be enough because he wasn't him. He wasn’t Steve, the man who could do no wrong in her eyes.

He stands in the corner and watches as James paces for a while before he finally leaves, taking his keys and his phone. He takes the car and leaves you stranded here at the house.

He knows that James could fix the car sitting idle in the garage. He could fix the car. It’s just another way of keeping you under control. James gets to decide when and where you get to go out, you don’t get a say.

You seem relieved, though, when you come back and see James gone. You’re happier without your husband, it’s both good and bad. He needs you to resent James, needs you to hate him. But that could prove tricky for him in the future.

“Thank you so much,” you’re on the phone, you’ve got something lumpy in your jacket. One hand lays under the buttons of your coat, stroking idly. “Yeah, Thursday sounds great. Thank you, again, for coming on such late notice.”

You hang up, placing your keys and phone in the bowl by the door. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up.” You open your jacket, revealing a bundle of matted, dirty fur underneath. Somewhere in all that mess is the scrunched face of a pissed-off cat.

You coo to it, stroking its head and ignoring the fact it looks like it wants to rip your hand off. You bring it to the kitchen sink and he watches as you take the next few hours to wash its wounds and properly groom it.

He never cared much for cats, or any animals, really. He never had the time or the energy to try and take care of something other than Bette. She was practically a full-time job to cater to. But he enjoys how peaceful you look being able to take care of the cat. He enjoys how much sympathy you display, even as the little bastard rips and tears at your pretty skin.

He looms over your shoulder, stroking his phantom fingers over the cat's wet fur. It’s enough to scare it into submission. Its claws release your skin and it shrinks back into your hold. He grins, backing away and leaving you to it.

You frown down at the cat, murmuring soothing words to it as you look around the kitchen. Sometimes he thinks you see him, thinks you can truly see through all the walls and witness what’s left of the man he was. He knows it's foolish, a ridiculous hope.

You’ll never be able to see him. Even if you could, you would only think of him as a tormentor. He was a blight on your home and marriage, why would you ever care about him?

3 AM

You feel eyes on you. Not the unfamiliar eyes you’ve been feeling, you know these. Intimately. You stir from your light sleep, squinting through the dark. Minimal light comes in through the blinds, but it's just enough for you to see the figure standing beside you.

You gasp, flinching away from James. He just stands over you, glaring down at where you slept. Eyes devoid of anything. “James?” You whisper. Alpine, the cat you snagged from a neighbor’s dumpster, leaps off the bed.

She hisses at James, skirting around him and running out of the room. Your brows furrow in confusion. You look back to James, muttering his name again. He gasps like he was dragged out of a coma.

He stumbles on his feet, tripping over them and nearly nosediving into the bed. You instinctively steady him, guiding him onto the bed beside you. “What are you doing?” You hiss at him, holding his face in your hands and looking him over for any explanation of what was just happening.

You’ve never even heard him talk in his sleep. Let alone, sleep with his eyes wide open and staring at you. It was beyond disturbing. There’s something unfamiliar in his eyes, they’re soft as he looks at you. Soft in a way they haven’t been for a long time.

His hand comes up to cup yours, the other almost hesitantly running across your cheek. “James?” You ask again, caught off guard by the odd display of affection.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. You’re ninety percent sure you’re still dreaming, he’s never apologized first before. It’s always been you to broker the peace. You’ll sacrifice being right if it means he’ll stop giving you the cold shoulder, he’s never done the same.

You try to ask him what he’s talking about, but he’s surging forward before you can speak. His lips are chapped, dryer than you’re used to. He doesn’t give you much time to process anything. His hands drift to your waist, dragging you into his lap as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You’re taken aback by the taste of metal on his tongue. It’s coppery and bitter, not at all like the mint toothpaste you both use.

He’s not kissing you like you’re used to. He’s not trying to devour you or suffocate you by shoving his tongue as far as it goes down your throat. This is gentle, sweet. It feels like you’re being savored, not claimed. You don’t mind it, in fact, it would be nice if you weren’t so disturbed.

He’s not acting like himself, he barely looks like he should, and he tastes wrong. This isn’t your husband kissing you. You want to pull away, you try to. But his fingers are digging into your waist and your lips are firmly locked. You can feel the chill of his hands through your pajamas. They’re like icicles, you’re sure there’s going to be a mark from them in the morning.

“James,” you manage to mutter, pulling away from him just enough to catch your breath. “What’s,” you trail off, tongue growing too heavy to speak. Your words slur together, become one nonsensical jumble stuck in your throat.

He shakes his head, biting his lip and slowly lowering you back onto the bed. “I’m sorry. I thought this would work.” You narrow your eyes, you have barely enough energy to shake your head in confusion. Your lips part to ask another question. He leans down, pressing one last gentle kiss to you before your eyes roll back and you’re asleep again.

“I told you I have it handled,” James practically pouts as he sits in your armchair. You used to use it to crochet, it’s got the best view of the backyard and you like to watch the bunnies that live under the porch. But more and more, he stays there. Every second he’s home, he seems to live in that chair.

Bette had given it to you with the house. You hadn’t really thought anything of it, but with how he’s been acting lately, you can’t help but wonder if its’ connected to whatever secrets live in these walls. Most people would be haunted and their husbands would get worse, you seem to be experiencing the opposite.

He’s kinder, he’s bringing you flowers and cooking you breakfast. You’re woken up with praise and gentle kisses. Then he’s back to normal by lunchtime. He’s miserable at dinner, only to wake you up in the middle of the night with saccharine apologies. You’re so sick and tired of living in this whirlwind of love and misery. You just want some goddamn answers.

You need to know the truth of what’s happening to you. Is this just how James is? Is this the house? Is there even anything wrong with the house?

You’re hoping the medium will be able to answer that for you today. Mystic Wanda, the name doesn’t give you much hope but Elizabeth told you she’s one of the best.

Alpine runs against your legs and James glowers at her. “I told you I wanted her out of here.”

“Tough,” you respond bluntly, eyes trained on the front door. He’d thrown a hissy fit when he saw her the morning after your weird make-out session. You hadn’t bent, though, and you know he’s still upset you’re no longer blindly giving into his whims.

The doorbell rings and you leap off the couch, rushing towards the door and throwing it open. Wanda’s eyes widen in amusement and she smiles at your eagerness. “Please, come in, and thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

You usher her inside, offering to take her jacket. She passes it to you, eyeing the interior of your home and giving you an appeasing smile. “Well, Elizabeth is a good friend of mine, she told me you were having an emergency and I wanted to help.”

James scoffs from the armchair and she glances over at him with a bemused look. You glare at him over her shoulder. “James, I presume?”

“Oh,” his eyes widen in faux amazement, “did you divine that?”

Her eyebrows raise and you know she’s unimpressed. “I could tell from the attitude. Your sister warned me you were a cynic.”

He mutters a bitter, “Whatever,” under his breath and goes back to ignoring her.

“I’m sorry about him,” you take her by the elbow, guiding her into the kitchen and away from him. You peer over into the living room, ensuring he can’t hear you. Wanda waits expectantly for you to begin speaking.

“He’s why I wanted you to come.” You tell her, fiddling idly with your wedding band. “He’s not himself lately.”

“More volatile?” She guesses and you shake your head, laughing bitterly to yourself.

“Less, actually. But he’s unpredictable. I never know when he’s going to be this sweet stranger or the miserable man I’ve grown used to.”

Her brows twitch and a confused smile graces her lips. “Most people aren’t upset when their husband gets better.”

“I know it’s odd,” you admit, sighing and looking down at the countertop. “But, I just need to know I’m not going crazy. I’ve been dragging this around everywhere,” you push your camera towards her. “Every time something happens, the feed cuts out. I’ve been dragged down my bed, harassed, made to think I’m losing my mind.”

You run a rough hand over your face, feeling the aches of this whole experience settle wearily along your bones. “I just need some clarity. That’s all.”

“Well,” she reaches for your hand, squeezing it in hers and giving you a comforting smile. “I can certainly help with that.”

Wanda sits in the armchair, having booted James out of it. He seems a little bit more cognizant as he sits beside you, a little more scared. You keep a wary eye on him while Wanda closes her eyes and “connects” with the house, as she put it.

She breaks the silence abruptly and it makes you jump. “This chair came with the house?” You nod silently but you have a feeling she already knew the answer. She hums, running her hand along the arm of it.

“It was his before it was stolen by the man he called friend. He lives in it, watches you from it.” You feel your heart racing, panic steadily rising within you. It’s like a physical caress, the fear trailing down your spine. “He wants something, too many things,” she sighs and shakes her head, frustration playing along her fine features. “It’s hard to discern the truth of it all.”

“But he’s real?” You cut in, imploring her to tell you what you’re desperate to hear.

She gives you a resigned smile, but there’s no happiness in it. “I’m afraid so.” She shouldn’t be so apologetic, this is all you wanted. To know you weren’t crazy, to have James hear it too. But when you look to him for some satisfactory celebration, his face is slack.

“James?”

Wanda leaps up from the chair, taking a step towards him. Your husband is gone, any sign of awareness or thought is completely gone. He looks devoid of life, like he’s been a living corpse for weeks. “James?” You call again, voice threatening to break.

His jaw snaps shut and you jump back, rushing off the couch and stumbling towards Wanda. She grabs you, tugging you behind her, and takes in a deep inhale. “It’s him,” she whispers, eyes wide with fear. “I’ve never encountered one so strong before.”

You glance at her and then back at James. There’s fury playing on his features, and again, those eyes you don’t recognize yet somehow feel familiar. “I think you should leave,” he demands, his voice low.

It isn’t the normal way he commands you. This is a threat, a complete assurance of power. James stands up in one fluid motion, stalking toward Wanda. She goes stiff before you and you worry she’s going to go slack the same way James did.

“Now,” he tells her, eyebrows raised with impatience.

“James, she can help,” you try. His head whips toward yours and you flinch away from the intense look he gives you.

“We don’t need her help,” he whispers your name and it almost sounds like he’s pleading with you. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, you glance between Wanda and James, unsure which to follow.

Wanda shakes her head as you take a step back from her. James’ shoulders slump with relief. “Don’t do this,” Wanda warns. “I won’t be able to come back here again. He’s growing stronger, you’ll be beyond anyone’s help soon-”

She's cut off as the light bulb above you explodes. You scream, moving instinctively towards your husband. His arms eagerly wrap around you, drawing you into his gentle hold. He runs a hand over your back and you almost miss the quiet apology he mutters into your hair.

“Leave,” James doesn’t have to tell her again. She practically runs to the door, nearly forgetting her coat as she rushes out. You slump against him, somehow feeling defeated even after getting what you wanted.

“Doll?” He peers down at you, pulling back slightly to get a better look. “Are you okay?”

You stare into eyes you know don’t belong to your husband and force yourself to nod. You let this stranger hold you close and ignore the sinking weight of guilt. He feels so much better than James ever did and you hate yourself for thinking that.

Your husband is in there somewhere, being tormented by some malevolent spirit, and you’re letting him do what he wants to you. Playing house with him like everything’s normal. “Come on, let's go outside.”

You can’t do anything except listen to him. In the back of your mind, you think about how odd it is that he’s showing himself now. He usually waits until later in the day.

How sick is it, you have a schedule for when your husband will be possessed?

He leads you to the back porch, to the rocking chairs that were there when you moved in. but he doesn’t let you sit in one. No, he guides you down onto his lap, keeping you close as you get yourself comfortable.

James isn’t like this. He doesn’t let you love him like this. Your touch practically repulses him nowadays. But he can’t seem to get enough of you now. Holding onto you like he might not get to again.

“Wanda said he was growing stronger,” you mutter absentmindly. He goes tense under you, but he doesn’t yell at you or get mad. He just squeezes your hand in his, idly tracing shapes over your palm.

“I was thinking of planting some rosebushes,” he tells you, completely brushing over what you said.

“I thought you wanted to rip the garden out and build a pool,” you tell him bitterly. The neighborhood has its own pool. You’ve been begging James to keep the old lady’s flowers in the back but he won’t have it.

Now, miraculously, he’s giving in to your whims. You don’t know if you should be happy or disgusted. You’re sitting on the lap of something that isn’t your husband anymore. You don’t feel like you can trust your mind anymore. You struggle to differentiate between your dreams and reality.

He laughs a little, brushing some hair out of your face and smiling at you. It’s not the smile you fell in love with, or the eyes you fell in love with, but you can feel yourself falling. Or, maybe, you’re just desperate for someone to be kind to you. For someone to love you the way a husband should love his wife.

“I want you to be happy, Doll.” James doesn’t call you Doll.

“Maybe some gardenias too,” you lean back into his chest, letting yourself get more comfortable.

You feel his smile against your skin, he turns his nose to nuzzle against your cheek, planting a kiss there. “I’ll buy the seeds tomorrow.” You nod absentmindedly, trying to settle the way your stomach flips.

3 AM

“James!” You scream his name, leaping onto his side of the bed and holding onto him as tight as you can. He shoots up, grabbing you and turning you to face him.

“What?” He demands, face pale with worry.

You frown, glaring at him, “You didn’t hear that?” The bedroom door slams closed and you scream again, curling into his hold.

“Holy shit!” He shouts, he tries to hold onto you but something grabs his leg. The same way you’d been dragged the first night, he’s pulled out of bed. You scream his name, the bedroom door flies open, and watch as he’s dragged into the hall.

You leap over the bed, feet tangled in the sheets as you lunge towards the door. He’s screaming, primal sounds of nothing but pure terror ripping through the house. You pound on the locked door, tearing at the knob until you think you might rip it off.

“James! Please!” You sob against the wood, slamming your shoulder into it until it cracks. Pain shoots down to your elbow and you flinch back, “Fuck,” the screams go quiet on the other side of the door and your eyes widen.

“James!” You screech, your fists pound against the door until you feel the skin crack and blood dribble down your arms. Something cool brushes against your neck, like a breath. “Stop,” you plead, “stop it, give him back.”

The door swings outward, the wrong way, and you wonder how the hinges don’t break. The only light on is the linen closet. The same closest that you know has a scuttlehole. You don’t think, just run towards it. Your bare feet pound against the hardwood, shaking the whole house in your race for the door.

You burst through, nearly stumbling facefirst into the ladder. You clench your eyes shut, nails digging into your palms as you look up to see the scuttle hole already open and beckoning you forward.

Blood trails up the ladder and you could almost cry seeing it. You can’t waste time, can’t dawdle. You don’t know what happened to James but you know it’s not good that he’s quiet. You force yourself up the rickety ladder, pulling yourself into the attic and looking around for any signs of life.

You didn’t realize how much junk the old lady had left behind in the house. But the attic is chock full of her past. Dusty and browned filing boxes litter old antique tables. Wardrobes, trunks of clothes from the fifties. A mannequin with an unfinished dress. There’s an entire life up here, one she seemed to have just willingly left behind.

You frown down at something that really draws your eye, a box with a scrawled B.B. on the side. The light’s on, but it's dim and only illuminates the box. Still, you try and squint through the dark to find James. There’s no sign of him anywhere, you can’t help but wonder what the trail of blood on the ladder was.

You lean down and pick up the box. “What’re you doing?”

You scream, your throat going sore from how much you seem to be doing that tonight. James is on the ladder behind you, a dazed look on his face as he waits for your answer. You tilt your head in confusion, trying to calm your heart from the adrenaline rush that was ten minutes earlier.

These are different eyes. This isn’t him. Your gaze darts back to the box and you pass it to him. “Take that,” you demand. He doesn’t question you, if anything it seems to make him happy. He drops it down the ladder and holds his hand out to help you down.

You take it, hissing at how cold his hands are. He only gives you another eerie smirk. Once you’re steady and on the ground, you back slowly out into the hallway. “What happened earlier?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking.”

Your face drops and you scoff, “You were fucking dragged down the hall and I got locked in the bedroom. You weren’t sleepwaking, James.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and flips the lights off. You’re plunged into darkness, a slight whimper ripping its way out of your throat. You’re forced to rely on his guidance as he leads you down the hall. “You’re tired, Doll, we should just go to bed.”

You think back to the box, waiting for you in the closet. There’s no arguing with him, though. You’ll have to deal with it tomorrow morning. You can only pray that you’re not awoken so violently again.

“Sweetheart,” you mumble tiredly, swatting blindly at the voice. There’s a low chuckle, and then the familiar press of lips against your forehead. “Wake up, I’ve gotta go soon.”

You’re slow to open your eyes, just barely making out James’ blurry shape. “James,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes to try and force them to focus on his form. “What’re you doing?” You asked, words slurring together.

He places a tray down on the nightstand and the smells of coffee and pancakes break your dazed trance. You sit up straighter in bed, giving him a confused look. Two years of dating, and a few months of marriage, not once has he greeted you with breakfast in bed.

“James?” you question, he only shakes his head, darting forward to kiss you. Your eyes flutter shut and you find yourself leaning into the touch. It doesn’t take long for it to grow heated, his chilled hands drifting under your shirt and tugging you towards him.

You’re finding it easier and easier to simply give in to his whims. Your legs spread over his and you melt into his hold like you were made to fit against him. “Shit, Doll,” he huffs against your parted lips, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you. His lips are a pretty pink, swollen, and glistening from your kisses. You almost want to bite them.

You hold back the urge, leaning back and giving him a small smile. It’s enough to make his whole face light up. “You know how badly I want to stay in bed with you today?” You almost invite him to, but the foggy cloud of an abrupt wake-up finally parts.

You remember the box from last night, what you need to do today. So, you pull back from him, his arms releasing you reluctantly. It’s so peculiar, how his metal hand is warmer than the flesh one. “Going to work?”

He hums, eyes narrowing in on you suspiciously. You reach for the coffee and take a sip, exactly how you like it. It’s pathetic that your suspicion grows because you know your husband doesn’t know how you take your coffee.

“I’ll miss you,” you tell him, and it’s the first time you haven’t had to force the words out to appease him. It almost feels genuine this time. He gives you a resigned smile, kissing your cheek and leaning back.

He pets Alpine, stroking down her smooth white fur and smiling at her too. “I’ll see you both later,” he tells you, a promise. You bite your lip and nod. His footsteps echo down the stairs and you leap off the bed, the abrupt move scaring the life out of Alpine. She growls in discontent and stalks off. The door closes and you run to the window, watching the driveway to make sure he’s gone for sure.

You race into the hall, throwing the closet door open and dragging the dusty box out. Mildew and mold cling to it, but you don’t have time to be concerned with germs. You need answers. You take it downstairs, toss it on the kitchen table, and forget all about your breakfast upstairs.

It’s odd, how much cozier the house has become. Sunlight streams through the windows and warms your seats and couches. You no longer feel eyes in the shadows. A creak is just a creak. It’s like your fear has just been snatched from you.

The thought is enough to unsettle you, but you ignore it for now. You’ll worry about that another day. You toss the lid of the file box inside and what greets you only further irritates you. Piles of unorganized papers and pictures, each of the more faded by time than the other.

You pluck out the first one you see and nearly gasp. It’s James, but not James. A picture of a WWII soldier, in his uniform and posing in front of an army vehicle. He looks just like your husband, but his eyes crinkle a little more when he smiles, his happiness palpable through the picture. He’s even got a prosthetic arm.

You flip the picture over, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, is written out in pretty cursive. Directly under it is 1942. You drop the picture, taking a few steps back and shaking your head. “No, no, nope,” you shake your head, simply ignoring the truth that lay in front of you.

Somewhere out there, there’s an alternative version of your husband who was a WWII veteran and apparently lived in this house. Same fucking name and everything. “Oh, fuck me, this is insane.” You glare at the box, not wanting to believe anything you’re seeing.

How could your life have devolved into this shitfest, just because you moved into one fucking house? How could one crappy ad in the newspaper have completely turned your life upside down and thrown you into the twilight zone?

You throw yourself into a chair, slumping over the wooden table and taking in grounding breaths. You wanted the truth, you’re going to get it. Even if none of it makes any sense. The next few pictures you grab are all in the same sepia tint. One of him standing in front of the garden, another before a truck, even one in the goddamn armchair currently sitting in your living room. And in each one, he looks as happy as can be. But there’s something nearly artificial in his smile.

You look at the pictures on your mantle and frown. You can’t exactly judge him. You’ve got the same smile in all your pictures too. Just slightly off, something about it slightly forced for the sake of the person beside you.

You find one of him with a very unhappy-looking woman. She’s pretty, even if she does look a little wicked, and she also looks remarkably like you. What bizzaro world is this? She’s nearly identical to you, but she looks goddamn miserable. A hulking blond man has his arm slung around Bucky, fingers just barely grazing the woman’s shoulder.

You flip it over and find, Bette, Bucky & Steve at the new house, 1950. Bette, the woman who sold you the house. Who told you what nursing home her kids were sticking her in. You leap up from the table, running to grab your coat and racing out of the house.

Bucky glances down at James' phone and grins. He pulls the car into the apartment complex and picks up the call, “Hello?”

“Where are you?” The woman on the other end demands sharply.

Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and fighting back the spirit surging within him. His left hand twitches without his permission and his eyes narrow in frustration. James was easy enough to subdue last night. He was caught off guard, terrified.

Now, he’s pissed off and fighting. Bucky doesn’t appreciate the efforts to take control. “I just pulled in. I’ll be up in a minute.” He shuts the phone off and jerks the rearview mirror to face him. The eyes that stare back at him are not his own.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” James demands, spitting the words out like he has any sort of power over Bucky.

Bucky grins, “Wasn’t planning on it.”

James’ face falls and his eyes widen with worry. “What does that mean?” Bucky flips the mirror back in place, glancing up to the third-story apartment where Martha waits for him. He turns the engine off, slowly exits the car, and makes his way up the stairs.

He’s sure to take his time, enjoying how James grows more and more terrified. It only feeds him, makes him stronger, and grants him more control over him. He’s getting better at controlling him, finally had enough strength to fully take over last night.

Before, he only had the energy to take over the body for a few hours, at most. But the longer he held influence over James, the further his influence spread. Soon, he could leave the house, without having to use James’ body as an anchor. He’s evolved past anchors and the brick walls that once contained him. He only had one last loose end before he could be with you fully.

He knocked on the red door, waiting for Martha to answer. It didn’t take long. She threw the door open, face screwed up with rage. “Look who came back. I told you that little bitch of yours wouldn’t be good enough for you.”

Bucky kept the look on his face serene. He tried not to show the rage that raced through him at her grating tone. He wanted to rip her tongue out and choke her with it. He wished he could pluck out her eyeballs and serve them to her on a silver platter. A million different ways came to him as he stepped into her apartment.

“Hello, Martha.”

“Thanks for seeing me, Bette.”

Bette kept her hands in her lap, picking at the wrinkles of her skin. “It’s grown so thin,” she looked at you, seeing straight through you. “I used to be like you, so pretty, so young.”

Your face screws up in discomfort and you nod dismissively. “You know why I want to talk.”

Bette sighs and clicks her tongue. “Oh, Bucky,” she says his name forlornly, playing the perfect mourning lover. But you know better, she doesn’t mean a damn bit of her grief.

“Drop it,” you snap, looking around to make sure no nurses are watching. The white sterile walls of the nursing home loom over you. Bette’s eyes snap towards you, the thin film of dementia disappears and she slumps into her chair.

“Fine. Dammit, what the hell do you want? You already took my house.”

“Yeah, and your damn ghost. I want some fucking answers, Bette.”

She chuckles, the noise bitter and her expression cruel. “You know, you remind me a lot of Bucky. Got that same kicked puppy look to you that makes me want to smack you around.” Despite your best intentions of remaining passive, you feel your heart twinge in sympathy for Bucky.

Bette’s got the same bitter look in her eye that James used to. You don’t see much of it anymore. Strange how much your life has changed in just over two weeks. “I thought he’d see you and finally move on. He’d finally get his damn revenge on me, I mean you look just like me.”

You can’t help but agree with her. You slip the picture out of your purse and put it on the table before you. “I saw,” you mutter, glancing down at the uncanny resemblance between you both. “I want to know what happened, Bette. I want to know why he’s stuck in my walls, why he’s stuck in my husband,” you add.

Her eyes widen and her jaw gapes. “He’s got your husband?” You nod and you’re caught off guard when she begins to cackle. “God, even dead he’s still the same pathetic, snivelling bastard he used to be.”

You can’t help but get angry, you almost want to defend him. Sure, he’s tormented you, but clearly, he had a reason to be bitter about having to look at your face all the damn time. You’d go crazy too if this was the bitch you were married to.

“Bette,” you warn, voice low.

She huffs and snatches the picture. “No harm in telling you, I suppose.” She gives you a wicked grin, “No one will believe you anyway.”

“I met Bucky when I was young, too young. We got married because he was getting shipped off to war. He wanted someone to write letters to, to come home to, and I figured he’d die before I ever saw him again. I could cash in on widow’s benefits. Then the son of a bitch had to go and get honorably discharged for getting his arm blown off.”

Your brows furrow in disgust. You’ve never seen such an evil old woman before. You pray you don’t turn into a wicked old hag like her when you get older. “Steve, his best friend, was discharged around the same time as him. Came to live with us for a while so he could get his life in order.”

Bette glares at you and tosses the picture back to you. You catch it before it slides off the table and she keeps going. “See, some women weren’t as loyal as I was. His lady moved on real fast, left him lonely and looking for a warm place to sleep at night. Bucky, well, he just wasn’t a man. He obeyed me like a little bitch and took every hit I gave him because he thought he deserved it. Steve never did that, always put me in my place. He was a man,” she hisses out the word and you have the sudden urge to slap her.

“One thing led to another, we were in love and Bucky was in the way. We got rid of him, what else do you want me to say?”

You can’t even figure out where to begin. She’s fucking despicable. Not only did she not love him, he was utterly devoted to her and she fucked his best friend. Killed him to be with him. Despite this overload of information, only one question comes to you.

“Where did you bury him?”

5 PM

You let out a loud grunt, sweat pouring down your back as you bring the sledgehammer into the brick wall. There’s a loud crack and you pause, taking a step back. A moment later a brick slips out of its place. It doesn’t take much longer for the others to follow.

There’s a loud crash as it all comes tumbling down, decades of dust and debris float into the air. It drifts down your nose and creeps into your lungs. You drop the sledgehammer to the cement of the basement with a clatter. You kneel over, waving the dust away and trying to cough it out.

Something rolls against the floor, something hollow that clatters against your shoe. You glance down, stunned into silence as a gaping skull stares back up at you. You stumble away from it, nearly kicking it back, and trip right into the warm chest of your husband.

Bucky stares down at you, his face blank and devoid of anything you might be able to read. “You talked to Bette?”

You nod mutely, taking a step back from him. You wince as your heel comes down on something that cracks under your weight. You try to look down, to see what bone you’ve just broken, but he stops you. He grabs your chin, tilting your face towards him and forcing you to meet his eyes. “What are you going to do?” He demands, he tries to sound strong, but you can hear the fear that trembles under the cool tone.

Rest In Peace

Husband, Brother, Friend

James Buchanan Barnes

“It’s a bit morbid isn’t it?” You peer up at him and shake your head.

“No, he deserves a proper burial.” You place the flowers on top of the fresh grave and stand. You take a few steps back and Bucky pulls you into his chest. “You, I mean. I just feel like your memory deserves its rightful resting place.”

He lets out a heavy sigh and you squeeze his hand. “You think Steve’s in here somewhere?”

You scoff and feel yourself growing angry on his behalf. “He deserves to rot under a bridge somewhere, along with that bitch.”

Bucky laughs pulling back from you and giving you a wide smile. It’s genuine, the first genuine smile you’ve seen on his face in a long time. “Thank you,” he mutters. You shrug, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m your wife, I’m supposed to have your back.” You reach up, pushing a wave back behind his ear. He’s finally let his hair grow out again. He complains it gets in his eyes when he tries to garden, but you love how it looks on him so he keeps it.

His face lights up, the same way it always does when you say you’re his wife. You interlace your fingers together, pulling him away from his grave and back towards the car. You’re supposed to meet Mrs. Barnes soon, you’re having Thanksgiving dinner at your house tomorrow so the whole family can finally see it.

Since the discovery of Bucky’s bones and the literal skeleton in the house's closet, you’ve kept family members away from you both for a while. It was a long adjustment period, getting used to the truth and each other. Accepting the fact that James was gone for good wasn’t as hard a pill to swallow as it should have been.

You have a theory that you both were meant to be with each other, either in the forties or today. Something got messed up in the universe’s timeline and instead, you got James and he got Bette. This paranormal experience must have just been fate’s way of cleaning up what it had ruined so horribly.

You look up at Bucky, the way his eyes crinkle even when he’s not smiling, and feel something warm spreading through your chest. You don't mind the cold fingers and chilling touch at night when it’s him you’re sharing it with.

You place the turkey down in front of Bucky and he sends you a blissful smile. You can’t help but lean over the back of his chair and plant a loud kiss on his cheek. Janey gags, tossing a roll at her older brother. “Quit it, would you, I’d like to have an appetite.”

You chuckle, taking your seat beside him. Bucky can’t help but want to cry. This is what he’s wanted for so long. His family back, the woman he loves to love him back. It’s what he begged for. The loss of it all had turned him into this bitter, malevolent spirit.

As much as he’d like to say he regrets or feels guilt for what he did to Bette, Steve, Martha, and James, he can’t. He tormented Steve until he died of a terror-induced heart attack at fifty. He’d driven poor Bette into the nursing home where her children would let her rot for the rest of her miserable life. Martha won’t be heard from again.

And James, poor James. He must have had the worst fate of them all. It’s been a while since he’s heard anything from James. He searches for him now, his tiny presence lingering somewhere in the back of his mind.

Bucky takes your hand, looks at his sisters and mother, and smiles at them. He raises his glass for a toast, slapping at James until he’s forced out of his slumber. Look, he thinks, speaking of all he’s grateful for to you and the other women. They know, he feels James looking through his eyes.

He sees the way his family smiles at Bucky, and how much happier they look with him. They know, he tells James, they know I’m not you. James pounds futilely against Bucky’s walls. He screams and sobs, begging for you to help him.

They don’t want you, James. They know that the world is better without you. He lets James linger in his misery, he savors his despair, lets it energize him, and then tosses him back to the abyss. James goes quietly, he gave up fighting a while ago.

It wouldn’t matter anyway. His brief period of rebellion has fed Bucky enough to keep him subdued for the rest of his life. You squeeze his hand, “I love you,” you whisper, passing him the sweet potatoes.

He smiles back at you and repeats the same words he’s already said a hundred times to you. This is at it always should have been. Steve, Bette, and James were all stepping stones to get him to you. He wasn’t going to let you go now.

end. — I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Marvel (Winter Soldier), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

#james bucky barnes #James Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x reader #bucky x reader #Marvel x reader #Ghost x reader #Ghost!bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky Barnes x y/n #Belle’s Halloween Palooza 2024 #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x reader fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction

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lemmesayimyourbiggestfan · 8 months ago

Text

Make me

Sirius Black x fem!reader

in which James planned you a blind date with your nemesis

requests are open!

word count: 2,1k

warnings: language, drinking

...

"I'm so tired of all the boys. I swear, there is not even one normal man here in Hogwarts." you grumbled despairingly as you landed on the couch in the common room next to James.

"Oh sweetheart, so I take it the date didn't go as planned?" he chuckled.

You covered your face with your hands and loudly exhaled.

"Well, we did go to Hogsmeade but instead of Honeydukes he took me to Scrivenshaft's quill shop. Stop laughing, this isn't even the worst part. He then kept blabbering on about some new type of rainbow ink that he, in his own words, just has to buy."

At least James tried to not laugh as much as he desired to, though you wouldn't blame him - because what the actual fuck.

"Oh, I just love hearing of your escapades, Y/N. Such a shame, though; me and Lily are desperate to find another couple to go on double dates with." he smiled while pouting his lips mockingly. You punched his arm with surprising strenght.

"Just no more guys like Mr. Rainbow Ink, please." you laughed.

James looked as if he wasthinking of something and after a moment of silence, his whole face lit up and you knew that whatever he thought of was no good.

"Just leave it to me, 'kay? I'll find the perfect guy for you and arrange a blind date."

"Fuck no." you said immediately, knowing that James would singlehandedly mess up.

"No, no, just hear me out, okay? I will take this job seriously, in my own interest. I promise not to make a joke out of it."

You rolled your eyes in answer but didn't argue further.

"Plus, I think I have the perfect candidate."

At that moment, you should've already known that something will go really, really wrong.

...

Three days later, James already had everything planned out and was nearly jumping with excitement. Well, you didn't really share that feeling. But for some reason, seeing your childhood bestfriend so invested in finding you the best match made you soften and not argue that much.

"You know that this Friday is the Celestial ball, right? So, your date will pick you up at five and please, dress nicely so he doesn’t change his mind. Yeah, that's probably all you need to know." he gave you a wicked grin.

"Why the secrecy?" you raised an eyebrow at your friend.

"Nothing, just making sure it's an unfiltered experience for you."

“At least if he turns out to be another idiot, I have an excuse to get hammered.” you grinned.

“That’s the spirit!” James bumped your shoulder excitedly and you couldn’t help but smile at his childish happiness.

But when you tried to think of even a single person with whom he would set you up, your mind went blank.

Who are you gonna be, stranger?

…

In preparation of the upcoming ball, Lily and Dorcas braided your hair into a sort of messy half-up-half-down hairstyle and you girls shared quite a laugh when they tried to get you into your very - very - tight dress.

With your black high-heels on, you examined yourself in the mirror. Your Y/H/C hair looked so sexy tied liked that and you decided to go with the same messy vibe regarding your whole look. From the smudged black kohl lining your eyes and the bold dark-red lipstick to your floor length burgundy dress with black lace adoring its edges. Oh, it might have been just a bit too slutty for such an occasion, but you didn't mind at all. You and Marlene always enjoyed wearing things just a smudge out of pocket.

You also liked shy boys stuttering when they looked at you. You hoped your escort would be one of those. You grinned at the thought and left your room with a light step.

"I see you take this date seriously." James nodded at you approvingly as he watched you approach him in front of the Great Hall.

"Yeah, yeah, dream all you want." you rolled your eyes. "Where is he?"

"Darling, getting all pretty and dressed up for me today, aren't you?" a voice purred behind you and it affected you in the same way a bucket of icy water would.

Oh no. Oh fuck no.

"Are you fucking serious?" you gritted your teeth at James and he paled when he saw the murderous look on your face. He better.

"Darling, he’s with Lily, remember? He wouldn’t be fucking me. But you, on the other hand… You know how my usual dates go."

You turned to face that ridiculously handsome face of Sirius Black. That fucker was you nemesis since the moment he saw you on the Hogwarts Express sharing a booth with James. It didn’t matter to you that James found a guy bestfriend – you were okay with sharing the same pedestal with another – but Sirius, on the other hand, just purely despised you for it. So after two yers of trying to settle this tension between you two, you gave up and started to treat him the same way he did.

And that nickname, that god-forsaken nickname; it drove you crazy and you both knew it.

”I’m not spending even a second of my time on this… existence.” You spat at James instead, wisely ignoring that egoistic shit and silencing all your witty retorts. In your fourth year, you once wrote an entire list of those retorts, spending all your nights sitting crouched over that one piece of paper with anger flowing freely in your veins.

Obsessed much? a small voice in your head whispered.

“I think that if you give this a chance-“

“No. Fucking. Way.”

“Angry already, darling?” Sirius purred and your knuckles turned white from you trying so hard not to break his perfect nose.

“Wipe that smirk off of your face before I do it for you.” You have been such a fool for trusting James to do just one thing right. Now you would do anything to be here with any of the guys you were previously complaining about. But instead, you were left with the only person you truly hated. So much for an unfiltered experience.

“Oh, are you gonna kiss me, Y/N?” Sirius smiled even wider.

“This was probably not a good idea.” proclaimed Lily as she approached you three.

“Probably not.” James nervously tugged at his hair.

You and Sirius were just staring daggers at each other. And after deciding this staring contest was fucking ridiculous, you just turned on your heel and began walking back up the stairs.

“Oh, darling, leaving so soon?” Sirius shouted at you and every head in the hallway turned your way. You turned around and bared your teeth at him, not caring that you probably looked like a wild animal.

“Stop fucking calling me that.” Your voice was cold as you took the tree steps it took to reach him. Even though Sirius was towering over you, you felt as if you were looking down your nose at him.

“What, darling?” he puffed, one corner of his lips turning up. He was toying with you, you knew it. And you hated that he knew it, too.

“Yes.”

“Or what?” Sirius stepped closer and you felt the tips of your shoes touching his. With every rise of your chest you could feel the fabric of his shirt.

Before you could say anything back (which would be hard because, apparently, your mind just went blank at Sirius’ closeness), James tugged at your elbow and walked you to an alcove nearby.

“What the fuck, James?” you spat at his accusingly. He winced at your words as if you had hit him.

“I just- Well, I don’t have to justify my gut feeling to you, but I think you guys should get over your hating phase and start acknowledging the chemistry between you two,” he whisled slowly at that, “So please, hate me all you want tomorrow. But tonight, just give him a chance.”

You looked over his shoulder back to Sirius. He was talking to Lily and it wasn’t a smirk on his face but a soft smile that has not even once been aimed at you. That fact made you queasy. You knew he wasn’t always an asshole – it was only in your presence that he got so riled up. But, you thought, it would be nice to be smiled at just like that.

“Okay. But just tonight.” You were surprised by your own words. Were you an idiot for saying that? You didn’t know.

“Thanks,” James sighed, relief lacing his words. He took your elbow again and brought you back to the group.

“I’m gonna get myself a drink. Maybe two.”

Lily giggled at James’ words and grabbed onto his arm and the two of them hurriedly left. That meant you and Sirius were left alone, which was very, very dangerous. You started walking to the bar without looking back at your escort, because all you really needed at that moment was a strong ass drink.

“Firewhiskey, right?” Sirius asked you when he caught up to you. No matter how fast you tried to go, he infuriatingly and casually kept his pace next to you.

You raised an eyebrow at him. In answer, he shrugged. “I just know.”

You tried to shake off the feeling that embraced you after realizing he somehow knew your favourite hard liquor.

You also didn’t know how to react to the fact that Sirius paid for his and your drinks that some students smuggled into the party for a laughably ridiculous price.

As he handed the cold glass to you, your fingers touched, just barely. You told yourself your heartbeat was quick because of your temper, no other reasons.

“I don’t think you realize just how angry you make me.” You smirked ironically at Sirius, the alcohol already burning sweetly in your throat.

“I have that much of an effect on you? I should be flattered.” Sirius retorted. But it was not an angry answer, just…. A playful one. And you had no idea what to do with that.

“Don’t think you’re all that, Sirius.” You rolled your eyes. “Should I ckeck for a poisoned drink? Or a love potion?”

You knew you were dancing on the edge of a very sharp knife. But somehow, that made it much more fun.

“Don’t think of me so poorly, darling. As if I needed a love potion to get you on your knees and beg.”

“In your dreams, Black.”

“Yes, in my dreams, darling.”

You froze at that. Was he actually impying he dreamt about you being on your knees, begging before him? But of course he did, that arrogant prick. He always had to feel superior.

But that didn’t stop the blood from seeping into your cheeks - but you blamed your blush on the firewhiskey.

So in answer you just took another sip of your drink. Were you an idiot for flirting with him? But were all those quarells of your shared pasts actually any different from flirting? You’ve never been so confused.

“You really aren’t making this any easier.” Sirius mumbled but instead of your eyes he looked around the room. Thank Merlin the music was so loud that any awkward silences were swallowed up by it.

“As if you are?” His eyes met yours and you had to fight the instinct to fight with him, to get closer to yell at him - or get closer to kiss him?

Instead you got yourself another drink, just so you could do something with your hands.

“Slow down, tiger. Didn’t think you actually hated my presence so much you would rather get hammered.” Sirius mockingly frowned and before you could react, he snatched the glass from your hand.

“Give it back, you little fucker.” You growled and tried clawing at his raised arm. But he was a lot taller than you and to be honest, your attempts were just meaningless.

“Make me.” And maybe it was that crooked smile of his, or how good he looked in his suit or how soft his hair looked in the dim lights, that made you reach on your toes and kiss his infuriating dirty mouth that made you want to combust most of the time.

How was it possible that his lips were so intoxicating but the words that usually came out of it were so infurating?

But you forbid yourself to think of all those things. Instead you now easily reached for his hand and grasped your glass, snatching it from Sirius’ weakening grip.

“Made you.” You smiled. The bewildered look on his face was worth it. “I didn’t fluster you, did I?”

Sirius gave a startled laugh. “You clever little vicious thing.”

And he leaned into you, his nose touching yours, your breaths mingling. “Now do it again.”

#sirius black x reader #sirius black #sirius black imagine #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius black one shot #marauders x reader #marauders imagine #marauders x you #marauders x y/n #james potter

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feelstora-quotes · 1 month ago

Text

“Between us - Gojo Satoru x Reader”

“In a world where boundaries should remain unbroken, Y/n and Satoru surrender to a desire too intense to ignore. A fleeting moment of passion blurs the lines between right and wrong—binding them in a secret only they can hold”

Sensei Satoru x Fem Student Reader

(Age gap, Slight dominance, Angst, fluffy, smut)

AN- This is a continuation of a story I came across online, it really caught my attention, and I couldn’t resist expanding on it. It also happens to be my first-ever fanfic, so please be kind! feel free to give feedbacks in comments.

This piece hasn’t been proofread, so apologies for any mistakes. Hope you all enjoy it!

Minors, please do not interact.

(3.9k words)

The night was deep, the moon casting silver streaks across the dimly lit room. Satoru Gojo stood by the doorframe, arms crossed, his white hair a disheveled mess from sleep. His azure blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion, softened slightly as they landed on the familiar figure standing outside his door.

"Y/n?" His voice came out in a groggy mumble. "It’s 2 in the morning, kid. Why are you even up at this hour?"

She stood there, pale yet breathtaking in her white satin robe. There were dark circles under her eyes, evidence of restless nights. She looked... lost.

"Sensei... do you mind if I come inside?" Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant.

Gojo frowned, stepping aside to let her in. He watched as she walked past him, something heavy weighing on her shoulders. She finally broke the silence.

"Sensei… I heard your family is insisting you to get married soon."

His brows furrowed. It was such an odd question coming from her. He moved to the mini-bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey before turning to face her.

"What makes you ask that all of a sudden, Y/n?" he questioned, sipping the amber liquid. "I mean, yeah… they want me to settle down, but I haven’t given it much thought."

His voice was casual, but his eyes studied her carefully.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she looked down at the carpet… and then, without warning, tears slipped from her eyes.

Gojo immediately put his glass down, concern flashing across his face. He stepped toward her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Y/n, what’s wrong? You can tell me anything."

She shook her head, biting her lip as if holding back a storm of emotions.

"Don’t cry, okay? We’ll figure this out together." His voice was soft, sincere.

But the tenderness in his words—the proximity, the warmth in his gaze—it all gave her the wrong signals. Before she could stop herself, she leaned in… and kissed him.

For a moment, the world stood still.

Gojo froze. His mind blanked.

Then, as if regaining control, he gently pushed her away, his hands firm but not harsh as he held her at arm’s length. His heart pounded, but his voice came out steady.

"Y/n, what are you doing?"

Her breath hitched.

"We’re teacher and student, remember? This isn’t appropriate."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to process what had just happened. "Let’s talk this through. There must be something bothering you deeply for you to act like this."

Her hands covered her face, and she sobbed.

"I’m so sorry, Sensei… please don’t look at me like that. Please don’t be disappointed in me."

Gojo’s expression softened. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hey, hey… don’t apologize." His voice was gentle. "I’m not disappointed in you. I’m worried."

He sat beside her again, keeping a respectful distance.

"Remember when we first met? You were so timid. But now, you’ve grown into such a strong sorcerer. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together, alright?"

She shook her head, the weight in her chest unbearable.

"Please, Sensei… don’t you see?" Her voice trembled. "You getting married is bothering me. I love you."

Gojo’s eyes widened.

His chest felt tight as he repeated her words in his head.

"Love… you love me?"

He stared at her, searching for deception but found nothing but raw, unfiltered emotion.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, anger burning in her eyes like an untamed wildfire.

Y/n stepped closer, her hands trembling, but her voice was anything but weak.

"Tell me, Sensei… am I not pretty enough for you? Am I not enough?" she spat, frustration spilling out like venom.

Her eyes flickered with something dark, something possessive. "I’ll fix it. Just tell me how."

Satoru stiffened. This wasn’t the soft-spoken, eager student he once knew. This was something else—something twisted by emotion, by a longing so deep it blurred her reason.

His silence only ignited her fury.

"You don’t even look happy with her!" she snapped, her voice rising. "Do you think I don’t see it? The way your eyes look empty when you’re with her? How you barely even touch her?” She let out a bitter laugh.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her fists clenching at her sides. Then, her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.

"And you’re going to marry that bitch?

The room fell into suffocating silence.

And then—

Gojo snapped.

In a swift motion, he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his cold, piercing gaze.

"How dare you speak about her like that?" His voice was low, dangerous. "You may be my student, but you will respect the people in my life."

His grip tightened slightly before he let go.

Y/n froze. Her breath hitched, her confidence wavering for the first time.

His usually playful eyes were dark, stormy, unreadable.

And yet, deep down, even though anger burned through him, a bitter truth gnawed at his chest.

Because she wasn’t entirely wrong and he hated how she had seen through him.

"And as for your question… this was never about you not being ‘pretty enough.’" His voice held an edge of sadness. "Loving me doesn’t change the reality of our circumstances."

Y/n took a step back, the words cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

She hadn’t even noticed how close she was to the mini-bar. The moment he loomed over her, the glass Gojo had left on the counter slipped and shattered against the floor.

A sharp pain shot through her foot, but she didn’t even flinch. Blood pooled beneath her as she stared blankly at him.

Gojo’s eyes widened in horror.

"Y/n—" His voice softened, the anger from moments ago draining as concern took its place. He moved forward again, reaching for her, but she didn’t react. Didn’t even acknowledge the pain.

She just stood there, her breathing shallow, her expression distant—empty.

Gojo had seen countless wounds in battle, injuries far worse than this. But the sight of her, standing frozen in her own blood, hurt in a way he hadn’t been prepared for.

"Damn it." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before crouching down. His hands, usually so steady, felt hesitant as he gently lifted her foot, inspecting the damage. Tiny shards glistened in the dim light, embedded deep into her skin.

Still, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

"Y/n," he tried again, his voice lower this time. "Why aren’t you saying anything?"

She finally blinked, looking down at him—but it wasn’t the usual fire, the usual stubbornness in her gaze. It was something worse. Something shattered.

"It doesn’t hurt." Her voice was quiet, hollow.

Gojo stilled. His hands tightened around her ankle, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground her. Liar.

He carefully took her arms and placed her on the sofa, He looked at her face—pale, exhausted, eyes still damp with tears. His heart ached in a way he didn’t quite understand.

He tore his gaze away from her face, forcing himself to focus as he reached for the first-aid kit nearby. The silence between them felt heavier than before, filled with things neither of them could take back.

"You should hate me right now." His voice was rough, filled with something unreadable. "Scream. Cry. Do something, damn it."

Y/n just stared at him, her lips parting as if to speak—but no words came. Because what was the point? He had already broken her.

"Shit—why didn’t you move?" His voice was laced with panic as he lifted her foot, wincing at the deep gash.

Gojo’s jaw clenched as he carefully cleaned Y/n’s wound, his normally playful expression now clouded with guilt. The antiseptic stung, but she didn’t even flinch—her body tense, her gaze distant. It wasn’t the pain in her foot that left her breathless; it was his words, sharp as any blade, still carving into her soul.

"Why the hell are you acting like this doesn’t hurt?" Gojo muttered, wrapping the bandage around her foot with practiced precision. His hands were gentle, yet his frustration seeped into his voice. "You’re bleeding, Y/n."

Y/n let out a hollow chuckle, tilting her head back against the couch. "Oh, so now you care?" she whispered, her voice raw. Her fingers curled against the sofa’s fabric, nails digging in as she swallowed the lump in her throat. "Funny. Because a moment ago, you made it pretty clear that I mean nothing to you."

Gojo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his silver locks. "I never said that."

"You didn’t have to." She turned to look at him, finally meeting his gaze. The hurt in her eyes struck him harder than he expected.

For a moment, silence stretched between them—thick, suffocating. Gojo’s hands stilled over her ankle, his fingers lingering just a second too long before he forced himself to pull away.

"You’re important to me, Y/n," he admitted, voice quieter now, hesitant. "But this… what you’re asking for… it’s not possible."

Y/n let out a shaky breath, looking down at her bandaged foot. "Not possible, or not what you want?"

Gojo’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering away. "It doesn’t matter."

She scoffed, bitter and broken. "Right. Because my feelings never did."

The weight of her words settled between them, suffocating. And for the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru—always so sure, always so untouchable—had no idea what to say.

The silence between them was deafening. Y/n’s heart pounded, her breath shallow as she clenched her fists against the fabric of her robe. Gojo sat still, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. He looked… conflicted. Almost as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.

And that hurt more than anything.

Y/n forced out a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Say something, Sensei.”

He dragged a hand over his face, inhaling deeply before looking at her again. “What do you want me to say, Y/n?” His voice was tired, strained. “That I feel the same? That we can pretend the world doesn’t exist and that my marriage isn’t already arranged?”

Her lips trembled. “I never asked you to pretend.”

Gojo's jaw tightened. “Then what do you want from me?”

Y/n swallowed hard, her chest tightening. “I just wanted you to care.” Her voice cracked at the end, barely above a whisper. “The way I do.”

Gojo exhaled, shifting forward so their knees nearly touched. He reached out hesitantly, his fingertips grazing hers before he pulled back, as if touching her would set everything ablaze. “I do care,” he murmured. “But not like that.”

The words felt like a blade twisting inside her.

Her throat burned, but she refused to cry again. Not in front of him. Not when he’d already broken her once tonight.

With a slow inhale, Y/n straightened, her expression hardening. “Then I guess that’s my answer.”

Gojo didn’t stop her as she pushed herself off the couch, wobbling slightly on her injured foot. She didn’t expect him to.

She turned towards the door, each step leaving a faint crimson trail against his floor. And just as she reached for the handle, she suddenly felt herself lifted off the ground.

A gasp left her lips as Gojo scooped her up effortlessly, holding her in his arms in a firm yet gentle grip. "You’re not walking out like that," he said, his voice low but laced with frustration.

She struggled against him, weakly pushing at his chest. "Put me down, Sensei," she demanded, her voice shaking.

But Gojo didn’t budge. His grip tightened slightly as he carried her back towards the sofa, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with something between anger and something else—something she couldn’t decipher.

"You’re bleeding all over the place, and you expect me to just let you go?" His voice was sharp, but there was an undeniable edge of concern beneath it.

Y/n scoffed, her own frustration bubbling over. "What do you care? You already said it—you don’t love me."

Gojo flinched. Just for a second.

He sat her down carefully, kneeling in front of her. His hands gripped the sides of her calves, steadying her before she could try to move again. His touch was warm, firm. "I never said I don’t care," he murmured, looking up at her with an unreadable expression.

Y/n bit her lip, her emotions warring inside her. "Then why does it feel like you’re breaking me?" she whispered.

Gojo exhaled, pressing his forehead against her knee for a fleeting moment before pulling back. "Because I don’t know how to fix this, Y/n."

For the first time that night, he looked lost.

Y/n cupped Gojo’s face, her fingers grazing over the sharp lines of his jaw as if memorizing every inch. He didn’t move, didn’t pull away. His breath was slow, controlled—too controlled.

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, closing her eyes as if the closeness alone could ease the ache inside her. A soft, featherlight kiss landed on his lips, fleeting, hesitant. She lingered just for a second before retreating.

“I should go,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

She made to move, but before she could even blink, Gojo’s hands shot up, gripping her face firmly—urgent, desperate.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was fire.

His lips crashed into hers, demanding yet impossibly gentle, his fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. Y/n gasped against his mouth, her body tensing before melting into the warmth of him. Gojo kissed her like he was both punishing and worshipping her, like he was furious at her for making him feel this way but unable to stop himself.

Her hands clutched at his shirt, anchoring herself as the room spun around them. His grip tightened, his thumbs stroking her jaw, holding her in place like he was afraid she’d disappear the moment he let go.

When they finally parted, both breathless, Gojo’s forehead pressed against hers once more, his grip still firm on her face. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“You’re not leaving.”

Gojo stared at her, his grip still firm on her face, as if afraid she’d vanish if he let go. The flicker in Y/n’s eyes—the one that had dulled under the weight of her pain—came back, rekindled by his words.

"Sensei..." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers brushing against his wrist.

Then, guilt crept into her features. She averted her gaze, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.

"I’m sorry… if I’m putting you in such a situation," she said softly, her voice laced with uncertainty.

In that moment, she wondered—had she forced this? Had her pain driven him to do something just to soothe her, rather than out of his own will?

But Gojo’s silence wasn’t hesitation. It was realization.

He had always noticed her—more than he should have. The way she hung onto every word he said, the way she asked questions that sometimes made no sense, purely for the sake of prolonging their conversations. He’d pretended not to see the way her eyes sought him out in a crowded room, how she reacted to his slightest approval.

And now, having her so close, tasting the remnants of her kiss on his lips, he was forced to admit something he had long ignored.

Y/n was different. Special.

Not just as a student.

His thoughts tangled in a storm of emotions he wasn’t sure how to name. But one thing was clear—what just happened wasn’t a mistake. And it wasn’t forced.

Gojo exhaled, his grip on her softening but not loosening. His forehead still rested against hers, his breath fanning across her lips.

"You think I kissed you just to make you feel better?" he finally said, voice low, edged with something unreadable. "You really think that’s all this is?"

Guilt clawed at her chest, making her wonder if, in her brokenness, she had forced him into this moment.

But Satoru saw through her. He always did.

Before she could speak another word, he scoffed, shaking his head. "Don’t you dare think I did this just to make you feel better."

His voice was different now—low, raw, filled with something that sent shivers down her spine.

The moment she tried to pull away again, he grabbed her face—not roughly, but with an intensity that sent her heart racing. His fingers spread across her jaw, tilting her chin up, forcing her to see the truth in his eyes.

Then, he kissed her.

This time, it was deliberate. A declaration.

His lips crashed against hers, aggressive but controlled, dominant yet mindful. His tongue swept against her lips before delving inside, claiming her in a way that left no room for doubt. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, while his body pressed against hers, careful of her wound yet firm in his hold.

Y/n gasped into the kiss, her fingers twisting into his shirt, gripping onto him as if he was the only thing keeping her steady. Her body trembled, not out of fear but out of the overwhelming warmth that flooded her senses.

Satoru deepened the kiss, his movements slower now but no less intense. He explored, savored, ensuring she felt every ounce of emotion he had buried for so long.

When he finally pulled away, his lips hovered just above hers, his breath hot against her skin.

"Do you still think this was just to soothe your pain?" His voice was husky, teasing, yet filled with something deeper.

Y/n opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Because now, she knew the answer.

Her heart pounded wildly, drowning out any rational thought.

This was real. He was here. Kissing her, holding her, wanting her.

She had dreamed of this moment so many times, imagined what it would be like to feel his touch, to see the raw hunger in his eyes. And now, that dream was unfolding right before her, intoxicating and overwhelming.

Without breaking the kiss, she reached for the sash of her robe, her fingers trembling as she loosened the knot. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her waist before finally falling away completely, leaving her bare beneath his gaze.

Satoru stilled.

His breath hitched as his eyes traveled down her body, taking in every delicate curve, every inch of smooth, unmarked skin. His pupils dilated, the last remnants of restraint shattering as pure, unfiltered desire took over.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice low, almost reverent.

His hands found her waist, fingers digging into her skin as he struggled to hold himself back. She was sitting on the couch, and he was still crouched in front of her, looking up like she was something divine—something meant to be worshipped.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me," he murmured, his lips brushing against her collarbone before trailing lower.

Y/n shivered at the sensation, her body reacting to him in ways she couldn't control. She had given herself to him without hesitation, without fear—because deep down, she knew this was where she was meant to be.

Satoru kissed her again, slower this time, as if he wanted to savor every second. His hands moved over her body, exploring, memorizing, proving to her that his feelings were just as intense, just as undeniable.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Satoru laid Y/n down on the couch, his body pressing against hers as he hovered over her, removing his shirt revealing his chiseled physique.

His touch was both possessive and reverent, his fingers tracing the curves of her body as if committing them to memory.

He leaned in, lips brushing against her skin, planting soft, lingering kisses along her jawline before moving down to her neck. His warm breath sent shivers through her as he murmured against her skin, "You're beautiful, you know that?" His voice was husky, filled with something raw and unrestrained.

His hand found her chest, cupping the weight of her breasts, his thumb teasing over her already hardened peaks. Y/n gasped, arching into his touch, her body craving more. He smirked against her skin, relishing her reactions, before trailing kisses lower—his mouth hot and needy as it worshipped every inch of her.

When his lips finally reached her perky nipples, he wasted no time. He took one into his mouth, sucking softly before flicking his tongue against it, drawing a breathy moan from her lips. "Satoru…" she whimpered, her hands clutching at his hair, tugging him closer.

His name on her lips only fueled him further. He lavished the same attention on her other breast, his free hand kneading her soft skin as he continued his slow, torturous worship of her body.

Every kiss, every touch was a silent confession—this wasn’t just about desire; it was about something deeper, something that had been building between them for far too long. And now, there was no turning back.

His kisses traveled lower, his touch worshipping every part of her as he settled between her thighs. His hands caressed them, careful of her injured foot, as he leaned in—tasting her, savoring her, lost in her.

Her body writhed beneath him, breath hitching, moans escaping in soft, desperate whimpers. The room was filled with the sounds of her pleasure, and it only fueled the fire within him.

Satoru was losing himself. He needed more.

Undoing his trousers, he positioned himself between her thighs, his fingers gripping her hips as he teased her with his hardness. His forehead pressed against hers, his breath ragged.

“Tell me…” he muttered, voice husky, strained. “Tell me you want this.”

Y/n’s lips trembled. “I do. I always have.”

That was all he needed.

With a low curse, he lifted her leg gently, resting her injured foot over his shoulder to keep from hurting her. Then, he pushed forward, entering her slowly, filling her inch by inch.

A sharp gasp left her lips, her eyes fluttering shut as ecstasy and overwhelming happiness washed over her.

Satoru groaned deeply, his head rolling back as he felt her warmth envelop him completely.

Satoru moved with increasing urgency, each thrust deepening the connection neither of them dared to put into words. His grip on her tightened as if afraid she’d slip away, and when he kissed her, it was desperate—raw. Y/n could feel it, the way he poured himself into her, as if trying to prove something neither of them could name.

She clung to him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure, in the illusion of something she had always craved. But even through the haze of their shared passion, a sliver of reality remained—this was Satoru Gojo, her sensei, a man who was never meant to be hers.

As his pace grew erratic, his forehead pressed against hers, and in a breathless whisper, he muttered, "I can’t let you go…" Words spoken in the heat of the moment, a promise he knew he couldn’t keep.

And yet, as he buried himself inside her one last time, feeling her shatter around him, he clung to the lie for just a little longer.

#gojo satoru angst #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk smut #gojo smut #gojo fanfic

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rootspiral · 3 months ago

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I'm curious if you have anything more to say on the fight at the start of ep8 between Agatha and Rio. Like, about anything, the face acting, why this was Rio's last straw, why Agatha was surprised it was Rio's last straw.. Or just how good they looked lol.

Fuck, am I really going through these scenes to screencap them again? I guess I am. Let's pretend it's an extra deep dive.

Agatha has just left Lilia behind dealing with the Salem Seven. She was acting super casual and unbothered with Lilia, but as soon as the door of the iron maiden closed and Jen started screaming, she bolted. And she's running now and she looks terrified, but of what? The Salem Seven killing her? Or Rio catching up with her now that more bodies are dropping? Does she feel particularly guilty about Lilia's death, after seeing her display of incredible power and grace in the trial? All these things together probably, and whatever she's running from, here is her face when she sees Rio ↑

Then she has to close her eyes and steel herself like we've seen her do so many times, she was completely unfiltered a moment ago, terror showing plainly on her face, and now she's trying to regain control, but notice how it doesn't quite work: she's too shaken and her true feelings are still showing. Also heartbreaking and maddeningly stupid that she feels the need to hide and posture in front of Rio who is just begging for the opposite.

It's also interesting that Rio, as angry as she is, takes the time to tell Agatha that the Salem Seven are dead and she can relax and stop running – at least from them. Despite putting on her angry face, despite being determined to confront Agatha this time, she still wants to make things easier for her too. But it's no coincidence that she mentions Alice and Lilia, we saw her reap Alice's soul at the beginning of the episode, and right here? She just reaped Lilia. Like, that literally just happened. And it's obviously affecting her. Add to it the whole issue with Billy and Agatha's general behavior, is it any surprise that Rio is upset?

The finger pointing, the pursed lips and strained smile. "Here you are, breaking rules and breaking my heart again. And here I am, letting you do it like the fucking loser I am." I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really like Aubrey Plaza's more subtle acting choices.

And the more she talks, the more Rio gets subdued. She stops acting menacing and scary and you can see vulnerability coming through. I know how you feel about him. I watch you just as close as you watch everyone else. This walk with another's woman son. This is Rio trying to keep it professional when it couldn't be more personal. She's hurt, she's jealous, she's lonely. Fuck, why can't Agatha acknowledge it?

Meanwhile Agatha is just fidgeting and grimacing and shaking and trying to deflect and run away from the conversation. Rio, even when she sets out to yell at Agatha, ends up trying to reach out and communicate and do the emotional work instead, she still wants this to work so much. Agatha won't let her. She won't move an inch.

You call what you did special treatment? Look at all that venom, dear lord. Here we have Rio practically begging Agatha to see things from her point of view, to at least try to understand. Agatha, in pure Agatha fashion, grabs her pain like a weapon and starts slashing. She's jealous of her pain, she protects it, she feeds it. It's what helped her survive. Carrying around those three swords in her heart is the only way she knows how to function, no matter how agonizing they are.

You know when a parent is trying to reason with a toddler, and they sit down at their little table and say stuff like, "I know that you're angry, but your words are making mommy sad," and the toddler inevitably throws a pen or yells or calls them names? And the parent just wants to slap that little shit, and it takes them a hot second to collect themselves? Yeah.

Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, Agatha is not a toddler and Rio shouldn't have to do this. It's undignified, it's unfair, it's too painful. Rio is supposed to be her partner, not a surrogate parent.

And Rio does collect herself, and she keeps trying. Look at her body language, she's leaning back, tentative, less intrusive. She did the same thing when she was trying to help Agnes, she pushed a little, and when Agnes recoiled she stepped back and regrouped. She's pretty much spoon-feeding Agatha at this point. "Okay, let's talk about the case" becomes "Okay, let's talk about Nicky. I know it's hard but I'm with you. One step at a time. I only need to figure out the best way to save you from yourself and then everything will be fine."

This is what Rio has been doing, watching Agatha and studying her, acting like a therapist, trying to ease her out of her pit of despair as Agatha yells and throws stuff at her. And what I find really poignant is that Rio is literally the physical embodiment of balance, but she's going against her very nature and putting Agatha before everything else, even herself. Rio loves Agatha that much. And it's wrong. It's not sustainable. No wonder Rio lashed out so spectacularly at the end of the episode, she needs to feel big after shrinking and shrinking and shrinking in front of Agatha.

And yes I still love that Rio the Agatha wrangler has managed to calm her enough to sit and talk. Defenses are tentatively lowered, Rio's plan for getting through that thick skull is going splendidly. Or not.

Agatha is not letting Rio have her way, not even for a second. She's going to make it as hard as she can. And like I said in my deep dives, despite all she is still expecting Rio to always come back, no matter how much shit she throws at her.

There is a lot to be said about the way Agatha is addicted to hurting people. It is an addiction, it's her main/only source of endorphins at this point. It makes her feel powerful and in control of the narrative. And it's a vicious circle, she punishes people so when they lash back she can go, "See? See? They hate me, I was right, I was justified!" Rio was only feeding that addiction by coming back over and over again to let herself be pushed around.

Hey, Agatha? You don't want Death to look like someone just kicked her in the stomach. You literally took her breath away, and not in the fun way.

You dumb fuck.

Wow, this is still really fun to do, despite it being maybe the two of them at their lowest.

You know what? If you guys want you can send some other scenes my way, especially from the first episodes because I didn't comb them that thoroughly. And Agatha's scenes in WandaVision too, I want to watch those again. But only one scene per ask, please.

#asks #agatha all along #aaa meta #agathario #agatha harkness #rio vidal

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luna-thecreator · 22 days ago

Text

The Shadow (A R.R Series)

Part 1 - The Silhouette

Paring જ⁀➴ Mafia Boss!Roman Reigns x Fem!Reader Plot જ⁀➴ A Night out for spring break was to only blow off steam from school. But all its done is add more to the flame. Word Count જ⁀➴ 3k Tags જ⁀➴ Dark Romance, Kissing, Age gap, light dub con, 18+, language

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

That’s the rule, right?

Too bad my best friend doesn’t believe in boundaries.

The second I start closing my eyes for sleep, the sound of my hotel room door slams against the wall nearly sends me into cardiac arrest.

“WAKE UP! Girl, you know we have to go partying!” Bianca’s voice pierces through my nap, yanking me back into the real world like an eviction notice.

I groan, rolling onto my side, trying to escape the room light slicing through the fancy-ass chandelier. My body is not built for nights, especially not after this morning’s questionable decisions. My eyes finally pry open, and there she is—already dressed in a hoochie momma set, her jet-black hair piled into a messy bun that somehow still looks effortlessly perfect.

“You couldn’t wait like, thirty more minutes?” My voice is half-asleep as I blindly reach for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glares back at me. 10:03 pm.

“Bii,” I whine, flopping dramatically onto my back. “It’s literally ten pm.”

“And we literally only have two days here,” she counters, unbothered, yanking the duvet clean off my body. “Best to go crazy now before spring break is over, babe.”

I sit up with a heavy sigh, my oversized tee clinging to me as I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Fine, fine. Let me at least get my shit together.”

Bii, already bouncing on the balls of her feet like a five-year-old on Christmas morning, lets out an excited squeal. “Hurry up or I’m coming back to kidnap you!” she threatens before sprinting out of the room.

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. That’s right—spring break. Our first real trip together. No parents, no obligations, just pure, unfiltered chaos waiting to unfold in the neon jungle of Vegas.

An hour later, Bii and I slid into the waiting cab, my soul barely intact after rushing through my half-assed attempt at getting ready. The second my butt hits the seat, reality smacks me in the face.

This dress is criminally short.

Like, I-might-accidentally-flash-someone short.

Like, one-strong-breeze-away-from-a-public-indecency-charge short.

I shift uncomfortably, tugging at the hem of the black silky mini dress Bii basically forced me into. It clings to my body like it was painted on, and don’t even get me started on the neckline—my boobs are practically making a public appearance.

I shoot Bii a glare. “I hate you.”

She just grins, completely unbothered. “You love me.”

I grunt, crossing my arms over my chest in a sad attempt to preserve whatever’s left of my dignity. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because it’s Vegas, babe. The whole point is to be hot and make questionable decisions.”

I roll my eyes, already questioning my life choices, when the cab slows to a stop. I turn my head, expecting to see some bougie party district or at least a cute home.

Instead, we’re in front of… a warehouse?

I blink. “Bii. What the actual fuck.”

She can see the pure disgust on my face because she immediately throws up her hands, grinning like she’s about to reveal some life-changing secret.

“Just trust me, aight?”

I squint at her. The last time she said that, I ended up in a stranger’s VIP booth doing tequila shots off a roulette table.

She yanks me out of the cab so fast I nearly trip, my heels clacking against the pavement as I scramble to keep up.

“Bii, slow down!” I hiss, but she’s on a mission, dragging me toward the entrance like a woman possessed.

The second we stop, my eyes shoot up—and up—to the massive bouncer standing in front of a set of heavy metal doors.

A sliver of unease creeps down my spine.

This… does not look like a club.

Like, why the hell are we at a damn warehouse?

The whole vibe is off. The neon lights flicker overhead, barely illuminating the sketchy-ass building. The air smells like a mix of cheap cologne, cigarettes, and something vaguely metallic. I shift on my feet, suddenly hyper-aware of my too-short dress, my exposed skin prickling from the slight chill.

“Bii.” I lower my voice. “I swear to God, if you brought me here to get kidnapped—”

She ignores me, reaching into her tiny purse and flashing a business card at the bouncer.

A business card?

What. The. Fuck.

Without a word, the guy takes one look at it, then steps aside, reaching for the heavy metal doors. The sound of grinding steel fills the air as he pulls them open, revealing… pitch-black darkness.

Yeah. Nope.

I immediately take a step back, but Bii’s grip on my wrist tightens. She throws me a mischievous grin, eyes gleaming under the dim lights.

“Just trust me,” she whispers before tugging me inside.

And like a dumbass, I let her.

My jaw hits the floor as the hallway suddenly comes alive with flashing LED lights, casting neon streaks along the sleek black walls. One second, we were stepping into total darkness—now, it feels like we’ve been transported into some underground, VIP-only paradise.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. The air is thick with bass, the distant thrum of music vibrating beneath my feet. Further in, a massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its crystals catching the light and throwing sparkles in every direction, shifting from deep purples to electric blues to fiery reds.

Okay. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

I glance at Bii, who’s watching my reaction with a smug look.

“Told you to trust me.” She winks before looping her arm through mine.

Shot after shot, the world around me blurs into neon streaks and pounding bass. My too-short dress? Long forgotten. All I care about is the music, the heat of the crowd, and the way Bii and I scream when our song—"Surrender" by Kut Klose—starts blasting through the speakers.

“OH, SHIT!” Bii shrieks, grabbing my hands as we move to the rhythm, our bodies swaying in sync.

Body grinding. Ass shaking. More shots. Repeat.

I don’t know how many drinks deep we are, but I feel it—the warmth spreading through my veins, the reckless confidence taking over. The kind that makes you forget everything except the music and the way your body moves to it.

And that’s when I feel it.

Strong hands—big, warm, commanding—sliding onto my waist from behind.

I freeze for half a second, but the tequila tells me not to overthink it. The way his fingers tighten, his grip steady yet teasing, makes my breath hitch.

Oh.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The bass thrums through my chest as I feel his grip tighten, pulling me flush against his solid frame. He’s huge—all muscle and heat, his presence alone making my body hum with awareness.

I swallow hard, my hands instinctively reaching for his wrists, but I don’t push him away. I should, but instead, my fingers brush over his warm skin, feeling the strength beneath.

He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You dance like trouble, alofa.”

The word—Alofa—rolls off his tongue like silk, low and teasing.

I don’t know what it means, but the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

His voice is deep, smooth, dangerous.

“I—” My voice catches as his hands guide me, swaying my hips against him in perfect rhythm. My mind screams at me to be cautious, but my body? My body melts.

He chuckles, the sound rich and amused, like he can sense my hesitation. “Nervous?”

Yes. Obviously.

I nod slightly, but I don’t pull away.

“I don’t Bite,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Not unless you ask me to.”

A shiver runs down my spine. My knees almost buckle.

Who is this man?

I turn my head slightly, catching a glimpse of him under the flashing lights. Dark eyes. Long, jet-black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. A chiseled jawline that looks like it could cut glass.

He looks like sin personified.

He chuckles, and it’s deep, raw, the kind of sound that slinks down my spine and coils low in my stomach.

“Drink.”

“Huh?” I blink up at him, tipping my head to the side. I was too busy sizing him up, too caught up in the way his hands fit perfectly against my waist, to actually hear what he said.

His dark eyes flicker with amusement. “Another Drink?”

And then—oh, fuck.

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and I swear my brain short-circuits.

Because now, all I can think about is that tongue—hot, wet, teasing—dragging down my neck, swirling around my nipples, sliding lower, lower, lower…

Heat floods my face, and I snap my eyes away, pulse skyrocketing.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He smirks, like he can read my thoughts, like he knows exactly where my mind just went. His grip on my waist tightens just a fraction, pulling me closer, making me feel every inch of him.

“Careful, alofa,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “You keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you want me to do something about it.”

My breath hitches. My thighs press together on instinct.

I should back away. I should say something—anything—to break the tension.

But when he raises a brow, waiting, challenging, I do the exact opposite.

“Only gonna ask one more time, alofa.” His voice is low, a quiet warning wrapped in silk. “Don’t like repeating myself.”

His breath ghosts over my skin as he runs his nose up the curve of my neck, slow, deliberate. Like he’s memorizing me.

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the hem of my too-short dress. This man is dangerous. Not in the creepy, let me call security way, but in the I’ll ruin your life and you’ll thank me for it way.

“Um… I’m fine,” I murmur, voice softer than I’d like. “I had enough.”

For a second, I think he might push, insist—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he grins, flashing a glimpse of straight, white teeth, and something in his expression shifts—like he’s amused, like he enjoys the fact that I can say no.

That earns him a point in my book.

He tilts his head, studying me. Then—“Keep me company while I refill mine, then?”

The way he says it—not a question, not a demand, but something in between—sends a flutter through my stomach.

Like I actually have a choice.

Like I’d actually say no.

I wet my lips, heartbeat hammering against my ribs. This is new to me. The way he moves, the way he watches me, the way his touch is both possessive and patient.

And yet, my body answers for me.

I nod.

He smirks, sliding his fingers down my arm until they tangle with mine.

“Good girl.”

He’s already calling me good girl, and I don’t even know his damn name.

And the craziest part? If he asked me to leave with him tonight, I know I probably would.

It’s not like I’m some wide-eyed innocent—I mean, okay, maybe I am in some ways, but not in the way people assumed back in high school.

The rumors were wild. That I was hooking up with guys I never even spoke to, that I had a secret roster of men when in reality? I’m a virgin.

Yep. A whole-ass 22-year-old virgin.

Not because I’m waiting for some Michael B Jordan, rain-soaked love story. Not because I’m scared. Just because no one has ever made me want to spread my legs.

No one has ever lit me up—body, mind, and soul. No one has ever kissed me so good I forget my own damn name. And I refuse to settle for some bare-minimum, clueless dude who doesn’t even know where the G-spot is.

But him?

This tall, broad-shouldered, long-haired, full-bearded, dangerously fine-ass man with his hand wrapped securely around mine, leading me up a flight of stairs like he already owns me?

I don’t even know his name. But in the span of five minutes, he’s ticking off every single one of my boxes. And that? That’s terrifying.

My eyes drag up the broad expanse of his back, the muscles shifting beneath his black dress shirt, then down to his thick, solid ass. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as my mind betrays me—flashes of my nails digging into his back, his body caging mine, his weight pressing me into silk sheets as he pounds into me uncontrollably.

I swallow hard, cutting off the thought before it ruins me completely.

"Like what you see?" His voice is smug, deep, teasing.

Shit.

Heat rushes up my neck, burning my ears. “Sorry, I just—” Before I can finish, he turns, pulling a key from his pocket. With an effortless flick of his wrist, he unlocks the heavy, dark-wood door behind us and pushes it open.

The office is all power and wealth.

A massive, polished black desk sits in the center, facing a floor-to-ceiling window that offers a view of the glittering Vegas skyline. Shelves of leather-bound books line the walls, but I doubt he reads them. A decanter of dark liquor rests on a sleek glass table, alongside two crystal tumblers.

The lighting is low, warm—almost intimate. I barely have time to take it all in before he steps inside, turning to look at me with those dark, knowing eyes.

"Don't be sorry," he murmurs, the words ghosting across my skin as he somehow manages to get behind me without a sound.

A shiver snakes down my spine as his hands find my hips, one creeping along the small of my back before settling on the opposite side, caging me in without even trying. Then, with one slow, deliberate pull, he tugs me flush against him.

And fuck.

I feel every inch of him—every hard, unignorable inch.

"Still gonna refill your drink?" My voice is barely steady, a thin attempt at grounding myself in what was supposed to be a casual flirtation. This man was supposed to be a distraction, not a full-blown earthquake shaking my entire world.

But when he grinds his hips into my ass, slow and controlled, I know—deep in my bones—that I’m in over my head.

"I'm working on it, alofa," he breathes, dragging his nose down the side of my neck, inhaling me like he’s memorizing the scent. "But it’s not the alcohol I want."

My stomach flips.

"It—it's not?" My voice is weak, so unlike me.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

His fingers tighten—no, dig—into my hips like he's staking a claim, like he already knows exactly what he wants and isn't leaving without it. My breath stutters when he nudges his knee between my legs, parting them like it’s his God-given right.

"You," he murmurs. "This pussy."

One word.

That’s all it takes for my core to throb so hard I forget how to breathe.

My head tips back, helpless, needy, resting on his shoulder as his palm slides between my thighs, teasing, testing. I let out the softest whimper, and he grins against my skin like he already owns me.

"I—I don’t even know your name," I manage, a last-ditch effort at keeping some control in this situation. He chuckles, deep and dark, his lips grazing my jaw as he grips my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

"It’s okay, cause you’ll be screaming it later," he whispers, just before his mouth crashes down onto mine.

And holy fucking hell.

There’s nothing sweet about it. Nothing patient. Nothing careful. It’s hungry, punishing, raw.

The way his tongue tangles with mine, the way he sucks it into his mouth like he’s already devouring me whole, has my knees buckling. My nails dig into the back of his neck, holding on for dear life.

"I don’t do sweet and gentle, alofa," he growls against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine. "I need to feel you. Need to be balls deep in you."

I swallow hard. I’m so fucked.

Warm, calloused hands grip my hips, spinning me to face him like he’s got every right to.

The air between us is thick, charged, humming with something dark and electric as he backs me further into the room—one slow, deliberate step at a time. The edge of the desk presses into my lower back, but I barely register it. Not when his body is flush against mine.

"Can't read your mind, alofa," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel and honey. "Need to hear you say it."

Then his nose is on my neck, dragging down the column of my throat, breathing me in like he’s memorizing the scent of my skin.

And I should say something. Should breathe, think, move.

But all I feel is the thick, unrelenting length of his hardness pressing into my stomach—a silent promise, a dangerous temptation. It twitches, and my breath hitches, heat rushing straight between my thighs to my pussy.

"I… I never—"

I don’t even get the words out. The door flies open, slamming against the wall with a loud crack. A massive silhouette fills the doorway, blocking out the glow of the club downstairs.

He’s dressed in all black, his T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, inked arms crossed over his chest. Medium-length cornrows, the tips dyed deep red. The tribal tattoos that cover both arms ripple as he shifts, his stance solid and unyielding.

"Uce, we got a problem," the man says, voice deep and steady.

The one holding me growls low in his throat.

"Dammit, Jimmy, can’t you see I’m busy?" His grip on me doesn’t loosen. He doesn’t even stop the slow drag of his tongue along my collarbone, like this whole conversation is nothing but a minor inconvenience.

Jimmy doesn’t flinch. "It can’t wait, uce."

The man holding me exhales sharply, like he's one second away from snapping.

"Fuck." His forehead drops, resting between the curves of my tits as he takes a slow, controlled breath. And then, those dangerous dark eyes find mine again.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but business is business."

In one smooth motion, he helps me down, adjusting my dress with careful fingers. Then, without another word, he leads me downstairs, his palm resting on my lower back like a silent claim. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops—turns me to him.

Then he does it again. Kisses me. Raw. Possessive. Like he’s staking his claim. And just as fast as it started, he pulls back, lips still ghosting over mine.

"My name, alofa." His mouth brushes against mine again, this time a soft peck—but it still leaves me dizzy. "Roman Reigns."

Then he’s gone, disappearing through the steel doors like a shadow, leaving me standing there—breathless, burning, and whispering his name like a secret.

"Roman," I murmur, rolling the name on my tongue.

I like the way it tastes.

#fanfic #wwe #wwe fanfiction #roman reigns #roman reigns x reader #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns smut

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oh-stars · 2 months ago

Text

Elevator Time

@stobinmonth Day 8: Stuck | G | 782 | No Warnings Thank you @lady-lostmind for betaing!

Click. Flip. Snap.

Click. Flip. Sn–

“If you open and close that lighter one more time,” Robin warns, voice eerily calm, “I will shove it down your throat, Harrington.”

Steve drops the lighter into his lap. Whoops. “Sorry.”

Robin waves him off, head buried in her hands as her hair cascades around her. “You’re fine,” she huffs. “I get it.”

He knows she does, after all their time together and the fact they seem to have a pattern of getting stuck places, she’s learned a few things. Mostly that Steve does not do well with too much time on his hands and nothing to do. Especially when they’re trapped, stuck in this bogus elevator with only a stack of mail and their cart to entertain them.

Which would be great if Robin would let him open the letters. But no that’s a felony, Steve!

“Do you think someone’s called the fire department yet?” Steve asks, slumping further down the metal wall.

“Probably,” Robin mumbles. She lifts her head up and glares at him again, but this time she’s doing that weird little evil smirk she does when she’s about to be mean to him. “Are you going to embarrass us again?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I did not embarrass you last time.”

“You were practically drooling over that guy–”

“His biceps were the size of my head!”

“You made a fool of yourself–

“Oh, because you’re so much better.”

Robin giggles. “Firefighters don’t intimidate me.”

Steve crosses his arms. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re a lesbian.”

“And maybe I know how to handle myself around attractive people better than you,” she says, mimicking his pose.

A beat. Another.

The snort they both let out is the most hideous sound imaginable. They’re laughter echoes off the walls as they fall to the gross, sticky floor. It’s not nearly as gross as the Russian elevator from years before, but at this point, they don’t care.

Somehow, they end up shoulder to shoulder, their feet propped up on opposite walls as their faces are way too close for most friends. It’s a good thing they’re not most people. Steve’s pretty sure he could count Robin’s boogers right now; they're so close.

God, he loves her.

“Seriously,” Robin says when the giggles fade, “you can’t make an ass out of yourself.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“And keep it in your pants.”

“No promises there.” Steve smirks. “What if there’s a hot, gay firefighter out there and he thinks my ass looks hot?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “You think everyone thinks your ass looks hot.”

“Because they should. It’s a good ass. And ass appreciation can go beyond sexuality. You taught me that.”

“I never should have taught you about sexuality spectrums,” Robin groans, but her eyes betray her, filled with that sparkle of joy that Steve thinks is just for him. Their soulmates afterall, made from the same stardust and all that sappy shit. That’s why ten years after Scoops they’re still working the same dead end jobs together.

Steve sticks out his tongue.

Robin does the same.

More delirious laughter fills the space.

Time is meaningless in the metal box, and from Steve’s experience it never gets easier to track it. He stops trying to, even if he’s actively wearing a working watch. It’ll just make things worse. Instead, he lets whatever thought he has out, unfiltered and as clumsy as he wants.

Robin does the same. Conversations bleed into one another, from the philosophical to urgent bodily functions (Do not pee in this elevator, Steven. I swear on Dustin’s life I will shave your head if you pee in this elevator).

They’re still on the floor, clothes rumpled and the cart pushed to the side, when the doors creak open.

“Everything okay in there?” a gruff, masculine voice asks.

Steve lifts himself up onto his elbows as the older man peers into the elevator. Ugh, too old for him. “Yup.”

“Good,” another voice pops up as a stunning woman pops her head in. Steve’s brain pops off with fireworks as he sees the little nautical star tattooed on her wrist as she leans against the open door. Oh this is perfect. “We should have you out in about twenty minutes, okay? Hang tight!”

Robin’s eyes go wide as her face goes deeply red.

Steve salutes them lazily as he lays back down. He scoots closer to Robin and whispers, “Careful, you don’t want the hot lesbian firefighter to catch you drooling.”

She splutters, rushing to wipe her clean face off as Steve laughs, rolling away from her.

This is fantastic. How the tables have turned.

#steve harrington #stranger things #robin buckley #platonic stobin #ohstars fic #stobin month #stobin month 2025

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airandyeah · 2 months ago

Text

Sins (Alpha Geto X Omega Gojo X Omega Reader) Part.9

My Masterlist Series Masterlist Warnings: Obvious A/B/O dynamics, fated mates, suggestive comments or actions, just generally Minors DNI-just in case. This will be similar to Pink Pony Club, where I just mark every chapter as 18+ Warnings: Needy Satoru, mentions of heat, making out, implied sex.

You stretched as you walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. The morning air was cool against your skin, the scent of coffee lingering in the air, making you sigh contentedly. But just as you were about to mumble a greeting, you froze mid-step.

Satoru and Suguru were sprawled out on the couch, completely lost in each other. Satoru was on his back, one leg hanging off the edge of the couch, while Suguru hovered over him, fingers tangled in white hair. Their mouths moved in sync, slow and deep, as if they had all the time in the world.

Your breath hitched, heat creeping up your neck. You knew they were affectionate with each other, had seen them tease and flirt, but this was… different. This was raw, unfiltered desire, the kind that sent a shiver down your spine.

Suguru was the first to notice you. He pulled back slightly, his lips slick and curved into something smug as he glanced in your direction. "Good morning," he said, voice still husky from sleep and whatever they’d been doing.

Satoru, lips red and swollen, turned his head to peek at you with a lazy grin. "You enjoy the show?"

Your mouth opened and closed, no words coming out. The heat on your face was unbearable.

Suguru chuckled, settling back into the couch like he hadn’t just been caught straddling Satoru. "You look flustered."

"You two," you snapped, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at looking unaffected. "Could at least take it to the bedroom."

Satoru stretched, looking entirely unbothered. "We would’ve, but we didn’t expect a little voyeur in the house."

You gaped at him, spluttering, as Suguru just smirked.

"Oh, she’s cute when she’s embarrassed," Suguru mused. "Maybe we should put on more of a show."

"That’s it, I’m leaving," you huffed, spinning on your heel.

Satoru’s laughter followed you as you stomped off, but not before you heard him murmur to Suguru, "She’s fun to tease." ~~~ You sighed as the warm water cascaded over your body, trying to wash away the lingering heat that clung to your skin—not just from the shower, but from the sight you had just witnessed in the living room.

They really have no shame.

Even as you scrubbed your body clean, the image of Suguru caging Satoru against the couch, their lips moving in sync, refused to leave your mind. Your face heated at the memory, and you shook your head, forcing yourself to focus on the water instead.

Once you were done, you wrapped yourself in a towel, stepping out into the bedroom. But as you cracked the door open and peeked into the hallway, you immediately regretted it.

They were still at it.

Satoru was draped across Suguru’s lap now, long fingers buried in black locks as they kissed, slow and deep. Suguru's hand rested possessively on Satoru’s hip, fingers digging into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

You swallowed hard, gripping the towel tighter around yourself. "Are you two serious?"

Suguru barely glanced at you, lips still dangerously close to Satoru’s. "You're the one who walked in on us. Again."

Satoru turned his head toward you, blue eyes hazy and unfocused. He looked completely dazed, as if he’d already lost himself in whatever they had been doing.

Suguru sighed, finally leaning back against the couch, his hold on Satoru not loosening. "You should get used to it," he said, tilting his head as he finally addressed you properly. "His heat is coming up."

Your breath hitched. Oh.

Satoru hummed, resting his forehead against Suguru’s shoulder. "Needy," he murmured, voice muffled.

You blinked, suddenly understanding everything—their clinginess, Satoru’s insatiable need for touch, the way Suguru had been so patient with him.

Suguru ran a hand through Satoru’s hair, rubbing small circles at his nape. "He's getting antsy. It won’t be long before it fully hits."

You weren’t sure what to say, but something deep in your chest stirred at the thought. The idea of Satoru in heat, desperate and wanting, his body begging for relief…

Suguru watched you carefully, as if gauging your reaction. Then he smirked. "You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?"

Your face burned. "I—Shut up!"

Satoru chuckled, peeking at you from Suguru’s shoulder. "She’s cute when she gets flustered."

You turned on your heel, retreating to the bedroom before you embarrassed yourself further. But even as you shut the door behind you, your heart pounded, an undeniable warmth pooling in your stomach.

As the day went on, Satoru only got needier.

At first, it was subtle—small touches here and there. He’d brush his fingers against yours when you reached for something, lean into your side while the three of you sat on the couch, let his head rest on your shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

But then it became more obvious.

He followed you around the apartment, practically glued to your side. Anytime you sat down, he was right there, throwing himself across your lap or tucking himself into your side. If Suguru was around, Satoru would latch onto him just as much, but it was clear that his attention was split—he wanted both of you.

“Toruuu,” you groaned when he flopped down onto you for what felt like the tenth time that afternoon. “You’re heavy.”

Satoru buried his face into your neck, sighing dramatically. “I just wanna be close to you,” he mumbled, his lips brushing against your skin.

From the other side of the room, Suguru chuckled. “He’s only going to get worse,” he warned. “You should just accept your fate now.”

You glared at him, but before you could snap back, Satoru nuzzled against your throat, inhaling deeply. A full-body shiver ran through you at the way he pressed himself against you, so warm and pliant.

“Smell good,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

Your stomach flipped. You had never seen him like this before, so utterly desperate for touch. He was usually so cocky, so playful, but now? Now he was curling against you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your hand found its way into his soft hair, stroking gently.

He let out a pleased hum, shifting so he could all but drape himself over you, long limbs wrapping around you.

Suguru wandered over then, standing over the two of you with a smirk. “Do you want me to pry him off, or should I just leave him to smother you?”

Satoru made a small whine at that, tightening his hold around you. “Nooo,” he groaned. “She’s warm.”

Suguru sighed, but there was fondness in his expression as he crouched down. “You really can’t help yourself, huh?”

Satoru turned his face slightly, looking at Suguru with half-lidded, needy eyes. “I just wanna be close,” he murmured.

Suguru’s jaw tensed for a moment, something flickering in his expression. He exhaled slowly, brushing Satoru’s hair back from his forehead before glancing at you. “I told you he’d get worse.”

You swallowed thickly, looking down at the Omega in your arms. He was warm, soft, and so obviously craving more than just casual touches.

You tilted your head back against the couch, Satoru still clinging to you like a needy cat. His warmth seeped into your skin, his breath hot against your collarbone as he nuzzled closer.

With a small hum, you glanced up at Suguru, who was watching the two of you with an amused expression. "So… Sugu," you started, voice casual, but the question hanging between you was anything but. "If I already had my heat, and Satoru's about to start his…"

Suguru raised a brow, waiting.

"When's your rut?" you finally asked, direct as ever.

Satoru let out a breathy laugh against your skin, his lips brushing just enough to make you shiver. "Oh, sweetheart," he teased, though his voice was thick with the hazy need already overtaking him. "Curious, are we?"

You gave him a light shove, but he didn't budge, just grinning against your throat.

Suguru, on the other hand, simply let out a slow sigh, tilting his head slightly as if considering his answer. "Not for a while," he admitted. "A few weeks, maybe a month."

You blinked. "That far off?"

"Mm." He settled down onto the couch beside you, stretching one arm along the back, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. "I'm usually good at keeping it at bay. I can push it off if I need to."

You frowned at that. "But… doesn't that make it worse when it finally hits?"

Suguru smirked. "Oh, very."

A slow shiver crawled down your spine at the way he said it, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place.

Satoru let out a hum against your skin, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your hip. "His ruts are intense," he murmured, almost dreamily. "Like, really intense. You think I get needy? Suguru gets insatiable."

You swallowed, shifting slightly. "And you just… wait? Just push it off until you can't anymore?"

Suguru gave you a lazy shrug. "It’s easier that way. But…" His fingers trailed down the side of your neck, his touch featherlight, teasing. "Since we don’t have to deny anything anymore, maybe I won’t wait this time."

Your breath caught slightly, your heartbeat picking up.

Satoru only snickered against you, tightening his hold. "Better rest up now, sweetheart," he murmured. "You’re gonna need it."

Between tending to Satoru, who had grown increasingly clingy and whiny as his heat approached, you couldn’t help but notice how often Suguru was stepping out. Every time you turned around, he was either murmuring into his phone, his voice low and serious, or tapping out messages with sharp precision.

You knew what it was. Mafia business.

And it filled you with unease.

Satoru didn’t seem to care, far too caught up in nuzzling into your warmth, seeking out touch whenever possible. But you couldn’t ignore the way Suguru’s expression darkened every time he answered a call, or how his shoulders were taut when he returned. Something was going on—something he wasn’t telling you.

You didn’t want to pry, but the tension was growing thick, undeniable. And when Suguru stepped out yet again, his phone vibrating in his palm, you finally spoke up.

“Sugu.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back at you. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, but the words left your lips before you could stop them. “What’s going on?”

For a brief moment, something unreadable flashed across his face. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with that easy, reassuring smirk. “Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart.”

But that didn’t ease the tight knot in your chest.

You barely had time to process Suguru stepping out before Satoru shifted in your lap, hands sneaking up your sides as he buried his face against your throat. His lips ghosted over your skin, warm and seeking, as he hummed. “Mmm, you smell nice…”

You huffed, threading your fingers through his hair. “Toru, you’re getting clingier by the second.”

He only grinned against your neck. “Can’t help it,” he murmured. “I’m in need.”

Before you could respond, he suddenly pulled back just enough to capture your gaze, those glacier-blue eyes dark with something heavy. And then, just like he had done with Suguru this morning, he leaned in to steal a kiss.

His lips brushed over yours, testing, teasing—waiting for you to respond. Your breath hitched at the sudden intimacy, but Satoru didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands settled on your waist, his grip warm and grounding, as if he was afraid you’d slip away.

“Let me kiss you,” he whispered, voice softer now, pleading. “Please?”

The moment you gave in, Satoru took full advantage.

His lips crashed against yours, no longer teasing—just desperate. His hands roamed, grabbing at whatever he could reach. Fingers fisting into your shirt, gripping your waist, sliding up your back as if he could pull you closer, press himself against you until there was nothing left between you.

His body burned against yours, his heat already simmering under the surface, making him needier with every second. A whine slipped from him as he nipped at your bottom lip, tongue sliding against yours in a messy, eager kiss.

“Need you,” he breathed between kisses, words tumbling out between the sloppy meeting of your lips. “Feel so hot—so empty—”

You gasped as his hands found your thighs, squeezing as he shifted into your lap fully, pressing himself against you in a way that made your head spin.

“Satoru,” you tried, but he only whined again, hands gripping at you tighter, dragging you further under his touch.

Just as you were getting lost in the heat of Satoru’s desperation, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him effortlessly.

A startled whine left him as he was pulled away from you, his hands grasping at the air as if trying to cling onto the moment. “Sugu—”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Suguru’s voice was calm, but firm. He held Satoru against his chest, effortlessly restraining him despite the way he squirmed. “She’s not in heat, you are. You need to pace yourself.”

Satoru pouted, tilting his head back against Suguru’s shoulder, eyes glassy with need. “But she kissed me back,” he whined, wriggling in Suguru’s grip. “She wanted it—”

Suguru clicked his tongue, adjusting his hold, keeping Satoru’s back flush against him. “You’re burning up already,” he murmured against the shell of Satoru’s ear. “If I let you go now, you’d have her on the floor in minutes.”

Your face burned at the accusation, heart pounding. Suguru’s dark eyes flickered to you, gauging your reaction, the way your breath came uneven, how your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your clothes as if you were resisting the urge to reach for Satoru again.

He smirked. “See?” His voice was a teasing drawl now, as if pleased with the way your body reacted to them both so naturally. “Even she knows I’m right.”

You leaned against the doorway, watching as Suguru effortlessly carried Satoru into the bedroom. He set him down onto the mattress, and immediately, Satoru scrambled to his feet, yanking at the blankets, pillows, and any spare clothing he could get his hands on.

It was chaotic.

Where your nest had been neatly arranged, methodically placed for comfort, Satoru's was pure destruction. The bed looked like a storm had torn through it, sheets tangled, pillows tossed haphazardly, clothes strewn about with no apparent logic.

Suguru sighed, crossing his arms as he stood beside you, watching the mess unfold. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

Satoru, half-buried in a mountain of blankets, only peeked out long enough to shoot him a pout. “Shut up, it’s fine like this.”

Suguru pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his nose. “You’re like a pup throwing things around.”

You hummed in agreement, trying to stifle your amusement. “It’s like watching a cat knock things over just because it can.”

Satoru huffed dramatically. “You’re both so mean to me.” He flopped onto his back in the middle of the mess, arms stretched out like a starfish. His white hair was wild, tufts sticking out from where he’d rolled in the blankets. His pupils were blown wide, face flushed—his heat was creeping closer, evident in the restless energy pouring off him.

Suguru turned his head slightly, speaking low enough for only you to hear. “He’s getting worse. By tonight, he won’t be able to think straight.”

You swallowed, gaze flickering back to Satoru, who was curling into the blankets, whining softly under his breath. He was so needy already, his Omega instincts in full force, seeking comfort, seeking touch.

Suguru placed a hand on your lower back, rubbing slow, reassuring circles. “We’ll take care of him,” he murmured, low and warm. “Together.” ~~~ By 'together', he apparently meant, that he would take care of Satoru sexually while all the other omega wanted to do was bite, lick, and fondle you. ~~~ Satoru’s heat had come and gone in a whirlwind of exhaustion, leaving both you and Suguru completely drained. Seven days—relatively short, but intense nonetheless.

Now, the apartment was eerily quiet. Satoru was still curled up in the nest, his body finally relaxed in deep sleep, his usual energy completely spent. You and Suguru sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the mess that had taken over the room—blankets twisted into impossible knots, pillows everywhere, and the faint lingering scent of heat that still clung to the sheets.

You let out a slow breath, rolling your shoulders. "I feel like I just ran a marathon."

Suguru made a noise of agreement, rubbing his temples. "Try doing that while also dealing with mafia business at the same time."

You gave him a look. "You did that to yourself."

He sighed, leaning back on his hands. "I know."

For a moment, the two of you just sat there in the aftermath, letting the silence settle. It was strange—despite the exhaustion, there was an undeniable warmth in the room, a deep sense of satisfaction that came from taking care of Satoru, from being together.

Suguru reached out, brushing his fingers against yours. "How are you feeling?"

You hummed, considering it. "Tired. But... happy."

His lips curved into a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Satoru stirred in his sleep then, shifting closer to the both of you, instinctively seeking your warmth. Suguru chuckled, reaching over to brush a strand of hair from Satoru's face.

"Guess we should start cleaning up soon," you murmured, looking around at the absolute disaster of a room.

Suguru groaned. "Not now. Later. Let’s just rest for a bit longer."

You couldn’t argue with that. You leaned into him, and together, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, watching over your sleeping Omega.

Taglist is always open for anyone! Just comment, send an ask, or a DM and I'll add you! Taglist: @purpleicing , mini-kunoichi , @gravity-valley , @jinjen , @c0quin , @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @asweetblueberry2 I think that's everyone who asked to be tagged, I apologize if I missed anyone!!!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satosugu #satosugu x reader #a/b/o #omegaverse

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