#something to look forward to in every month

[k0mmari]

Hello so i saw this post about an au idea where without a cure being more deadly and i humbly request if you could draw jinlin arc binghe and others(gongi-xiao, lpm, opm) reaction to peak lord shen (who looks like Kagaya Ubuyashiki from demon slayer because of without a cure)

This has entered my brain in ways I cannot describe, so I had to cook something up. First and foremost, the reactions:

Basically, Without a Cure here is quite deadly, but only if a person has Heart Demons. Shen Qingqiu doesn't remember exactly the explantion Airplane had bullshited - something something the poison eats away at your body and then your soul, and Heart Demons only aggravate it - but it didn't really concern him. In fact, he was quite satisfied with life when he was poisoned anyways, and he could deal with sitting with Liu-shidi every so often for qi transfers.

That is, until the Immortal Alliance Conference happened, and he had to...

Anyways, suddenly Without a Cure got a bit more... violent. A week after the whole Conference thing, Shen Qingqiu's hand started to show some weird bruises where he'd been poisoned, and no matter how much qi transfer Liu Qingge, or Mu Qingfang (or even Yue Qingyuan) tried, it wouldn't go away, and no medicine or herb would help him either.

A few months later and the bruising had swalowed up his whole forearm, now dry and brittle, and whatever muscle he had there seemed to begin to atrophy. So. That's not good.

Well, whatever! Shen Qingqiu wasn't about to let Mu Qingfang waste any more herbs on him, and it's not like he has any Heart Demons to figure out; and anyways, Binghe was going to come back from the Abyss and kill him anyways, so who cares! He'd just started to wear a golden metal gauntlet over his messed up hand and called it a day, and when Yue Qingyuan mentioned Jin Lang City, he was more than happy to get out of the Peak for a little bit.

Things went mostly the same as you know, up until when Shen Qingqiu got infected: this time he just... didn't. Whoever tried to infect him touched the gauntlet instead of his skin, and when Binghe cornered him, he obviously noticed the new addition of the gauntlet.

Once again, the story continues normally until the accusations started to get thrown Shen Qingqiu's way, though this time, a Huan Hua disciple accuses him of siding with a demon because he was unnafected when one of demons touched him, they saw it all! And when Shen Qingqiu explains it was because of the gauntlet, people get even more suspecious. Why does he need to use it in the first place? Is he trying to hide some demonic marks or something?

Mu Qingfang tries to step in and say it's for medical reasons, because of Without a Cure, but when the Old Palace Master says he'd seen Shen Qingqiu after he was poisoned in the Immortal Alliance Conference, his hand had been normal then.

It becomes chaos, weirder and weirder accusations start to sprout (and Qiu Haitang hasn't even said anything yet), and Shen Qingqiu takes it upon himself to at least try to free himself from one accusation he isn't guilty of. So, he takes everything off, the gauntlet, his outer layers, and shows everyone the state of Without a Cure.

Silence falls for one long minute. All eyes are on Shen Qingqiu's rotten body, and he kinda wants to cry.

And then Qiu Haitang steps forward, and it all goes back to normal. Maybe. When the Old Palace Master says that Shen Qingqiu should be locked in the Water Prison, Mu Qingfang steps forward: they all saw him, he is in no condition to stay in a harsh environment! It takes a bit more back and forth, but eventually, finally, Luo Binghe steps forward and agrees with Mu Qingfang's accessment.

Shizun should not be locked in the Water Prison while his health is in such a fragile state. Instead, Shizun shall stay with him.

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine getting married to Caleb ft. non-mc reader. part 2

Imagine today was the day. The day Caleb had been waitimg for. The tuxedo felt tight, but that didn't matter. He was going to marry you. The person he loved more than life itself. The person who made every moment worth fighting for.

Imagine every detail had been meticulously planned, the flowers, the vows, the reception. But none of it truly mattered now. It was all about you and the life you two would share together after your vows and ceremony.

Imagine the way Caleb stood before the mirror, his hands slightly trembling as he adjusted his tie. His thoughts consumed by the person waiting for him in the chapel. He couldn't wait to see you, to take your hand and promise forever. That was the moment he had been waiting for ever since he met you and get to know you.

and Imagine before he could gather his thoughts any further his phone buzzed with a message from you.

You: Can't want to have my forever with you. I love you! See you soon 🍎

4:37 am

Imagine the way Caleb stared at the message, a smile tugging at his lips. His heart fluttered. He was so close now. He wanted to send something back. Something that would show you how much you meant to him, how much he had been looking forward to this day. How nothing, not even his job, would ever take him away from you.

His fingers hovered over the phone's screen. He started typing but text he paused. He left like no amount of text could reflect the way he was feeling right now. So he decided to send you a voice message instead.

"Whatever happens, I love you..." He startes and hit send. He got lost in the moment that he forgot what he was about to say. Nonetheless he continued with a smile on his face. "I can't wait to marry you. No mission, no order, nothing could ever change that."

Imagine just as he was about to hit send, a sharp knock echoed through the room, cutting through his thoughts like a blade.

Imagine the way the door opens and Caleb's heart skipped a beat. It was his commanding officer, a cold, emotionless presence that made Caleb's stomach drop.

"Colonel." The Commanding officer, CO greeted, his tone calm, like they were discussing the weather, not the most important day of Caleb's life. "I see you're prepared for the ceremony." Caleb's pulse quickened. "Yes, sir. But if you'll excuse me, I need to get to the chapel. I'm getting married today."

Imagine the way the CO didn't budge, he didn't even acknowledge the significance of Caleb's words. He just stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "Actually, that's why I'm here." Caleb frowned, the dread creeping in. "You don't seem understand, sir. I'm getting married. Today. I had my leave of absence approved today and the rest of the month, sir."

Imagine the way the CO reached into his jacket pocketa and doesn't seem to take anything that Caleb has just said and pull out a folder and flipping it open, his gaze scanning the document with clinical precision. "You've been selected for immediate deployment, Colonel. Your mission is critical. I need you ready in thirty minutes."

Imagine the way Caleb's stomach twisted. His breath caught in his throat. "What? A mission? Today? On my wedding day?" His voice cracked as his entire world tilted.

Imagine the wah the CO didn't flinch, doesn't even seemed to care about the fact that this was supposed to be the most important moment of Caleb's life. His voice remained steady and detached. "Orders are orders, Colonel. This is non negotiable. You're the only one who can handle this. I need you out of here now."

Imagine the way Caleb's mind whirled. This couldn't be happening. He felt like he was drowning. Not today. Not now.

"I'm not going." Caleb spat. His voice trembling with frustration but his eyes were locked onto the CO, his body tense. "I can't go. I won't go. I'm getting married today. I promised them. This is the day I promised- this is the day we promised. You cannot take that from me." His gaze harden. "I won't let you."

Imagine the CO's face was unreadable, but his next words were ice cold. "You'll do your duty, Colonel or I'll have you removed. You don't get to choose today."

Imagine the way Caleb's heart was hammering on his chest. He couldn't breathe. His body was shaking, not from fear but from pure desperation. He couldn't lose this. He wouldn't lose this. He wasn't just fighting for his life. He was fighting for you.

Imagine he took a deep breath, his hands shaking at his sides. His voice dropped to a low growl, full of defiance. "I'd rather be court martialed. I'd rather be discharged than miss my own wedding." His words hung in the air, raw and desperate. "I'm not going. You can’t make me."

Imagjne the way the CO's face remained stoic but Caleb could see the shift in his eyes. The soldier who had been so calm, so indifferent, was now aware. The reality of Caleb's desperation had settled into the room, but it didn't matter. The orders had been given.

Imagine the CO's voice was firm. "You will go, Colonel. You will leave. I don't care if you're in a tuxedo. You're going. If I have to drag you out, I will."

Imagine Caleb started breathing ragged. The way his chest started heaving. His vision was starting to cloud with rage, but more than that, with the fear of losing everything he had worked for. He needed to be with you. He couldn't lose you. Not like this.

Imagine Caleb's evol flared into life. The way the room seemed to shake as the force around him intensified. The walls groaned under the strain as Caleb's evol bent the space around him. The soldiers outside the door were already entering, taking position. Caleb's violet iris flickered toward them, the sheer desperation in his chest making his entire body tremble. They couldn't take this from him.

Imagine he pushed himself forward, forcing his gravity to send the soldiers flying. They crashed into the walls, but it wasn't enough. There were too many of them.

"No!" Caleb shouted. His voice cracking with the intensity of his emotions. He tried to move, to push his way through the door out of this place and get to the chapel. Get to you. His heart was pounding in his chest and the pain of not being able to reach you was unbearable.

but Imagine the soldiers weren't backing down either. One lunged forwarda and grab his arms, yanking them behind his back. Caleb twisted in the grip but the soldiers were too well trained, like it was hone to go after him. The other grabbed his legs, sweeping him off his feet. He could feel his power slipping, his energy draining but he wasn't done. He struggled with every ounce of strength, his body fighting against their hold.

"Get off me!" Caleb growled. The words barely escaping through gritted teeth. He was trying so hard. His heart was screaming for you, for the wedding, for everything he had dreamed of. But it wasn't enough.

Imagine another soldier stepped forward, and before Caleb could even react. A needle pierced his skin. He felt the cold sting of the sedative entering his bloodstream. His vision swam, his thoughts became foggy.

"No..." Caleb whispered, his body growing heavy, the power fading from his limbs. "No... You can't do this..." He started seeing black dots and it scared him. "No...! Please.... please I have to..."

Imagine as the sedative took a full effect, his words slurred, his body collapsing under the weight of the drugs. The last thing he saw was the door to the chapel, the one where the two of you went into and decided it was the way you wanted to get married and he agreed. It'll make you happy. And then he imagined you and then nothing.

Imagine not too far away from the scene was MC who stood in the hallway. Originally she was here to check on Caleb making sure everything was okay. But now, her heart breaking as she listened to the sounds of Caleb's struggle, his shouts, his desperate refusal. She could feel the intensity in the air. She knew Caleb was trying with everything he had. But it was never going to be enough.

and Imagine, more than anything. She needed to tell you that. Fast. Before everything fall apart beyond repair.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: everybody say- thank you for coming home caleb.

[thewillowfletcher]

Willow smiled as she talked about Matt. "Oh, Nadja..." she chuckled."You think the way he clings to you and touches you is how Matt normally is? He needs you like he needs air, and you're the one worried about being too affectionate." She said

As Nadja brought up Frank willow leaned forward, placing her feet on the floor and elbows on her knees. She reached out for another cigarette.

"The problem is, I'm the problem, not Frank," She said. "I'm not meant to be here, in Hell's Kitchen."

She lit the cigarette. "I have to leave eventually, go back home... to - my best friend." There was something else there, Nadja could see it, but Willow couldn't

"And Frank, well, he can't go with me. I know him too well. He isn't a ghost with a gun, he doesn't have to be, but - I don't know." She took a long drag and leaned back on the couch.

"I would Bucky I'd be gone a few months, clear my head after that girl, Karlie died. How I wanted to go back to working to save people, without the government rules without needed to back to getting arrested every time I saved someone because of all the illegal things I did on the way."

It wasn't the truth, at least not all of it anyway. As the nicotine rushed to her brain, it started to spill out.

I took care of Bucky every night, but the guilt he felt about it, he needed to know that *I knew* I could step away. I want to prove i can do it without him, after years of only doing it with him. So Matt needed help, and here I am."

Willow looked back at Nadja. "Sorry, got carried away.

to love someone is firstly to confess: i'm prepared to be devastated by you. by A History of My Brief Body by Billy-Ray Belcourt

[buckyseternaldoll]

Fireworks and Cuddles

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You soothe Bucky through a rough Fourth of July with quiet rooftop cuddles and silly stories.

Disclaimer: emotional comfort, PTSD triggers (fireworks/gunfire sounds), veteran trauma, fluff, cuddling, hurt/comfort

Author's Note: Maybe I'm back? It's my birthday month and I want to fully enjoy myself. I'm not familiar with this specific day or how it's celebrated in the US btw.

It was the Fourth of July. Even from your apartment windows you could see the sky lighting up in early, overeager test shots—streaks of red and green that fizzled before the sun had even fully set, leaving smoky tails curling like ghosts in the warm, heavy air. Down on the street, kids darted between cars with sparklers, their shrieks high and ecstatic, dogs barking frantically at the noise. Car radios blasted clashing versions of the same anthems, tinny and off-beat, mixing into an unsteady chorus.

It felt like the whole world was in celebration.

Inside your apartment, though, it was too quiet.

You moved carefully through the living room, every creak in the floorboards echoing in the hush. The bedroom door was half shut. You could see Bucky’s boots abandoned beside the bed, one tipped onto its side like he’d kicked them off without thinking.

He was hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, elbows braced on his knees, big shoulders curved inward. His head was lowered so you couldn’t see his face. The light from the hallway spilled over him in a pale stripe, catching on the dull gleam of his vibranium fingers as they fidgeted, soft clicking like clockwork threatening to jam.

He didn’t look up even when you knocked softly and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“Buck?” you called gently.

He exhaled slowly, but didn’t answer.

You hated this day for him.

You hated the way it twisted his expression, set deep grooves of guilt and memory around his eyes. He never really explained it in detail, but you knew enough. The fireworks reminded him of things he didn’t want to remember. The sharp cracks that echoed through the city weren’t “festive” to him. They were warning shots, mortar shells, the sound of friends yelling over explosions in the dirt and snow.

He wouldn’t admit it was that bad, but you saw it in the way he avoided the windows at dusk, how he flinched when the distant booms rattled the glass. How his jaw would lock tight, a muscle jumping at his temple.

You could see it now too—his knuckles bone-white on his knees. The metal fingers clenching and relaxing, over and over.

You tightened your grip on the old canvas bag you were holding, then lifted it a little, rattling it to get his attention.

“Hey, Buck. C’mon. I have a plan.”

He blinked slowly, turning his head just enough that you caught a glimpse of his tired eyes, dulled and heavy.

“A plan?” he repeated, voice low and scraped raw.

You nodded. “Yeah. For tonight.”

He dropped his gaze back to the floor. His shoulders rose and fell with a long, weighted breath. His flesh hand came up to scrub over his stubbled jaw, thumb dragging along his lower lip like he was trying to wipe something away.

“Don’t think I’m good company right now,” he mumbled.

Your heart cracked a little.

“Tough,” you said softly, your voice deliberately light. “You’re coming anyway.”

That earned you the tiniest huff of reluctant laughter. His eyes finally met yours, guarded but a little brighter.

“Bossy,” he muttered.

You grinned at him. “You love it.”

He sighed again, but this time it sounded more like surrender. He straightened up, rolling his neck until it cracked.

“Alright. Lead the way, sweetheart.”

—

You led him up the narrow, creaky stairs to the roof. The old bag bumped against your hip with every step. The stairwell was stuffy, smelling of sun-warmed concrete and faded paint, but you felt him trailing close behind you, his boots scuffing at the steps, his breathing slow and deliberate.

You glanced back once to make sure he was still coming. He met your eyes for a second, trying to look exasperated but not pulling it off at all.

On the rooftop, the summer air was cooler but thick with the smell of smoke drifting up from grills below. Music from half a dozen barbecues layered in the distance, muffled like memories of old block parties.

Up here, the fireworks were softer. Smaller. The big, official displays were still too far to be deafening, so the explosions bloomed silently for a few seconds before the dull, low booms caught up.

You spread the old wool blanket over the gritty rooftop and smoothed it out with a flourish.

“Welcome,” you said grandly, “to our private box seats.”

Bucky snorted, but the sound was weak. He didn’t look convinced. He sat down with stiff, mechanical care, arms crossing over his chest as if to hold himself together. His shoulders were hunched nearly to his ears with every far-off crack and thump.

You dropped next to him so close your thighs pressed together. At first you didn’t say anything. Just watched the pale bursts of color in the distance, listening to the low rumbles that rolled over the rooftops.

When he didn’t relax, you shifted even closer, letting your weight lean against his side deliberately.

Gently, you laid your hand on his arm, feeling the tense corded muscle under your fingers.

“Hey. Lie back with me.”

He didn’t look at you.

“Doll…”

“Please?” you murmured.

His eyes flickered over your face. He let out a slow breath that shuddered a little, then nodded.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He lay back carefully, as if worried he’d break the blanket or himself. You followed, pressing your body flush to his side. His arm, solid and warm, settled automatically around you, but he was still rigid under your touch.

You didn’t let him stay that way. You pressed closer, tucking your head under his chin, sliding your arm across his chest until your fingers found the edge of his dog tags through his thin t-shirt.

He smelled like soap and old leather and the faint tang of metal from his arm.

Another distant pop sounded, and you felt him flinch sharply beneath you.

You immediately began smoothing your hand over his chest, slow and steady.

“I got you,” you whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut. You felt the way his ribs fought for a calm breath.

“It’s ridiculous,” he ground out. “I’ve heard worse. So much worse. Can’t even sit through some damn fireworks.”

“Bucky,” you said, voice soft but firm. You lifted your head just enough to press a kiss under his jaw. “You don’t have to justify it. It’s okay. You don’t have to be the tough guy tonight. Just breathe with me.”

He let out a breath that shook, the sound raw and reluctant. But he tried. You felt him match your breathing, slower, deeper, though every muscle in him fought it.

You curled your leg over his, hooking your ankle behind his knee, trying to hold every shaking bit of him in place. He resisted at first—so used to bracing himself against everything—but you didn’t let up. You dragged your fingers up into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and felt the slow melt as he finally let his weight sink into you.

His head tipped forward, pressing his nose into your hair.

You could feel his heart thudding against your palm where it rested on his chest, starting to slow.

You whispered so softly it was almost lost under the sound of another muted boom.

“Listen. Let me tell you a story, okay?”

He made a low sound that was half-question, half-sigh.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it.

“So,” you began, shifting so you could talk right against his ear, your voice warm and conspiratorial, “when I was little I tried to make an apple pie all by myself. Didn’t know how it worked. I just took one of those frozen crusts and shoved four whole apples in it. Like… unpeeled. Stems and everything.”

You felt his chest jerk with a breath that might have been a laugh trying to break out.

“And I just… tossed it in the oven,” you continued, your tone scandalized. “No cinnamon. No sugar. Just big dumb apples.”

He let out a low snort.

You smiled wider, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“It burned so bad. Whole kitchen smelled like a crime scene. My mom was laughing so hard she was crying. I think I permanently traumatized the oven.”

Bucky’s laugh finally bubbled out. It was quiet, but real. His arm around you tightened, vibranium fingers splaying possessively over your waist.

“Whole apples?” he repeated incredulously, voice husky but softer now.

“Whole,” you confirmed solemnly. “Stems. Seeds. I think I invented apple charcoal.”

He huffed another laugh, breath warm in your hair.

“You’re an absolute menace,” he mumbled, voice thick, but affectionate.

You grinned. “Yeah. But I’m your menace. And tonight, you’re stuck with me.”

Another distant crackle of fireworks. This time he didn’t even flinch. He just held you tighter, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in like you were the only real thing left in the world.

“Thank you,” he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it over the wind.

You tilted your head to press your lips to his.

“Always,” you breathed back.

You lay there tangled together on the old blanket, feeling the heat of him finally start to relax, tension bleeding out of his shoulders with every shared breath. The fireworks kept going, painting the sky in pale reds and greens that glowed across his cheekbones. But they felt farther away now. Or maybe he just wasn’t listening to them anymore—just your voice, your stories, the thump of your heart against his ribs.

And for the first time all night, you felt him let out a real, steady sigh. As if for once, he could let himself enjoy it.

[hrtwayne]

Lavender Haze || Esmee Brugts

Pairing: Esmee Brugts x Putellas!Reader

Summary: Where Esmee ends up falling for Alexia’s younger sister.

Note: English is not my first language!

Warning: Esmee being a complete simp!

▪︎ Woso Masterlist

You closed the wardrobe drawer with a sigh, satisfied at finally having organized all your jersey swaps with players from other national teams. The ambient music from the TV filled the silence of the apartment, but your mind was far away—wondering what Alexia and Alba were scheming by insisting so much on this dinner. 

"Did Mom come back early?" you thought, lightly biting your lip. Eli Putellas loved surprises, and an unexpected visit after months of traveling across Europe wouldn’t be too absurd. 

Before you could sink deeper into your thoughts, the bedroom door swung open violently. 

"I can’t believe you’re still like this!" Alba stormed in like a hurricane, with Alexia right behind her, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. 

You jumped, clutching your chest as if trying to keep your heart from escaping. 

"Fuck, can’t you two knock?" you huffed, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. "And I said I was going alone!" 

Alba ignored your protest, rolling her eyes before shoving you toward the bathroom. 

"I’m picking your outfit. Now, go take a shower." She threw the towel at you, which you caught midair with a murderous glare. 

"Mare de Déu…" you grumbled in Catalan, dragging out the words like you always did when annoyed. 

As the hot water eased the tension in your muscles from the season, you could hear the whispers outside. Alexia was speaking softly, but the amusement in her tone was unmistakable. 

"Esmee’s about to faint because she thinks she won’t come," Alexia commented, making Alba laugh. 

"Seriously, it’s been two years of this, and neither of them has the guts to make the first move." 

You nearly choked on the shampoo. Esmee? The tips of your ears burned, but you refused to acknowledge that reaction. 

"You know she’s a little slow, Ale," Alba sighed, and you could picture your sister rolling her eyes again. "But at some point, she’s gonna realize the massive crush Esmee has on her." 

Your heart raced, but you clung to your pride. No. Absurd. Esmee Brugts was just… Esmee. Your teammate. Your friend. The person who always held your gaze a little too long, smiled differently when you were around, and��okay, maybe she had said "you’re amazing" like five hundred times in the last few months, but— 

"IF YOU DON’T GET OUT SOON, I’M KICKING THIS DOOR DOWN!" Alba banged on the wood, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

"I’M COMING, DAMN IT!" you shouted back, quickly drying off. 

When you stepped out, you found a carefully chosen outfit laid out on the bed: black jeans, a white shirt, and a casual blazer. "Elegant, but not too obvious." You sighed, dressing under the watchful eyes of your sisters. 

"So…" Alexia crossed her arms, scrutinizing you. "Ready to find out that dinner isn’t just with us?" 

You froze. 

"What?" 

Alba grinned, wicked. 

"Esmee’s gonna be there." 

The world stopped for a second. 

"… You’re joking." 

"No," Alexia winked. "And if you don’t say something today, I swear I’ll tell her myself." 

You swallowed hard. Shit.

It was official: your sisters had set you up. 

And the worst part? 

You had no idea what to do about it. 

[⚽️] 

The restaurant was packed, but the reserved table had a different energy the moment the three of you arrived. Esmee was already there, seated between Ingrid and Salma, but while the other players laughed and chatted animatedly, she seemed… oddly quiet. 

You noticed immediately. 

The Esmee you knew was a whirlwind of energy—smiling, cracking jokes, striking up conversations with everyone. But this version of the Dutch forward was drumming her fingers on her glass, her eyes darting away every time you looked at her. 

"Hey, you okay?" You leaned forward, lightly touching her leg under the table. 

She flinched almost imperceptibly, as if your touch had burned her. 

"I… just need some air," she lied blatantly, avoiding your gaze. 

You weren’t buying it. 

"Mhm, one sec." You turned to Alexia and muttered something quick in Catalan before standing. "Come with me, I know a good spot." 

Esmee hesitated but finally gave in when you held out your hand. The brush of your fingers sent warmth through you, and you felt a slight tremble in hers. Interesting. 

Outside, the cool night air seemed to calm her a little, but her eyes were still distant. You helped her sit on the low ledge in front of the restaurant, watching her carefully. 

"Sure it’s just the crowd? You’ve never minded that before." You frowned. "You’re kinda pale, E." 

She bit her lip, fingers twisting in her lap. 

"It’s just…" she started, looking away. "I don’t know how to say this."  You smiled, understanding now. 

"And does it have to do with Alba and Alexia basically throwing me at you? Or the fact that your heart’s about to jump out of your throat just because I touched you?" 

Esmee choked, her eyes widening. 

"Even though you’re adorable like this, I was kinda worried." 

She let out a shaky breath, cheeks flushed. 

"You need to breathe a little, sweetheart," you whispered, brushing your thumb over her warm cheek. "Ale kinda let it slip that you like me." 

Esmee closed her eyes, as if bracing for impact. You chuckled softly, tilting her chin up gently to make her look at you. 

"I like you too, okay?" you said softly. "Now you just gotta relax a little." 

And then, in a light gesture, you kissed her cheek. 

It was like lighting a fuse. 

Esmee, in an act of courage (or desperation), grabbed your collar and— 

Pfft.

You heard a muffled laugh from the restaurant window. 

When you pulled apart, you turned to see half your teammates peeking through the glass, failing miserably at pretending they weren’t. Ingrid was fake-looking at the sky. Salma was "fixing" her hair. Alexia and Alba? They didn’t even bother—they were laughing outright. 

Esmee buried her face in her hands. 

"I’m going to kill all of them," she muttered, mortified. 

You laughed, pulling her close again. 

"Later," you whispered against her lips. "Now, close your eyes again." 

And she obeyed. 

[idkyetxoxo]

Nine | Fading Away | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.1k

Warnings - Angst, premature labour, childbirth, pain and injury

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It had been a week since Eris's visit, since I had last seen the haunted look in my brother's eyes, the bruises he tried to hide, the weight he bore alone while I found sanctuary in the safety of Velaris.

The guilt hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled deep in my bones.

So I'd done what I could to ground myself, to feel normal in this impossible time. I'd gone for a walk in the garden, one hand cradling my bump, the other trailing lazily through golden blooms. 

The sun had warmed my face, the breeze carried the sweet scent of roses and wildflowers, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe we were safe. That everything would be fine.

I had just stepped through the threshold of the townhouse, barefoot and humming softly, a bouquet of wildflowers tucked against my chest—when the air shifted.

Tension rolled through the room like a wave crashing against a cliff.

Voices, low, urgent, edged with panic. I heard Rhysand first, clipped and cold. Azriel's voice followed, rough and guttural. Cassian, blunt and frustrated.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice hesitant as I stepped into the room.

Three male heads snapped toward me.

Azriel moved before anyone else could speak, his shadows curling tighter around him like a second skin.

But it was Rhysand who answered. His eyes met mine, violet gleaming with something like dread. He opened his mouth and changed everything.

"Beron knows about the baby."

The wildflowers slipped from my fingers. They hit the floor with a muted thud, petals scattering like forgotten hopes.

"What?" I whispered, my breath catching, lungs suddenly too small to contain the sheer weight of those words. "He... how?"

Cassian swore under his breath. Azriel growled low and lethal, his whole body coiling like a blade about to strike.

But no one had the chance to answer.

Because pain, sharp, vicious, blinding, lanced through me like fire.

One second, I was standing. The next, I was hunched over, a scream clawing up my throat as my hands flew to my stomach. The ache stole the very air from my lungs.

"Oh—" I gasped, my knees buckling. My entire body seized as though my own muscles had turned against me.

Azriel was at my side in an instant. "What's happening? What's wrong?"

"It's happening—" I choked out, blinking through the sudden blur of tears. "Az—Azriel, it's happening."

His face went pale. "No. No, no, no, it's too early." His voice cracked, barely controlled panic in every syllable. "You're not due for another two months—"

"I know," I cried, clutching his hand so tightly I might've broken bone. "Oh—I know—"

Another wave of pain rolled through me, this one deeper, more primal. I screamed, falling forward into Azriel's arms. My whole body trembled as I sagged against him.

"Cassian," Azriel barked, "*Get Madja—now!"

Cassian was already moving, disappearing in a blur of red siphons and wings, a sonic boom of panic left in his wake.

Rhysand stepped closer, but the fear etched across his usually composed face told me everything. This wasn't just a complication. This wasn't normal.

"Az—Azriel," I sobbed, trying to breathe through another contraction, "What if something's wrong? What if something's wrong with the baby?"

His shadows wrapped around us both now, trying to cocoon us from the world.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, voice hoarse and shaking. "We're going to get through this. I swear to you—I swear it."

But he looked just as terrified as I felt.

He lifted me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest as if I weighed nothing, even though I could feel how my body had gone limp between contractions. 

"I've got you. I've got you," he kept repeating, over and over.

Blood roared in my ears. My vision swam. But the pain was real, rhythmic, alive and it wasn't stopping.

"It's too soon—" I whimpered again, burying my face into his shoulder.

"No," Azriel said, his voice a vow now, hardening with each step toward the stairs. "You've made it this far. You're strong. And so is our baby. You're going to hold on. Just a little longer."

"Beron—" I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks.

"Forget Beron," he growled. "You're mine. He doesn't get to touch you ever again. And he sure as hell doesn't get to touch our child."

I didn't know where the pain ended and the fear began. The contractions were coming faster now, merciless and close.

And still, Azriel held me.

Rhysand flew ahead, likely sending a mental scream through the city. Cassian would be back with Madja any second. I prayed he would.

But deep in my heart, even through the haze of pain and panic and pressure, I felt the shift. Something raw and unstoppable had begun. And there was no going back now.

The pain didn't stop. It didn't ebb or shift or dull. It tore through me, ripping, searing, merciless. 

A thousand claws raked through my insides, and I screamed so hard my throat gave out, hoarse cries echoing through the townhouse.

The birth had begun too fast, too soon. Madja had arrived within minutes, but it was already clear she wasn't enough.

"I need Criva," I rasped through clenched teeth. My head lolled to the side, sweat pouring down my face, body trembling with effort. "Get me Criva. I want her—"

"I already sent for her," Azriel whispered, his voice rough and ragged. His leathers were streaked with my blood, his face pale as moonlight, eyes wide with a fear I'd never seen in him. "She's coming."

I could barely nod. My hands gripped the bedsheets, soaked with sweat, blood, and something else I didn't want to look at.

Azriel sat behind me, his strong arms supporting my back as I laboured, as I screamed and pushed and sobbed. He hadn't left me for a single breath. His shadows had vanished, like even they couldn't stand to witness this.

He was silent, save for the soft encouragement he whispered in my ear between contractions. "You're doing so well. Just a little more. You're almost there." But his voice shook.

Because we both knew what was happening.

My body—never meant to carry a baby with wings was breaking open from the inside. We hadn't made it past nine months. We hadn't made it to Helion. We hadn't made it to safety.

We had run out of time.

Madja's face was tense, brows furrowed, voice steady only because she had to be. But even she couldn't hide the worry.

"There's too much blood," she muttered under her breath, not realising I could still hear her. "Cauldron spare her."

I felt myself slipping, bit by bit, each contraction shearing off a part of me. The pain became something distant. Almost... detached. 

I couldn't feel my legs anymore. My arms were going numb. My vision blurred at the edges, dimming with every scream.

Azriel's arms tightened around me. "Stay with me. Stay with me—please, just a little longer—"

He was crying.

Azriel—my Azriel who never wept, who stood like stone in the face of blood and death, who had flown through hell itself without blinking was weeping openly into my hair, holding me like I was already halfway gone.

"I can't Az, I can't—" I sobbed, choking on the weight in my chest. "The wings—they're stuck, I feel it, it hurts—"

"I know, I know, I'm so sorry," he whispered, pressing kisses into my damp temple, "I should've done more, I should've found Helion sooner—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Madja gave a sharp order, but her voice sounded like it was underwater now. 

I couldn't keep my eyes open. Couldn't breathe. I was drowning in pain and blood and the finality of what was coming.

I turned my face toward Azriel, blinking slowly, trying to see him one last time.

Everything was blurred, his face, the light, the edges of the room smearing together like water over ink. 

But I could still feel him. His warmth, the iron grip of his hand in mine, the tremble in his body as he held me like I was already fading from his grasp.

"Az," I whispered, barely a breath . "Listen to me."

His forehead pressed against mine, a trembling tether to this life. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"If I don't make it—"

"No." His voice was hard now, cracked and trembling but fierce when he spoke. "Don't say that. Don't you dare—"

"Azriel." My fingers curled weakly against his cheek, sticky with sweat and blood. "You have to promise me. Take care of the baby. Love them. For me."

He was crying harder now. Azriel, the warrior, the spy, the shadowsinger was breaking open right in front of me. The quiet sobs shuddered through his chest as he kissed every knuckle of my hand like they were sacred.

"You're going to do it yourself," he rasped. "You're going to hold them. You'll name them. You'll stay. I'm not doing any of this without you."

Silent tears streamed down his face as he clutched my hand.

I smiled faintly, too tired to argue. "Please. Promise me."

"I swear it," he choked. "I swear I'll protect them with everything I am. But please—don't you leave us."

I blinked slowly, the words on my tongue burning. "If... if it comes to that," I whispered, "tell them about me. Not just the good parts. Tell them I was scared, but I did it anyway. Tell them I chose them, every single day."

Azriel's throat bobbed. His eyes were red-rimmed, tears still falling freely. "I'll tell them everything."

"Let Eris meet them." The words made him flinch. "I know you don't trust him," I continued, voice rasping with each breath, "but I do. He's the reason I'm still alive. He's the reason this baby exists at all. Let him be part of their life."

His mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn't answer at first. I didn't blame him, he'd spent most of his life watching males like Eris destroy others. But he nodded, eventually.

"I'll try. For you."

"Thank you," I breathed. The pain surged again, white-hot and endless. I whimpered, arching slightly, my body convulsing as another wave crashed through me.

"Cauldron, please," Azriel begged, his arms tightening around me, helpless. "Just hold on a little longer."

"I need to see them," I whispered, looking toward the doorway.

He followed my gaze, and in a heartbeat, Rhysand and Cassian were there, already halfway in the room, their faces carved from shadow and anguish.

Cassian looked like a ghost. The whites of his eyes were too wide, his knuckles bone-pale. Rhysand stood beside him, a haunted look in his violet eyes.

"I did this," Rhysand whispered, guilt rolling off him like a tide. "I said it. I told her. That's when it started—"

"No." I looked at him, mustering what strength I had left. "Don't you dare carry this. You've all protected me in ways I'll never deserve. But you—all of you have to protect the baby now."

"Don't talk like this," Cassian said, voice thick. "Don't you dare."

"Cass..." I managed a half-laugh, pained and broken. "You're going to teach them to fly, right? You're going to be the wild uncle that gives them sugar before bed and lets them sneak off training."

He blinked hard, stepping closer, his throat working around words. "Of course I will. But you'll be there too. You'll watch. You'll yell at me for giving them too much cake."

"I'll try," I said softly. "But if I can't... if I don't... tell them I wanted them. Tell them they were born of love. Of choice. And that their mother was free when they came into the world."

Rhysand knelt beside the bed now, quiet for once. No smirks, no masks. Just a male grieving the possibility of another loss. "I will guard them," he swore. "Like they were my own."

"Thank you," I whispered.

Another scream ripped through me, this one shredding my throat. Blood soaked the sheets, too much, far too much, and the world around me tilted violently.

"Where's Criva?" Azriel shouted, raw panic now breaking fully through his control. "Where is she?!"

A flash of wind and shadow, Criva winnowed into the room, silver hair wind-whipped, eyes blazing, already shedding her cloak.

"Oh darling," she whispered, taking one look at the bed.

Madja gave her a quick nod and stepped aside. Azriel didn't even pretend to move.

"I'm staying right here," he announced through clenched teeth, blood on his hands, his chest, his face. "I'm not leaving her."

Criva nodded once, grim. "Then hold her. Keep her awake. If we lose her now..."

Azriel's arms were already locked around me like a lifeline, as if sheer will alone could anchor me to this life.

"I love you," I whispered, voice broken, blood in my mouth.

Azriel's lips pressed to my forehead, to my temple, to my hand. "Stay. Please... just stay."

The pain surged again, blazing, blinding. A fire brighter than flame. Darker than death.

Then, nothing but blood. Endless, crimson blood. And after that—

Darkness.

A/n - So... that happened.

I really hate goodbyes. Like, seriously hate them, so this one was super sad to write :( Of course, I had to drag Rhys and Cass into it too because what's a heartbreak without a little extra pain?

Thanks for reading and feeling all the messy emotions with me, it means a lot <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff @lilah-asteria @smol-grandpa @shinyghosteclipse @rachelnicolee @shellsarepretty @jugodeshadowsinger @landofpetrichor @sunnyspycat @pit-and-the-pen @obscure-beauty @quiettuba @thiswildandpreciouslife @paintedbyshadows @casiiopea2

[moontabi]

KNOCK OUT

apart of @moonqz4now’s GD&TOP series

kwon jiyong x choi seunghyun x fem! reader

summary: after sneaking into their locker room, you end up trapped between your two favourite underground boxers.

warnings: 18+ content ahead including threesome, dirty talk, degradation, praise, pet names, objectification, fingering, m/m kissing, face fucking, rough sex, double penetration, unprotected sex, creampie. some dub con elements but reader likes it and is implied to be a bit of a pervert lol

a/n: so happy to finally share my part of this challenge!! thanks so much for trusting me with it! this is pure, unapologetic filth. enjoy :) also, this is my first time writing a fic using their stage names

You stumble forward, only to be stopped—your chest bumping the locker door with a dull metallic clang. Before you can turn, Top is already behind you, his chest pressing into your back, massive arms boxing you in.

You freeze.

Then G-Dragon steps into your space, close enough that the heat of his breath brushes your cheek.

His face is inches from yours—sweat still clinging to his temple, a dark red cut splitting his bottom lip. His grin is sharp enough to hurt.

Top doesn’t move behind you. His body is a furnace at your back, steady and unyielding.

You’re caged.

It all happens too fast to stop. But you don’t even want to stop it.

You shouldn’t be back here. No ticket, no pass—just a racing pulse and nerves you can’t quiet.

But you’d been watching them for months. Replaying grainy videos of underground fights. Fist to jaw, blood to pavement. Reading every headline: “Underground Kings GD & TOP Clash Again in Brutal Showdown.” You told yourself it was curiosity. Fascination.

But the truth is? You got off to it. Again and again.

Watching their fight clips, shoving your hand down your panties as you moaned their names into your pillow.

And eventually you started wondering what it would feel like to be caught between the two of them. To feel that tension turn on you.

So you snuck in—after the match, still buzzing with adrenaline.

And now you’re here. Trapped. exactly where you shouldn’t be.

G-Dragon’s gaze drags over you, his lip curling in amusement as he reaches out, his fingertips light against the hollow of your throat.

“Damn…” His voice is soft, teasing, and dangerous. “What do we have here?”

Top chuckles behind you, a low sound that rumbles in your spine. His arms don’t move, keeping you boxed in tight. “A pretty girl like you sneaking around here?” He speaks with amusement and laziness, but a sharp edge underlies his voice. “Doesn’t seem safe.”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Your pulse is thudding so loud in your ears, you barely register their words.

G-Dragon leans in closer until his nose brushes your cheek. “Not safe at all,” he agrees, eyes glinting. “Sweet thing you are…you looking to get hurt or what?”

You swallow hard, your whole body rigid—but it’s not fear that locks you in place. It’s want. Heat coiling in your stomach.

“We can help you find your way out,” Top murmurs, the curve of his lips grazing your temple. “But I doubt that’s what you want.”

Top’s voice drops, closer now, his breath burning against your ear. “I think you wanted to be caught.” His words sink into your skin like the bruise on his cheek.

G-Dragon’s grin widens, sharp and knowing. “I bet you’re one of those fangirls that gets off to us. Watching our fights on loop in the dark, panties shoved down your thighs.”

Your breath catches and your face goes hot. How did they read you so easily?

“I was just looking for the exit…” you manage, voice barely steady.

“Mm, sure you were.” G-Dragon tsks, unconvinced.

He tilts his head, eyes sweeping over you like he’s already got you figured out—lingering at your hips, the shape of your thighs, and the flush at your neck.

“Tell me, baby. You sneak back here to see something you weren’t supposed to, or did you want to be seen?”

Your breath hitches. You should say something—deny it, laugh it off, run. But your mouth won’t move fast enough.

Then Top’s hand settles on your waist. Heavy. Warm. Possessive. His fingers splay across your stomach, anchoring you there.

“It’s okay. You can tell us.”

The air feels thicker now, and G-Dragon’s stare darkens, dragging down your body in a slow, deliberate sweep that leaves goosebumps in its wake. When his eyes climb back up to meet yours, there’s something hungry glinting in them—something that makes your knees want to give out.

“Didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” he murmurs, his grin curling at the edges of his lips. “But here you are.”

“I-I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, weak and useless.

Top chuckles behind you, and the sound is low, knowing. “Come on now…we’ve seen you.”

You blink, your heart pounding. They saw?

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You noticed me?”

Top’s grip tightens at your waist, just slightly but enough to ground you. “Hard not to.”

The room is too warm. Or maybe it’s you. You can’t tell anymore. Your heart beats fast and shallow, and there’s a needy ache blooming low in your belly.

G-Dragon leans in, so close you can feel his breath brush your lips and smell the sweat and blood on his skin. His voice is a dark whisper.

“Cute little thing…sneaking glances. Chewing that pretty bottom lip, thinking we wouldn’t notice.” His grin deepens, wicked and sharp. “You wanted us to look, didn’t you? wanted our attention?”

Top hums, his lips grazing your temple, voice thick with heat. “Well congrats, you got it.”

You shake your head instinctively, but your body’s a traitor—legs trembling, thighs clenching like that’ll stop anything. It doesn’t. You’re soaked. You know you are. Your panties are already sticking, damp and humiliating. But the humiliation only makes it worse. Makes you wetter.

Then Top murmurs, voice low, “Wanna know a boxer’s worst fear?”

He leans in, his breath scalding your ear.

“Walking away from a fight with energy to spare. Makes us feel like we didn’t go hard enough.”

G-Dragon laughs darkly beside you. “Was kind of hoping to let off some steam tonight, but that match didn’t cut it. I’m still wound up… aren’t you, hyung?”

Top’s eyes drag down your body, slow and possessive. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice heavy with intent. “All that adrenaline and nowhere to put it.”

“Guess we’ve got to work it out somehow,” G-Dragon muses, eyes glittering. His gaze drops to your lips. “How about you?”

Your knees threaten to buckle under you, your body betraying the answer before you can speak.

G-Dragon tilts his head, his amusement deepening as he takes in every twitch of your thighs, every desperate breath. “Ever been touched by two guys at once?”

“No…” you admit, voice barely audible, shame and heat roaring through your veins.

Top’s hand dips lower, slow and sure, brushing the waistband of your skirt. “We can change that if you want us to, princess.” His thigh wedges between your own, prying them apart. You gasp, clenching around nothing.

“Ohhh…fuck.” G-Dragon chuckles at your reaction, the sound curling off his tongue.

“Look at that.” Top’s voice thickens with lust, his fingers drifting between your thighs, trailing over the soaked seam of your panties. “You like this.”

“You want us, don’t you, baby?” G-Dragon adds, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he brings his mouth close, his breath fanning over your skin. The scent of sweat and blood from the fight still clings to him, dizzying and intoxicating.

“You came back here wanting to get ruined, huh?”

His tongue flicks teasingly against your bottom lip, and you can’t help the desperate, helpless sound that escapes you.

“Usually…” His voice drops darker, filthier, “…we fight over who gets to fuck the girl.”

He glances at Top, who’s still watching your face from behind, smirking.

“…but I don’t mind sharing tonight.”

“Double combo.” Top finishes, his hand pressing firmly against your soaked heat now, and your knees nearly give out at the feeling.

They descend on you like predators. G-Dragon yanks your top over your head. Your bra is tugged down, your tits bouncing free, nipples hard from the cold air and their attention. He groans as he palms them, thumbs brushing your peaks before sucking one into his mouth, teeth grazing your skin.

Your breath catches. He licks, bites, and switches between your breasts, leaving your knees weak and trembling.

Behind you, Top grabs your skirt and tugs it down. Your panties follow with one brutal, practiced jerk. You’re bare between them now, flushed, trembling.

Top groans. “She’s dripping, bro.”

“Already begging for it.” G-Dragon’s smirk deepens as his gaze drops to your glistening pussy.

His fingers trail along your folds, joining Top’s, gathering your slick. You twitch at the contact, a strangled sound spilling from your lips.

He holds the finger up, watching your eyes follow it, then slips it between his lips, sucking slowly and deliberately, eyes locked on yours.

He moans, savouring the taste. “Fuck, I knew she’d taste good.”

You can barely breathe, hips shifting without thought, desperate for more.

“I want it,” you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips. “Please…”

Top doesn’t hesitate. His fingers sink into you, thick and perfect, curling just right. You cry out as he twists them, slow and deliberate, rubbing over that spot that makes you see stars, your moan raw and helpless, ripped straight from your throat.

“Goddamn…” G-Dragon breathes, eyes darkened with lust as he watches you unravel. His stare roams over your flushed skin. Mesmerized by the quick rise and fall of your breasts and the tremble in your thighs as Top finger-fucks you slow and deep.

Then his hand curls under your chin, tilting your face until your dazed, already fucked-out eyes meet his.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” His voice drops, rough with intent, but there’s a cruel, teasing edge to it—the glint of someone who already knows they’ve got you right where they want you. “I wanna know what name to moan when you’re dripping down both our cocks.”

Your lips part, your mind swirling. Your name escapes your lips in a soft, breathless whisper, small, broken, and completely submissive. “Y/n.”

“Cute.” he compliments, his thumb brushing over your spit-slick lips.

Top’s fingers slip out of you, and as you drip down your thighs, he flips you with ridiculous ease, lifting you onto his lap. His cock is a thick weight beneath his sweats, pressing hot and hard against your soaked pussy as your knees fall wide over his thick thighs.

You grind down instinctively, chasing friction. Every nerve in your body feels raw and exposed.

“Desperate little thing.” Top coos, his hands tight on your hips as he rocks you down harder.

“Let’s give her something else to drool over.” G-Dragon adds.

Before you can process his words, his hand slides behind Top’s neck—and he pulls him in, their mouths crashing together in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. A low, guttural sound rumbles from Top’s chest, making your legs clench and your cunt gush with heat.

They kiss like they’ve done it a hundred times.

Like dominance and tension have been simmering between them long before you ever stumbled in.

Their mouths move with practiced ease, fighting for control, devouring each other.

Your eyes grow wide with disbelief, and your breath hitches at the scene before you. You can’t tear your gaze away, nor do you wish to.

G-Dragon pulls back first; he’s panting, his lips are plump and swollen, and his eyes are blown dark with lust. He looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes in your reaction—the rosy cheeks, the slightly parted lips, and the unmistakable pleasure etched across your face.

Top hardly gives you a moment’s notice before hoisting you up once more as if you weigh nothing, pulling his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring into view. It’s large, reddened, and dark, the thick head already shining with pre-cum.

G-Dragon shoves his shorts down too, his cock long, curved, flushed deep, and beading at the tip. “Can you get on your knees f’me?”

You drop down instantly at his question.

G-Dragon strokes his cock in front of your face, hard in his hand. “Open up, doll face.”

Your lips part without hesitation, your tongue flicking out as he slides the thick head past your lips. The stretch burns, but it’s perfect. Your jaw aches, and spit drips down your chin as G-Dragon groans, his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you down, down, and down.

Beside him, Top fists himself, watching your lips stretch and your flushed cheeks hollow out around G-Dragon’s cock, twitching at the wrecked look in your eyes as you gag and whimper around him.

“I want a go, too.” Top huffs, voice rough with restraint.

G-Dragon pulls back, his cock glistening with your spit, and Top replaces him at your mouth. His cock is thicker, heavier—your jaw strains as he slides in slowly, his hand petting your head, controlling every inch that pushes past your lips.

“Such a good girl.” Top groans, hips rocking shallowly, the weight of him on your tongue overwhelming you.

G-Dragon watches, eyes dark with hunger, stroking himself now. “Fuck, hyung…look at that face. I can’t wait to stuff her full.”

Top pulls out with a sudden snap of motion, leaving you gasping before he’s hauling you upright again. He spins you around effortlessly, bending you over the bench with your chest pressed to the cold, unyielding surface. Your palms splay out to brace yourself, the chill biting into your skin as you wait for what's to come.

G-Dragon moves in first. You feel his body heat—then the blunt head of his cock pressing to your entrance.

“Ready for it, Y/n?” His voice is frayed at the edges. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about every night?”

You moan in response, helpless, hips pushing back, begging for it.

G-Dragon pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you wide. The burn is sharp, overwhelming—but so, so good. Your slick walls swallow him, easing the stretch as he bottoms out inside you, his hip bones flush to your ass.

Before you can even adjust, G-Dragon pulls back slightly, and Top’s right there next to him—his cock nudging against your stretched hole, squeezing alongside G-Dragon’s now.

Your gasp echoes, your whole body tightening. But they don’t wait. They both push until they’re both settled inside of you.

Your scream tears through the air—raw and broken as your cunt stretches impossibly wide, stuffed to the brim, your walls clenching down around them both. The obscene stretch burns, but it’s addictive—the fullness unbearable yet perfect, wrecking you completely in the best way.

“Fuck.” Top groans, his grip bruising into your hips as he drives forward. “She’s taking us so well…look at this pretty little pussy stretchin’ just for us.”

G-Dragon rasps behind you, voice strained. “You hear that, baby? You’re so good for us. So fucking good.”

They fall into a rhythm, one dragging out as the other slams in, trading places inside you, their cocks grinding together within your overstretched pussy. The movement is obscene—too much, too deep, too perfect. Your body jerks between them, tits mashed to the bench with every brutal thrust, mind splitting open under the relentless pleasure.

The wet slap of their hips against you echoes loud in the room, lewd and endless. Slick runs down your thighs, drips to the floor. Every thrust feels harder than the last—ruthless and consuming you whole.

Your cunt pulses around them, trying desperately to take more than it should, stretched to its breaking point yet still greedy for every inch. You’re throbbing, sensitive, your clit untouched and crying.

G-Dragon grabs your jaw, forcing your head around.

“Look at her,” he grunts, watching your broken expression as your mouth falls open around a weak moan. “Poor thing can’t even think straight.”

Top groans behind you, thrusting messier.

Your cries grow wilder, higher, and strangled in your throat as the pressure in your core builds. The way their cocks grind together inside you is maddening.

They don’t slow down. You’re nothing but open flesh and need—used, filled, destroyed—and they fuck through it as if it’s the only thing they know. One pulls out just enough to feel the other slide deeper, then they switch, over and over, their rhythm both cruel and flawless.

You’re sobbing now, desperate sounds punched from your chest with every jolt, no words left in you. Your body is overwhelmed, every nerve screaming, clit swollen and untouched, pussy stretched to the brink.

Then finally G-Dragon’s hand moves between your legs.

Rough fingers find your clit, and he rubs fast, ruthless circles over the aching bundle, pushing you right to the edge. Your hips jerk uncontrollably, trying to pull away, but he holds you steady, his cock still grinding inside you.

“Feel that?” He growls. “How full you are?”

“Gonna squeeze us both, baby?” Top moans. “Wanna feel this tight little pussy cum around us?”

“Go ahead.” G-Dragon demands, “Cream on both our cocks.”

It's not long after when your orgasm slams into you. Your cunt clamps down violently around them both, milking their cocks with relentless pulsing spasms. You scream, walls fluttering and leaking around them in wet gushes that coat the three of you.

But they don’t stop. If anything, they fuck you through it—chasing the ripple of your orgasm, forcing you to ride it long past the edge.

Top snarls behind you, his hands digging into your hips, holding you down as he pistons into you. G-Dragon leans over your back, panting in your ear as he thrusts harder, deeper, faster—both of them desperate now, using your body like it’s the only thing tethering them to the ground.

You’re gone, completely gone, reduced to twitching limbs, broken moans, and a stuffed, spasming hole.

G-Dragon gasps, his hips stuttering once—twice—then he growls low in your ear, his cock twitching as he spills inside you. Hot, thick cum floods your cunt, filling you even fuller.

Top follows seconds later with a hoarse, guttural whimper, slamming into you hard, burying himself to the base as he finishes deep in your pussy.

You go limp instantly, collapsing forward, only the bench keeping you from crumpling to the floor. Their cum leaks from your used hole in thick, obscene streams, soaking your thighs, dripping down your legs in messy trails.

They crowd close again, breath heaving, sweat slicking their skin. G-Dragon brushes your hair from your face and presses a slow kiss to your shoulder, his voice a soft rasp. “Next time, you won’t have to sneak in.”

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ tags: @mashtatosworld @loveesiren @szonyix6277 @seungttttop @xxtoptaexx @tabibabib @s4intkwon @heartubeatusalon @breakmeoff @gdinthehouseee @septywitch @aizshallnotbefound @namsgyu @thanosspills @flymetothexmoon contact me if you want to be added to or removed from my permanent taglist

[formulafanfics13]

Maybe another part of Red bull's golden boy, more of their fucked up relationship and maybe only if you want to Christian understand what Max is doing with his daughter

Something Snaps - MV1 

Masterlist || Part 1

Summary: After a disastrous race and an ominous silence, Christian Horner follows a gut instinct to his daughter’s hotel suite — only to find Max Verstappen emotionally and physically intimidating her. Christian intervenes, finally seeing the signs of long-term emotional abuse he’d ignored for months. Faced with the truth — and with the reality that he cannot fire Max without destroying the Red Bull empire — Christian chooses the only option he has left: removing his daughter from the paddock. No scandal, no statements. Just guilt. Silence. And the irrevocable cost of protecting power over family.

Warning: ⚠️ This story contains graphic emotional abuse, implied coercion, physical intimidation, power imbalance, trauma responses, and neglect from a parent figure. There are themes of complicity and the systemic protection of abusers within high-power environments like Formula 1. Please read with care.

The suite Christian had booked for her was meant to be neutral. High-rise. Quiet. Separate from the rest of the team. A place to rest, smile, sleep, and maybe post a picture or two for the PR girls. No drama. No noise. No Max. But Red Bull’s race strategy had collapsed again. And when Max stormed off after the debrief, ignoring Christian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring the team’s attempt at salvage, ignoring the carefully crafted statement waiting for him at press, Christian should’ve known where he was going.

He should’ve known. It wasn’t the shout that made him stop. Max shouted all the time. In the garage, in the drivers’ room, in the motorhome. Rage was part of the package. Christian knew how to handle rage. It was the silence that followed that made his heart seize.

Silence. Total. Like breath had been taken out of the room. He turned the corner of the corridor slowly, unsure what had pulled him that direction in the first place. He hadn’t meant to follow. Hadn’t meant to leave his team behind in the conference hall. But something had dragged him. Something wrong.

And then he heard it. A voice. Flat. Cold.

“You think that was bad? Embarrassing?” Max.

Then quieter. Broken. “Max, please…”

Another thud. Not loud. Just sharp. Like a shoulder hitting the edge of a desk. Or a body shifting quickly against a wall.

Christian’s blood went cold.

“No one gives a fuck what you want,” Max hissed. “You’re nothing. You get that? You’re not part of this team. You’re not anything. You’re just decoration. And I’m sick of pretending to care.”

Another silence. Then a small, fragile breath.

Christian stepped forward without thinking. Heart pounding. Hands shaking. Every nerve firing at once.

The door to the suite was open. Just enough to see through.

She was backed against the minibar. Face pale, lips trembling. Arms across her chest like they could protect her. Max stood in front of her, hand against the counter, body blocking her in. “Look at me,” Max snapped.

She didn’t. She was shaking too hard.

“Look at me when I speak to you.”

And then he reached out. Grabbed her chin. Not gently. That was it.

“Get your fucking hands off my daughter.”

Max froze. The whole room froze. Christian didn’t even remember crossing the threshold. Only that suddenly he was there, between them, hand shoving Max backwards with a force he didn’t know he still had in him.

She gasped. It wasn’t loud. But it shattered him. Max stumbled but caught himself. Didn’t even flinch. Didn’t look shocked. Just annoyed. Like Christian was interrupting something inconvenient.

“Christian-”

“Don’t.” Christian’s voice was shaking. “Don’t you dare say my name right now.”

Max blinked once. “It’s not what it looked like.”

“You laid hands on her.”

Max didn’t answer. Christian turned slowly. Looked at her. Really looked. Saw the red mark blooming beneath her jaw. The tremble in her wrist. The way she couldn’t meet his eyes. His own daughter. His baby girl. Standing there like she was trying to disappear.

And she didn’t even try to explain. Didn’t say he didn’t mean it. Didn’t say it was just a fight. Didn’t say a single word to defend Max. Because she’d said it all before. Maybe not with words. Maybe not directly. But she’d tried. And Christian hadn’t seen it.

No. Worse. He hadn’t wanted to.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “How long?”

She didn’t speak. He turned back to Max. “How fucking long?”

Max’s expression didn’t change. “It’s not that simple.”

Christian snapped. “Like hell it isn’t.”

“She never said no.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I never hit her.”

“You didn’t have to!”

The room cracked open then. All of it. Everything Christian had refused to see. The late-night bruises covered with concealer. The way she flinched when the debriefs got tense. How quiet she’d gotten around Max. How she stopped laughing in the paddock. How she’d asked, months ago, to stop sitting on the pit wall.

God. He’d told her no. Told her it was good for the brand. That her presence was calming for Max. That it made the team look united.

He’d sent her straight into the lion’s den and smiled while she was being eaten alive.

And Max? Max just stood there. Calm. Cold. Like he knew Christian couldn’t touch him. And he was right. Because in the end, Christian was Christian Horner. And Max was the best driver in the sport currently. Sacking him meant legal disaster. Sponsor chaos. Shareholder revolt. It meant Red Bull hemorrhaging millions and losing both championships. It meant Helmut Marko flying in from Austria and setting the paddock on fire.

It meant destroying the team.

Christian couldn’t fire him. Not even now. Max’s smile was faint. But it was there. The sick knowledge of power. The fact that even now, even after all this, he was safe.

“You’re scum,” Christian said. “Absolute fucking scum.”

Max didn’t respond. Christian turned to her. She hadn’t moved. Just stood there, breathing like every inhale hurt. He reached for her, but stopped himself.

“I didn’t believe you,” he said quietly. “I should have known. But I didn’t.”

Her eyes filled, but no tears fell. He tried again. “Sweetheart. I am so-”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “Please don’t say sorry. It won’t change anything.”

And he knew she was right. Because this wasn’t over. Max was still on the team. Still in the car. Still next to her in every paddock meeting and team photo and press appearance. Still protected by the machine.

All Christian could do was separate them. So he did. Within hours, she was moved to another suite. Another city. Told to stay with her mother for the rest of the season. No statements. No explanations. No drama. Just distance.

Max didn’t fight it. Didn’t text. Didn’t call. Just nodded when the PR team shuffled schedules and Christian refused to look at him during strategy meetings.

And Christian? He lived with the guilt. With the silence. With the unspoken truth that the man he built his empire around had destroyed his daughter, and he let it happen.

Because in Formula 1, power always wins. Even if it costs you everything.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Yes, Professor

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~3.7k

Warnings: smut with very little plot

Summary: Things spice up when you get a new professor for your criminal justice class, and your thoughts grow dirty when you see the desire in his eyes.

Square Filled: college au (2020) for @cm-kinkbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

x

Intro to Criminology is boring enough, but to have a professor who has a monotone voice and no passion for the subject makes you want to claw your own eyes out. Before, you didn’t have any joy coming to class and would often look forward to leaving it. It’s a requirement for your future in law enforcement, so you have to suck it up and hope that the next class has a professor worth listening to.

However, Dr. Fitch recently had a heart attack and was whisked away to the hospital. You hope he’s going to be okay, of course, but the man kind of had it coming. He was nearly eighty years old. He did his time in law enforcement and only took this job so he wouldn’t sit at home, bored.

Instead of cancelling class or splitting up the class to the other two professors that teach the same subject, the school is having someone from the FBI come in and be your new “substitute teacher” for the rest of the semester. It’s only for a month, maybe a bit more, but you’re excited. For the first time, you want to come to class. It’s not that the subject in itself is boring; it was the professor.

Word around the block is that the new professor is young, a lot younger than Dr. Fitch. He has a young child, but his wife died several years ago. He loves running and participating in marathons, and he’s run a very successful BAU unit for well over a decade. That’s, at least, according to your best friend Cherry, thanks to social media and a quick Google search. Seriously, she’d be a good hacker for the FBI. With merely a name, she can find out if someone ate toast for breakfast. She’s scary good.

This class has seen some FBI agents from the BAU before. Spencer Reid was cute, but he rambled on a lot. He wasn’t that confident, even though he knew what he was talking about. Rossi taught a class once, but he seems too intense for you. The one coming today is older than Spencer but younger than Rossi.

You arrive at class early for once and make sure to get a seat up front. Cheery walks in seconds later, and she pushes past a group of girls to grab the seat next to you.

“I was about to start fighting girls to keep this open for you,” you joke.

“I’m here. Has he arrived yet?”

“Does it look like he’s here?” you laugh.

“I hear he’s a real Daddy, and not in the literal sense.”

I guess we’ll find out in,” you check your watch, “five minutes.”

Five minutes later, Professor Hotchner walks in. The entire class is chatting and messing around, but the room falls silent upon seeing him. Fuck what Cherry heard. None of it compares to what he actually looks like.  This is a man if you’ve ever seen one. Dark hair, strong build, impeccable suit, and a sharp jawline. Cheery nudges you, but you don’t take your eyes off Professor Hotchner.

You slouch down in your chair and widen your legs a bit, unaware that you’re wearing a skirt. All the girls immediately start whispering to their friends while the boys grumble in jealousy. Professor Hotchner puts his briefcase on the desk before addressing the class.

“Hello. My name is Aaron Hotchner, but please, call me Hotch. I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I hope Dr. Fitch makes a full recovery. It’s been a while since I’ve done an intro class, so please bear with me.” His eyes immediately lock with yours, and it’s like everyone else disappears. His eyes are chocolate brown, but there’s something else in them. Something primal. “While I get familiar with your course studies, you’ll be watching a documentary on serial killers.”

Hotch gets the documentary going and turns down the lights. He walks back to his desk with every intention of going through Dr. Fitch’s notes, but his eyes move to you. You’re trying your best to watch the documentary, but you can’t focus when you feel his eyes on you. You dare look at him, and you almost blush from his intense gaze. His eyes slowly rake down your entire body, eyes locking on your legs. His jaw ticks, and he immediately looks away. You know it’s because of your skirt.

The thought makes you smirk.

By the time class is done, he has looked at you for a total of twenty times. Yes, you counted. There’s something about you that he can’t look away from. You’re packing up your things when you hear him speak.

“Miss Y/N, please see me before you leave.”

“Good luck,” Cherry smirks.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and walk over to his desk. “Yes, Professor Hotchner?”

“Please, call me Hotch. I was looking through the recent homework assignments, and I can’t help but notice your paper. I’m not an expert on this class, nor am I familiar with the details of the course, but even I can tell that most of your answers are wrong. I don’t know how Dr. Fitch ran things, but you’re going to have to work hard if you want your grade to increase.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my very best.”

“Bye, Professor.”

Hotch watches you walk away, and his jaw ticks again. All he could focus on were your pretty pink panties peeking out from under your skirt. How completely inappropriate. Thoughts of what they would look like on the floor invade his mind, and he quickly tries to shake them out of his head. This would not bode well if the faculty knew what was running through his head right now.

You knew exactly what Hotch was thinking when he was watching you yesterday, so you made sure to show up to class wearing an even shorter skirt. Still to the school’s standards, but this skirt is slightly shorter than the one you were wearing yesterday. Your shirt is tucked neatly into your waistband like a proper schoolgirl. Cheery, upon seeing this in class, almost busts out laughing.

“Girl, you are going to make him have a heart attack.”

“That’s the point,” you smirk. Maybe it’s all in your head, but you saw desire in his eyes. If you’re lucky, then you might be able to do something about it. “I’m sure he has office hours, right?”

Cherry giggles and gets her things out. Hotch walks in minutes later, and his eyes immediately go to you. They briefly drop down to your legs before they look away, and his jaw ticks in irritation. Mostly at himself for letting himself look. It’s too late. He already saw them. White panties. Lace, to be exact. He shouldn’t have taken this job. He’s trying to cut down on his time with the FBI, so he wanted to take on something else that might fuel his passions. It’s not that he doesn’t love the BAU; he does, but he is looking for something else to do. His time at the BAU has run its course.

“Alright, settle down, everyone.” He waits for the class to go silent. “Now that I’ve caught up with your course, it’s time to introduce you to the project that will be worth sixty percent of your grade. You will be creating a profile based on a serial killer of your choice, along with analyzing crime scenes, offender behavior, psychological motivations, and victimology. You will need these skills if you’re serious about advancing in this field. You will be in partners for this, and no two teams will have the same serial killers. You have the rest of the class to get into groups and figure out a game plan.”

Cheery immediately slides to your side, a silent gesture that she is your partner. Fitting, seeing how she’s your only friend in this class. You two are going with H.H. Holmes since he’s America’s first known serial killer. It’ll be fun diving deep into his history. The entire time you plan with Cherry, you can feel Hotch’s eyes on you. That feeling doesn’t go away until the end of class.

“Y/N, please come see me before you leave.”

“Girl, if you don’t fuck him, I will,” Cherry whispers as she packs her bag.

“I shouldn’t be long. I’ll meet you at the cafeteria.” Once most of the class is gone, you walk up to his desk and put on an innocent facade. “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“What have I said? Call me Hotch.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod.

He waits until the last person has left to speak. “Listen, I don’t appreciate the choice of clothing you decided to wear today.” You look down at your skirt and shirt, pretending not to see how it’s wrong. “I think it’s a bit inappropriate for school, don’t you think?”

“Am I distracting, Professor Hotchner?”

His jaw ticks. “No, but there is a dress code for this university, and I expect you to follow it, or else I’ll inform the Dean about this.”

“Of course, Professor. Anything else?” He shakes his head, not trusting his voice right now. “Goodbye, Professor.”

You walk back to your desk and bend down to retrieve your bag, knowing full well he can see your white panties on display. They’re cheekies, and they show off your ass well. Hotch grips his desk to keep himself from going over there and reddening your ass. Before he can move, you’re gone from class, and he releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He needs a drink.

Luckily, Rossi is still at the BAU when Hotch gets there, and he walks into his office with a tired look. Rossi already has a drink out for him, and Hotch takes it gratefully.

“Class not going well?” Rossi asks.

“It’s not that. The class is fine.” Hotch hesitates. He knows Rossi won’t judge him, but he still doesn’t know if he should tell him what’s going on. The alcohol decides for him. He tells Rossi everything that’s happened since the first day. “She’s driving me crazy, Dave. I shouldn’t do anything. It’s against the rules. Plus, she’s younger than I am.”

“But legal.”

“I’m serious, Dave.”

“So am I. Look, I’ve never been the one to stick to the rules. Hell, I’m the reason we had this ‘no fratinzation’ rule here. As long as you’re both consenting adults, what’s the problem?”

Hotch shakes his head. “It’s not going to happen.”

It’s definitely going to happen. No, it’s not. Don’t think with your cock, his alter ego says to him. You and Cheery are together working on the project, and Hotch can’t help but take in what you’re wearing. You have on a dress that’s longer than the skirt you were wearing yesterday, but it’s sheer. Not sheer enough to make it obvious, but Hotch can see the black panties you have on underneath. The top of your dress has a deep V that shows off your breasts in a flattering way.

He’s fucking losing his mind.

The teasing doesn’t stop there. Over the next couple of weeks, you’ve been teasing Hotvch with your outfits. Once Cherry caught on to what you were doing, she opted to help. With both of you dolling yourself up, Hotch had no shot. He’s this close to snapping. Hotch waits for everyone to come into class before gathering the tests in his hands.

“Alright, as I pass out the tests back to you, please remember that there is only one more test before the project is due. If you fail that, you’ll have a hard time passing this class. I highly encourage you to use the university’s library to study.” Hotch passes out the tests, not really paying attention to you. When he gets to you, he stops when he sees a fat lollipop in your mouth. He can’t focus on anything but the way you’re sucking on the treat, and his cock twitches in attention. “Ms. Y/N, please see me after class.”

He hands you your test, and you see you’ve missed ten questions out of thirty. That’s sixty-six percent. It’s still passing, but if you don’t bring your grade up, then you’ll never pass this class. It’s not like it’s hard, you just need the right motivators.

“Girl, this is your chance,” Cherry whispers to you.

“He won’t know what hit him,” you smirk.

This time, you wait until after everyone has left the class. Whatever is going to happen needs a locked door. You subtly lock the door before returning to your desk.

“Y/N, I’m kind of disappointed in your test answers. I know you by now. I know you can do better than this.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. I guess I need a little extra help. What are your office hours again?”

Hotch has had enough. In the beginning, he wasn’t sure if these feelings were one-sided. However, if your behavior tells him anything over the past few weeks, it’s that you’re interested in him as much as he is in you. If you say stop, he will, no questions asked, but he thinks he’s going to take a page out of Rossi’s book for this one.

“No, there’s a much better-suited punishment for girls like you.”

You purse your lips. “Girls like me?”

“Bad girls like you.” You bite your lower lip. This is happening. Fuck, you didn’t prepare for this, but you’re excited. “Come here.”

There is no room in his tone for arguments. You leave your desk and walk slowly over to him, your insides tingling with anticipation.

“What’s my punishment?”

“How many questions did you miss?” he asks, ignoring your question.

“Ten.”

“That’s how many times I’m going to spank you.”

Your breath hitches. “But sir--”

“Come over here.”

Again, there is no room for argument. Your pussy grows wet at the thought of his hand marking your ass red. You walk to the other side of the desk, and you’re about to turn to face him when he moves so you’re forced to keep your back to him.

“Raise your dress and bend over.” You hesitate a bit too long. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You could say no and walk away. He’s not going to force you to do anything. You could give yourself an out. You don’t. Instead, you grab the hem of your dress and lift it over your ass, showing off your black thong to him. You bend over his desk, pressing your chest flush against the cool wood.

“I want you to count.” He brings his hand down onto your ass, causing you to yelp in surrpise. “If you don’t count, we start all over.”

“One,” you pant.

Smack! You squeak out the second number, already losing focus. Spanking is a big turn-on for you. Hotch rubs your sore cheek with one hand, bringing his other hand to your other cheek.

“Three!” you gasp.

Smack! Smack! Smack! They come in quick bursts, and you do your best to keep voicing the number you’re on. Only four more. Hotch presses his obvious bulge into the crack of your ass while kneading your cheeks. Fuck, he even feels big. He pulls away and slaps both cheeks at the same time, and you count out number seven and eight.

“Fuck, you’re doing such a good job. Two more. Can you handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Hotch grins and smacks you twice more, satisfaction running through his body when he hears how needy you are in your voice.

“What a good girl. Fuck, you’re soaked, and I’ve barely begun.”

Hotch sits back down and runs his fingers along the tiny fabric between your legs. He hooks his finger and pulls your panties to the side, and he almost groans at how wet you are. You whine when you feel his finger tracing your entrance, gathering the wetness that sits there.

Without warning, he shoves a finger inside of you, and your back arches. At this point, you’re wet enough so that Hotch slips right in without resistance. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your reddened skin, and you moan when he curls his finger in you. He slowly pulls it out, only to put two into you when he pushes forward.

“Fuck, please, Professor. I’ve been a good girl,” you beg.

“You have, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good things come to good girls who behave.”

Hotch pulls his fingers out of you and sticks one of them into his mouth. Fuck, he’s never tasted anything like this. So tangy yet with a hint of sweetness. He leans over you and puts his middle finger to your mouth.

“Taste how wet you are.”

You don’t think twice about taking his middle finger into your mouth. While you lick and suck your juices off his finger, he undoes his pants with his other hand. You moan and push back into him, impatient for his cock. He pulls his finger out of your mouth and stands up straight, pulling his cock from his briefs.

“I have condoms with me, unless you prefer not to have them.”

“I’m clean, and I’m on birth control,” you pant.

“I’m clean, too. You want me bare? To feel every inch of me as I slide into this pretty cunt?”

“Yes, Professor. Please, fuck me.”

He grabs your hips with one hand and pumps himself with the other hand. “Well, when you beg like that, how can I say no?”

Hotch runs the tip of his cock through your folds before pushing in. You gasp at how big he is, and it takes everything in you not to push back against him. In one quick thrust, he seats himself in you.

“Fuck!” you gasp.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs so that your head is off his desk. He stays like that for a moment, just allowing you to feel how full you are, and allowing himself not to come right there and then. It’s been a while since he’s had sex, and he doesn’t want this moment to be over before it’s even begun.

He starts off slow, pulling out and watching himself slide right back in. What a sight to behold. So wet for him. He can see his cock is shiny with your pussy whenever he pulls out. He wonders what you’d look like on your knees sucking him clean. Another fantasy for another day.

Then, he starts to pick up the pace, watching as your red ass jiggles whenever he slams into you. You’ve never been quiet during sex, and while he’d love to hear every single moan, this place isn’t soundproof. He’d hate for someone to try and come in while he’s fucking you. The door is locked, but that doesn’t mean they won’t get someone who has the keys.

He lets go of your hair and snakes his hand to your mouth, muffling your moans. He presses the front of his body to your back, pinning you flush against the desk. His soft grunts fill your ears as does the sound of his cock slamming into you. Fuck, this is so much better than you could have hoped for.

The spanking got you halfway to an orgasm, so you’re close without him touching your clit. Normally, you need that to come, but you’re so caught in the moment that you can’t think of anything else but coating his cock with your cum.

“Does my student want to come?” he grunts out.

“Please. Let me come,” you beg with his hand still over your mouth.

“What was that? You have to speak up if you want me to hear you,” he smirks.

Pleasure spikes your entire body as he quickens his thrusts. He’s close, whether he wants to admit it or not. He seems like the kind of man who wants his women to come before him, so you try something to bring him closer to the edge. You clench around his cock, making it slightly harder for Hotch to move.

“It’s like that, huh? Fuck,” he curses. “Are you close?” You nod rapidly. “Come for me. I want you to fucking soak my cock with your cum.”

Fuck, he even talks dirty well. His thrusts get deeper and hit a spot you never knew existed. Stars explode in your vision as you’re brought to orgasm. Your body jerks as your pussy spasms around his cock. Hotch moans softly and thrusts once more before shooting his load inside of you. He removes his hand from your mouth, and you drop your head to the desk.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

Hotch looks down and sees a bit of your mixed cum leaking out of you. He slowly pulls out, making you wince from the pressure. His cum leaks down your thigh, but he’s quick to catch it. He scoops up whatever he can and pushes his cum back into you.

“Now, when you walk out of here, I want you to feel me running down your thighs.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

Hotch puts your panties back in place before lowering your skirt. You try to stand, but your legs wobble slightly. You turn to see him tuck himself back inside his pants. A sense of uneasiness settles over you. Not for what you two just did, but for what you should do now. Should you suggest he come over? To dinner? Just leave without a word? You can’t come to this class and not think about what you two did.

“Here, I want you to have this.” He reaches into his briefcase and takes out a small business card. His business card. It has his name and phone number on it. “When you get home tonight, and your pussy weeps for me again, call me. Maybe this time, I’ll properly fuck you.”

Oh, shit. You take the card with a shaky hand and grab your bag. He sits down at his desk and fixes the papers to be more organized. He doesn’t look up again. His cum slowly leaks out of you as you hurry away, and the thought of doing this again brings a smile to your face.

Maybe this won’t be a one-off thing. Maybe you might have the affair of your fantasies.

x

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[hearteyes4logan]

blurred out of the picture — mv³³ max verstappen x fem!reader dedicated to @rezkie word count: 635 words! angst

Gif by @formulagazoo on Tumblr!

synopsis: the fame is getting a little too much for max and he forgets that unlike the press who come and go, you're here to stay

You knew what you were signing up for — dating a famous F1 driver and all. Being with Max Verstappen meant nights alone in hotel rooms, months spent chasing podiums across the world and loving someone who sometimes only knew how to love a racetrack.

You could handle it. You had. For years.

But tonight, it felt different.

The Red bull gala was loud and glamorous — photographers swarming like flies and champagne flutes clinking. You'd spent hours getting ready, even wearing the dress he liked. The one he complimented offhandedly in Monaco as he whispered into your ear, nipping it and laughing so hard he almost didn't realise he was in public.

You stood beside him now, smiling and poised and really showing the public the partner of a world champion.

But Max?

His arm wasn't around around your waist like it used to be — the way he was always touchy and lovey dovey with you. His eyes kept darting pat you scanning the room for someone else — Christian. Another Driver. Another opportunity.

Then it happened.

A photographer raised a hand, calling out and stopping the two of you. "Max, please! Can I get a photo with your girlfriend? Just once."

You glanced up, face already falling into your practiced smile — the one you reserved for cameras, for headlines but before you could even step closer, Max waved it off with a tight shake of his head.

"Maybe later." He muttered, barely glancing at you. "Can I get one with Christian first?"

The photographer hesitated, awkward and not knowing what to say as they stuttered to get words out of their mouth.

Your heart dropped. Loud and heavy, even with the room loud and bustling with celebrities and personnel left and right.

You stepped back as Max moved forward, arm slung comfortably around Red Bull team principle, Christian Horner's shoulder laughing like nothing was wrong but something was.

You could feel it — in the way people's heads started to turn and the subtle whispers that didin't need to be whispered.

"She doesn't even look like she wants to be here." "Did something happen? An argument or something? "To be honest, I haven't seen them together in ages." "Did he not post with her on purpose?"

And worst of all: "She's clearly not his priority anymore."

You wanted to scream. To cry and cause a scene. To leave but you didn't.

You carried on smiling, standing there — still, composed and beautiful whilst Max charmed the press, posed for sponsors and never once looked back to check if you were okay.

Later in the car, the silence was suffocating. Max scrolled through his phone, unreadable as you stared out the window.

You broke first.

"Did you know how that looked tonight? You made me feel like a complete fool!"

He glanced up, frowning. "What?"

"When they asked for a photo. You brushed me off like I wasn't even there."

He sighed. "It wasn't personal. I had to keep things moving, that's all."

"No, Max. That's not all. It's never just one thing. It's been months of me waiting for your attention. Of sitting second to every race, every engine debrief, every media appearance—"

He cut in, sharper then intended. "You knew what this was. You knew what my life would look like. You signed up for this knowing the consequences 3 years ago."

You looked at him, then — really looked at him. It wasn't anger in your eyes. It was complete and utter heartbreak.

"I knew you loved racing." You whispered. "I just didn't realise it was the only thing you had room for."

He didn't say anything. He didn't reach for you like he always did. He didn't apologise or stop you when you opened the door and stepped into the cool night air outside the hotel.

© hearteyes4logan

[untilwefind]

Here me out: Will and Mack agree to do a NNN bet and keep trying to get the other person to crack until they both fail miserably.

Can't Nut, Won't Nut

I am the worst employee ever today. I'm so distracted by all these hilarious prompts. I need to start turning off my notifications during the workday.

The blessing and curse of working from home...

Enjoy😉

Day 1

The smell of sweat and tape filled the Sharks locker room, a heady mix of effort and ego, and Tyler Toffoli was in full instigator mode.

“No Nut November starts today, boys,” he announced like he was delivering a sermon. “Who’s got the mental strength of a monk and who’s gonna crumble like a wet tissue?”

Delly immediately groaned. “Man, I lasted three days last year. It’s just not natural.”

Wenny laughed. “You lasted three? Jesus. I made it one and a half before Licia gave me a look and I folded like laundry.”

“Cowards,” Mack muttered from across the room, tying his skates with surgical precision. He didn’t even look up.

“Oh?” Delly turned with interest. “Big words for a babyface.”

“You guys are just fucking pathetic,” Mack continued, calm as ever. “You couldn’t go three days without getting off? If you had even a fraction of self-control—”

“You couldn’t do it,” Will cut in from the next stall, towel around his neck, damp curls sticking to his forehead, cocky smirk locked and loaded. “You’re the horniest guy I’ve ever met. You crash out when I wear joggers.”

Mack sat up, eyes narrowing. “I crash out? You fucking glitched yesterday when I licked a spoon.”

Toff grins, eyes ping-ponging between them. “Oho. Are we escalating? Please escalate.”

Will raised his eyebrows, now fully turned toward Mack, who was practically vibrating with offense. “You’re saying I couldn’t last longer than you?”

“I’m saying you’d cave before the week’s out,” Mack fired back. “One look at me post-shower and it’s game over.”

Ekky threw his hands up. “There’s no way they survive this month. Someone write this down.”

“No,” Will said, standing now, shirt long gone, confidence radiating off him like heat. “We’re doing this. Right here. Right now. Loser of the bet—”

“—has to wear the other one’s tarp to their next hometown game,” Mack finished, jaw set. “When you show up in Boston wearing a ‘CELEBRINI’ jersey, I’m getting photos framed.”

Will stepped in, eyes glinting. “And if you show up in Vancouver wearing my tarp, I’m making it your phone wallpaper for the rest of the year.”

“Toff, you getting this?” Ekky called out. “We need a neutral third party.”

Toff, already half-laughing, pulled out his phone. “I’m absolutely documenting this for science.”

Mack extended his hand. “Deal.”

Will shook it, firm grip, all smug. “Bet.”

The team groaned as one when, instead of releasing hands, Mack tugged Will forward by the fingers and kissed him. Short, sharp, deliberate.

Will kissed him back just as easily, like they did this every morning before coffee and every night before bed. Because they did.

A loud “Jesus Christ, we’re right here!” came from Thrunner.

“That’s a fine, fellas,” Toff snorted, phone still recording.

Mario, walking past, didn’t even blink. “At least wait until I’m out of frame.”

Will pulled away with a satisfied hum and looked around. “You were saying something about who’s folding first?”

Mack licked his lips and leaned in again, voice low. “You’re going down.”

Delly winced. “Word choice, bud.”

And still, amid the groans and chirps and exasperated muttering, the locker room had that look it always got when those two united. Resigned amusement, a little horror, and a touch of admiration. Because even if Will and Mack were currently entering psychological warfare over a month-long celibacy pact, they were still a unit. A slightly unhinged, deeply codependent, annoyingly inseparable unit.

Toff muttered it under his breath as he hit stop on his recording.

“This bet’s gonna kill us before it kills them.”

---

Day 2

Mack showed up to practice in Will’s joggers. The joggers. The grey ones that clung to him like they were auditioning for a boyfriend slot.

Will saw him across the ice and nearly missed a pass in warmup drills.

“Dude,” Ekky hissed, skating up beside him, “Don’t look now, but your boyfriend is packing a nuclear weapon in those sweatpants.”

Will snapped his gaze away and gritted his teeth. “I know what he’s doing.”

“Do you?”

Mack caught his eye from the other end and winked.

Will missed the next drill entirely.

---

Day 4

It was Will’s turn.

Mack walked into the showers post-practice, tired and sore, only to find Will already there, hair slicked back, water streaming down his chest like a cologne ad.

And he was humming.

Mack stopped dead.

“Need something?” Will asked, not turning around. His tone was casual. Weaponized.

“I—” Mack cleared his throat. “No.”

He made it four minutes before muttering “fuck you” under his breath and rinsing off at warp speed.

The second Mack left, Delly’s voice rang out from the next stall.

“Cold shower didn’t help, huh?”

“I hate him,” Mack said, voice tight.

“Toff owes me ten bucks. I said you’d crack first.”

“I haven’t cracked.”

“Yet,” Delly said cheerfully.

---

Day 6

Everyone sat in the conference room for a morning film review. Mack chose a seat near the back. Will strolled in late and sat beside him with a smug grin.

Halfway through, Will leaned in, lips near Mack’s ear.

“I had a dream last night.”

“Don’t.”

“We were in a hotel shower.”

Mack inhaled sharply through his nose and stared straight ahead like a soldier trying not to blink.

Will kept going. “You kept saying—”

“Shut up,” Mack hissed.

From the front of the room, Toff turned around, grinning wide. “Having fun back there, boys?”

“Yup,” Will chirped.

Mack looked like he was going to explode.

---

Day 9

The couch wasn’t safe anymore.

Will curled up on his end, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, legs tangled in a blanket. Mack sat on the opposite side with a bowl of cereal, watching him like a man in a minefield.

“Are you cold?” Will asked.

“No.”

“You can come under the blanket if you want.”

“I don’t want.”

Will grinned. “You’re scared.”

“I’m strategic.”

Will reached for the remote, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal the curve of his hip.

Mack’s spoon paused midair.

“Eat your cereal,” Will said innocently.

Mack threw the remote across the room and left the couch.

---

Day 11

They were skating laps. Mack wore a compression top two sizes too small. Will watched him stretch boardside like he was studying film.

Wenny skated past him and laughed. “Bro. Your stick’s not the only thing flexing right now.”

“I’m fine,” Will said tightly.

“Mmhmm.”

Toff passed them both. “I got fifty on both of you imploding by Friday.”

“Asshole,” Mack called after him. “This is a matter of pride.”

“Pride’s gonna send you to the ER,” Ekky muttered. “From blue balls.”

---

Day 14

They were seated across the aisle from each other. Will had his headphones in and was texting. Mack was pretending to read but kept glancing over the top of his book.

Then Will casually adjusted himself.

Mack made a choked sound and turned back to the window.

“Stop texting me,” he said.

Will didn’t look up. “You don’t have to read them.”

“I'm going to read them. You know I have no self-control.”

Will smiled. “Exactly.”

From the front of the bus, Toff announced, “This is the best entertainment I’ve had in two seasons.”

---

Day 16

This time it was mutual destruction.

Will was on edge. Mack was vibrating with tension. The moment they were alone in the shower stalls, Will stepped into Mack’s and pressed him to the tile.

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch. Just stood too close, panting from nothing.

“Call it,” Will said.

“No.”

Will leaned in, lips ghosting over his neck. “Say mercy.”

“Not happening.”

From the bench room beyond the steam, Delly shouted, “If you guys come back in here with matching hickies I’m calling HR!”

They pulled apart like they’d been electrocuted.

“I hate this month,” Mack whispered.

Will exhaled. “Me too.”

---

Day 18

It was still early when Mack woke up, the bedroom pale and grey with morning light, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft shuffle of movement down the hall. He reached out on instinct, hand brushing over cold sheets, and exhaled a grumbly sigh when he realized Will wasn’t beside him.

He didn’t bother getting dressed, just slipped out of bed wearing one of Will’s old college T-shirts and a pair of boxers and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Will stood at the counter making coffee, chest bare, old basketball shorts hanging off his hips, hair a wild halo of sleep curls. He was humming faintly, back turned, pouring hot water into the French press with the kind of care Mack had always found inexplicably endearing.

“You’re up early,” Mack mumbled, voice rough.

Will turned, smile easy. “You were hogging the blankets.”

“I am the blanket,” Mack said, stepping in and wrapping himself around Will from behind like it was habit, which, honestly, it was.

Will chuckled, one hand settling lightly on Mack’s arm. “You’re clingy in the morning.”

“Only because you keep sneaking out of bed.”

Will laughed, soft and close. “You hungry?”

Mack nuzzled the back of his neck. “Not really.”

“Wanna sit while I finish this?”

"Just want you," Mack murmured from where he was pressed up against him, arms around his waist, mouth skimming the ridge of Will’s shoulder blade through the fabric. Will tensed, just slightly, and Mack felt it.

He didn’t mean to grind his hips forward. Not really. It was just... Will was warm and he smelled like home and Mack’s body moved before his brain did.

Will went still.

Mack did it again.

“Baby,” Will whispered.

Mack froze. Realized where his hands were. Realized that he was already half-hard and that Will definitely was too.

His breath hitched. “Fuck. Wait. I didn’t—shit—”

Will turned in his arms, eyes sleepy and glassy, voice warm. “You didn’t mean to, huh?”

Mack shook his head helplessly. “No. I swear. I was just—”

Will kissed him.

And that was it.

There wasn’t a decision. No moment of intention or premeditated sabotage. Just the slow, natural tilt of bodies moving closer, the way they’d done a hundred times before. Only this time, they forgot there were rules.

Will’s hands slid under Mack’s shirt, up the soft skin of his back, and Mack’s mouth parted on a moan, hips rolling forward again, needing.

They kissed like they didn’t know any better.

Like they hadn’t spent the past two weeks torturing themselves on purpose.

Mack lifted Will onto the counter without thinking, slotting between his thighs, and Will just tugged his shirt off like he’d been waiting for the excuse.

It wasn’t fast, or desperate, or dirty. It was sleepy. Familiar. Mack’s forehead pressed to Will’s. Will cupped his jaw with both hands like he couldn’t quite believe he was real. Mack kept murmuring “I didn’t mean to” between kisses until Will whispered, “I know, but I want you anyway.”

They were both still breathless, tangled together on the kitchen counter like a crime scene. Will’s shirt lay somewhere on the floor. Mack’s boxers were halfway down one thigh. There was a smear of coffee grounds on the edge of the counter, and Will’s hair clung damply to his forehead, flushed and sweaty.

Mack let out a slow, post-orgasmic breath and tilted his head up from Will’s shoulder, dazed. “Wait. Wait.”

Will’s eyes stayed closed. “Mm?”

“I think you technically lost.”

Will barked out a laugh, his chest shaking under Mack’s palm. “What?”

Mack leaned up on one elbow, lips parted, eyes suddenly sharp. “You came first.”

Will cracked an eye open. “Are you serious.”

“Dead serious,” Mack said, smugness blooming like a weed. “I was just going for comfort. I wanted to cuddle. You’re the one who got all handsy. I mean, I didn’t even finish until you already—”

Will pushed at his chest, scandalized. “You grinded on me first. Like. Full hips-in, half-moan, morning wood grind. That’s initiation.”

“Yeah, well, I was half asleep!”

“You were awake! You said you wanted me!”

“I meant emotionally!”

“That’s not how the bet works, Mack!”

“It’s No Nut November, Will. Not No Seduction November. You nutted first. That’s it. End of story.”

Will narrowed his eyes. “So we’re just ignoring the fact that you climbed into my T-shirt, got hard first, and started it?”

Mack frowned. “I was cuddling.”

“You were rutting.”

“It was affectionate.”

Will stared at him, slack-jawed. “You don’t get to grind on my ass at 8 a.m. and call it affectionate.”

“You make breakfast shirtless. That’s entrapment.”

Will groaned and slumped back against the cabinet. “Oh my god. You’re actually trying to argue a technicality.”

“I have a case,” Mack insisted.

“You don’t,” Will shot back. “This is about intent. And your intent was sinful, Macklin.”

Mack muttered, “My intent was coffee and a hug,” under his breath.

Will scoffed. “Your intent was morning sex, and it worked. I just happened to come first because I love you too much.”

Mack blinked, then flopped forward onto Will’s chest again.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But we’re telling the guys it was mutual destruction.”

“Absolutely not,” Will said, wrapping his arms around him again. “I’m telling everyone I got you first.”

“I’ll sue.”

Will grinned and pressed a kiss into Mack’s hair. “Sue me in my jersey, baby.”

“God, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Also true.”

“Next,” he said. “We’re doing No Kissing December.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Mack mumbled.

---

Day 20

“Alright,” Toff called as soon as Will walked in, “We’re more than halfway through the month and it’s time for updates. Mack, you look smug. Will, you look well-rested. What the fuck happened.”

Will beamed and walked straight to his stall.

“Gentlemen,” he said grandly, pulling off his hoodie with a flourish. “It is my honor and privilege to report—”

“No,” Mack groaned from the next stall over. “Don’t—”

“I fucking got him.”

There was a beat of silence. Then the locker room erupted.

“No way!” Delly shouted.

“Knew it!” Ekky cheered.

Thrunner looked betrayed. “But he looked so composed during skate yesterday.”

Will pointed triumphantly. “Exactly. That’s how far gone he was. He folded while wearing my shirt and hugging me from behind like a clingy little koala. Didn’t even realize he was cracking.”

Mack threw his towel at Will’s head. “I stand by it. It was romantic, not horny.”

“Romantically horny,” Will corrected. “Which, as we all agreed, counts.”

Toff cackled. “That’s it. You’re wearing Smith in Vancouver. Full tarp. Full walk-in. Front and center.”

Ekky added, “Can we vote on socks too? Because I feel like the pink ones Will wears would really tie the look together.”

Will smirked and leaned into Mack’s space. “You’re gonna look so good in my jersey.”

Mack narrowed his eyes. “I’m not making it easy for you.”

“Oh, I know.”

They stared at each other like they were back on the ice, locked in a faceoff with no puck. Just tension and history and heat.

Then Delly muttered from the other side of the room, “Jesus Christ. Get a room. But also, I need footage of Mack in that tarp. For the groupchat.”

Will just grinned wider.

“I’ll bring the ring light.”

---

Rogers Arena, Vancouver

The Sharks arrived at the arena in waves, bundled in coats and headphones, dragging gear bags behind them under the drizzle of a typical Vancouver afternoon.

Will was practically bouncing off the team bus.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered, fake solemn. “I feel so alive.”

Ekky slung his backpack over his shoulder, grinning. “We’re witnessing history.”

Toff checked his phone. “Aiden just texted me a skull emoji.”

Mack stepped off the bus last. Hood up, jaw tight, glaring at the ground like it had personally wronged him. His coat was zipped to his chin.

The rest of the team was already milling by the tunnel doors when Toff called out, “Alright, let’s see it, Celly!”

“Do it slow,” Delly added. “Like a strip tease.”

Mack paused. Took one steadying breath.

And then, with the resigned grace of someone walking toward his own public execution, he unzipped his coat.

The reactions were immediate.

“Oh my god,” Ekky choked. “Is that—”

“Team USA?!” Toff screamed.

The jersey was unmistakable. Smith, #43, stitched across the back in bold navy block letters. Red, white, and blue. Will’s World's jersey from May.

Which he'd won gold in.

With Mack watching from the stands.

After Canada was knocked out by Denmark.

“I hate you,” Mack muttered, tugging the coat open fully so it wouldn’t wrinkle the fabric. “I hate all of you.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Delly said, actually pulling his phone out to start recording. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Will slung an arm around Mack’s shoulders and kissed his temple with exaggerated tenderness.

“You look so good in my colors,” he cooed. “A true patriot.”

“I hope you snap a skate blade in warmups.”

The chirping only got worse inside.

Every step through the bowels of the arena came with a fresh jab.

"Does it itch? Or is that just your Canadian pride dying?"

“Rick's gonna see you walk into Rogers Arena wearing the enemy's jersey. That man trained you in the show, Celly. For this?!”

And then, just as they stepped onto the main concourse, Rick, Robyn, Aiden, Charlie, and RJ came into view down the hall by the Family Lounge.

Aiden’s mouth fell open.

Charlie pulled out her phone instantly.

RJ stared like he’d just watched his hockey idol fall through a trapdoor.

Rick narrowed his eyes and Mack could feel the disappointment radiating off him like a microwave.

Will offered them all a cheerful wave. “Hi, Rick!”

Rick said nothing.

Robyn smiled tightly, clearly trying not to laugh. Charlie gave Mack a thumbs up. Aiden pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle a wheeze.

“Is it too late to fake food poisoning?” Mack muttered.

Will leaned in, grinning ear to ear. “You cracked first.”

Mack muttered, “I should’ve just cheated.”

“Too late now. Your family's watching.”

Later in the locker room the boys were still buzzing while they started suiting up.

Delly tossed a roll of tape to Mack. “So should we expect to see matching Smith jerseys in the Pro Shop next year or is this a limited-edition drop?”

“Do not encourage him.”

Will sauntered over, already in his undershirt and pads. “I think next bet's punishment should be a kiss cam appearance.”

Mack glared. “What happened to No Kissing December?”

“I’m pivoting.”

Toff snorted. “To Mutually Assured Horny December?”

“Exactly.”

[bloggerspam]

I finally got my laptop set up!!! its not the best but its better than nothing!!!

===

"It's just that he's been acting weird lately!" Danny slumps over his table, head in his hands.

"Weird how?" Tucker asks through the screen, tilting his head in inquiry. "You keep texting us about this but never actually elaborating."

"Break it down for us one by one." Sam follows up from her side of the screen.

They're on Vroom for a catch up video call with Danny in his apartment in Central City, Tuck sitting in his office in Gotham City, and Sam somewhere out in the Himalayas doing…something.

She's explained her so-called 'eco-exploits' many times, and how she's used her parents' connections in a way that both supports her values and gets her parents off her back, but Danny and Tucker are still so very confused as to how.

It's ironic that Tucker works for Wayne Enterprises, so close to where Danny always gets summoned, but their schedules are so busy or conflicting that they rarely ever get to hang out.

He gets to see his family basically every two weeks, but he and his friends are all working towards goals that don't include each other as much anymore—they maybe see each other every other month or so.

It makes these occasional Vroom calls all the more precious, even if they do text basically every day.

"He keeps, like, standing there," Danny gestures widely with his arms, "menacingly!"

"Dude, I'm gonna hold your hand when I tell you this…" Tucker looks left and right, before leaning into the camera and extending his hand forward as if he could actually hold Danny's hand, "Red Hood, by nature, is menacing."

"And he keeps getting me drinks!" Danny ignores Tucker, barely even able to hear him as he gets up to pace, "He keeps—he keeps asking if I want anything to drink, or eat??"

"Didn't you say Hood cooks for the team?" Sam asks, once again lost to Danny as she addresses Tucker. "Didn't he say Hood doesn't trust food he hasn't seen prepared in front of him?"

"And the—the sitting!" Danny throws his hands up, gesturing to his own chair, "He keeps sitting like, 5 feet away from me, but he won't even make eye contact with me!"

"Can he even make eye contact?" Tucker thinks aloud, "Didn't you have a laugh about how Hood has a domino under that creepy helmet?"

"It's not creepy, it's meant to be intimidating," Danny points a finger at Tucker, "And that's not the point!"

"So what is the point?" Sam presents her hands like what the fuck? "It just sounds like he's being respectful?"

Danny plops back into his chair, spinning listlessly as he stares up at the ceiling. He slaps his hands against his face, jolting his friends by how loud the sound is. They lean in as he mumbles into them helplessly.

"What was that dude?" Tucker calls out, "We can't hear you."

"I said," Danny enunciates as he drops his hands and feels like crying. "I said he keeps, almost touching me."

A long silence echoes in his room. He feels like his face is on fire, and his skin tingles in both rage and anticipation for something he doesn't even know he should anticipate. He feels like maybe he might be going insane.

"I feel like I might be going insane." Danny says aloud into the silence, rolling his head to face his friends who are looking at him like they're trying not to laugh. "It's not funny, is this some kind of elaborate way Hood is trying to kill me? I thought Phantom did good work!"

"Are you more bothered that he isn't touching you," Sam asks in a way that possibly kills Danny for the third time via embarrassment, "Or are you bothered that you aren't touching him?"

"I don't want to touch him!" Danny squeaks, but even he can tell he's lying like a rug. "I don't want him to touch me!"

"Right." Tuck's voice seems with doubt, "Sure, dude."

"Hood is kind of your type, isn't he?" Sam grins, tapping her cheek in thought. "He does kind of remind me of Val. Red theme and everything."

"He kind of reminds me of you too, Sam." Tucker smirks, leaning back in his chair and gesturing to the screen. "You guys have the same kill everyone for a minor inconvenience vibe going on."

Sam shrugs ruefully, as if to say touche.

"Guys," Danny whines, sinking into his chair, "Guys, please…"

Suddenly, Tucker jolts up. "Wait—wait, no eye contact, feeding you, sitting just a little in reach—"

Sam and Danny sit up in surprise at Tucker's excited rambling.

"Dude—dude," Tucker's smile is wide and giddy, hopping in his seat in excitement, "he's doing the stray cat thing!!!"

"What?" Danny asks, at the same time Sam begins to guffaw and fall out of her chair. "What?! Tucker, what the fuck does that mean??"

"Danny wouldn't kn-know," Sam gasps through her laughter, "animals have always liked him!"

"Normal people like me," Tucker explains, "have to employ specific tactics to get along with strays."

"You're not making any sense—" Danny huffs, before Sam interrupts him by pitching her voice sternly above his.

"Offer food, do not crowd it, and do not expect the cat to immediately take to you." She twirls a finger, seemingly quoting some kind of…Danny doesn't know, handbook? "Stray cats are cautious and wary of danger at all times from living on the streets, and will not tolerate forced affection."

"If you have the time, and determination," Tucker grins, crossing his arms and leaning on the table on his elbows. "Place a plate of food about 5 feet away from you, sit down and kill time on your phone."

"Make sure not to make prolonged eye contact, stray cats take that as aggression, and to act is if you have no care in the world as you keep your distance quietly." Sam finishes, smirking. "It's to show the cat you mean no harm, and give them easy access so that they can investigate you at their own pace."

"It make take a couple of visits," Tucker chuckles, "But eventually, a stray cat might bestow upon you affection—in which case the final step finally comes to fruition: Profit!"

Danny freezes, mind going into overdrive with memories of the last ten or so missions over the course of three months. Sam and Tucker, ever his best friends since childhood, wait him out patiently.

"Oh my god." Danny breathes, before jerking into action and slamming his hands down to screech—"oh my god, he's doing a stray cat thing!!!"

"Do we think this is a romance thing," Sam's smug face would infuriate Danny, if he weren't already emotionally occupied with an overload of, well, emotions, "Or is this a Bat thing?"

"What even is a Bat thing in this case?" Tucker responds, tapping his desk in thought. "I have no doubts they've investigated Phantom on a surface level at least, that's in their nature but…Red Hood is barely one of them isn't he?"

"What does it matter?" Danny grumbles, falling back onto the desktop, "I can't believe he sees me as a stray cat, do I really look that pathetic? I thought I was pretty affable."

"You're focusing on the wrong thing, Danny." Sam admonishes, even wagging her finger in disagreement. "That's not even the best part!"

"What should I be focusing on then?" Danny groans, "It's debatable this is even a good thing."

"Au contraire, my half-dead friend!" Tucker beams, "Because motives aside, if he's treating you like a stray cat…"

"That means he wants to keep you." Sam smiles with all her teeth. "Or at the very least, wants you to touch him first!"

Danny, of course, has no idea what to think about that. (Except he does. He really really does know.)

His imagination starts running wild, conjuring up images of Phantom casually exchanging touches with Red Hood. Would their hands touch? Hood has big hands—no no no, stop.

…He's seen Arsenal sling an arm around Hood before, Danny's wingspan isn't quite as long and he's a little shorter than both of them but maybe Hood would put an arm around Phantom? With Hood's All Caste magic, he runs so warm—would that counteract Phantom's cold? Would Phantom's touch be refreshing to him?

Does Hood suffer in the summers? Does the heat consume him or is he like Danny—is he like Phantom, unbothered by the heat but craving cold touches? Maybe they could cuddle? Like…like quid pro quo?

Phantom could do that, Hood's been really nice to Phantom. Phantom could absolutely do that.

"Aaaand we've lost him." Tucker's voice yanks him back to reality, his face flushing with heat. "Heeeey dude, Ground Control to Major Tom! Phan-Tom, hellooooo—"

"I'm here!" Danny coughs. "I'm here and—and that's absurd. Hood doesn't want…that."

"Sure, Danny." Sam rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say. We've said our piece, so at least you're thinking about it."

"Just let us know when you finally make a move, yeah?" Tucker backs up, twisting around in his seat. "Anyway, let's get this Doomed train on track!"

Danny puts his hands on his cheeks, palms almost melting against the heat radiating through them as he keeps thinking absolutely batshit crazy things throughout the rest of the night.

Like what Hood's hands would feel like underneath the gloves, about the bits and pieces he's seen through Hood's cracked helmet, what his color his eyes are.

Like the time Phantom was practicing morphing his form and accidentally conjured up cat ears and a tail, and if Hood would like to see that…if Hood would pet him under the chin, or scratch his fingers through Phantom's hair…

Needless to say, Danny doesn't win a single game of Doomed that night.

Sam and Tucker, best friends that they are, only laugh about it for 30 minutes or so.

They also, kindly, limit themselves to three handmade memes each.

Per night.

Danny is, essentially, fucked.

Dear Darcy...

Another AU borne from the HHD server--Touch-starved DoM with identity shenanigans. Follow here on AO3!

===

It isn't until well into their acquaintanceship that Jason notices something odd about Phantom.

That's not exactly true—Jason noticed it on their third mission together in a passing thought, but decided to not care about it on account of all the bullets and daggers being thrown at him and his team at the time.

Phantom is an ally, of sorts. A consult, perhaps, Jason doesn't really know.

It's hard to really say when they still don't really know what he does.

Though, again, that's not exactly true—Jason supposes it's more accurate to say they still don't really know what he can't do.

They go to him when the supernatural is involved, introduced to them via Zatanna when Jason expressed an adamant dislike of needing to ask JL Dark for anything (needing to ask Bruce for anything).

The ghost, a big name in the so called Realms world, is friendly and happy to help most of the time. He's a delight to work with in Jason's book, seeming to use his so-called ghost sense to read the room empathically—filling in the spaces when the quiet is too dark for the team, trailing behind silent as a shadow when even breathing is too loud, staying mostly out of the way and chiming in when necessary.

It helps that if shit hits the fan, Phantom can do something about it—it helps that that's the only time Phantom will ever butt in.

The Outlaws, Jason, is still to raw to handle playing nice, but Phantom makes it easy.

Phantom makes it effortless.

It makes Jason's gut roil in ways he's not sure how to deal with, beyond shooting it.

Either way, Jason, Red Hood, isn't supposed to be here in the Realms.

It's not that he's not allowed, per say, it's just that he wasn't exactly invited to this particular corner and Jason's a Bat, sure, but even he knows the supernatural have rules.

Jason was trying to summon Phantom for a quick mission, an in and out kind of deal that may or may not have had a cult involved in it that made Jason a little leery.

Except the summons was denied, which can happen sometimes when Phantom is busy.

Only instead of the circle simply going dark, like usual, Jason got pulled in instead.

So now he's here, in what he assumes to be Phantom's lair.

It's nice, the lair, if a little dark and mood-lighted. It has a dome-like structure, with stars and constellations all over like a planetarium. There's even one of those big ass telescopes peeking out the roof like one, though it seems to only point outwards towards the green of the Realms. Symbolic, or decorative in nature.

There's bookshelves of astrology and astronomy and all sorts of science and space related things littered throughout the shelves. Every now and then the stacks of books are interrupted with some kind of LEGO space creation, or a miniature of a rocket, or some of those weird weapons Phantom sometimes pulls out.

There's a work area, neat and messy at the same time, with a work table and a large toolbox drawer set. Metal detritus is piled neatly next to it, a project or two laid out under a heavy dark blue cloth on the table to keep it from getting dusty or be moved around if Jason has to guess.

In another area, there's living room-like space with a big monitor and beanbags and soft chairs surrounding it, typical of a college dorm room-esque gaming set up. Just beside it there's a large computer that hums softly, a picture of a female werewolf acting as a screensaver.

In yet another, there's a gathering of plants of many varieties growing this way and that. Jason spots a couple he recognizes from his run-ins with Pamela, and spots a copious amount of plants he doesn't recognize of this Earth. Ghost plants, he's assuming, from the glow of them.

There is even, curiously, one of those "at-home" basketball games that can fold away reminiscent of the ones you can see at the arcade with a couple miniature basketballs. Beside it, some kind of sleek mechanical looking surfboard rests against the wall in metallic reds and black with another toolbox set hidden just behind where it leans.

The kitchen area has a fridge that's absolutely covered in magnets from all over the world, a picture in crayon that is disconcertingly good pinned up here or there signed by someone named Ellie.

And then, of course, the main draw at the center of the room: a bed of sorts, stacked with pillows and blankets and assorted plushies of varying sizes.

Buried within is Phantom himself, huddled up in a nest of pillows and breathing heavy, angelic face flushed green the way a human would in fever. Jason, for the first time since meeting the halfa, truly wonders extensively how much the he isn't telling them.

Which brings Jason back to the odd thing.

Well, the odd thing that Jason is focusing on right now:

Phantom, contrary to his self-proclaimed ghostly nature, is very solid.

More than that, he's very, utterly, alive.

It's all the more apparent when Jason takes off one of his gloves to feel Phantom's forehead, the way Bruce would when Jason was Robin.

The way Jason wishes he could with his family.

Jason realizes, with the kind of starkness that comes from a photo flipbook of memories cascading through him, that he's never touched Phantom before. Not skin to skin or outside of a spar, and never like this.

He realizes, as the pocket book extends to not just him but his team-mates as well, that Phantom's never touched anyone before.

Always hovering just 6 feet away, like quarantine.

Like the depth of a grave.

Phantom is not quite hot to the touch, as Jason expects he would be. He had suspected a fever, of a sort. But he supposes it makes sense that a ghost would run cold, considering.

In the first place, Jason's not sure what possessed him to touch the ghost—he doesn't even have a baseline temperature to compare to so there's no real point.

He's not sure what possessed him to think this was okay, touching an ally like this without consent.

Not when his touch has never been welcomed, especially not when he's Red Hood.

He's just about to pull his hand away, careful not to wake the ghost, when Phantom starts to purr.

It rattles through him, like it's not used to being let out, as Phantom nuzzles at the tips of Jason's fingers.

As if Jason's touch was wanted, as if it comforts the ghost, as if Phantom wants nothing more.

As if this very hand didn't burn buildings to the ground, didn't shoot men into the fathoms, didn't carry bloody duffle bags, didn't fucking hurt hurt hurt.

Jason withdraws his hand carefully, gliding as gently as he can manage, breathing slow and deep.

He's been trained bloody enough to know pulling back in knee-jerk reaction can give things away.

He does not want Phantom to know he touched him.

Jason puts his glove back on, tight and unforgiving, and steps back.

He flexes his hand once, twice. Shakes it, before forcefully relaxing every muscle, trying to melt away the cold traces of Phantom's skin on his.

He clears his throat once, twice a little harsher, until Phantom mewls and blinks glowing green eyes up at him. His gaze is hazy with fever, soft like feathers, child-like in confusion.

And here, another odd thing Jason has not noticed until now:

When did Phantom's Lazarus green eyes become comforting?

When did Phantom's watery green eyes become forgiving?

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Word Count: 5k

A/N: new story woooo i only have a couple more left over to upload! i'm going to try and keep the uploads long so should have around 5 or 6 chapters, weekend updates are scheduled for 10am both days! enjoy🤍

Chapter One

The SHIELD conference room smelled like recycled air and consequence. Natasha sat in the centre chair like she’d been dropped there from a great height and told not to move. Arms crossed, leg bouncing once every few seconds. Her jaw was clenched tight enough to crack molars.

Across from her, Fury paced.

Not the kind of pacing that meant strategy. This was the kind that meant disappointment. The kind you earned.

“You compromised classified intel.” He said finally, without looking at her.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes followed him but her mouth stayed shut.

“You let Yelena into Tier Three access.”

“She needed it.”

“She didn’t have clearance.”

“She had need. There’s a difference.”

Fury stopped pacing, turned and looked her dead in the eye.

“You don’t get to redefine clearance based on gut feelings.”

“She was running point. I made a call.”

“You made a mess.”

His voice wasn’t raised, it never had to be but the silence that followed was loud enough to press against her ribs.

He dropped a file on the table. Thin. Civilian-grade. Not even stamped.

“You’re benched. Immediate suspension from fieldwork. No missions. No exceptions.”

Natasha didn’t move.

The words didn’t surprise her. But they hit anyway.

“You’re sidelining me for three months?” She asked, voice flat. “You want me filing drone logs with the kids?”

“I want you to feel the weight of crossing a line.”

“I’ve crossed plenty of lines.”

“Not this one.”

Fury leaned on the table now, hands braced. Every inch of him radiating the authority of someone who’d already decided.

“You want to stay useful? There’s one option.”

“I don’t do babysitting.”

“You do now.”

She scoffed but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m not a handler, Fury. I’m not a suit.”

“It’s not a suit gig. It’s a threat detail.”

That stopped her, just a fraction. Just enough for him to open the file and slide it toward her.

She didn’t reach for it but her eyes scanned the front page.

“I said threat detail, not glorified security for someone’s insecure C-list husband.”

“She’s not C-list. And it’s not a husband.”

At that, Natasha leaned forward, more intrigued than she wanted to be and finally looked down at the file properly.

Your photo met her gaze.

Soft lighting. Something formal, a charity event, probably. Your hair done, your smile poised. But there was a hollow edge to it. A stiffness. The smile never made it to your eyes.

Congresswoman Evelyn Prescott’s wife.

Her brow lifted.

“Prescott…” She repeated slowly. “The Evelyn Prescott?”

Fury nodded. “And she’s too busy shaking hands on the Hill to pay attention to her wife getting stalked.”

Natasha’s lip curled. “And Secret Service?”

“Stretched thin. They gave us jurisdictional clearance.”

She flipped the page. There were typed threats, low-level tracking. Nothing solid but it was growing. Something just beneath the surface.

“Why not send a junior agent?” She asked, still reading.

Fury didn’t blink. “Because I need someone who doesn’t blink when things go sideways. And I need someone whose instincts override bureaucracy.”

She looked up at him. “So suddenly I’m your ideal choice?”

“You’re the only one who knows how to deal with a problem before it becomes a headline.”

He left that there, like a slap disguised as praise.

She stared at your face one more second, then shut the file.

“Fine.” She said. Her voice was rougher now, somewhere between bitter and resolved. “Where is she?”

Fury didn’t smile but he stepped back.

“She’s waiting.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was glass and shadows and the kind of money that got things silenced.

Perched on a hill just outside the city, it looked more like a showroom than a home, all clean lines and careful distance. Not a single light on. Not a single plant or bush out of place.

Natasha had barely stepped out of the SUV when a staff member appeared at the door.

“Upstairs. Probably.” The woman mumbled, not quite making eye contact before vanishing back into whatever wing she’d emerged from.

Probably. Looks like everyone took this stalker seriously.

Natasha stepped into the foyer and let the silence breathe.

She didn’t call out nor did she go looking.

Just stood still, counted the seconds and let the house show itself.

It took twelve minutes. Exactly.

Then the soft pad of bare feet on polished wood.

You descended like you were walking into your own stage lighting. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Silk pyjama pants, hanging low on your hips. A barely-there tank top that looked like it belonged to the evening before. One hand resting lazily on the bannister. The other delicately holding a half-empty glass of white wine between your fingers. 

At four in the afternoon.

You looked at her like someone might look at a painting they’d forgotten they owned, curious, detached, not exactly impressed.

“So.” You said, voice warm and wry. “You’re the solution.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “You’re the problem.”

You grinned slowly, not girlish or innocent but dangerous.

“God, they really didn’t send a suit this time.”

“Disappointed?”

“Surprised.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“Shame. You’re doing it anyway.”

Natasha ignored that. Eyes already sweeping the room behind you, every angle, every shadow, cataloging entry points, blind spots, weakness.

You sipped your wine, watching her with open interest.

“Where’s your wife?”

“D.C. Fundraiser. Or an press conference disguised as one. I lose track.”

“You live here alone?”

You twirled your wine glass. “Alone enough.”

Natasha moved once, slow, deliberate. She didn’t like standing still when someone like you was circling.

“Secret Service too busy?” You asked, cocking your head. “Or am I the lucky prize in SHIELD’s punishment rotation?”

Natasha tilted her head just slightly, like you were a problem that she was already solving.

“Are you always like this?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “Like what?”

“Performative. Mouthy. Spoiled. Bored enough to make people regret showing up.”

You smiled, wider this time but it cracked just a little at the edges.

“I’m lonely.” You mock pouted, lips almost to the rim of your glass. “Not spoiled. There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“No.” You murmured, stepping past her. “But you’re still looking.”

That made her stop, just for a second.

You were close now, too close, standing with your wine like it was a shield, like your bare feet gave you power.

“I read your file, you act like a brat.” Natasha said, voice cold steel. “You act like that with me? And you’re going to get treated like one.”

Something flickered across your face.

You tilted your head, mouth parted. “Promise?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even flirtation. It was a wound, wrapped in silk.

Natasha didn’t respond. 

You turned before she could, walking slowly back up the stairs, back arching just enough in that stupid tank top, wine glass trailing, feet silent.

At the landing, you looked back once, eyes unreadable.

“Let me know if you get bored. Most people do.”

Then you were gone.

And Natasha stood in the entryway, pulse unsteady, jaw tight.

She hated these kinds of jobs. She hated the politics. She hated the silence you carried like perfume.

The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut behind you, soft as a secret.

Natasha stared after you for a beat too long, long enough for her composure to fray at the edges.

She exhaled once, sharp, like it might chase away the air you’d left heavy in the room.

She moved, finally habit taking over. A sweep of the space, a practiced look for exits, surveillance, traps. But this wasn’t that kind of danger. This was personal. And personal was messier.

She turned toward the bar cart in the corner, the one you hadn’t touched, despite the glass you carried like a prop.

Empty.

Of course it was.

The ice in her stomach cracked a little as she leaned against the wall, palms flat against the cool plaster. Her reflection in the mirror caught her off guard. A victim stood in someone else’s war.

Yours, maybe.

She closed her eyes. Don’t get involved.

That was the rule. The unspoken one.

But rules were harder to follow when someone looked at you like they were daring you to break them. Or begging you to.

Natasha pushed off the wall and started for the stairs. She wouldn’t knock. Wouldn’t ask but she would look.

Because beneath all the bravado and silk-wrapped wounds, there was something else she’d seen. Something real.

And Natasha Romanoff had always been terrible at walking away from that.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was silent when Natasha woke.

Early morning sunlight slanted through the kitchen windows as she moved barefoot across the marble floor. She’d already been up for an hour, her body too trained, too wired, to allow for sleep-ins or comfort.

She’d cleared the perimeter. Twice. Done a full workout in the gym downstairs, mostly cardio and bodyweight drills. Something to shut her brain up. The silence in the house had weight to it, like it had grown used to being empty or ignored.

Natasha threw a towel over her shoulder and wandered into the kitchen.

The housekeeper was already there, folding napkins for a breakfast that wouldn’t be eaten.

“Morning.” She said, offering Natasha a small nod. “You don’t look like a coffee person but I’m guessing you’re going to need it.”

“I look like I need something to punch to which I probably do.” Natasha replied, with a friendly smirk.

That earned a small smile. The housekeeper, mid-fifties, tidy in the way people from the old world always were, gestured toward the absurdly expensive espresso machine on the counter.

“Machine’s Italian. More sensitive than my last husband. Hold this button until it blinks, twist here, pray to God and it should give you something dark enough to stomach.”

Natasha leaned in, eyebrows raised.

“That’s a lot of steps.”

“Nothing in this house is simple. Especially not her.”

Natasha turned slightly. “She’s still asleep?”

The housekeeper nodded.

“Didn’t come down for dinner last night either. Had a party a few days ago. Didn’t attend. She’s supposed to be with her wife today. Fundraiser at The Newbury. 10:30am arrival, press already booked. Evelyn is expecting her.”

“And she won’t go?”

The housekeeper shrugged one shoulder, continued folding cloth napkins with mechanical precision.

“She might. She won’t. Depends how much she wants to be seen pretending she’s happy.”

Natasha didn’t respond. The coffee machine sputtered to life and the smell filled the room, bitter, grounding. 

“She always like this?” Natasha questioned.

The housekeeper didn’t answer right away.

“She used to try.” She said, quietly. “Now she doesn’t.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Ten minutes later, Natasha stood at the foot of the grand staircase, coffee in hand and made the deliberate choice to stomp up each step like it owed her money.

She didn’t bother knocking.

The bedroom door creaked open under her hand, the lock disengaged, of course. No one in this house locked anything surprisingly for a household with death threats and stalkers circling it.

You were a mess of tangled sheets and rumpled silk. One arm thrown across your face, hair spilled over the pillows, the duvet kicked off one leg like you’d been at war with it.

Natasha stepped into the room with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

You groaned from under your arm.

“Jesus Christ, what time is it?”

“Time to stop hiding.”

You moved just enough to peer at her through one eye, still heavy with sleep and pure venom. “Are you seriously waking me up like this?”

“You’ve got an event in two hours.”

You didn’t move.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Fundraiser. Press will be there. Your wife expects a photo op and a smile.”

You sighed like you’d aged twenty years in ten seconds.

“I’m not going.”

“She thinks you are.”

“She thinks a lot of things.” You muttered, pulling the blanket back over your head.

Natasha was not a patient woman.

She crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the duvet and ripped it back in one motion. You yelped, twisting away from the sudden chill.

“Are you insane?”

“You’ve got forty-five minutes to shower and look like you haven’t been avoiding your entire life.”

You sat up sharply, sheets pooling in your lap, eyes blazing.

“Let me guess… SHIELD trained you in ‘Emotional Support and Manners,’ too?”

“They trained me to get the job done.” Natasha said. “And right now, you’re the job.”

“So you wanna ‘do’ me? Well, why didn’t you just say?” You smirk, eyes raking up the redhead’s body where you were met with an eye roll. 

“Oh please I’ve looked after kids with a better attitude.” Natasha scoffed but she couldn’t ignore what was in-front of her. You might have been a pain in the ass but you were a hot one.

You stood, barefoot on the hardwood, silk slipping off one shoulder. Everything about you was infuriatingly perfect and profoundly out of place. Like a painting hung in the wrong museum.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Your voice had an edge to it now, like you’d stopped teasing and she’d got you where it hurt.

“Too bad. You’ve got one.”

“And I don’t need to be dragged to a fucking fundraiser to play happy housewife for a woman who hasn’t touched me in a year.”

Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You can hate your wife on your own time. But this is public-facing. You don’t show up, you make headlines.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

There was a pause, a long one. The air between you stretched thin, tight like a wire about to snap.

Then you said, low and vicious. “She didn’t ask you to wake me up like this, did she? You just liked the power play.”

Natasha stared you down, her expression blank but her jaw tight. “I’m not here to play.”

You stepped closer, close enough for the words to sting when you dropped them, honey sweet and full of poison.

“No.” You said. “You’re here to be obeyed, right? Alpha dog on a leash. You want me dressed and smiling by ten? Better tell me nicely.”

Natasha blinked once.

“I don’t do nice.”

Your breath caught just slightly but you didn’t back down.

“I noticed.”

And for a second, neither of you moved.

Not until Natasha leaned forward, just enough.

“You keep bratting out like this, I’ll stop treating you like a job.”

You blinked and your throat bobbed. Then you said, quieter now. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natasha turned away before she could answer that. Before she could say what she wanted. Before she could do something worse.

“Be ready in thirty.” She said, over her shoulder. “Or I’ll pick the damn dress myself.”

You didn’t call her back.

You waited until she was gone before sitting back down on the bed, hands shaking, chest tight.

Because god help you, she’d touched something you’d tried very hard to bury.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The espresso was too hot and the mimosa was too cold, so you alternated between the two like they were medicine.

You stood at the kitchen island in a half-zipped dress and no shoes, hair still pinned up messily from your shower, sipping like it was brunch and not an emotional ambush.

The housekeeper, June, barely looked up from setting out your earrings on a velvet tray.

“Toast?” She asked.

“God, no.” You said. “Just feed me something I can won’t throw up dramatically in front of cameras later. Maybe a strawberry.”

June rolled her eyes and passed you one without comment. You plucked it from the plate with a lazy smile, voice softening as you spoke again.

“Thank you, by the way. You always know what I don’t want, which is honestly more useful than anything.”

That got a real smile out of her, small but real. She reached out and lightly adjusted the strap of your dress.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Natasha stood in the doorway watching all of it, the way your voice changed, the way you thanked the woman like it meant something, like she wasn’t just staff. The way June looked at you with something like pity, or maybe protectiveness.

It made Natasha pause.

Maybe you weren’t just a brat. Maybe you were also lonely in a thousand different directions.

But she still had a job to do.

“You ready?” She asked.

You didn’t answer. Just took another sip, this time from the mimosa.

“Dress is half done. Hair’s a disaster. Emotionally I’m a seven out of ten.”

“That’s generous.” Natasha muttered.

You turned to her with a sharp smile. “Don’t get testy. You’ll wrinkle your jacket and that would let terrible in the background of my pictures.”

“You said you weren’t going.”

“Changed my mind.” You replied. “Gotta give them the illusion that I’m still trying.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Just motioned to the door with a clipped gesture.

“Car’s waiting.” 

You downed the rest of the mimosa like it was a shot and followed her out barefoot.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was silent until your phone buzzed on the seat beside you.

You stared at the screen. Natasha did too.

Evelyn🤍

You let it ring out.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No.”

“She’s your wife.”

“And that means she’s entitled to my time but not my patience.”

Natasha didn’t let up. “If you don’t take the call, it’ll be worse later.”

“I’m used to worse.”

The phone buzzed again. This time, Natasha picked it up and held it toward you.

You glared at her.

“Answer it.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t feel like spending the next two hours babysitting a pouting debutante in the middle of a charity circus.”

You grabbed the phone and answered it, speaker on before she could object.

“Hello?”

“Finally!” Evelyn’s voice came through, crisp, cool, direct. No affection or warmth. “Are you en-route? I have a schedule to keep.”

You glanced at Natasha, who was now watching you, arms folded tightly, jaw clenched.

“Yes.” You said. “I’m on my way.”

“Your dress is steamed?”

“It’s fine.”

“Hair?”

“I’ll fix it in the car.”

“You need to be more camera ready than you were last week. You looked tired.”

You blinked, slow and sharp.

“Thanks for the feedback.”

“I’m just saying-“

“I heard you.”

Silence stretched for a moment then Evelyn cleared her throat.

“Okay. I’ll see you at the entrance. Try not to be late.”

The line went dead before you could even pretend to answer back.

You put the phone down gently.

Natasha didn’t say anything.

But you saw it, the subtle shift. The way her expression changed. She wasn’t smug. Not even vindicated.

She was quiet and curious.

“She always like that?” She asked after a beat.

You shrugged, eyes on the road.

“She used to be less… clinical.”

Natasha waited. You knew she would.

“She hasn’t been home in a week.” You added, voice quieter now. “Hasn’t said she loves me in longer.”

Then, after a pause. “And sex is… off the table. She stays out her townhouse in the city most of the time.”

“You don’t stay with her?”

“She said I would distract her from work...”

The car filled with silence again, thicker this time. Natasha didn’t offer comfort. That wasn’t her style but you saw her fists unclench.

You laughed once, not bitter, just tired.

“Guess now I’m just the perfectly dressed political accessory who sleeps on the right side of an empty bed.”

“You don’t have to be.” Natasha said.

You looked at her. “And what-“ You asked. “-would I be instead?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t.

But she turned to face forward again, her voice low.

“Fix your hair.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The green room smelled like hairspray and citrus scented hand sanitizer. Light jazz murmured from speakers overhead, a polite buffer for egos and nerves. You were ushered in ahead of Natasha, still adjusting an earring, dress fully zipped now, posture immaculate.

She trailed you like a shadow, always six feet behind, always watching.

Evelyn Prescott entered five minutes later, like she’d been waiting for a cue. Press-perfect. Blue suit dress. American flag pin glinting under the soft lighting. A smile built for cameras already in place.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Evelyn said lightly, crossing the room with open arms. “You look beautiful.”

You lit up. Natasha saw it, the small inhale, the straighten of your spine, the desperate flash of hope.

She also saw what happened next.

Evelyn kissed the air beside your cheek, not even pretending to touch your skin. Then she turned to shake the event coordinator’s hand without missing a beat.

Natasha watched your shoulders drop by a millimeter. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Except her.

Politeness flowed like wine. Evelyn was warm to everyone. Her laugh was practiced, low and pleasant. She thanked every volunteer, complimented floral arrangements, mentioned donor names with impressive recall.

But when she looked at you, she didn’t touch, didn’t soften, didn’t call you anything but your first name.

It was like watching a politician thank their intern, a pat on the head dressed in pearls.

You didn’t seem surprised. You just drifted back into position beside her, folding your arms behind you like someone used to standing quietly.

Natasha looked away for a second, just one second.

And when she looked back, the transformation had happened.

You and Evelyn were standing under camera lights in the ballroom foyer, picture-perfect. Your face was made for this, Natasha realised. You knew exactly how to tilt your chin, when to laugh softly, when to squeeze Evelyn’s arm in a way that made it seem like you belonged there.

You looked happy.

No one would guess that you’d begged to stay in bed this morning.

Natasha kept near through dinner. Not too close. Not too far. A private table had been arranged, Evelyn flanked by donors and other congressional heavyweights. You sat to her right, silent unless spoken to, nodding along, sipping champagne like it was water.

Except… Natasha noticed you didn’t sip. You drank. Gulped. Fast.

You kept your fingers curled around your wife’s arm when she stood to toast. Held her hand under the table, even when she didn’t hold yours back. You laughed a second too loud at an anecdote, eyes glassy with exhaustion or champagne, probably both.

Natasha folded her arms and leaned back against a pillar, scanning the room like she wasn’t quietly dying inside.

When Evelyn finally stood and spoke. “Excuse us for a moment.” She took you by the wrist, not the hand. Her smile never faded and neither did yours.

Natasha didn’t follow.

But she didn’t stay behind either.

She stopped just short of the hallway. One door slightly ajar. No one looking.

Inside, your voice broke the silence first.

“Can we just… can we go home together? Just tonight?”

A pause.

“I’m exhausted and you haven’t been home and- god, Evie, I miss you.”

Nothing for a moment. 

Then Evelyn’s voice, calm, practiced. “I told you this week was full.”

“I’m not asking for everything.” You said. “I’m just asking for something. Stay. Just stay. You don’t even have to-“ Your voice cracked. “-you don’t even have to pretend. Just be there.”

There was a long silence.

Then the thump of heels on tile. Most likely you advancing on your older wife, who you begged to just see you once.

“I’m not doing this here.” Evelyn said, this time quieter and more controlled. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” You snapped. “I’m desperate.”

Natasha held her breath. Then came the sound. A shove. Not loud but unmistakable. Fabric brushing against the wall. A gasp.

“You’re needy.” Evelyn hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I have a job. I have responsibilities. I don’t have time to coddle your every insecurity just because you don’t know how to be alone.”

Silence again.

Evelyn exhaled, sharp and rehearsed.

“I’m sending your babysitter in. She can take you home.”

Footsteps. 

A door creaked.

Natasha moved fast, ducking back into position before Evelyn appeared. The congresswoman swept past her like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just bruised a woman’s heart in a soundproof hallway.

“She’s ready to go…” was all she said.

Natasha didn’t respond to the woman, watching her waltz back into the room like she was running the show. And if Natasha knew anything about politics the she probably was. She waited five beats then went in.

You were still standing by the wall. Makeup pristine. Eyes red. Holding the pieces together with the same strength you used to carry the whole damn marriage on your back.

You didn’t look up.

Natasha walked over slowly. She didn’t say anything but she just slipped her coat off and held it out.

You took it without a word.

Only when she opened the side door and led you out toward the car did you finally speak.

“She used to love me, you know.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since she arrived, she saw you, not the brat, not the wife, not the public figure.

Just a woman breaking quietly in the backseat of a black car, clutching someone else’s coat like it could keep her warm.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car ride was quiet for a whole two blocks.

Then your voice floated from the back seat, a slur of silk and spite.

“Hey, Benji?” You called up to the driver.

Benji, a greying man with a kind voice and the patience of a saint, glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Take us to that place on Charles. The one with the blinking ‘OPEN’ sign that’s been out since 2009.”

“The… liquor store?”

“God, yes. The trashiest one. The one with the lollipops next to the condoms at checkout.”

Benji didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

Natasha, seated beside you, gave a slow exhale through her nose.

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” You said. “Unless you have a minibar hidden in that jacket, Soldier.”

Benji gave a dry chuckle. Natasha did not.

Ten minutes later, you came stumbling back to the car with a brown paper bag and zero shame. You didn’t wait. Just twisted the cap off the tequila, threw it back like it was water.

Natasha flinched.

“That’s not how you sip tequila.”

“I’m not sipping.” You grinned. “I’m coping.”

She reached for the bottle fast but you pulled it back faster.

“Don’t, Natasha. Please. Not tonight.”

There was no fire in it or flirtation. Just exhaustion in silk and eyeliner.

She let her hand fall back to her lap.

You drank again. Harder.

When the car pulled up to the house, Natasha got out first. Opened your door. You stared at the steps like they were Everest.

“Come on.” She said gently, eyeing the half drink bottle of tequila in your hand that had clearly done its number on the drive over.

“I can do it.” You mumbled.

“You can’t even stand.”

You tried. You failed.

She caught you before you hit the doorframe.

Somehow, she got you inside, one arm around your waist, one hand gripping your wrist to keep you steady. You smelled like vanilla and heartbreak and cheap liquor.

Your head lolled against her shoulder as she guided you up the stairs.

“I don’t do this.” You murmured.

“Get drunk?”

“Fall apart.”

“You were already falling.” You didn’t reply.

By the time she got you to your bedroom, you were quiet. Not passed out or asleep, just quiet in a way that honestly scared her a little.

She sat you down on the edge of the bed and started to pull your heels off.

“You don’t have to-“

“Shut up.” She shut you down.

You blinked at her. Then smiled, weakly. “There’s that bedside manner again.”

When she looked up, you were staring at her. Like you were trying to memorise something you didn’t think you’d get to see again.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

“Depends.”

“Am I ugly?”

Natasha froze.

“Because she doesn’t look at me.” You continued. “Not anymore. Not when I’m dressed up. Not when I’m naked. I don’t even think she notices when I leave the room.”

Your voice cracked.

“I used to be worth looking at.”

Natasha knelt in front of you, slowly.

You were flushed, eyes glassy, hands twisting in your lap.

“You’re not ugly.” She said, quietly.

You scoffed. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

She wanted to lie, to distract you, to offer some clean, packaged comfort but you looked too honest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” She said instead. “But if I had you-“

You blinked. She kept going.

“-I wouldn’t stop touching you. Looking at you. I wouldn’t let you fall asleep without knowing you were wanted.”

Your mouth trembled.

Something in your face cracked wide open.

You looked so young like this. Not in age but in pain. Like someone who still believed love was supposed to be safe.

“Don’t lie to me.” You whispered.

“I’m not.”

You stared at her for a moment longer, then nodded. Slowly. Like you were accepting a kindness you didn’t believe you deserved.

She eased you into the pillows. You clutched the blanket like it might disappear.

“Stay?” You murmured.

Natasha brushed hair from your forehead.

“I’ll be right outside.”

You were asleep before she made it to the door. She stood in the hallway for a long time, staring at the floor, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

Because somewhere in the mess of tequila, heartbreak and half-whispered confessions… she’d started to feel something she wasn’t supposed to.

[shesthemirrorball]

Crimson Seoul

lee byung-hun x afab! reader

tw: slapping, roughness

mdni 18+

an: let me know if you want a part 2! I hope you enjoyed.

The storm outside cracked like a warning, but Y/N didn’t flinch. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the silk robe brushing her thighs, clinging just enough to reveal the curve of her back.

Behind her, the sound of a door clicking shut echoed like a gunshot in the hush. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Lee Byung-hun.

Actor. Enigma. Dangerous charm wrapped in a tailored suit and a stare that could cut glass.

“You came,” she murmured.

“I always do,” he said, voice low and gravelled by something heavier than jet lag.

He stepped forward, unfastening his cuffs, eyes tracing the line of her spine like he was memorizing a secret. The tension between them crackled like static—months of flirtation, long-distance calls, and stolen looks exploding in the darkened silence.

Byung-hun reached for her waist, fingers brushing the sash of her robe. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

“Then don’t.” Y/N turned to face him, her lips parted, her pulse quickening as she caught the way his gaze dropped to her mouth.

He pulled her close—slowly, deliberately. One hand sliding up her thigh, the other cradling her jaw like she might disappear. Their lips collided with a hunger neither of them could tame. Heat flared between them, urgent and electric.

The robe slipped to the floor. He lifted her effortlessly, pressing her back against the cool windowpane. Seoul’s lights blurred behind her as his mouth trailed down her neck, tasting her skin like it was a promise.

“Say my name,” he whispered against her collarbone.

“Byung-hun…”

And he devoured it like a command.

The glass behind her was cold, but his hands were fire—gliding up her sides, firm and unhurried, claiming every inch like he was mapping her. Y/N’s breath hitched as Byung-hun pressed against her, his body all heat and strength and control, caging her in—but never without her permission.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Every night since you left L.A.”

She whimpered as he shifted her hips against his. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, her nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. “Then stop waiting.”

His mouth found hers again—deeper, more ravenous. He carried her across the penthouse, laying her down on the edge of the velvet chaise lounge. Rain lashed the windows, thunder pulsing like the beat between their ribs. He peeled off his shirt, the muscles of his torso catching the golden glow of city lights.

Y/N’s fingers found his belt. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, letting her take the lead—until the moment shifted. He caught her wrists gently, then pinned them above her head, leaning down so close she could taste his breath.

“Let me ruin you tonight,” he growled, voice like molten velvet. “And rebuild you again by morning.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

He took his time, worshipping her with his mouth—lips trailing across her collarbone, between her breasts, down her stomach. Her moans echoed off the walls, unrestrained. He was methodical, devastating. When his fingers found her—slow at first, then circling with unbearable precision—her back arched, her thighs trembling.

“You’re shaking,” he said, teasing. “So soon?”

“You talk too much,” she gasped.

He laughed, low and dark, then dipped lower. His tongue was merciless—expert and hungry. Her hips bucked against his mouth, her hands clawing at the cushion, the pleasure building like a tidal wave about to snap.

When she finally shattered, crying out his name again and again, he didn’t stop—not until her body collapsed, boneless and wild beneath him.

And then he stood, slow and deliberate, looking down at her with dark, devouring eyes.

“We’re not done,” he said, unbuckling his pants.

Y/N hadn’t even caught her breath when Byung-hun grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over onto all fours on the velvet chaise. Her hair tumbled over her shoulder like silk, and she let out a soft gasp—but he wasn’t giving her space to recover. Not this time.

“You wanted rough,” he growled, voice dipped in danger. “So don’t pretend to be shy now.”

His hand smoothed over her lower back, then came down—*smack*—a sharp slap that echoed through the penthouse. She moaned, the sting igniting something deeper. His other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to whisper into her ear.

“Safe word?”

“Crimson,” she panted.

He smirked. “Then you won’t need it.”

Byung-hun didn’t waste a second. He entered her with one hard thrust, forcing a cry from her throat that was half pleasure, half disbelief. He was deeper now, rougher, driving into her with deliberate force, his hips snapping against her ass with rhythmic power.

The chaise creaked beneath them, the rain still slamming against the glass as the city watched like a silent voyeur.

One hand kept her pinned at the small of her back. The other wandered—teasing her clit in slow, cruel circles between his punishing thrusts. She was whimpering now, caught between ecstasy and surrender.

“You take me so well,” he rasped. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be used like this?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “More.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping her onto her back. Before she could protest, he was above her again, dragging the belt from his slacks. The sound was menacing, delicious.

He tied her wrists together with it, firm but careful, lifting her arms above her head.

“Now,” he whispered, licking a trail up her inner thigh, “you don’t get to touch me… until I say.”

What followed was relentless.

He teased her with his mouth again, slower this time—but bound and unable to grab him, the tension was maddening. She squirmed, writhed, begged.

“Please, Byung-hun—”

A soft growl, then he plunged into her again, one hand at her throat, the other gripping her thigh wide open. His rhythm was unforgiving, primal. Her moans turned into cries, pleasure spiraling out of control as he pushed her past every edge.

When she came again, it was with a sob—completely wrecked, completely his.

By the time he finally followed with a groan, hips buried deep, chest slick with sweat, the thunder outside had quieted.

He collapsed beside her, untying her wrists slowly, tender now. The storm had passed.

But the look in his eyes promised it wasn’t the last.

[raekensluver]

stuck with me

masterlist | main masterlist

description: after a failed escape, you're trapped in a remote cabin with spencer reid - his love curdling into obsession. fear and isolation slowly strip away your sense of freedom.

pairing: dark!toxic!spencer reid x fem!reader

contains: dark themes!!! psychological horror, emotional manipulation, obsessive love, toxic/codependent relationship, captivity, gaslighting, soft domestic horror, eventual resignation/loss of agency, stockholm syndrome.

song rec: every breath you take by the police - "every breath you take, and every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take - i'll be watchin' you"

w.c: 3.0k

you wake to the low hiss of the percolator and the faint smell of something sweet in the air - maple, maybe, or the syrupy remnants of something that wants to be comfort. your eyes take a moment to adjust. pale winter light filters through the frost-streaked windows. the cabin is cold, the fire long since gone out. you’re still in bed, blanket tucked around your shoulders tighter than you remember pulling it.

there’s a heaviness in your limbs, like you’ve slept too long or not at all. you shift upright, slowly, blinking away the sleep. on the nightstand, resting beside the lamp, sits a single white daisy. its stem bends under its own weight, petals slightly bruised, like it was picked in a hurry. underneath it is a folded piece of paper with neat handwriting you know by heart.

didn’t want to wake you. you looked peaceful. - s

you stare at the note for a long time. you don’t reach for it. it’s not the first one he’s left. not the first flower. not even the first morning you’ve woken up with that same thick, sinking feeling in your chest - disoriented, your memory warped at the edges like water-damaged film.

but it always feels the same. like something soft rotting under the surface. like something too sweet, left out too long. you try not to think about it as you climb out of bed. the floorboards creak under your feet. your sweater hangs loose on your frame, sleeves swallowed over your fingers.

you pass the bookshelf you’ve alphabetized twice this month. the window you once tried to crack open until you realized it was bolted shut from the outside. the couch where he reads with his head in your lap and tells you he’s never felt safer. everything is quiet. everything is still.

in the kitchen, spencer stands over the stove, back to you. his posture is relaxed, fingers tapping lightly against the pan. he’s humming something tuneless under his breath. he’s wearing that old cardigan - the one with the frayed cuffs and worn elbows. his hair is slicked back, but the bangs have fallen loose, like he didn’t bother checking a mirror.

or like he only ever wants to look good for you.

when he hears your footsteps, he turns. his face softens instantly. “you’re up,” he says, smiling. “perfect timing. pancakes are almost done.” you nod, arms crossed over your chest.

you don’t say anything. there’s nothing to say, really - not that hasn’t already been said. not that wouldn’t crack open something delicate between you. he steps forward, spatula still in hand, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “slept okay?” he asks gently.

you lie. “yeah.”

he beams, pleased with himself, and turns back to the stove. “you were mumbling a little in your sleep,” he says. “nothing intelligible. just…” his hand tightens slightly around the panhandle. then he shrugs and flips the last pancake onto a plate.

“here,” he says. “made them just for you.”

he plates the food carefully, like presentation matters. like you’re still someone to impress. he sets a mug of coffee in front of you, your favorite, or at least the one you told him was your favorite. you’re not sure anymore. maybe you just can’t taste anything at all.

the pancakes are slightly burnt around the edges. you eat them anyway. he watches you. he always does. you think he likes mornings best, when you’re still quiet. when the silence hasn’t yet curdled into resistance.

it wasn’t always like this.

you used to live in a city. with trains and sidewalks and friends who texted to make sure you got home safe. you used to be someone with a last name, with a favorite bar, with music in the background. with a toothbrush that wasn’t bought for you.

you used to say spencer was just shy. sweet. different. you thought it was endearing, the way he stuttered through compliments. how he looked at the ground like his body wasn’t used to kindness.

you never once thought it would unravel like this.

the first time you tried to leave, he collapsed. not figuratively. not emotionally. he dropped to his knees, sobbing so violently you thought something inside him had ruptured. he begged, incoherent, repeating your name like a scratched vinyl until his voice gave out and his hands clutched his chest like he couldn’t breathe without you.

he passed out on the apartment floor.

you stayed.

you told yourself it was temporary. just one more week. just until he saw a therapist. just until the worst of it passed. but the next day, he was better - sweet, even. he brought you flowers. cleaned the kitchen. kissed your knuckles like you were made of spun glass.

he apologized again and again like a boy afraid of being scolded. said he didn’t remember all of it. said he just loved you too much. and for a while, you almost believed that was all it was - love in the wrong shape. too big. too heavy. too desperate to carry.

but now you live in a cabin. one with no cell reception and a car that conveniently doesn’t start anymore. you haven’t seen your own phone in weeks. he says it’s somewhere safe. he brings groceries once a week and insists you don’t lift a finger.

“it’s my job to take care of you,” he tells you, brushing your hair back like he’s tucking away a prayer. “you make everything worth it.” you don’t argue. not anymore. it’s not that you believe him. it’s just that you’re tired.

sometimes, late at night, you press your ear to the front door and just listen. you don’t know what you’re hoping to hear. maybe an engine. maybe voices. maybe your own heartbeat sounding like it used to. sometimes, when you’re sure he’s asleep, you unlock the door and place your palm flat against the wood.

you never open it - he’s a light sleeper, he always notices when you drift too far.

today, after breakfast, he suggests baking. “banana bread?” he offers, hopeful. “you love banana bread. it’s cozy.”

you nod. another lie. you’re not sure what you love anymore. you’re not sure who you are, here. but he looks so pleased when you agree, and you’ve learned it’s easier not to resist the parts of him that pretend this is love. he puts on a record. something slow, orchestral, the kind of song that loops into itself without ever really ending.

you sit on the couch, legs folded beneath a blanket, sipping lukewarm coffee while he moves through the kitchen like a ritual. flour, sugar, eggs - each ingredient carefully measured, narrated softly like he’s talking you through a dream. “too much sugar’s bad for you,” he murmurs. “but today’s a treat. it’s a good day.”

you nod again.

sunlight slants low through the windows, the kind of light that looks warmer than it feels. dust floats in the air like snowfall. the smell of cinnamon clings to your sleeves, but underneath it is something older. something that’s been in the walls a long time.

you wonder how long it’ll be before you forget what freedom tasted like.

he turns to you with flour on his wrist, smiling. “you’re quiet,” he says. “but that’s okay. i like you quiet.” and the thing is - he means it. he really, truly does. that’s what scares you most.

later, when the bread is in the oven and your hands smell like nutmeg and dish soap, you tell him you’re going to take a shower. he smiles, presses a kiss to your forehead, tells you not to rush. says you deserve a little self-care. says you’ve been so good lately.

his eyes linger too long when he says it. you nod again, not flinching. the water pressure is weak but warm, the stream loud enough to drown out the rest of the house. you stay in longer than necessary, letting the steam fog the mirror until your reflection disappears completely.

sometimes, that’s the only way you can stand to look at yourself - blurred and unknowable.

you don’t cry. not anymore. whatever was soft in you has hollowed into something else. not grief. not even sadness. more like silence in a room that used to echo.

you towel off, change into one of the sweatshirts he leaves folded for you. then, carefully, you crack the bathroom window open - its the only window in the house thats not bolted shut. you dont open it enough to be obvious. just enough to feel a different kind of air. one that doesn’t belong to him.

you don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this. but you don’t know what happens if you stop.

the cabin creaks beneath your footsteps as you walk. you move slowly, careful not to disturb the way the silence holds its breath. your hand brushes the edge of the guest room door - usually closed. today, it’s ajar.

he must’ve forgotten.

you glance behind you once. then again. then slip inside.

the room smells like dust and cedar. like something faintly chemical. the window is boarded from the outside. there’s a desk in the corner, drawers all locked. a rocking chair that hasn’t moved in years.

and just beside the closet is the attic pull-down.

you’ve never been up there.

you reach for the cord, your fingers shaking slightly as you tug it down. the ladder groans in protest. a cold draft breathes down from the opening. still, you climb one rung, then two.

you hesitate. you don’t know what you expect to find. maybe nothing. maybe something worse. your breath hitches as you climb the rest of the way before you can talk yourself out of it.

the attic is dim and cramped, beams angled low like a ribcage. the air tastes old. a trunk sits in the corner, half-open, waiting. you cross the space and kneel beside it, lifting the lid with careful hands.

inside, you find a stack of your old clothes. sweaters. shoes. a purse you forgot you missed. you dig deeper - there’s a photo of you and your friends. your phone, cracked and dead. a necklace. a half-used chapstick. things that shouldn’t be here, but are.

at the very bottom is a tape recorder. your breath catches and you decide to press play.

static.

then your voice. laughing. you don’t remember when it was recorded. you’re talking about a book. you sound bright. open. untouched. spencer’s voice is in the background, quiet, asking you to say it again. you laugh. he tells you you sound like sunlight.

you call him a dork.

your voice breaks something in you. you rewind it. listen again. you don’t remember ever being that happy. you don’t remember who that was.

he’s there before you can even put the recorder down, footsteps soft but deliberate. the floorboards creak beneath him, steady and slow. “baby?” his voice is calm, too calm, like it’s a game neither of you want to lose. you don’t move. your heart hammers loud enough to drown out the quiet house. behind you, the attic ladder swings slightly, forgotten.

his presence fills the room, but he doesn’t come closer. you hear the kitchen drawer open, the familiar scrape of the bread knife being lifted out - but then the drawer closes again. you step down the ladder quickly, your hands still trembling from the attic’s cold grip.

when your feet hit the floor, he’s standing just beyond the threshold, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. he doesn’t look angry. not really. just disappointed. “you were exploring?” his voice is light, almost teasing. like he’s playing with you, like this is still a game.

you try to say something, but your mouth is dry. empty. he glances past you, catches sight of the ladder, notices the dust on your hands. his breath hitches. he runs a hand through his hair - that’s when you notice what’s in his other hand. it’s just a dish towel. the knife is still in the drawer, but somehow, this is worse. the moment stretches, long and taut, like a wire ready to snap.

“i thought we talked about boundaries,” he says softly, voice steady but sharp beneath the surface. “i thought we were past the phase where you needed to…test me.” your voice is a whisper, barely there. “i just wanted some air.”

he laughs - low, worn, like a man tired of repeating himself. “you don’t need air,” he says. “you need consistency.” he steps closer and gently takes your wrist. “you need me.”

you don’t pull away. you can’t. because for one aching, terrifying moment, you almost believe him.

he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. not cruelly, not coldly. he just floats through the cabin like a ghost - polite, gentle, always a few steps behind you. he makes tea and leaves it by your elbow. folds laundry with careful hands. hums softly while he sweeps, eyes flicking toward you like he’s checking you’re still there.

you never try to go back up to the attic. you just sit on the couch and stare at the fireplace, cold and untouched, quiet for weeks.

but today, he lights it. he says the cold might make you sick, that he couldn’t bear that. the way he says it twists your throat. like he still thinks you’re fragile. like you’re still the person he fell for - not the one stuck here now, sitting in his warmth like a ghost.

that night, he cooks dinner - something simple, nostalgic. grilled cheese and tomato soup. says he remembered you mentioning it once, when things were easier. he sets the table, lights a candle, and puts on music. slow, romantic. like it’s date night.

you chew in silence, thinking of the tapes hidden away in the attic. he watches you eat like every bite is a promise.

“you scared me earlier,” he says quietly. “i thought maybe i was losing you again.”

you flinch but don’t look up. “i wasn’t trying to leave,” you murmur - half truth, half lie. “i just… didn’t think it mattered.”

his mouth tightens. he sets down his spoon too carefully. “it always matters,” he says sharply. “everything you do matters.”

you nod, because it’s easier.

his expression softens again, like a switch flipping off. he reaches across the table and brushes his knuckles over yours. “i forgive you,” he says.

you don’t say thank you. but he smiles like you did.

you sleep in the same bed that night, like you always do. he curls around you like ivy, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck. his fingers trace slow circles on your ribs - steady, calm, endless.

“i always used to dream about this,” he whispers, voice half-lost in the dark. “not the house, not the cabin. just this. just you. still. quiet. mine.”

you stare at the wall.

“i love you so much it hurts,” he says. “but i’ll be okay. as long as you’re here.”

you don’t move. instead, you let him hold you tighter. you don’t sleep at all.

the next morning, you wake to another flower. this one is yellow. a wild daffodil, wilting at the edges. beneath it, a longer note:

i know things have been hard lately. i know it’s a lot. but i also know you. and i know you’ll see this is what’s best. i never wanted to hurt you. i just wanted to keep you safe. - s

you read it twice, then fold it and tuck it into the drawer beside your bed - next to the others. stacked quiet and pressed flat like old letters in a war bride’s chest.

you stand. stretch. brush your hair - go through the motions like they’re your own.

you make the bed, tie your hair back, and change into clean clothes. preparing to walk into the kitchen and greet him first.

it doesn’t happen all at once - the breaking.

it’s small, quiet, gradual. creeping like fog, rot in the beams, static in the walls. it slips beneath your skin. by the time you notice, you can’t dig it out.

one morning, you stop checking the window locks. the next, you stop counting the steps across the room. one afternoon, he hands you a book. you smile at him before you even look at the title.

you start humming while you clean, you laugh at his jokes, you take his picture, you kiss him first.

months pass like smoke.

you don’t remember how long it’s been since the tapes. since the attic. since your hands shook when he looked at you for too long.

now, you hold his gaze, you rest your head on his chest, and you let him read to you until you fall asleep.

you believe him when he says he’d die without you - not because it’s poetic but because it’s true.

and deep in your bones, you realize: you would die without him, too.

not your body - your body would still breathe.

but whatever was you - your fire, your fight, your name said in your own voice - has long since gone quiet.

you belong to him now. and what’s worse - you’ve stopped wanting to be saved.

one night, he kneels before you with a ring made from a twisted string of daisies. you take it without blinking. he says, “i knew you’d come around.”

you say, “i never really left.”

he smiles wide, bright - almost holy. and when he pulls you into his arms and presses his lips to yours, you taste sunlight and syrup.

you close your eyes and let him have you. because it’s easier this way. because he was right all along. because no one is coming. because this is love now. because he told you so.

and you believe him.

taglist: @maxsisly

[sheepispink]

The Presence of Another

supersoldier!reader x ltghost (+ tf141)

part 9 of Weaponised Series Masterlist

a/n: all relationships are platonic, prolly some ooc who knows

part one previous next

-----------

You sleep surprisingly fine without the stuffed animals, and you wake up around twenty minutes after Ghost does. It’s not much of an issue, since you both get to the mess hall in time to sit opposite the two sergeants, who seem awfully indifferent to the fact you had passed out yesterday. Or perhaps they really didn't know, because they just spent the whole time debriefing you about the mission they went on whilst Ghost would occasionally signal them to cut out parts he didn't want you knowing— more specifically the men who had died in your place.

Thankfully, duties had called them away before they could talk your ear off and now the two of you were headed down to the smaller gym which is always emptier and so far quieter.

 “So, how long do you usually run?”

“Five miles? 20 laps usually.” 

His brows raise for a second before he shrugs it off, writing something down on the clipboard he has. It’s somewhat amusing to you, even for a split second, seeing Ghost holding up a clipboard like that. Maybe you’ve been hanging around the sergeants far too much, but he really does not look like the type of guy to even touch one of them. “Oi, pay attention.” His pen taps the corner of the board, rolling his eyes when he sees that dazed look, and you sheepishly shake your head to snap out of it. “At what point does it start getting painful?”

“Well, my vision gets a little hazy around the fourth, but it’s only painful half a mile after.”

Hearing you talk about your struggles so casually will never be normal to him, but he knows that if he tries to address it now, it’d only cause more problems— right now, he’s on thin ice. 

“Right. We’ll start with just four miles every day now—”

“But I always do five. I’ve done five for months now.” For once, you interrupt, features twisting as he reduces your laps just because you felt a bit off. For you, it didn't matter all that much— the pain was part of this life— so you didn't understand the need for it.

“Well, clearly you’re not in the same state as you were last month when you could do it, hm? Remember those pills you didn't take? The seizure?” His reminder is slightly harsh, but it’s true— you weren't the same person anymore. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, he definitely wasn't the same person he was before he met you, nor was he the same person when he started the force. Though, he can understand why it might feel that way for you. The only way you’re supposed to move is forward, never backwards. Thankfully, you seem to have got the memo when you don't argue any further. 

“Good. How about your arm and leg workout then?”

He’d be a liar if he didn't find it somewhat amusing when you’d get a little riled up at each of his decisions. You can't stand changing from routine, that’s clear, but even the slightest change for your own health has your brows furrowing and cheeks puffing. Though, you do end up agreeing to all his plans by the end of it, especially when he promises to only trial it for two weeks. Now you’ll take a break after three miles, run the next mile and, depending on if you get dizzy or not, you’ll run the next half mile too. As for the workouts, he has you on very basic warmups to begin with, stretches are a must since you tend to skip them in your haste; you even promised that you’ll drink at least half a litre between each workout now. 

Part of the reason you agreed was only because he had promised he’d find something to occupy you in exchange for everything he cut out. He didn't want to give you something too slow, since he knows that it’d just allow your mind to easily consume and eat at you again, so he has to think smarter— he has to think in your shoes… This might take a while.

————

You’ve noticed a few changes in your schedule ever since you requested to be in Ghost’s room. 

First of all, the sergeants are pretty adamant in feigning anger at you for not picking either of them, giving you a playful nudge whenever you complain about Ghost not letting you do things and insisting they would. It had horrified you the first time, after Price’s reaction you had thought they were being serious and almost panicked. Ghost had scolded them after that. Now you roll your eyes as Gaz pretends to be hurt by the ‘blatant favouritism’ as he calls it.

Another thing is that post workouts are a lot different. Your schedule has changed massively since you had been the perfect soldier, starting with meals with the team and their doting. Now, instead of eating whatever scraps there are for dinner and scrubbing yourself raw as fast as you can in the communal shower rooms, you take long warm showers in Ghost’s bathroom. Apparently he’s had a budget allocated for you by the higher ups for some time, and it’s racked up to a big amount after the months it wasn't put to use. Not that you would’ve really asked for anything if you knew, but now you get some nice smelling soaps— never lavender though.

Ghost did keep your ‘bedtime’ roughly the same, after he figured out you even set yourself one.

“You get tired awfully early.” He had stated when you yawned during an evening walk with him. It was the fifth day of this new regime, and you didn't really think it was that big of a deal. “I used to always sleep at eight thirty—that was my usual time.” 

“Eight? Why?”

You blink, not really thinking much into your self-proclaimed bedtime because when things worked, things worked. You didn't need to question further, did you?  

“I.. It started after the second week I came here, I think.” Now that he’s got that train of thought running, you can’t help but question how it even came to that early, or maybe it was only because you really had nothing else to do.  “I wasn’t eating all that much, so I relied on sleep for energy instead. At least, that’s how I made the decision I think. Plus, that’s when I'd get startled by nightmares, so I had to give enough time for me to wake up every night and then fall back asleep whilst still getting a good amount of it.”

He stops walking and cocks his head, gesturing for you to sit and the wood creaks when he finally settles too. Nights are still cold, so you have his flimsy hoodie protecting your arms, and he’s bundled in a warm jacket. The both of you are quiet for a little, your eyes focusing on the forest where you had hidden in only a month ago now. Sometimes you still wait, listening for the small yips, a rustle of the bushes or the slightest flash of orange— any sign of that little fox. 

“You know it’s fine, right?” 

“What?”

“Don’t go believin’ every word you’re told. You don't need to push yourself to run five miles. You’re allowed, and should stop when it hurts.”

Ever since that evening you’ve believed his words, in fact you’ve believed everything he’s said to you. It was more than the Captain had ever said to soothe you; it was even more than what that medic had promised you. It wasn’t pity, nor was it even comfort— it was cold hard truth, a command if anything. Weirdly enough, that made your stomach settle, and you didn't doubt it for a second, choosing to just nod and listen. 

So, you stopped arguing, stopped complaining when he gave you a proper breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You definitely didn't complain when he nudged you to bed at eight thirty because, for every day in this strange new regime, you’ve been working just as hard as before and not once have you ever felt that crushing pain.

———————

It’s been a week and a half, and you stumble in at eight o clock as usual. Sometimes Ghost isn't here, and sometimes he is, it really depends on the day. The others have all their differing schedules, and you’re okay with it really— you kind of like the alone time you’ve got now that they’re not coddling you anymore. Price has also kept a fair distance ever since he got angry with you. He did in fact talk to you mildly about it, but after Ghost told him that he’d handle your overexertion he’d dropped the matter quickly. Now you rarely saw him, apart from the occasional uncomfortable breakfast, but the sergeants made sure that the silence never grew too awkward. 

You change into your pajamas, which happens to just be one of Ghost’s old shirts, and then the one pair of joggers you own. One thing you discovered after staying in his room was that you could get away with practically anything just by the excuse of your wellbeing. Maybe Soap was rubbing off on you just a tad.

Now you wear his shirts to bed, because you still haven’t bought me anymore, you say, and he rolls his eyes, begrudgingly letting you take them. Sometimes when he comes to bed he finds you sprawled out like a starfish, taking up as much space as you can just so he grunts, pushing you to the side easily. When he asks about it in the morning, you just shrug, refusing to believe that you even do any of that. He doesn't pay too much mind to your little antics, quickly reminding you that you’re still on punishment for what you pulled and that he can make you sleep on the floor if he so wishes.

You climb onto the bed with a sigh, feeling strange without the usual weight in your arms, nor the softness of your old duvets. Ghost’s weren't bad, no they were comfortable, but you had got too used to your old ones, and now you were regretting pulling your little escapade in the first case. Well, you suppose that was the point of the punishment, to make you regret your actions.

With a soft huff you push your face into the pillow, forcing your eyes shut so you don't think too hard about how quiet this room sounds without him, or how cold the bed is. There are things to do tomorrow— you need to stop caring.

————

Your fingers curl into fists, the sheets rubbing against your skin as you squirm and push your head further forward, trying to push through the haze that seems to attack you with every blink. 

Nothing happens, no light greeting you even with how far you’ve run, and so for once you stop, swallowing sharply. You thought you could handle this, the visions, they never got this bad, and Ghost never noticed anyway— but this was different. Slowly, you take deep breaths, try to concentrate on the whispers swirling around, the flashes of colour that never quite linger for a second longer.

Your hand snaps to the side, grabbing something— or someone— by the neck. You don't dare look, already recognising the cruel voices of the petty soldiers who tried to kill you. Well, they’d be the ones to die this time

Releasing your grip, the body dissipates between your fingers, mere dust as your chest pumps harder, something pushing you further. The deep breaths don't settle the race this time, only tingling your nerves as something looms, towers over you. Not this time. Never again.

Your arm shoots out, the figure right there for you to grab, but you miss, grabbing at the air. Though the figure still overlooks you, threatening as it leans closer and closer. You steady yourself, desperately trying anything and everything to grasp the heavy pressure weighing down on your chest, the monster tearing into your throat. Every night it worked, so why not this one? Why not this time? 

——

So many unanswered questions contaminate your brain, but the second the light finally fills your eyes all you can think of is “What- what’s going on?”

You’re pressed against the floor, pain rumbling through your middle with the heavy lamp rolling away from you on the hard floor. Two hands lock your wrists still, brown eyes staring back at you in the dark of the room. “A nightmare.” Ghost breathes out and, if not for his pale nose huffing out in relief when he lets go, you would’ve thought this was still the dreamscape.

Slowly you push yourself up onto your elbows and then to finally sit upright, nose twitching at the pain in your abdomen before you just swallow hard and finally look around. Now you notice the lampshade has been knocked far away, a small crack also running up the base of the lamp itself. You must’ve fallen off of the bed in your haze and, similar to other experiences, grabbed onto the lamp which landed directly onto your chest. Well, that explains the pressure you were feeling.

He watches you for a few moments, as your breaths heave, and then you eventually steady yourself, eyes locked on your hands like you’re searching for the usual marks left behind. “This the first one you’ve had?” Recently, anyway. He doesn’t say it, but you know it’s lingering as he stares down at you, your eyes tracking every crease as his lips move, every twitch of his brow and bob of his throat. You shake your head, and he nods, understanding, and his eyes roam over your body yet again, watching the way your fingers curl against the hardwood floor. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

Somehow his voice sounds softer, even if it's at the exact same volume, and you slowly shake your head, his brow furrowing just slightly at your words. You know he wants you to tell him; it’s not like you’ve never talked about them before, in fact you have plenty of times. The scientists never allowed you much privacy.

“Can’t tell you. I don't even know what happened myself.”

Your answer is vague, and honestly a little suspicious. Though, he just locks onto your eyes for a few moments, slowly looking over your features before eventually reaching forward and giving his hand out to help you up. You take it, his large hand tightly pulling you upright before he leans down to pick up the lamp and its shade, placing it back on the counter. “I knew my duvets were pretty bad, but I didn't think you’d rather fall off the bed than be in them.” He mutters, acting like he hadn't just tried to joke with you so casually, before kicking some slippers over to you. “C’mon.”

You follow him down the corridor, down towards your room where he slides his key in and opens it. The room isn't how you remembered leaving it, covers thrown on the floor, drawers, and the closet opened wide and even clothes cluttered on the floor. “Price ordered some soldiers to search your room.” He gruffly states, and you just nod, more taken aback that he had willingly given up that information to you.

“Why?”

He shrugs, pulling your duvet off the bed and tucking it beneath his arm as he reaches for your pillows as well. “Must’ve been searching for something. He didn't find anything, at least not that I know.” You nod slowly, and pick up the two stuffed animals, turning them over in your hands. The soft fur warms your cold hands, making you forget about the sweat trickling down your neck as he heads towards your closet, peeking through the mess made. “Huh, you really don't have any clothes. Well, apart from the uniforms I moved over.”

“Told you.” You murmur, eyes still locked onto the stuffed animals before you finally tuck it beneath your arm, turning over to where he looks at the name engraved into one of your old uniforms. “Maybe he thought I got another gun.” It slips out and, for some stupid reason. you snort at the thought of that gift box on your dresser again, the note inside and the gun laying there so pristine. Some part of you does find it wildly amusing thinking about what Price’s reaction would be, especially after everything you now know. Maybe you could play bingo with whatever fake words he’d spew this time.

“Hmm, you’re not shaken up enough that you can't joke, so do you really need those?” He smirks, gesturing to the plushies in your hands.

“What? You’re the one who forced me to buy them.”

“No, that was Price. I was planning to knock you out every night; pretty good technique I'd say.”

You can’t believe his audacity, to openly say he’d punch you to sleep after he had been the cause of so much that had happened recently. It’s such a wild thing to say that you immediately laugh, a smile breaking out on your face. “Guess you’re speaking from experience then.”

“You’d never know, mask hides it all.” He plucks one of the stuffies out your hands, stealing it from you and squashing it beneath his arm with the duvet. “We better get back before you fall asleep standing up.” He strides out of the room before you can retort, making you jog slightly to keep up with his longer steps– almost like he’s trying to escape your wrath.

“I don't even need sleep– I’ve told you like a million times, and you don't believe me.” He looks straight at you and rolls his eyes before pulling the black balaclava off, closing his room door behind you. “I can withstand many hours awake!” He’s replaced his blankets with yours now, your softer pillows rather than his flattened ones. 

“And you still drool all over the pillows.”

Your face scrunches up, unbelieving as he continues to get even more cocky with his words.  Before you can muster up a response, you’re ushered into bed, beneath the covers with the two stuffed animals tucked right beside you. The mattress dips as he slides in, his face just barely visible in the dim light. 

“If you don't sleep, I will lock you in this room for the whole day. Some poor soldiers will have to guard the windows too.”

You swallow, not wanting to be sitting still any longer than you want to be. The insistence to not sleep was nothing more than empty complaints, just to get on his nerves a tad, but you hadn't realised he’d go that far. That is, to threaten you into sleeping. It’s not exactly like you don't deserve the threat either— it’s for a good cause, that being your health.

The adrenaline of the dream has died down now, finally leaving your heart in its usual steady rhythm and the cold sweat disappearing. However, a little bit still lingers, the reason why you’re still awake now. Even as you hold one of the plushies close to your chest, hidden beneath the duvet, you can't help but be a little worried it’ll return. You’ve seen worse, known worse, but there’s something about him witnessing it first hand that gets you.

“Y’alright?” He asks, reaching over to fluff your pillow a little, but you snap out of and nod quickly, turning over to hide your face away. “Yeah.. Getting comfy, that’s all.”

His eyes still linger on your back that now faces him, your behaviour leaving a worrying feeling settling in his gut no matter how hard he tries to push it down. How had he not noticed the nightmares before? How many had you experienced right beside him? 

“Cold? I can warm it up if you want.” He reaches over your arm to gently pinch at the stuffed animal, before leaving his hand to linger on your upper arm, making you turn back slightly to meet his eyes again. 

“It’s okay, the covers are warm enough.” Your voice lowers to a whisper, the quiet worry in your gut controlling you. 

“Alright. Let me know.” He waits for you to nod before finally turning over, his back now facing you. 

For a while you settle into the haze between awake and asleep, listening for his breaths to slowly even out as a sign of sleep. Though, even with his mask off, it’s impossible to read him. Everything about him is so controlled, disciplined and contained, though just slightly ripping at the seams. You were the same, until you burst that is. March is still cold up north, and the window is a crack open. Goosebumps cover your arms, sending a chill down your back and crawling up to your face. Still, even as you toss and turn, the cold settles on your back like the nightmare did, persisting through all your desperate attempts. Your eyes droop, exhausted, and you know for sure that it’s too late to ask him now for that warmth– even pressing your nose into the plushie does no good for you. 

As you blink again, you watch his shoulder twitch, then again, until he rolls over slightly in his sleep. He settles on his back, chest rising quietly before falling once more. But you’re not thinking about that, more so how warm he is from how his leg had accidentally bumped your knee. You soon fall into a deep sleep with your head on the corner of his pillow, your arm conveniently grazing his and your nose brushing dangerously close to his shoulder. What you didn't know was that your little eagle and wolf would end up discarded to the floor, no longer needed when something else kept you far more grounded.

------------------

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a/n:

lmk if you guys prefer longer chapters bcus this would've been over 7k words but i didnt want you guys to wait even LONGER. so the next one is prewritte, yes, and i will release it after editing which shouldnt take long. urm do i need to announce anything else... oh yeah i did well on my exams so the break did pay off, now to grind fanfics for the whole of summer :p

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