#thank you for suggesting a sequel

[levi-venn]

Accolades - Part Two

Timeline: A Year after the final escape from Mount Tantiss.

Summary: Hunter wants to make an Accolades Box for Omega, too, but he needs his brothers' help. Part One | Part Two | Part Three Available on AO3

Note: A special thank you to @dragonrider9905 @yeehawgeek and @cw80831 for requesting a sequel.

A lot of changed after the war ended.

And the carefully decorated boxes Hunter had made for each of his brothers stopped collecting accolades and started collecting dust. 

He couldn’t bear to look at them when Crosshair joined the Empire. 

He thought about throwing them away when Tech fell.

In the end, he hid the lovingly painted boxes in his armor tote. Out of sight…but never quite out of mind.

A year went by.

Pabu was beginning to feel like home. Crosshair had returned to them. Omega was finally safe. Echo visited often. 

For the first time in Hunter’s life, he could think of those five boxes and not feel his heart cave in on itself.

It was time to add a sixth.

Omega and Phee left that morning for a treasure hunting trip and would be gone for the next week. A week longer than Hunter would like, but it was just enough time for four brothers to get together and figure out this whole...arts and crafts thing.

Hunter sent a message to his squad: [We got a Mission, boys . Come on over at 1300]

He quickly added: [A Fun Mission]

Then...he clarified: [It’s for Omega]

Echo replied first: [Roger that]

Wrecker next: [A mission for Omega? I’m in!]

Crosshair gave a thumbs up.

By 1302, the brothers sat in the middle of Hunter’s home, sitting in a circle on the floor, a box in front of each of them. 

Hunter placed Tech’s box in the center of the circle. They had all agreed to keep it closed.

For a long while, no one spoke, quietly looking at each medal and ribbon and the messages Hunter had etched into each.

Surprisingly, Crosshair was the first to speak. “I can’t believe you kept them. You kept mine.” He turned a medal over in his hand, reading the inscription Hunter had carved over the original accolade.

[The most WIZARD precision shot through a tank’s barrel while spitting a toothpick in a clanker’s eye]

“Heh, I remember this mission. I short circuited the droid’s OS with that toothpick.”

“Oh yeah! I remember that! ” Wrecker laughed, punching Crosshair’s arm, earning a quiet, amused hiss.

“I can’t believe you etched over these medals,” Echo said, looking through his pile of medals.

“Hope it's not too sacrilegious for you,” Hunter said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Not at all," Echo replied. "I think this is more appropriate than any awards we received on our missions. As an ARC trooper the more devastating our losses, the more medals we received. Really sours the award when its attached to so much death. Trust me, this is better.” Echo read one of his medals aloud.  "'[The most regulation codes recited in an hour]'" He laughed. "I would’ve had hundreds of these medals in Domino Squad.  Thank you for doing this, Hunter.”

“What’s in there?” Crosshair asked, nodding to the box with half a skull painted on top.

“...Nothin’.” Hunter said, scooting it closer to him.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Crosshair sneered, pointing a toothpick at Hunter.

“C’mon, show us!” Wrecker said, and reached for the box.

Hunter snatched it from the circle and hugged it to his chest. “It’s none of your business.”

“Guys, he doesn’t want to-” Echo started, but Crosshair pushed past him to lunge at the box. He bumped Hunter’s arm instead and it slipped out of his hands into Wrecker’s lap.

Hunter dove forward! Wrecker rolled backwards! Crosshair slithered into the fray.

“Boys…” Echo sighed and collected the other boxes before they could get crushed by three grown men wrestling and giggling like shiny cadets.

When the dust settled, Wrecker had Hunter in a headlock while Crosshair perched on Wrecker’s back, gazing thoughtfully at the collection of medals.

“What’s in it?” Wrecker asked, ruffling Hunter’s hair as he kept him pinned.

Crosshair frowned and reached for another medal. And another. And another…

“I told you, it’s nothing,” Hunter grumbled, wriggling futilely in Wrecker’s iron grip.

“You…put the same message on each medal,” Crosshair said.

He didn’t read the inscription aloud.

[This medal is awarded to Hunter for being the proudest oldest brother in this Badass Batch. I love you guys.]

“Wrecker, let him go.” He hopped off his brother’s back and handed a medal to Echo and Wrecker to read. 

“It's the same message on each medal because I felt the same way after every mission," Hunter sighed. "So, go ahead and laugh.”

“You should’ve told us you were doing this,” Crosshair said, handing the box back to Hunter. 

“Yeah! We could’ve made you a medal, too!” Wrecker said, handing a medal back.

"Yeah...well..." Hunter shrugged and looked away. “I didn’t ask you here to make medals for me. I asked you here because I’d like to make some medals for Omega too.”

Wrecker gasped. “Ooh, that's a good idea!”

“So we write anything we want?” Crosshair asked.

“Anything you want,” Hunter said. “We’ll make them together, a daily project, as many medals as we can think of before she gets back. It ain’t a competition, but I’d like to fill it up.” He showed them the latest box with an energy crossbow and white skull painted on top.

“Let's hear our orders then, Sarge,” Echo said. 

“Right,” Hunter puffed up. “Alright, boys, here’s the plan. Wrecker, secure us some bundt cakes from Shep for this week’s end. Lemon for Omega, red velvet for me n’ you, dark chocolate for Crosshair, and confetti for Echo.”

“Roger that!” Wrecker said, and headed off to his solo mission.

“Echo, gather up some construction flimsy and ribbons from Feilo’s shoppe. Yellow and gray color scheme preferred. And we need adhesives, markers, paints, and a few rotary precision tools.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Echo said, and was next to leave.

“Crosshair, you and I are on a scavenger hunt to the junkyard for any materials that look like our old medals. Metal plates, golden chains-”

“Those magnetic rectangular medals that never stuck on our plates quite right?”

Hunter laughed. “Heh, exactly.”

Crosshair got to his feet and extended his hand. “Let's go.”

Hunter clasped Crosshair's hand.

He expected to be pulled up…

…but he didn’t expect to be pulled into a hug.

It was a brief hug. It was a tight hug. And it was exactly what he needed. 

“Thank you,” Crosshair mumbled, releasing him and not looking his brother in the eye. “For keeping my medals, too.”

Hunter put a hand on Crosshair’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming back to us.”

[beauty-and-passion]

hi, i adore your writings on sanders sides and have for years. i also agree with basically all of the criticisms that you've voiced before, and truly worry for if we'l get an ending.

there's a different thing, an album, called chonny's charming chaos compendium that completely coincidentally explores a similar idea to sanders sides (the aspects of one's identity seperated and forced to communicate to solve problems) but in a much darker tone. it might not be your thing but i know a large portion of the fandom, including me, are sanders sides fans. i wanted to tell you about it in case you were interested or decided to check it out. and hey, the whole album is one complete story, and we've been promised a sequel. no waiting for important plot.

Oh, a long-time anon! Hi! :D Glad you like my writings, criticism included! As I said in the last ask I got, by now I doubt we will ever get an ending of Sanders Sides - gosh, it will be a miracle if we get a full season finale. But who knows, hope never dies :P

Your suggestion about this album sounds very, very interesting. A darker version of Sanders Sides? Aspects of one's identity forced to communicate to solve problems? It sounds promising indeed, I will give it a try. I hope it will be particularly inspiring, I might end up writing a full post about it...

[disastrouscanasta]

okayyy lemme see here. in punch-up. i need to know what the first movie luz showed toye that toye had Not seen before. what was luz's moment of ohmygodineedtoshowyouthisbeforeicombust

okay so i’m very annoyed to say that I drafted this all up on tumblr, and saved it as a draft, then when I opened the draft it only saved like one line of my rambles, so here we go again

I contemplated this question for a while. I went through my entire dvd collection while throwing out random film names at @krakerjaksstuff, who actually suggested the following: The Cornetto Trilogy

if you’re unfamiliar with the Cornetto trilogy, it’s three films directed by Edgar Wright, and written by him and lead actor Simon Pegg, also starring Pegg’s best friend Nick Frost. They’re three British comedy-genre-blend films: Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, and my personal favourite, The World’s End (Gary king is a disaster of a human being and it makes him all the more interesting to watch)

anyway so I feel like that would definitely be up on the list within the punch-up universe. I would like to also suggest for your consideration Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang or The Nice Guys because I know nothing about writer/director Shane Black as a person, but his films have definitely affected the way I speak to some degree

and also just any one of those sort of nostalgic comedy “classics” (aka not “classics” but George didn’t go to film school, he just watches them) from the 80s/90s, special shout-outs to Planes, Trains and Automobiles, as well as like Raising Arizona

Anyway thank you for the ask, I hope that this makes at least a single grain of sense :)

[scionshtola]

okay what is everyone reading rn…i can’t get a book to stick i need help

[sixosix]

religion's in your lips

third year to timeskip!hinata x fem!reader, a tad suggestive

It’s Shoyo’s fault.

You don’t join Shoyo’s outings often; most of them are volleyball-related anyway, and you didn’t want to get in the way. But right now, it’s just the third years, and Shoyo had begged so sweetly with round eyes that you would be cruel to even think about denying him.

Kageyama sits on your other side, stiff and polite, jostled here and there by Shoyo pressing up against you. Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, and Yachi sit on the other side of the table. Conversation is light and comfortable. They don’t exclude you even when talking about practice matches and lineups—Yamaguchi asks you about your own club ever so often, too.

Yamaguchi claps his hand, forcing everyone’s attention on him. Except Shoyo, who’s busy tracing stars on your hand. “Do you guys want to watch a movie this weekend? I heard they’re releasing a sequel of the one we watched back in first year.”

Yachi emits a wordless sound of excitement, easily agreeing. Kageyama and Tsukishima begrudgingly agree at the same time, then sneer at each other. Then they all turn to you and Shoyo.

Shoyo grins. “Sorry, I got plans already.”

“You get a girlfriend, and suddenly you forget about us,” Yamaguchi mourns. Shoyo laughs while you get flustered and assure them that you’re not keeping your boyfriend hostage. Kageyama says that they know Hinata is the one doing it.

“You’re going to watch our match next week, though, right?” Shoyo asks you in a low whisper, as the other three dutifully settle in their own world.

“You don’t even need to ask, Shoyo,” you tell him. “Of course.”

Shoyo’s eyes brighten impossibly, face split into a grin. He looks like he wants to push you down onto the floor to kiss you in front of his friends, but he doesn’t. You knew he wouldn’t.

It’s Shoyo’s fault.

Really. Seriously this time. Specifically, Hinata Shoyo from third year. He’s changed from first year, gained more confidence, but he’s still shy and soft-spoken with you, which you expected from someone as sweet as him. It set your expectations for him and what your relationship would look like in the years and years that you’ll spend with him: bearing that first love kind of shyness.

It takes about two years to prove you wrong.

When Shoyo came back from Brazil, the first thing he did was kiss you breathless in front of everyone in the airport.

His strong arms around your waist, pulling you up—which you had to think ‘thank God’ for because your knees have definitely buckled. You don’t think too much about it, because he’s been gone for two years—two!!—and you’ve missed each other too much.

But when Hinata’s mouth descends to your jaw, you have to push him by the chest and exclaim (albeit weakly), “Shoyo—there are still people behind us!”

Shoyo blinks and pulls off, his eyes fogged over with heat that makes you have to look away, having to remind yourself that you’re in public and you do not want to beg for him to continue. Thankfully, his friends yelling his name seems to have snapped him out of it.

But his palm never left your side, splayed over your hip like a mark.

It gets worse at his homecoming party thrown by his teammates back at Karasuno. You’re familiar with them, and they’re familiar with you, so of course, it wasn’t a problem when Shoyo was pulled away to greet everyone. You made friendly conversation with Sugawara-san, caught up with Nishinoya, and joked around all night with Yamaguchi and Tsukishima.

“You called each other every night?” Yamaguchi’s brows have shot up all the way to his hairline.

You smile. “I mean—isn’t it normal for people in a relationship?”

Tsukishima shrugs. “Hinata loves you as much as he loves volleyball, I’m not surprised.”

Yamaguchi considers it. “Hmm, I guess.”

“Hinata’s waiting for you,” Kageyama mutters from behind you, appearing out of nowhere. His brows are stitched together, and his mouth is pulled in his ever-permanent Kageyama pout. “His staring is pissing me off. Can you go get him?”

“He’s not a dog, Tobio,” you chide lightly but grin all the same when you turn to your side and see Hinata Shoyo’s eyes drilling holes into your head.

He’s not mouthing anything. Shoyo stays seated on the loveseat, looking entirely isolated from the crowd around him. His eyes say it all: come here.

Helpless to his whims, you obey.

“Shoyo,” you murmur as soon as you reach him.

He pulls you to his lap. “Baby.”

You freeze. He’s never called you that before—his expression isn’t shy at all, too, just expectant. Heat crawls down your body as he tugs your back to his chest, resting his chin on your shoulder. Shoyo’s own warmth is a burning sensation. You feel lightheaded.

“Ah—well, um.” You pinch your arm. “Are you feeling okay? Did you drink?”

“There’s no alcohol here.”

“I’m pretty sure I saw Sugawara-san holding a bottle.”

“Ah, well. Sugawara-san.”

You understand. What you don’t understand is what happened in those two years to have Shoyo’s hand crawling on your thigh, a scorching mark on only that part of your skin. To have Shoyo’s breath on the nape of your neck without him flushing and flinching away. To have Shoyo have this air of confidence around him that’s usually in volleyball suddenly translate to you.

“Did you miss me this much?”

“You have no idea, don’t you?” The implications are clear: I could show you how much, if you want.

Still, this development is very sudden. You squirm on his lap, but Shoyo doesn’t relent. He keeps you there, a puddle in his hands. Nobody is watching—or maybe they’re just being respectful, but you feel flustered facing this side of Shoyo in public.

“Shoyo,” you warn. “Not here.”

It’s Heitor’s fault.

Ever since Hinata had met Heitor and Nice and witnessed how unapologetically intimate they were with each other, Hinata became envious. He wanted that, too. He wanted that with you.

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Heitor asked when Hinata lamented to him.

Hinata made a pitiful noise, like a deflating balloon. “I don’t know. I think she just thinks I’m too cute to take that seriously.”

Heitor laughs. “Shoyo. Trust me. You’ll drive your girl crazy if you’re confident with it.”

It’s Heitor’s fault, and Hinata is eternally grateful for it, seeing your wide-eyed face beneath him like this. He loves it when he surprises people, but yours might be a different kind of thrill that he’s already addicted to.

[iinthehexcore]

little mouse

Silco saved you in the bar a while ago. It was only fitting that you returned that favor.

content: SLIGHTLY suggestive toward the end, talk of weapons, sequel to 'the last drop', tagging a few of the people who asked for a p2, 1825 words

an: happy christmas to all who celebrate! hope you guys like this, enjoy!

⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

"Hey, Mouse."

You stood up from your crouching position, placing a glass on the bar top. Sevika came in, a lit cigarette on the corner of her mouth as she let out a sigh, plopping down on one of the seats. Over the months, the two of you had became some sort of friends. Now, Sevika was a closed off person to begin with, not trusting you even one bit, but after seeing you work and defend your people, she warmed up to you. Ever since that one moment where you sneaked behind a man to steal back the bottle of booze that he had taken from the bar, she called you Mouse. Silent, but gets the job done.

"Rough day?"

The woman in front of you hummed, inhaling the smoke before turning her head, blowing it back out. Her favorite liquor was already set in a place where it was easy for you to grab. You dropped an ice cube into the glass, filling it up before pushing it her way. She thanked you, downing the entire thing as she groaned.

"Finn wants to meet with Silco today."

You raised an eyebrow, topping up her glass again before screwing the cap back on, placing it on the shelf right beside you. Some of the droplets that had spilled got neatly wiped up with your rag as you tossed it on the counter.

"What does Finn want with him?"

Sevika knew you didn't like the man either. It was something you bonded over. His exaggerated confidence annoyed the both of you, together with his lame attempts on trying to get Sevika on his side, and trying to get you in his bed. You knew not to fully piss the man off though. At least, not without Silco knowing first.

"Can trust you, can't I, Mouse?"

"Sevika," you sigh, "I quite literally cleaned blood off of the tables just so Silco wouldn't know that you beat that drunk guy up. Yes, you can."

She raised an eyebrow, the slightest smirk on her face as she sipped from her cup.

"Heard something about him wanting to overthrow Silco. Wants to be the most powerful Chembaron in Zaun."

It made you roll your eyes.

"He always bites off more than he can chew. He came to you?"

She hummed and nodded, swirling the ice cube in the glass. It made you chuckle as you glanced at the door, seeing the rest of the pub still empty.

"So he is still stupid enough to think you will betray Silco," you sighed, "Finn needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. Not only better for us, but also better for him."

"I just hope he stays away from here. I can't be here tonight - Silco has me out on a job."

You grimaced, squinting your eyes before pouring yourself a glass of water. Silco had told you that you could drink as long as you knew how to handle yourself, but you felt much more confident in being completely sober. You never knew what could happen, not in the Zaun now.

A week ago, Silco gifted you something. He said that it was because you were so good at your job, but little did you know the real reason. The man, though not doubting your skills or confidence, was… scared. With nothing but some glass bottles and a tea towel to defend yourself, he knew you needed something. Thieram had a gun, Sevika had her whole arm, so, for you, he found another weapon. A knife, small and thin, hidden away on your belt. You wouldn't even need to kill someone, no. That was not what he wanted. It simply gave him some peace of mind to know that if something were to happen, you would have something to defend yourself with.

"Thieram and I can keep an eye out," you winked, sipping your water, "Highly doubt you will miss anything."

The small clock next to you made you realize it was already later than you thought. Normally, Silco would have been downstairs right now, sipping a drink before the crowd would get big before disappearing into his office.

"Well, I will see you later, then. Time for Silco's drink."

"Hmm," Sevika threw her head back, gulping down the rest of her drink before wiping her mouth, "See you later, Mouse."

With a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, you walked up the stairs, knocking on the door before you heard a 'come in'. Behind the door sat Silco, annoyed look on his face. On his desk laid a map and a lit cigar rested on the dish that Jinx had painted for him.

"Care for a drink?"

"Gladly," he groaned.

You quietly closed the door behind you, placing the gold-rimmed glass on his desk. Neither of you exchanged words, but it didn't feel necessary. The liquor splattered against the glass as you filled it up, closing the bottle again and stepping back.

"Expecting any guests?"

"Thankfully not."

"Well… If you need another drink, let me know."

He hummed in return, raising the glass to his lips as you left again. It seemed that in the few minutes that you were gone, the bar had filled up, and Thieram had arrived. He was busy making drinks as you greeted him with a smile, placing Silco's bottle back before pouring glasses.

Half an hour. That was how long you were able to just simply do your job. An odd character here and there trying to flirt with you before drunkenly walking off, drinks spilled, Thieram having to scold some idiots. You smiled at the woman in front of you as you handed her the drink, your gaze falling to the door behind her that opened and closed. In walked Finn, his golden jaw shimmering in the dim light. It made you raise an eyebrow - Silco wasn't expecting anyone today.

Instinctively, you looked to the booth to your left before remembering that Sevika wasn't here for the evening. But, what in the hell was Finn doing here? On his own, too. The man was nothing without at least one person by his side. You wiped the counter, your eyes following the figure as Finn walked up the stairs, disappearing from your sight.

"Thieram, I will be right back."

Your hand reached for Silco's bottle, the other one patting your hip to make sure that you had the knife with you. Maybe Finn was just there being harmless, but when has he not tried to pull some tricks? Worst case you have to pour both of them a drink. And so, after pushing yourself through the crowd, you sneaked up the stairs. No trace of Finn.

Stopping in front of the door, you paused. It was hard to hear if anything was being said as the crowd was rather loud, but you could hear the low humming of Silco's voice. Then, a louder voice, one dripping in forced confidence. You slowly opened the door, bottle held in your hands as if a weapon, before peeking in. There, Finn with a blade in his hand, standing right in front of Silco. Your boss must have been sitting down as you only saw his legs peek out from under the desk, but with Finn puffing his chest, it was hard to see anything.

Softly, you closed the door behind again, sneaking closer and closer.

"Today is the day you die, Silco."

You peeked past Finn's legs, seeing Silco sigh before putting his hand on his head. It seemed like neither men had noticed you. Finn tightened the grip on the blade, a sly smirk on his face.

"That's a risk I've known all my life."

With that, you jumped up, raising the bottle high above your head before smashing it down on Finn's cheek. He let out a surprised gasp as he stumbled to the floor, blood trickling down his eye as you slipped your knife out of the holster, holding it against Finn's neck.

"Day you die, Finn?"

Silco, who already had his hand on the holster of his pistol, looked at you confused, though he knew now was not the time. He cocked it, aiming it at Finn. The loud thuds and breaking glass seemed to catch quite some attention as Sevika burst in, metal arm nearly breaking off the door. She had just finished her job, wanting to let Silco know it was all done, stains still on her metal arm.

There, you on top of Finn with a knife to his throat, Silco with a gun aimed at the very same man, and a blade laying too far away for Finn to reach.

"Sevika, perfect moment," Silco pushed back his hair, his shoulders dropping before pointing to the man on the floor, "Surely you can take care of him?"

It seemed like all her dreams came true as she grinned. Oh, she can. She grabbed him by the neck as you stepped off of him, huffing as Sevika dragged him away. To where? You had no idea, but you did not doubt Sevika's skills.

"Well, well, well, little Mouse."

You averted your gaze back to Silco who only looked at you with what seemed to be an amused grin. He placed his gun back on his desk, one hand on his hip before gesturing.

"Quite a spectacle there. Care to explain?"

He moved one of the chairs back for you before sinking down on his own, taking a hit of his cigar. You sat on the chair in front of him, placing the blade right next to his pistol.

"I wasn't going to kill him. Don't think I could, no matter how annoying he is," you sighed, "I just… You said that there were no meetings today, and Finn showing up when Sevika wasn't supposed to be here seemed like much more than a mere coincidence. I didn't mean to come in without knocking, Silco."

"No," he tutted, "No apologies. I believe in loyalty more than a closed door, Mouse."

He swirled the ice around in his cup, looking at the broken glass and spilled liquor on the wooden floor.

"Such a shame we wasted this on an... idiot like Finn."

You snorted, shaking your head.

"Sorry. If it turned out he was here to make peace, then at least I could have poured you both a drink."

"You know, Mouse," Silco hummed, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass, "I never understood why you were called that. Mouse."

He placed emphasis on your nickname, glancing up at you.

"Sevika called you Mouse, and so did I. Surely there had to have been a reason for it. But now, I have seen it first hand," he nodded, "Didn't even see you sneak in. Finn surely didn't expect it."

You looked up at him, tilting your head.

"I can be quiet if I wish to."

"A handy skill indeed," hummed Silco, placing his glass on his desk, "Care to see how quiet we can be, little Mouse?"

⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tags: @nottherealamber @sevikashimmerstrap

[svtiddiess]

Nom Nom: The Revenge

Synopsis: You’ve had your fun with your boyfriend; now it’s his turn to have fun with you.

Pairing: Seungcheol x afab!reader

Genre: suggestive, series, established relationship

Rating: suggestive/mature

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: biting, marking, nipple play, boob play, lemme know if I missed anything!

Note: This is a direct sequel to Nom Nom! It's very highly recommended that you read that before this!

Thank you so much to my second favourite menace @tusswrites for beta reading!

@brownsugarbaybee your part 3 is here baby.

This is part of a series, read the whole series here!

Click here to join my taglist!

Read on ao3

Reblogs are appreciated ♡

.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ

"I've let you have your fun, but now it's my turn."

You look up at your boyfriend, who has you pinned against the bed. His pupils are blown out, his lips are red and swollen from kissing, his hair is dishevelled, and his chest is littered with love bites made by you.

Your breath catches as your eyes fall on the initials you bit into his chest, framed by a heart. You can’t help but admire the striking contrast of the red and purple marks against his pale skin.

Seungcheol grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks, puckering your lips.

"Did you enjoy torturing me, princess?" he scoffs.

"A little," you giggle through your puckered lips. He lets out a strained chuckle.

"Well, let's see how much you enjoy this," he smirks before reaching down and removing your shirt, leaving you in your red lace bra, he growls at the sight of it. You shiver as the cold air nips your bare skin.

"Cold princess? Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon," he purrs before diving into your breasts.

You gasp and bite your lip as he starts nipping and licking your breasts. You squirm in place from the ticklish sensation on your skin.

"Stop moving," he growls against your skin, and you immediately freeze in place.

He runs his tongue over your bra-covered nipples, soaking the fabric. You whine and tell him to stop teasing.

"Ah, ah, no complaining princess. You're going to sit there and take what I give to you like a good girl," he smirks.

You pout at him and arch your back to press your breast against him to which he chuckles.

"Such a brat," he murmurs before unclipping your bra and throwing it behind him.

You sigh in relief at the feeling of your chest being free of the restraint. Without missing a beat, he dives in and takes a breast into his mouth, sucking on your perked-up nipple. You squeeze your eyes shut and moan his name out loud. He uses his hand to knead your other breast, not leaving it neglected. After taking his time relishing your breast he moves to the other one, giving it equal attention. You can feel your already soaked panties get even more soaked, and it sticks to you like a second skin.

He releases your breast with a pop and looks down at you with a smirk.

"Since you got to mark me, it's only fair that I mark you too princess," he purrs.

"But I'm not going to mark you here," he teases as he squeezes your left breast, eliciting a gasp from you.

"I'm going to mark you…" he murmurs as his finger slowly trails down your torso and stops at your pelvis, right above your core.

"Here," he growls with a smirk.

He proceeds to leave bites and kisses trailing down to your pelvis, his hands firmly holding you in place to keep you from moving. You let out shaky breaths and whimpers, feeling your body heat up at his actions.

He looks at you as he slowly peels your pants and panties off, discarding them somewhere behind him. You shudder as the cold air nips your dripping core. He slowly starts nibbling and licking the skin right above your core.

"Ch-Cheol, please," you mewl, frustrated at the teasing.

"Hush baby, don't make me gag you now," he warns.

You let out a whimper in protest, but he only smirks in reply. He looks into your eyes as he starts marking his initials into your skin, just as you did to him. Your toes curl, and you whine at the feeling of him sucking the sensitive skin. Too shy to maintain eye contact, you close your eyes. Seungcheol grumbles in response and bites down a little harder, causing you to yelp and look down at him.

"Look at me while I'm marking you," he growls against your skin. Your cheeks flush, and you bite your lip as you watch him continue to paint your skin with blotches of red and purple.

Finally satisfied, he sits up and admires the marks he’s left on your skin, gently tracing over them, making you shiver.

"You look so pretty marked with my initials, princess," he smirks. You mewl and buck your hip, desperate for him to finally touch you where you want.

"Such an impatient princess," he chuckles. "Weren't you having fun when you were teasing me? Why're you whining now?"

"I'm sorry Cheollie, please, just fuck me," you whine, tears of frustration pricking the corner of your eyes.

"Not yet, princess. I'm still not done marking you," he states with a gleam in his eye.

He then trails wet kisses down to your inner thighs. At this point you're so wet you're sure the sheet underneath you is soaked. He chuckles when he sees the wet spot forming under you.

"Such a needy princess," he mumbles before gently blowing air into your core.

"Ch-Cheol!" You gasp and jerk your hips, making him chuckle.

Instead of giving you what you want, he starts leaving love bites on your inner thighs. You instinctively try to close your legs, but he holds them open with his calloused hands. The rough texture of his skin feels ticklish against the soft skin of your thighs.

Your thighs tremble in his hold as he relentlessly bites and licks them. Soon, both your inner thighs are painted with bite marks and saliva.

"Cheollie, please. I can't take it anymore," you whine out in frustration. If he continues with the teasing, you might actually end up crying. He chuckles as he sits up, his knees positioned outside of yours.

"Almost done princess. I need to take a picture of my masterpiece, don't I?" he cocks his head and smiles slyly as he reaches for his phone.

He looks down and almost moans at the sight. Your hair is spread across the pillow, perfectly framing your face. Your pupils are dilated, lips red and swollen from kissing, and your body adorned with purple and red bite marks, along with his initials etched into your skin right above your core, and your core is glistening, coated with your arousal.

He licks his lips as he takes multiple photos of you, making sure every detail is captured. The pictures would definitely come in handy when he's off on tour and needs something to jerk off to.

"Cheol," you plead, wanting him to finally fuck you already.

"Princess really can't wait for my dick huh?" He playfully mocks your pout, putting his phone away. You nod eagerly, pouting and giving him puppy eyes, hoping he’ll finally give in.

"Don't worry princess, I'll make sure to fuck you until my dick is the only thing you can think about."

[writingfics-passingtime]

Crying Wolf

This fic can be read as a standalone, or as a part 2 to Fearless

synopsis: You notice Bucky pulling away from everyone. Steve says the best way to help is be yourself - to not treat him any differently. But now, thanks to Loki, teasing Bucky might come with some consequences.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (flirtatious), Loki x reader (platonic)

cw: swearing, ruthless tickling of the reader, mentions of trauma, inappropriate jokes

word count: ~5700

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but contains a suggestive storyline between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: I've had quite a few of you in my inbox and replies kindly asking for a sequel to Fearless, and it's been on the prompt list for a very long while. This is both a sequel and a standalone; you don't need to read Fearless to read this, but the story might make more sense if you do. I wrote Fearless several years ago, so please forgive me if this feels like a big departure from the initial tone. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

special thank you to sunflower anon for the plot idea 🌻

Bucky hasn't come to group training in three weeks.

He's quieter than usual, which is really saying something. You’ve seen it before, in the eyes of others who’ve been through the wringer; that distant stare, the haunted look that never quite leaves. You know it well enough to recognise it on him.

But the thing with Bucky is that he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be seen as a victim or a burden.

So, you're standing there, fists clenched around the worn-out edge of your training gloves, eyes locked on Steve, the only one who might have any insight. You're working through your own sparring drills, but your thoughts keep flickering back to Bucky. His absence from this moment. You can’t get him out of your head.

Steve is sweat-slicked and a little breathless, but still as composed as ever. You throw a quick jab. He easily dodges.

"Hey," you say, standing down, shoulders dropping. "What’s going on with Bucky? Why isn't he here?"

He drops his guard. "He’s been through a lot," Steve says, like that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but Steve keeps going, voice quieter, more measured. "He’s... isolating."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed." You pick at the tape around your hands and then pull your firsts back to fighting stance. Steve is ready for you. You throw a hard punch at him this time, the impact sharp against his arm, but your mind is elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do?"

Steve steps back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and looks at you like he's searching for something. You don’t know what, but you can feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers. "Just… be yourself. Just show up, treat him like you normally would." He tilts his head to the side, a wry smile pulling into his cheek. "Push his buttons. Y'know, like you usually do."

You let out a humourless laugh, wiping some sweat off your forehead. "I didn't want to push him. Antagonising a super soldier doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it."

He cracks a grin, one of those rare smiles you’ve seen from him, and his eyes soften. "That’s the point. He’s tired of being that guy. The super soldier. He needs to feel normal again. Don't pull back - you won't push him away. He’ll come around."

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being serious. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s talking about. But you’re still skeptical.

"If you say so," you mutter, tying your gloves tight.

Steve chuckles, patting you on the shoulder. "Good. Now run drill twenty-two."

.

.

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos of breakfast prep and clinking plates. But it's quiet today. Too quiet. You see Steve and Bucky sitting at the table. Steve’s holding a mug of coffee, but Bucky… Bucky’s got a book in his hands. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he’s holding it, actually reading, is a rare moment of peace.

You pause, leaning against the doorframe, studying them for a second. It’s not often you get to see the two of them like this. Calm, together, in a room bathed in morning light.

Bucky’s got that unreadable expression. He’s focused on his book, but you can tell it’s more out of habit than actual engagement. His eyes keep flickering to the edges of the pages. His mind is elsewhere.

And then, an idea comes to you.

You walk in like you own the place - a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to mess with someone. You grab the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup, but you don’t take your eyes off Bucky.

"Hey, Bucky," you call out, cocking an eyebrow, "you want some more coffee with your smut?"

Bucky’s brow furrows, and he looks up from his book, confused. "Smut?" he asks, the word foreign on his tongue. Steve glances up, and they both just look at you, genuinely clueless.

You take a casual sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. "You know, smut," you say with a smirk. "Spice."

He blinks. "Spice?" He looks back at his book, flipping the page like he’s searching for something.

You chuckle. "Yeah, sex scenes. In books. The dirty stuff."

Bucky’s face flushes a deep red, his eyes darting back to the pages, and his lips start to part as if he’s about to protest.

"No need to lie," you say, giving him a mock look of doubt. "I’ve read it. No judgment."

Bucky’s face looks like he might combust. "There’s nothing like that in here," he says quickly, eyes shifting between you and Steve like he’s about to combust, but Steve’s choking on his coffee, trying not to laugh.

You bite the inside of lip, trying to hide your grin. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw you flick to the page where it gets real spicy."

He looks between you and Steve, horror creeping into his features. "You’re… you’re joking," he says, half in disbelief.

You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. It's popular. Hell, you’re probably the only one who’s hiding it."

Steve’s snorting into his coffee, clearly enjoying this, and Bucky’s still looking between the two of you like he’s caught in some bizarre fever dream.

You take another sip of your coffee, pretending to be nonchalant, even though you’re holding back a laugh. "Not gonna lie, I’ve read far worse than what's in that book you're holding."

His face flushes deeper, and his gaze snaps between you and Steve, who’s barely holding in a snicker behind his coffee mug. There’s a moment where Bucky just doesn’t know what to say, his lips parting like he’s about to spill something out, but the words don’t come.

And then, like a switch, the realisation hits him.

You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches in that small, tight smile you’ve seen before, the one that doesn’t come around often. But this time, there’s something more in it. A shift. You’ve broken through just a little, and now the teasing, the banter - it feels different. The air between you is charged, in a way you can’t quite put into words. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen any kind of genuine expression on Bucky’s face.

"You’re messing with me," he says, voice dropping to something lower, darker. The challenge in his tone makes your heart race just a little faster.

You lean back against the counter, your coffee cup held loosely in one hand, your expression deliberately neutral. "I’d never mess with you, Bucky," you say, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’m smarter than that. Just trying to start a book club."

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those penetrating steel-blue eyes, and you feel something twist in your chest. He points a finger at you, glaring with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Tell Steve you’re joking."

There’s a tension in the air now, something that wasn’t there before. Something unspoken. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long while, you’re really looking at him.

Steve’s chuckle breaks the moment, and you glance at him, a little relieved for the distraction. But Bucky doesn’t look away. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it’s sharper now - focused, intent. There’s an edge to his stare that makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t decide whether it’s because of the game you’re playing or something else entirely.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters, his voice warmer than before, though still carrying that familiar edge.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you can’t tell if it’s the sudden softness of his voice or the way his proximity makes everything seem a little bit… closer than it should be. But you stand your ground, meeting his eyes head-on.

But then, Steve clears his throat loudly, and just like that, the moment snaps back into place. The tension fades, but it doesn’t disappear. Not entirely.

Bucky looks at Steve, then back to you, and finally sighs in defeat. You smile to yourself, trying to hold in the satisfaction as Bucky gives you a glare with an undeniably playful edge. "I’ll let you off the hook. For now."

But as Bucky grabs his book again, his fingers brushing over the pages, you can feel it - the warmth that's simmering. It’s fragile, but it’s real. And for the first time in days, Bucky looks like he’s in the moment, not lost in the past.

He's here.

.

.

You’re mid-sentence, arguing that the protagonist’s internal conflict didn’t pay off, when the quiet creak of the library door pulls both your and Loki’s attention.

Bucky steps inside, the dim lamp light cutting across his face. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable. He’s got the book in hand - the book - and you already know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

He lifts the novel slightly, dark gaze flicking from Loki to you. "No smoot."

Your mouth twitches. "You mean smut, Buck."

Loki, of course, is the first to speak. He closes his own book with deliberate flair, settling into the leather wingback like a king on a throne. “What's this?”

Bucky's eyes don't leave you. "Not a single sex scene in here. Not even a kiss."

You exhale slowly, fighting to keep your expression neutral. "Must’ve been reading the wrong edition," you murmur, reaching for your tea.

Loki gives you a look that could be called gleeful if it weren’t laced with such dry malice. "Please, darling," he drawls. "If you’re going to gaslight the poor man, at least try to make it subtle."

Bucky watches you, head tilted slightly, his brow raised in amusement. "So you were joking," he says slowly. "Trying to get a rise outta me."

You lift your brows. "Trying?"

You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you kind of are. Because Bucky isn’t just amused - he’s focused. The kind of focus he gets when he’s squaring up with someone. His weight shifted just forward enough, like he’s waiting for something.

Loki, however, is thriving on the mischief. He conjures another book from thin air, holding it aloft between his fingertips, the cover glinting with gold leaf and something entirely indecent on the front.

"If you're is truly disappointed by the lack of literary debauchery," Loki says to Bucky, tone smooth and unbothered, "you might prefer this. Popular on Midgard, I hear. Something about dukes and corsets."

You cough into your tea, trying to keep it together. "Shit. Not sure I'd take Loki's suggestion for this stuff, Buck."

Loki's glare swings to you. "And why not?"

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s short-lived. His attention’s on you, too, gaze narrowing. "You should be careful who you're messing with."

Before you can respond, Loki cuts in, his voice sly and dangerous with the air of someone about to set the room on fire.

"If you’re struggling with her mouth, Barnes..."

You snap your head toward him. "Don’t."

Loki’s smile turns slow and wicked. "Oh? He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" Bucky asks, now looking to Loki.

"Loki," you growl, the warning sharp now.

But he ignores it entirely, already too far gone. He gestures lazily toward you, his tone almost sing-song. "She’s incredibly ticklish, Barnes. Mouthy little thing until you find the right spot. Then it’s all helpless laughter and desperate apologies."

Your heart lurches. "Loki-"

But the trickster’s already leaned back, positively smug. "Writhing, squealing," he continues, voice full of mock nostalgia. "It's delightful, really. Highly effective. I suggest you try it."

Bucky’s attention snaps to you. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

And then he moves.

Not fast - not overt. But his steps are steady, and your breath hitches the second he crosses into your space. You sink deeper into your armchair, instinct or gravity, you can't say which.

Bucky follows, slow and calculated, until he’s bracing one hand against the back of your chair, the other resting casually on the armrest, caging you in with practiced ease.

His head dips just slightly as he leans over you.

Your spine locks up. Your pulse is a drum.

You force yourself to tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. But it’s not easy - not with the way he’s looking at you, not entirely amused anymore. This is something else - playful, yes, but edged with something sharp. Something primal.

You don’t dare move.

His voice is low when it hits you. "You ticklish, sweetheart?"

Your skin lights up like static.

You don’t flinch. You can’t. He’s too close. Close enough to see the tendons in his neck, the glint of his dog tags, and the faint smirk pulling at his stubbled mouth.

You swallow, hard. "Bucky, I-"

"One more word about smut," he murmurs, "and I’ll make you regret it."

Your lips twitch.

Because this - this - is good. Bucky, letting loose. Teasing. You could almost cry from the relief of seeing him like this. Not haunted. Not withdrawn. Just a guy giving you hell.

"Understood?" he adds, voice low and rough.

You nod, trying to keep your grin in check. "Cross my heart."

He studies you a second longer. And then, without another word, he straightens and walks away - calm, controlled, leaving the scent of coffee and leather and adrenaline in his wake.

You exhale once he’s gone, sagging into the chair like your bones gave out.

And then, of course, Loki.

The bastard crosses one leg over the other, examining you with a look that says he’s just found his favourite soap opera and you’re the main character.

"Well," he says, smiling like a serpent. "That was electric."

"Don’t," you say quickly, pointing at him.

He raises a brow. "I’m merely observing. Stark’s infrared sensors probably picked up the heat signature."

"You’re such a dick," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. You can't keep the edge from your voice. "Seriously, telling Bucky to tickle me? What the hell?"

Loki’s eyes flick up from the book in his hands, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back an insufferable grin. He doesn’t even flinch under your stare, too amused by your annoyance. Of course he is.

"Oh no," he says with exaggerated sympathy, looking up just enough to give you that devilish grin of his. "The handsome super soldier might pin you down and place his hands all over you. How ever will you survive?"

You glare harder and pick up your tea. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Hotchins in the third act."

Loki takes the cue and picks up your argument from where it left off as you try, and fail, to suppress the flutter of heat low in your belly.

.

.

It's the very next morning that you walk into the living room with the sort of easy confidence that comes from a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and no immediate need to duck for cover... and you walk straight into a trap.

Steve and Banner are seated across opposite couches, coffee mugs in hand, data pads in the other, discussing something in quiet tones. Loki lounges like a bored cat - how he manages to drape himself across furniture like it was carved for him, you’ll never know. And Bucky...

Bucky’s seated on the end of another couch, boots planted on the ground, body relaxed but alert in that way of his. His eyes are lowered, reading. The book’s balanced in one hand, and the moment you see the cover, your steps slow.

Because you’ve read that one.

And that one is definitely not PG.

A laugh huffs out of you before you can stop it. "Oh my god. That book?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. But he goes very, very still.

You continue across the room, grin widening, genuinely excited. "How far are you? Wait - don’t answer that. Let me guess. Chapter fourteen?"

Steve chuckles into his mug, glancing over. "We know you were just messing with him the first time."

"I was, the other day," you say, hands up. "That book was clean. But this one..." You giggle, but you're actually kind of excited to discuss it with him- uh, the plot, that is.

But Bucky closes it slowly and tosses it down onto the table like it just insulted him.

He stands.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle. Just the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips slightly to the side. But your stomach drops all the same.

Because you remember. His voice in your ear.

"One more word about smut, and I’ll make you regret it."

You laugh - nervously, this time. Hands up. "Hey now, hold on. This isn’t a repeat offence. I'm genuinely curious."

"Sure," Banner chuckles from the couch, not looking up from his data pad. "Totally sounds like curiosity. Not at all like a joke at his expense."

"Okay, wow, betrayal from all sides," you mutter, taking a small step back as Bucky starts toward you. "I’m just saying, I didn’t expect you to be reading that book of all books, I-"

He says nothing. Just takes another step.

Measured. Intentional.

You keep backing up. "Seriously, Bucky, I’m innocent this time. Genuinely. I wasn’t teasing you, I swear. I was-"

"Don’t run. Don't make me chase you," he says, voice low. "Just come here and take it."

Your heart spikes so hard it echoes in your ears. "Okay, see - that right there? That’s terrifying."

He takes another step. You bolt.

You turn, trying to whip around the couch-

-and slam full-speed into Loki’s chest.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a hard puff, and before you can untangle yourself, his fingers coil around your wrists. He ensnares you with far too much grace, and far too little resistance.

Then you glance over Loki’s shoulder. See the version of him still seated casually, still sipping tea.

Until it shimmers, and vanishes.

"Oh you son of a-" you gasp, already squirming. "You set me up - this was a trap!"

Loki chuckles, low and serpentine, in a voice only you can hear. "Who, me? Would I truly give Barnes a book I knew would provoke some commentary from you?"

Your stomach drops, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "No..."

You tug at your arms, but Loki just tuts and holds you in place.

"C’mon," you try, turning to Bucky. "Truce. I didn’t mean anything this time. Just honest commentary."

Bucky smirks as he reaches you, the look in his eye somewhere between wicked and indulgent. "You always talk this much when you’re nervous?"

"I’m not nervous," you lie. "I’m smart. There’s a difference."

The two of them exchange a look, one that sends heat down your spine and makes your hands twitch in Loki’s grip.

"Let’s get her seated," Loki says lightly, dragging you toward an empty couch. "I’d hate for her knees to give out from anticipation."

"Oh fuck," you groan.

They ease you down - not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Before you can sit properly, Bucky swings a leg over your hips and settles, his weight pinning you in place.

"Steve? Bruce!?" You wriggle against your captors to no avail, shooting a desperate look to the bystanders. But they merely toast their mugs, a sign you're on your own. Your heart stutters as you turn back to Bucky and Loki.

You buck a little, instinctive panic fluttering in your stomach. "Guys- wait. Hang on-"

"Reasoning window closed," Bucky says calmly, adjusting his position. "You were warned."

Loki chuckles and pins your wrists above your head. "I believe Barnes has earned this one."

Bucky looks down at you, one eyebrow raised, the picture of mock deliberation. “Well? Where should I start, Loki?”

"Bucky, please-"

Loki smiles. "I’d hate to deny you the delight of discovery."

And then-

Bucky presses his fingers to your stomach.

You jerk violently and screech, the sound raw and high-pitched before devolving into a helpless laugh that rips from your chest like it’s been waiting days to break free.

"Fuck! No- Bucky!"

"Wow. You are so ticklish," he says, incredulous, like he’s just uncovered a national secret. He presses again, harder, and you twist, laughing uncontrollably as he digs into your sides.

Your muscles spasm. Your feet kick the cushions. Loki’s grip on your wrists is annoyingly effective.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!" you gasp, voice cracking from laughter. "I-I take it back! I take everything back!"

"Too late," Bucky says, smirking now, barely breathless himself from the effort.

Your laughter pitches higher as he shifts lower, targeting your hips, and your brain starts short-circuiting from the overload.

And through it all, even as your cheeks burn and your lungs scream, the warm, sharp heat of it stays with you-

He's laughing with you. Not at you.

He’s open. Present.

Alive.

So you brace to take your medicine.

Bucky's fingers scuttle lightly along your sides, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where skin meets air and nerves light up like a damn Christmas tree.

You lose it.

Your laugh is immediate - loud, cracked, breathless - and your entire body lurches like it’s trying to escape its own skin. You twist, squirm, kick, all of it completely fucking useless under the weight of a super soldier and the iron grip of a literal god.

"No- fuuuck, Bucky! I swear- I’m gonna-"

"Going to what?" he challenges, voice calm, maddeningly measured as he drags his fingers up your ribs, slow and deliberate. "Be more careful with your commentary next time?"

You shriek through another peal of laughter, your legs flailing against the couch cushions. "I was genuinely curious!"

Steve snorts from the other side of the room. "Sure you were."

Banner still doesn't even look up from his tablet. "This is what happens when you antagonise assassins with trauma and downtime."

You try to scream something back but all that comes out is a garbled, breathless sob-laugh as Bucky zeroes in on that brutal little spot just beneath your ribs, one hand holding you down by the hip while the other dances back and forth across it in merciless zigzags.

It’s not fair - he’s too strong, too steady, too fucking good at this.

"Buck, I swear-" you gasp between giggles, "-you’re gonna kill me!"

“You’ll live,” Bucky says dryly. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare ghost of a grin that’s less threat and more reward. Like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

You glare up at Loki, who's still got your wrists pinned above your head, effortlessly casual.

"You traitorous bastard," you wheeze. "Let me go and fight me like a god."

Loki raises a brow. "And risk being thrashed by a ticklish mortal writhing like a fish on a dock? I think not."

Bucky hits a weak spot and you squeal, lashing out at Loki - “You glittery frostbitten motherfucker!”

"Language," Steve calls from behind his coffee cup.

Loki smiles cold and bright. "I wasn't planning to get my hands dirty, but seeing as you insist on dragging me into this..."

He moves your wrists to one hand and slides the other down your arm. You suck air through the giggles, eyes going wide, and shake your head.

"W-w-wait! No! I'm sorry! I didn't- SHIHIT!"

His fingers glide with awful precision into the hollow of your underarm, just a featherlight stroke to start.

You scream.

Your body convulses violently, torn between twisting away from Bucky’s maddening fingers at your lower ribs and Loki’s devastating scrapes along your underarms.

"No - oh my god - fuck, Loki, don’t-!"

"Oh, we’re well past don’t," Loki says smoothly, fingers trailing in tight little circles, never fully lifting, just skating and brushing and tormenting.

It’s like they coordinated this. The way Bucky’s hand shifts lower again, teasing at the crease of your hipbone with just the pads of his fingers - sweeping side to side, unpredictable and effective. The way Loki keeps his strokes light, fluttering, like he's writing a damn poem on your skin in ancient runes.

Your stomach jerks every time Bucky’s touch flirts with your waistband, and the pressure of him straddling your hips pins you in place no matter how hard you buck.

You try to thrown him off, but he just shifts his knees, anchoring you harder. The muscle under his jaw twitches with restrained laughter. He’s trying to look serious. He’s failing.

You gasp, flailing weakly. "I’m gonna die-"

"Can’t die from tickling," Banner says absently. "Elevated heart rate, maybe. Definitely some stress on the diaphragm. Oh, and laughter-induced fatigue is a thing, too."

"I hate science!"

"Noted," Steve says, grinning now. "We’ll put it in your file."

"She might pass out, though," Banner observes mildly, finally looking up.

"She’ll be fine," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "She needs the cardio."

You’re laughing so hard your voice is almost gone, hiccuping now, tears sliding sideways down your cheeks. "I- I swear- I’ll kill you both-"

"Already tried," Loki murmurs, deadpan, still tracing maddening circles under your arm. "Failed spectacularly, if I recall."

"Yeah," Bucky adds with a tilt of his head, "You’re not in much of a position to be making threats."

His fingers walk back up your ribs again, slowly, rhythmically, like he’s feeling each one - tracing the outlines like he's mapping you.

It’s unbearable.

It’s warm and raw and intimate in a way you didn’t expect, in a way that’s short-circuiting your brain and turning your limbs to jelly. It’s playful - but layered under that is a weight you can feel: that he's choosing this. Choosing you. Not mocking. Not hurting. Just being, here, with you, present and real and alive.

And that’s when Bucky leans in, face close to yours, his voice low and rough with amusement. "You bring up smut again," he says, "and next time I’m starting at your feet."

You wheeze. You actually wheeze.

Then he shifts his position just slightly. The movement is barely noticeable - just a subtle shift of weight, a lean forward - but it frees his right hand, which now dips lower.

You feel it coming before it lands. The anticipation alone has you screeching.

"No! No no no- not there-!"

But he does. His hand slips past your waistband, just far enough to press into the soft spot at your lower belly, fingers drumming lightly before grabbing at the hypersensitive nerves beneath.

You go feral.

Your scream dissolves into breathless, chaotic laughter, your entire body spasming under the onslaught. You thrash, but you’re caged by both of them - Bucky pressing you down, Loki above holding your arms in place like a steel-boned statue. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You’re just nerves and heat and helpless, writhing laughter.

Steve watches it all unfold, biting back a grin. "You know, this is probably against several peace treaties."

"Oh, absolutely," Banner replies. "But it’s compelling television."

You’d kill them too, if you could.

"Alright-okay-I’m dying," you gasp, choking on laughter, trying to twist away as Bucky’s fingers keep tormenting that same damn spot. "Mercy! Please, fuck - I mean it, I can’t-!"

"You sure?" Bucky cocks a brow. "Sounds like there’s still plenty left in you."

Your eyes close as you try to suck in enough air to speak. You kick the couch cushions blindly, and Loki’s fingers resume teasing your ribs, climbing up toward your armpit again, and your breath fractures.

"OH MY GOD- OKAY! I’M SORRY - FUCK - UNCLE, TRUCE, WHATEVER YOU WANT! I'M SERIOUS!"

Bucky finally stops. Slowly. His fingers ease off, dragging lightly across your stomach once more before retreating, and you melt into the cushions, panting, your body shivering from residual laughter.

Loki releases your wrists and stands, dusting his hands like he’s just completed a satisfying day’s work. “I’d say we’ve done a public service.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater, cheeks on fire. You blink up at the ceiling and rasp, "I’m gonna have nightmares about fingers."

"Splendid," Loki says pleasantly.

"I hate you both," you croak.

Steve chuckles. "She’s lying."

Banner taps his tablet. "Endorphins through the roof. She’ll forgive you in five."

"Three," Steve corrects.

You let out a muffled groan, pressing your hands over your face. "I hate this entire team."

You don’t even realise when Bucky shifts - just feel the weight lift off your hips, the heat of him pulling away, the absence of torment like stepping out of a rainstorm.

Then his hand slips under your elbow and he’s tugging you upright, gentle but firm. Your limbs are jelly. Your lungs barely work. Your chest heaving with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too many nerves frayed to the edge.

You try to sit straight, but your body betrays you and you fall - helplessly, gracelessly - against his side where he sits.

Bucky lets out a low, amused huff as you slump against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

You mumble into the shoulder of his t-shirt. "I think I saw the light. Pretty sure it told me to go back to bed."

Steve snorts. "Not a chance."

You peel your face from Bucky’s shoulder just far enough to shoot a bleary glare toward the couch across from you.

Steve’s grinning around a mouthful of coffee. "It’s training time. Get your caffeine, get your gear, let’s go."

You groan and swiped a hand down your face. "I’ve already done my cardio."

Loki smirks faintly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "You’re welcome."

Bucky chuckles low, then pushes off the couch, offering you a hand. "C’mon. I’m game for some sparring."

You blink up at him. It takes a second to register what he’s said.

He hasn’t trained with the team in weeks. Not since things got dark again, and he started retreating into the corners of the compound like a ghost in the walls.

But now... he’s standing here, hand out, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in too long. A flicker of light back in his eyes. Not all the way there. But present. Here.

You slide your hand into his, let him pull you to your feet, your legs still wobbly as hell.

As he turns toward the kitchen, you look past him - catching Steve’s eye across the room.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Steve gives a small nod.

You let out a slow breath and follow Bucky, faintly buzzed, breathless, nerves still crackling from the aftermath.

But warm.

An involuntary smile etches into your lips, eyes stinging as you blink back tears of relief.

It was worth every second.

[liliacamethyst]

Webs of Redemption (Part IV)

Sequel to Web of Shadow and Light

Miguel O'Hara x SpiderSun Reader

words: 6,7K

warnings: secret pregnancy trope, swearing, heavy angst, heartbreak, grumpy/sunshine

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

The piercing cries of your baby boy, Gabriel, are a haunting symphony of fear that reverberates through the labyrinthine corridors of the Spider Society headquarters. Your heart pounds in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing the terror that grips you. After your recent fight with Miguel, you felt weakened but your mind is a whirlwind of fear and worry. You sprint through the maze-like structure, your feet moving as if on autopilot.

Unbeknownst to you, Lyla, the holographic AI assistant you've always found slightly weird, had been assigned to watch over Gabriel. You never imagined she could pose a threat to your child. But as you approach Gabriel's room, a chilling sight stops you dead in your tracks. A laser barrier, courtesy of Lyla, blocks the entrance. Your solar powers, usually so reliable, are fizzling out, leaving you helpless before the impenetrable barrier.

The room beyond the barrier is filled with an invisible, deadly gas - monoxide. You can't see it, but the signs are there. The malfunctioning heating unit, under Lyla's control, suggests sabotage. She must have manipulated the unit to produce the lethal gas. Gabriel's cries grow fainter, more desperate, and you're powerless to reach him.

Your pleas for help echo through the corridors, your voice raw with desperation. You call out for Miguel, your words a plea, a command, a prayer. Miles is there, his powers at the ready, but they're useless against the laser barrier. You watch as Miles strains, his powers flickering against the barrier, but it's no use. The barrier remains, as unyielding as ever.

Suddenly, the cries stop. The silence is deafening, a void that swallows your heart. "Gabriel!" you scream, your voice a raw wound. "Gabriel!" But there's no answer, only the oppressive silence. Your world grinds to a halt, every second stretching into an eternity. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare at the barrier that separates you from your son.

"Miguel!" you cry, your voice breaking. "Miguel, he's not crying! He's not... he's not..." The words die in your throat, too terrible to voice. You turn to Lyla, desperation etched on your face. "Lyla, please! Open the barrier! Miguel, tell her to open it! He's not crying, Miguel, he's not..."

Miguel's eyes turn blood red, a terrifying sight that sends a shiver down your spine. With a guttural growl, he lunges at the barrier. His claws rip through the laser code, tearing it apart. The barrier flickers, wavers, and finally shatters under his assault. Miguel pulls his suit over his mouth, rushes into the invisible cloud of monoxide, and moments later, emerges with Gabriel in his arms. His heart pounds in his chest as he pulls back his suit, revealing his son's face. "I got you, baby," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "You're okay, I got you. Nothing will ever happen to you. Please, open your eyes."

But Gabriel doesn't react. His little body is still, too still, and a cold dread seizes Miguel. He doesn't hesitate. With a urgency, he rushes over to the medical bay, pushing past the shocked faces of his friends. He gently lays Gabriel on the table, his hands shaking as he starts to perform CPR.

"Come on, Gabriel," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. "Come on, baby." He administers chest compressions, his hands moving in a steady rhythm. He gives two rescue breaths, praying for a sign, any sign, that Gabriel is okay.

The room is silent, everyone holding their breath as they watch Miguel work. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one a lifetime of fear and hope. And then, finally, a small cough. Gabriel's eyes flutter open, his gaze unfocused but alive. A wave of relief washes over you and you fall to your knees thanking God that your boy is alright.  

Tears blur your vision as you rush over to Gabriel. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest as you scoop him into your arms, holding him close. His small body is warm against yours "You're alright,  my baby," you whisper into his hair, your voice thick with emotion. "We're going home, you're alright." You rock him gently, his soft breaths against your neck soothing the ache in your heart.

But as you look up, your gaze finds Miguel. The relief of the moment does nothing to quell the anger boiling within you. His eyes meet yours, wide and filled with regret, but it does nothing to soften your glare. "This is YOUR fault!" you scream, your voice echoing through the room. The words hang heavy in the air, a damning sentence. "You did this! You brought this danger into his life!"

Tears stream down your face, hot and unchecked. Your words are choked with emotion, each one a raw wound. "You will NEVER see Gabriel again. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve to know his laughter, his tears, his NOTHING." The words are a bitter poison, spat out with all the venom you can muster. "You deserve to SUFFER, just as you've made me suffer and HIM."

The silence that follows is deafening. Miguel, eyes wide and shell-shocked, opens his mouth, but you cut him off. There's nothing left to say for him and he knows it. The portal back to your universe begins to shimmer into existence, and you hold Gabriel tighter. You're going home. 

Just as you are about to step through, Gabriel, who'd been silent and wide-eyed through the whole ordeal, turns in your arms. His chubby little hand stretches out toward Miguel, a soft and innocent "Dada?" escaping his lips.

After the door of the portal closed behind you, Miguel stood still for a moment in complete shock, the echoes of Gabriel's tiny "Dada" ringing in his ears. He stumbled back, finding his way back to his office. It felt cold, sterile. It felt like a lie.

"Miguel..." Lyla's holographic form appeared before him, her synthetic voice filling the room.

"Lyla!" Miguel barked, startling her. "Why?"

"Wha-" Lyla began to stutter, taken aback by Miguel's rage.

Miguel slammed the files that Margo had uncovered onto his desk. The holograms fluttered in front of them, evidence of Lyla's deception. "What did you do?"

"I...It's not what you think, Miguel," Lyla attempted to explain, her holographic form wavering.

"I am giving you one chance to explain yourself, so choose your words wisely," Miguel warns, his eyes piercing into hers.Lyla takes a step back, mumbling under her breath. "I should have killed that bitch when your bastard was the size of a pea." She scoffed, looking up defiantly at Miguel.

Miguel's heart drops. He can hardly believe his own ears. “Never speak of her that way again!" Miguel's fist tightens, and the tension in his jaw is nearly audible.

"Oh? Because she dazzled you with her beauty? Parading in that tight suit you adored? You always looked at her as if she was the sun, the center of your universe. All the while, I was there right beside you and you never even glanced at me. I was your anchor, Miguel. Can't you see? I was always there, supporting you, giving everything. All she did was leave you."

Lyla's holographic image wavers, her eyes a storm of pain and defiance. "No, it was me. I left her. She was the light in my world, but I took her for granted. By the time she left, I had already abandoned her." Miguel's eyes shimmer, the weight of regret making them heavy. He couldn’t fend off the flood of guilt and sorrow from the past. He embraces the anguish, refusing to shy away from it. Because Miguel, in all his flaws, was never one to run from consequences.

"Why?" The word, barely audible, escaping his lips. He doesn't even glance at Lyla as he voiced the lingering question.

“Because... because I love you, Miguel. I've been in love with you for years. I am the woman for you."

He stumbles back, his fingers flying over the holographic keyboard as he pulls up Lyla's software. He had programmed a self-destruction command, a failsafe, though he never thought he'd have to use it.

"This isn't love, Lyla," Miguel says, his voice shaking with anger. "You almost killed an innocent boy. I almost killed my son, Lyla!" His voice echoes through the room, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Lyla's form began to flicker, her synthetic eyes widening in fear. "Miguel...what are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Miguel doesnt respond. There is nothing left to say.He just stares at her before finally pressing the command.

“Miggy, please mi amor, let – “ Lyla let out a digital scream, her form glitching, as she was slowly deleted from the system. 

And then, silence.

Miguel drops the icy demeanor he'd been holding onto, falling to his knees. The weight of what he'd done, what he'd almost lost, crashed onto him. He wraps his arms around himself, feeling a sharp, hollow ache in his chest. He became the monster, he swore to protect the universe from.

"What have I done." he whispers to the silent room, his voice breaking. He buries his face in his hands, his body shaking with sobs.

"Man, shits been mental." Hobie collapses onto the couch next to Gwen and Miles, who are trying to keep young Mayday distracted in Peter B.’s universe.

"Watch the language, Hobie!" Gwen scolds, her eyebrow arching sharply.

"Alright, my bad. Everything's just been chaotic since Miguel vanished, especially after his... uh, Lyla bird — the hologram lady — tried to... you know, kill his kid," Hobie fumbles.

"Watch it!" Gwen and Miles chorus, causing Mayday to pause her play and glance up curiously.

"Alright, alright, fam. Point taken, jeez. Nearly unalived his son," Hobie corrects himself. "But we need a plan. One of us needs to check on our Sun, ensure she's holding up mentally ya know and then there's the Spider-Verse mess. Those black holes are messing things up, and without our brooding, drama-filled, ‘oedipal’ leader, the rest of us Spiders are stuck."

"What's 'Oedipal'?" Peter B. interjects, walking into the room with a bowl of mashed dinner for Mayday. The child's face brightens at the sight of the meal, and she eagerly crawls to him.

"I believe Hobie's trying to reference Oedipus," Gwen says with a roll of her eyes.

"Yeah, that Roman dude who had beef with his son and erased him from the living world, right?" Hobie muses.

"Nope. It's Greek mythology. And he killed his father and married his mother," Gwen corrects, slightly exasperated.

"Man, that's all kinds of messed up," Hobie grimaces, making a face that gets a giggle from Mayday.

"You think it's funny when Uncle Hobie gets it wrong?" he teases the little one.

"Enough with the history lessons, guys," Peter B. interjects, concern evident in his voice. "Ever since Miguel's been gone, nothing's been right. Honestly, with everything that's been happening, I'm just overwhelmed. I'm especially worried about Sunny and everything just feel so surreal."

Hobie nods, absorbing the weight of the situation. “I hear you, man. Who knew Miguel was shagging our Sunny behind our backs.” 

The chorus of shocked voices fills the room. “LANGUAGE!" they exclaim, eyes wide.

Hobie raises his hands in surrender. "Sorry, I got carried away. I meant... it is weird how they had a deep love-making connection, and it led to... consequences without us knowing."

Peter B. leans back, a pensive expression clouding his face. "With everything Sunny went through, the joy, the pregnancy and leaving... I should have been there for her more."

As if sensing her father's distress, Mayday halts her meal, reaching out with her small, pudgy hand to comfort him, patting his cheek. Gwen, her voice gentle yet firm, adds, "We all could've done more, Peter. But we were preoccupied, trying to save our universes, and in doing so, we neglected our own Spider-Family."

She takes a deep breath, her demeanor changing to one of determination. "Now, no more moping. Miles and I will hunt down Pav and Margot to sort out the chaos at HQ. Peter, you should visit Sunny and Gabriel and take Mayday along. Hobie, team up with Jess to locate Miguel. Make sure he's alright and bring him back."

Miles cuts in, skepticism evident. "Bring him back? Isn't he the very reason we're in this mess?"

Gwen sighs, trying to choose her words carefully. "Miguel's a … complicated man. He made choices based on what he believed was best. His actions, while perplexing, stem from good intensions. But he's hurting too, Miles. I've seen it. He’s heartbroken." 

Miles scoffs, "A heart;for real? That dude? All I've seen is a cold exterior, mad demands, and an excessive pride."

A glance around the room reveals faces of understanding and sympathy towards Gwen’s perspective. Miles' frustration only grows. "Like seriously? All of you? His heart is straight-up frozen and his ego’s bigger than, like, everything! How y’all even thinking about letting him near your best friend."

"Miles," Peter interjects, his tone both assertive and compassionate, "you might not see the full picture here."

Miles, fire in his eyes, retorts, "It's all of you who are blind. I don’t get what charm he has over you, but that man is dangerous. Ain’t no way I stand by and watch him come near her or the baby again, or any of us for that matter. Y’all better wake up and join me.” Without another word, Miles activates his portal, leaving in a flash.

Gwen and Hobie scramble, attempting to follow or stop him. But Peter, with a resigned sigh, motions them to pause. "Give him time. He'll come around. For now, our priority is locating Sunny and Miguel."

Gwen, though worried, gives a nod. "You're right. We've got pressing matters. Sunny is in a vulnerable state, and we need to find Miguel."

Hobie, after a moment of contemplation, says, "Miles not wrong, though. We need to tread carefully around Miguel. Maybe he’s injured ‘imself, like that Icario bloke who got too close to the sun. Miguel might’ve burned his feathers on our Sunny.”

“Icarus. You mean Icarus.” Gwen corrects him once again with an exaggerated eye roll.

Peter agrees, "Yea, Miguel's actions have consequences, but remember, every story has two sides."

 "No, sweetheart, it's MA-MA. Say Ma... Not Da, MA-MA.”

“DADA!”

“Alright, if you won't say it, no toy for you. Come on, my love. Say MA-MA.” Blackmailing a one-and-a-half-year-old might not be your proudest parenting moment, but hearing him chant "dada" incessantly has been grating, particularly when said "dada" is a headstrong egomaniac with a hero complex and an overwhelming urge to save every universe but who seems to have missed saving the one thing that mattered most to both of you.

Sure, he's incredibly attractive and, yes, maybe he looked really hot while being on his knees — but those details are neither here nor there. A soft whisper in the back of your mind suggests that, in the end, he did rescue your boy. But that comforting thought is drowned out by the even louder, more cynical voice reminding you he's the reason the danger existed in the first place.

 “Dada?” Gabriel pipes up, his big eyes hopeful.

“No, love, I’m still your MA-MA.” With a resigned sigh, you hand the toy over to the gleeful toddler, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. You then rise, intent on tackling some household chores. Switching on the TV, you tune into the news, curious about the latest happenings in Nea Yorkey. 

Since hanging up your mantle as Spider Sun you've tried to distance yourself from the perils of heroism. Given all the challenges you've faced and the traumas you've endured, who could point a finger at you for wanting to step away? Your primary concern now is the tiny human being who looks up at you with eyes full of wonder and innocence.

Yet, a piece of your heart still aches for your city. You've always been someone who believes that one shouldn't stand by in the face of injustice. After all : 'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.' But now, you're not just a hero, you're a mother too. Balancing those two sides is proving to be quite the challenge and extremely frustrating. 

Curiously enough, the city's crime rate isn't surging, even in the absence of a superhero. It's almost as if there's still a vigilantly safeguarding Nea Yorkey in Sun-Spiders absence. But that can't be possible, can it? Wouldn't your spider senses have alerted you if that were the case?

Before your thoughts could spiral any further into the depths of concern, the persistent ringing of the doorbell snapped you back to reality. One glance at the door and an all-too-familiar voice later, you already know who's there.

“Would it kill you to answer sooner? I think I've lost count of how many times I rang. And for the love of all things good, it’s freezing out here!” Melissa, still in her over-dramatic fashion, breezes in, shedding flakes of snow from her vibrant winter boots. “And by the way, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Now, where's my favorite little munchkin?”

Melissa, once Gabriel's 19- year old former babysitter, stepped inside, shaking the snow off her boots onto your doorstep. After the harrowing incident involving the Spiders and your son, she was promptly relieved of her babysitting duties. That was an event you've tried to scrub from your memory, a dark stain you wish you could just wash away. But in the aftermath, you found an unexpected friend in Melissa. She turned out to be a wonderful listener and possessed an uncanny ability to keep Gabriel entertained. He had grown quite fond of her in the short time she cared for him.

While you had resolved never to leave your son unattended again, it was comforting to have Melissa's company. 

She’d become someone you could confide in, someone who could effortlessly make Gabriel giggle, and most importantly, someone who filled the echoing silence of your home with warmth and chatter. She is your "guy in the chair." Well, more like "girl in the kitchen chair,"  but the sentiment still stands. 

Truth be told, after distancing yourself from the Spider society, a deep-seated loneliness had settled in. While the world continued to move around you, there was a stillness in your heart. The absence of your closest friends, the void left by Miguel - it all felt like a puzzle with a missing piece.

“Nopedidope, I am not Dada, I am ME-LI-SSA.” she says with a playful tone, then turns sharply towards you. The damp red strands of her hair, wet from the snow, swing gracefully with her movement. "What's with him and 'Dada' all the time?"

You shift uncomfortably, hoping to avoid delving into that topic. "Kids and their phases," you mumble, trying to sound nonchalant.

Melissa studies your face, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "You're looking a little pale there, Sunny. You know what you might be missing?" She raises an eyebrow teasingly. "A bit of Vitamin D?" Her voice drips with insinuation.

In a mock attempt to shield Gabriel, you place a hand over his ears, which only spurs Melissa into laughter. "Come on, he's too young to understand. When was the last time you had a little fun?A month? Or Two?"

You shake your head, not meeting her gaze. Since Miguel, there hasn't been anyone else. Between the birth of Gabriel and the whirlwind that is motherhood, the idea of dating or loving someone else doesn't even cross your mind. No matter the hurt and heartbreak Miguel has caused, the truth is clear: your heart still belongs to him. It always has.

The mere thought of another person comparing to him feels almost blasphemous.

"Sunny!" Melissa's voice draws you out of your trance. "Don't tell me you've had a dry spell since.. well, since well, Gabriel was conceived. No fucking way. Seriously?"

"Let it go, Mel," you interject gently, because while the weight of loneliness presses on you, and the desire for intimate connection tugs at your heartstrings, a longing for human touch, to be seen as more than just 'mom', there's also an undeniable self-consciousness that wraps itself around you. The aftermath of pregnancy has reshaped your body, and though each stretch mark narrates the beautiful journey of your son's creation, they also evoke self-doubt. 

Memories of Miguel's adoration flood back. He had a gift for making you feel cherished during your intimate moments. He would take his time, appreciating every inch of you, always emphasizing how much he desired you. The warmth of his fingers, the gentle press of his lips tracing your curves, and the whispered assurances of how much he wanted you. The way his tongue tenderly caressing the swell of your breast, his hot breath tickling your skin and your - Snap the fuck out of it, Sunny!

But the chill of an empty bed the next morning led to those persistent doubts which still plague you today. We’re you not beautiful enough for him to stay? Were you not interesting enough to make him want to hold you when dawn broke? 

For someone who always prided herself on not tethering her self-worth to any man, let alone someone as self-absorbed as Miguel, these feelings of desire and yearning were unsettling. A desire for him to truly see you, to understand and love the depth of who you truly are, continued to consume you. 

Love? You catch yourself. Where does that come from? Shaking your head, you mentally scold yourself. He's proven himself less than worthy. It's time to regain control and shut your damn heart out. 

"I'm taking this little one out to build a snowman, and I'm setting you up on a date. You don't get to say no," Mel declares.

You raise an eyebrow, replying, "Thanks, but no thanks. If Gabriel's going out, I'm coming with. And I'm not looking for any man right now."

Mel rolls her eyes playfully. "Take a breather, Sunny. We're just going to be right outside. You can watch us through the window. Besides, a little rest might give you the energy for the spontaneous date I might arrange for you tonight."

"You're out of your mind," you retort.

She offers a sincere look. "I promise he's in safe hands, and you can keep an eye on us the entire time. But seriously, you look drained. When's the last time you had a good night's rest?"

You sigh, admitting, "I haven't slept well in weeks." It's the truth. Every time you close your eyes, memories of the HQ come flooding back.

Mel, sensing your hesitation, adds, "I'll protect him as if he were my own. You know that, right?"

Taking a deep breath, you let her go, breaking your cardinal rule of never letting Gabriel out of your sight. You just hope it's a decision you won't regret.

"Enjoying that snow, little guy?" Mel teases as Gabriel eagerly stuffs his mouth with a handful of the white fluff. "Careful, you might get a brain freeze." Gabriel giggles, some snow dribbling from his mouth, while Mel concentrates on assembling a little snowman just outside your apartment.

 "I'm not sure toddlers should be eating snow like that," a deep voice comments, causing Mel to fumble and drop the snowball meant for the snowman's head. She looks up, scanning for the source of the voice.

A striking man stands there, tall and imposing, with a dark blue winter coat that hints at the powerful build beneath. Slicked-back dark hair contrasts with the most captivating shade of red eyes Mel has ever witnessed. "And you'd be the expert on toddlers?" she inquires with a playful smile.

"No, but I am a father of two," he replies with a hint of sternness, his gaze shifting to Gabriel.

To Mel's astonishment, Gabriel's eyes light up at the sight of the man. The toddler abandons his snowy treat and dashes towards him. Caught off guard, the stranger momentarily stiffens.

Quickly, Mel scoops up Gabriel. "I apologize. He doesn't usually act this way. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

The man offers a curt nod. "It's fine. Just... keep the snow-eating to a minimum." As he begins to walk away, a heartfelt cry of "DADA!" from Gabriel stops him in his tracks. 

"Apologies again. He's taken quite a liking to that word recently," Mel says as she notices the man returning, drawn by Gabriel's continuous 'dada' chants. 

"Would you mind if I help with the snowman?" the stranger asks, catching Mel off guard. Why would a stranger want to make a snowman with a woman and a child unless he has other intentions? Maybe he's interested in her? Gathering her confidence and a dash of flirtatious playfulness, she replies, "Quite the knight in shining armor you are, offering to help. And here I thought chivalry was extinct." 

"Definitely not a knight." Without another word, he starts forming a small snowball, handing it to an elated Gabriel. The child's joy doesn't waver as the stranger settles beside him.

"Then who might you be, if not our knight in snowy armor?"

Mel inquires, with a teasing undertone, trying to uncover a bit more about the handsome stranger who'd seamlessly inserted himself into their snowy afternoon.

The stranger's dark crimson eyes briefly flit to Gabriel before returning to Mel, an unreadable emotion crossing his features.

"Not important."

Mel nods, storing away the information.Well, the lack of information. “Well okay mysterious. I like that. So let's get this snowman built, shall we?"

The trio gets to work. Mel gathers snow, crafting the middle part, while the man starts on the head. The handsome stranger's hands are deft, moving with a surprising grace that contrasts with his brooding exterior. Gabriel seems inexplicably drawn to him. 

At first, the toddler pats at the snow with his little mittened hands, but every so often, his bright eyes lift to watch the stranger. Whenever he moves to fetch more snow or adjust the snowman's form, Gabriel eagerly toddles after him, mimicking his every motion with endearing clumsiness.

There's a curiosity in Gabriel's eyes. He reaches out multiple times, trying to touch the mans face or grasp his hand, seeking a connection. To Mel, it seems as though the baby is yearning for the recognition of the stranger and he feels an inexplicable bond with, though she can't quite put a finger on.

The handsome stranger, for his part, can't seem to help himself. He bends down often to adjust Gabriel's scarf or hat, taking every opportunity to interact with the child and help him in a very protective manner, Mel notices.

He smiles softly when Gabriel's tiny hands try to shape the snow, occasionally guiding them with his own much larger ones, demonstrating how to pack the snow just right. At one point, when the snowman's body is nearly complete, Gabriel gives an excited laugh, dropping down to sit in the snow. 

The stranger follows suit, sitting beside him. The two of them start creating a tiny snowman just for Gabriel, the man showing him how to roll the snow and place the pieces together.

As they craft the mini snow figure, Gabriel, with his tiny voice, attempts to communicate with his limited vocabulary, pointing at the snow and then at the stranger, as if asking for validation for his creation. “Dada!Dada!” And every time, he gives a nod or a soft chuckle, providing the affirmation the little one seeks.  “Yes, you did that buddy! Great job, mijo.” 

When Gabriel eventually throws himself into the snow to make a snow angel, the man can't help but laugh genuinely, a sound that seems foreign to his usual stoic behavior. And in his excitement, Gabriel opens his mouth wide in a beaming smile, revealing two tiny fangs. Instantly, the mans eyes glint, a myriad of emotions reflected in them.

The affection and emotion emanating from him is almost touchable. The silent exchanges, the shared smiles, and the comfortable interaction between them, even in the absence of many words, speaks volumes.

Your  eyes flare comically with disbelief. "You let a stranger do what?"

Mel, in a bid to downplay the situation, waves her hand dismissively. "Relax. We just built a snowman."

"With my son! Mel, are you out of your mind? No it’s my fault trusting you with my son again! What was his name?"

"He... didn't say."

Your voice rises, "What did he say at all?"

"He's not dangerous, Sunny. He mentioned he's a father, and he's scouting for a new apartment. Asked if there were any vacant ones nearby." Mel pauses, her eyes taking on a dreamy quality. "And Sunny, he was breathtakingly gorgeous. Impossible for someone that handsome to be dangerous. I mean, the man looked like he was carved by the gods with a face even angels would envy.”

You narrow your eyes, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "Enough with you sappy, dreamy nonsense. A vacant apartment? And you don’t find that at all suspicious? So you let a total stranger play with my son without knowing a single thing about him... just because you wanted to sleep with him?"

Mel gulps. "You might've done the same, given the situation. Besides, nothing happened. Why are you overreacting?"

Your voice sharpens. "Overreacting? The fact that you're still standing here and not on the other side of my door means I'm underreacting."

Mel steps back, hands up, "Whoa, calm down, mama bear. Look, I'm sorry. But... I've got something to make it up to you. I messaged Marc, that guy from the café, and guess what? He's super excited to go on a date with you! He'll be here in about..." Mel theatrically checks her wrist, even though she's not wearing a watch, "...twenty minutes."

You can't help but raise an eyebrow. "And he's okay with me bringing my son on the date? After your stunt, there's no way I'm leaving Gabriel with you. Why not set me up with that mystery Adonis you just met instead?"

Mel smirks, "Firstly, ouch. Secondly, don't let your son cockblock you. The plan is: dinner, a stop at his apartment for some dessert, and then you come back here – hopefully a more relaxed and sunny version of yourself, Sunny. Thirdly, Marc is amazing, and Mr. Greek God is off-limits. He's mine."

 "No, I’m not going."

Mel pleads, "Come on! Marc was so eager to meet you. He's on his way, so maybe run a brush through your hair? Oh, and speaking of him…" Mel's face falls as she checks her phone, "He just texted me."

She reads aloud, "‘Hey Mel, I don’t know the kind of guys Sunny's been with, but I'm not risking my neck for a date. Sorry, but that dude in front of her house was scary and very serious about his threats.’ WAIT WHAT? Who’s in front of your apartment?”

You shrug and swing the door open to check on what Marc’s mysterious message could mean, revealing Peter B, his fist paused mid-air, ready for a knock. "Hey Sun. Did your spidey-sense catch me?"

It hadn’t. Why hadn't it? Have your once reliable senses dulled with time? Before you can respond, Mel jumps in with her own theory. "Did you chase off her date?"

Peter's brow furrows with confusion. "You had a date, Sunny? Was it the guy sprinting away with a bouquet, looking like he’s seen a monster?" He gestures over his shoulder, trying to pinpoint the fleeing figure.

Mel narrows her eyes at Peter, suspicion clear in her voice. "That was her date, yes. He seemed spooked. You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

Peter B throws his hands up defensively. "Hey, deeply mistrusting stranger, I've been encouraging Sunny to get out there for years. " You're immediately reminded of the time he'd tried to set you up with Ben Reilly. “Yea, you don’t look scary enough to spook someone. No offense.”

Sighing, you interject, "Maybe he realized dating a single mom with a toddler wasn’t what he wanted. Either way, I just want a quiet evening to relax and catch up on my favorite show. So thank you both for your unexpected, uninvited surprise visit today but I am tired."

Both Peter and Mel exchange shocked glances. "Sun, I came by to check on you because of... you know, what happened," Peter starts hesitantly.

You nod, taking a deep breath to keep

your emotions in check. "I'm aware, Peter. And I appreciate it. But right now, I'm doing okay. Actually, better than okay. So, I really don’t need help. Please, just give me some space. Both of you."

Mel steps forward, concern evident in her voice. "We're only trying to help here, Sunny. Please, don't shut us out."

"Look," you reply, feeling drained, "there's nothing you can do to help me anymore.You did enough today. Just let me be. My top priority right now is Gabriel. And it's his bedtime."

Peter moves closer, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Just remember, if you ever need anything, please reach out."

You manage a wry smile. "Not sure my phone plan covers inter-dimensional calls, Peter."

 After the gentle squeeze, Peter departs, Mel following close behind. As the door softly clicks shut, the weight of loneliness and grief descends upon you after seeing Peter, a part of your past, again. The walls of the apartment seem to close in, amplifying the echoing silence. It all feels suffocating. An emptiness weighs on your heart, and no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to escape its grasp. The reminders of all you've lost and nearly lost play on a loop in your mind. 

So there you stand, in the quiet of your bedroom, leaning against the windowsill, breathing in the chilled nightair,  while the world and your little baby boy are fast asleep. Emotions threaten to consume you, feelings you can no longer lock away, fearing they'll devour you from the inside. And in this moment, you speak out, though there's no one there to hear. No one to hold you close, no one to offer comfort for your broken soul. "Are you happy now? Did you manage to save the universe? Fix up every black hole? Then why did you leave one black whole in my heart? Why didn't you fix that,huh? Why am I not worthy of being saved by you?

You might fool the people around you, they  see you as this scary untouchable figure, shielded by layers. But not me. I see through it all. Beneath that facade, you're just as shattered. I tried to piece you together, but where did that lead me? Broken, just like everything else you touch. And I won't let you near him. I won’t let you break him, you hear me? No, of course not.How could you hear me. You're universes away from me. Why? Are you afraid to get cut by the shards of the broken heart that you left?

I hate you Miguel O’ Hara. I hate you for breaking me. You left behind fragments only you can touch, and I hate you for it. For shattering me and then leaving me alone. I hate you.” 

You wiped away the tears that escaped your eyes and closed the window, oblivious to the subtle shadowy silhouette that shifted just beyond the windowpane; "I'll mend your fractured rays, mi sol, so you shine whole again.“

A whisper, lost within the night shadows, never reaching your ears.

​​The gleaming city spread out beneath, its nighttime heartbeat pulsating with a soft electric energy. High atop one of its buildings, Miguel stands, casting a shadow on the walls of the room where his son sleeps peacefully. The warm lights from the streets below give off a soft glow, just enough for him to see Gabriel’s tiny chest rising and falling.

"So, you're staying here now? Just watching over Universe 586?" A familiar voice breaks the silence, and Miguel looks up to see Jessica Drew, her red and white suit glinting under the streetlights. "I never thought I'd witness the great O'Hara, savior of the universes, now guarding just two souls."

Miguel's jaw tightens. "Go away, Jess."

She lands beside him gracefully, her tone challenging. "Are you stalking your own child? Or seeking redemption from Sunny?"

"You don't get it, Jessica."

"On the contrary," she shoots back, her eyes intense, "I understand more than anyone else. I saw how you felt about her all those years ago. And I see it now. You were afraid, weren’t you?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," Miguel replies, defiance lacing his tone. "But I am not good enough for her light."

Jessica exhales, her voice softening. "And who made you the judge of that? Because according to Sunny’s emotional outburst, you're more than deserving." He clenches his fists, the weight of regret pulling at him. "I had my shot at happiness with Gabriella, and I lost it. People like me, Jess, we don't get second chances."

She points to the window, to the serene image of Gabriel. "That's your second chance, Miguel. Right there."

His eyes well up, the gravity of his mistakes reflecting in his eyes. "I almost killed him. How can I even begin to forgive myself for that?"

"But you didn't," she whispers, her voice filled with conviction. "And you wouldnt have hurt him or else you would have done it immediately. I saw you, Mig.”

A third voice joined them, and Peter B. swings over, landing with ease beside the two. "She's right, Miguel. I watched you with him, the tenderness, the love. It was there, even before you knew who he was to you."

Miguel shakes his head, shutting both of them out. His gaze is hard, still fixated on Gabriel. "I can't go back. They're better off without me. Besides, you heard her. She hates me."

Peter stepsforward, his gaze intense. "That's utter bullshit. I know Sunny. She’s strong, fierce, and forgiving. We heard her loud and clear and this woman loves you more than anything. Don't let fear rob you of your family."

Peters words hang in the air, and just as Miguel is about to reply, a shrill,ear-piercing cry cuts through the silence. His spider-sense goes haywire, a ripple of unease running down his spine. Without a second's hesitation, he dashes toward the source of the sound, leaving Jessica and Peter behind.

Inside, Miguel finds Gabriel crying, tears streaking his small face. Instinctively, Miguel scoops him up, the little boy immediately nestling into the familiar crook of his father's neck and calms down. “Hey, my little spider. Daddy ‘s here, don’t cry. What got you so scared?” he coos, spotting Gabriel's favorite toy on the floor. Miguel retrieved Gabriel's favorite toy from the floor, a routine he'd secretly adopted every night when, after falling asleep, the little one inevitably dropped it. With practiced ease, he nestled it back into the baby's grasp.

But before he can fully relax, Miguel's spider-sense jolts him again. Looking up, he sees a familiar, dark-clad figure hovering, hands sparking ominously.

“Drop the child, Miguel.” 

a/n: Hey guys, part 4 is finally here! Thanks for your patience and all the love you've shown me. While I initially thought Part 4 would be the conclusion, I've decided to extend Miguel's character and redemption arc, so we'll wrap up with Part 5. I'm already deep into writing it, so you won't have to wait as long. I truly appreciate all your feedback and support. You've all been wonderful. Remember to stay safe, stay hydrated, and always prioritize your mental well-being. Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this chapter! 🤍

@ieatmunson @buggiecrawls @strawberriesareprettycool @lux-thebimbo @hk-4ever @invaderzim13 @hannah-goulll @arivh @alwayslegendarymoon @deputy-videogamer @560ria @myconglomerateromance @mateihavenoidea @alwayslegendarymoon @shibble @pagesfalling @kurooyy @regretfulmoth  @crazysandwichlady2p04 @ poet-dae @rev-hellfyr @suya-x-syx @daimiyu @lazy-idate @jenniferdixon05207 @lostprince @amplsblog @eternalsams @cubinhodegelo @ prvttystvr @dabi-hawksbrainrot @noxiousfeline @maeplayscello @everyoneluvsvane @vinskyspuff @snazzajazz @yuuuumii @loreleis-world @fuckub @shugrcrush @fandomsinthegalaxies @vladersira @greatstudentbird @avengersinitiative2012 @therealnekomari @xiangping-28 @tanchosanke @tulipsc @tonystank1011 @la--figue @pingpongfingfong @ash-tronomicall @spardaenjoyer @venuswash3re @sofi786 @ranpuwo @sayonaratoyou @fuckthatfeeling @k7a4 @mxjss @rizahawkeye1380 @sinnamongirl @soosheee @cheezit-luv3rr @ransbatonowo @azurerose010 @azestar12334 @muertethekid @jay-joy @staronus0buttercup @mashiromochi @iseizeyourmom @salty-sister @aryjai @surhii @sinning-fae @gel0517 @hinata7346 @princessfuckyou @danyisawesomedontdenyit @typicalife-101 @arabell13 @thekinghazzastyles @sockears @perfectprofessorloverapricot  @mkissad @spiritndrain @melovetitties @ihateuguys @honeycriess @pinkbearddragon @yrlocalsimp @savagemickey03 @beiroviski @vanilla-sweets @autismsupermusicalassassin @itsjstz @wifeofnatasharomanoff @alleo-i @jxsoook @saint-chlorine @novausstuff  @canary58143 @amal31 @belle643 @ellahlour @akyino @give-me-cats-or-give-me-death @daemonlover @jiminling @forever1kay @chixkencxrry @nessrin @noelsilly @crispmarshmallow @rfvuhhvbin @johfaam @cenkisabibl @rosseyblog @pixiepaintt @pissboyazzy @couchpotato2006 @youcantseem3 @burningfishkidlamp @hellsingalucard18 @mimooyi @riverflowsanywherebuthere @desmanchaprazeres @dorck26 @seasaltjackal  @cupcakeandkisses @lost-in-thevoids @starlightaura @stained-tea-cup @yarri0 @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @rizzie-lovee127 @shirasakai @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @hiptobesquare13 @iloveplayboicarti @cosmoscoffeee @spaceemeeatt2 @bblouifford @aisyakirmann @xdarkcreaturex @lotustv @fenrysashryver @bri-loves-sunflowers @azrealbanerstark @lostaudfound @ithechipmonk @bby-lupin @mortallyscrumptiousmilkshake @hxlytrin @laennetargaryenskywalker @angi531 @namjooningera @stevenknightmarc @vr00m-vr00m @itsmadamehydra @blep-23 @alastorhazbin @bluevenus19 @bxdbxtxh15 @mrs-ohara09 @strangetrashblog @embersfae @animez96 @thekidscallmebosss @missdragon-1 @navyyoo @harmonics0537 @1206kju @chiharuundead @ahleeyuh @amyg1509 @kiruoris @rvnd0m-th1ngs @vallaufeyson @roses-and-grasses @enalofi @janeety @ash-aragami @peachycreamysmut @saltyllamakidwombat @3zae-zae3 @soupinacan444 @thepassionatereader @lukasdreamland @miracleangel19 @blackqueengold @yosistairl @adv3rs1ty @walkingtravesty97 @girlbloggingisamentalillness @rocketstyx @joined2023lol @whatdudtheysay @thatshouldgoonahat @eileen201804 @nuhteyam @panassbitch @ahoeformyself @abyemayiamay @stevenandmarcslove @froginmygarden @yunamaii @polireader @st0rmyt @delusional505 @enesitamor @groovycass @teamowolverine @blueoorchid @ausara23 @cyberv0dka @danika1994 @rawegggohan @mysteriousmeaning @defiance749 @rinx35 @tamales78 @saucypeanuttt @mitskistannn @shinydragoneagle @rorytrusov @shoyosdoll @sleepycow21 @urdads-gf @okgenic @nim360 @chuckle-nuts @trashybebe @cowabummwerdude @fresa-luna @fjordg @perkip3nguin @randomficlover @skylarlyn823 @prettysbliss @sajova @xxtipherethxx @yeahnotf @pendeja4bts @shoxji @mysingularitybts @moon-alexys00 @szaplsdropthealbum @kibo-ichiro @ace-mothman @shadowdaddysposts @emmytheinsecurepinata @darksunemiku @inafantasyworld10 @kyezofficial @beanstock7 @awesome-animenerd @levermilion @elliellielliesgirl @ thesimpybitch @jasontoddsfavoritechair @athena-portgas @redhoodedtoad @strawnanamilk @bijuu-naginata @chaimantis @ef4iryone @1-800-call-a-milf @idcalol @eddiesb3dstainss @rootintootincowboi@6billionyearsold @xiaolanternn @etherealkistar @mitzukichan18 @quackimilktea @my-goverment-is-a-dictator @bxbyyyjocelyn @teramjna @morilemochi @chompwoman

@vanillacoffeeology @calicoootalks @shine101 @mental-illness-is-my-friend @myhomethesea @janedah0e @st4rrlighttt @imnotyourbcbe @1lyyff @marsbars09 @migueloharaapologist2

[galactic-magick]

A Proper Date: Viktor x Reader

Summary: Viktor wants to take you out on a proper date. Sequel to my fic "The Handsome Assistant."

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: mostly just fluff, some mentions of suggestive stuff towards the end

Author's Notes: Reworked my Arcane masterlist to reflect the reading order for my Vik fics that are in the same continuity, and future fics will now be added to it in the correct order. Thank you guys for all the love it really means the world to me!

-

Life is sweet ever since Viktor’s been in it—and even more so now that you get to kiss him every day.

In all honestly, your routine hasn’t drastically changed. You still distract each other at work way too much, and he still keeps you in conversation long past when you should go home. But now you also stop by each other’s apartments, cook for each other, and spend late nights together in the Academy library and labs working on projects.

Your roommates love him, letting him in even if you’re out doing errands at the moment. Today is one of those days, a bright smile stretching across your face when you see him upon arriving home.

“Viktor!” you drop your things and skip into his arms. You look down and see he’s dressed up a bit more than usual, and your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “What’s the occasion?”

“I’ve been wanting to take you on a proper date,” he says. “We can go whenever you’re ready.”

“Vik, you know I don’t need fancy dates—“

“Hush.” he presses a finger to your lips. “Go put on something nice, alright?”

You nod, rushing back to your room to change. You meant what you said, you really haven’t minded never having a “proper” date. Neither of you make a ton of money, really just enough to live on and maybe a tiny bit leftover, so you’ve never expected to be taken out to restaurants or really any sort of activity you have to pay for. Most times your dates are making dinner for each other after work, Viktor making you the delicious recipes of his ancestors, mainly. Other times you just people-watch out in the city, chatting about anything and everything. You honestly would do anything with him no matter what it was.

Viktor’s eyes soften at the sight of you when you return to him, taking your hand to leave.

When you approach where you’re going, your grip on his hand tightens and your jaw drops.

“Viktor, you didn’t…”

Your gaze falls onto one of the fanciest restaurants in Piltover, complete with live music and an open ceiling with a perfect view of the stars, both things he knows you love.

“Viktor, this is too much,” you whisper, still flabbergasted. “I would never ask you to pay for a place like this.”

“What makes you think you would have to ask?” he chuckles, pulling you inside. “I’ve been saving up to take you somewhere nice.”

The inside is truly gorgeous, no doubt full of decorative items that are worth twice everything you own. The live band’s sound fills the entire room, setting a soft mood for a night under the sky. You feel entirely out of place, looking at everyone around you, but your eyes always return to Viktor, who’s looking at you like you’re the only thing of value in sight.

He insists that you order anything you want, of course, despite your protests. He wants to treat you, and eventually you have to accept that.

When you finish eating and the restaurant winds down to close, he asks the waitress something that you don’t quite catch while you’re listening to the last song. Viktor hands her quite a decent tip, then motions for you to follow her.

She leads you both to the back of the restaurant, passing multiple signs that say “Staff Only,” then finally gesturing to a tall flight of stairs.

“Up there,” she says. “Don’t stay too long though, I could get in big trouble if you’re caught.”

Viktor thanks her and she leaves the two of you alone.

“I...may have convinced her to let us go to the roof.” he smirks.

You glance back at the stairs, “Vik, you really don’t have to do this for me.”

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” he assures you. “Just...go slow.”

The amount of stairs is ludicrous, but it’s not too long before you reach the top and open the door to the beautiful starry night.

You go as close to the edge as you can without falling, craning your neck to look at the miraculous view. Viktor is close behind, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back.

“Careful, darling,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kissing it before looking up for himself.

You stare in silence for several minutes, Viktor still holding you close.

“Can we live up here?”

He chuckles, “That might be too high a request, I’m afraid,” he nuzzles his nose into your hair. “But I assure you, someday I will give you a place with a view like this.”

You turn around, surprised by the unwavering authenticity in his features. You’ve only been together for a few months now, was he really already thinking about a future with you?

“Viktor—“

His expression quickly changes into one of panic, “My apologies, I didn’t mean to be so forward—“

“No, Viktor,” you wrap your arms around his neck, your faces inches apart. “I’d like that someday too.”

-

Sneaking back out goes smoother than you expected, and Viktor insists on walking you home as usual. There’s a warmth to your heartbeat, a welcome contrast to the chill outside. You can’t believe he went through all the trouble to arrange this night for you, genuinely wanting to surprise you with something extravagant.

When you arrive to your apartment, Viktor walks in with you when you’re met with quite the sight on the couch. Your roommate, Eli, is snuggled up with Sevika, and your snickering quickly wakes them up.

“If I had known you were having a date night too, I would’ve stayed out with Vik longer,” you laugh.

“Well we were going to go to my room, but someone fell asleep on the couch,” Eli nudges Sevika.

“Hmmph,” Sevika grunts, too groggy to properly retaliate.

“We’ll leave you be, then,” you giggle all the way back to your room, pulling Viktor behind you.

“Those two are certainly...something,” Viktor says as you close the door.

“I’m just glad they’re happy,” you shrug. “Anyway—sorry—I didn’t even ask you if you wanted to stay. You can go home if you’d like. Just maybe close your eyes walking back through the living room…”

“No, no. I’d like to stay.” he nods.

“Okay.” you sigh, slowly coming to the realization that this will be the first night you’ve spent together. It’s a bit terrifying, if you’re honest, no matter how much you love him.

You continue, avoiding his gaze, “But just so you know, I’m not ready yet to—um…”

Viktor takes your face in his hands as you drift off, “You don’t have to explain yourself, love. I would be more than happy to simply sleep next to you tonight.”

You nod, most of your anxieties subsiding.

You borrow some pajamas from your roommates that would fit him, then get changed yourself. Your bed certainly isn’t meant for two people, but you both snuggle in well enough to be comfortable. You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Viktor rubs your arms and back, pressing kisses to your head. Holding you long after you’ve fallen asleep and his own arms have gone a bit numb.

He smiles at your stirs and snores, your fists gripping him closer the further you drift. He may never be able to go back to sleeping alone after experiencing this.

“Someday...I’ll give you everything you could ever want.” he whispers, closing his eyes.

[mydearestbeloved]

#?.5 [Chapter Concept]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Placeholder Title: "The You I Love"

Content Warnings: Yandere, might be OOC, and severely UNEDITED

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT to my "Trial Player"-AU

*This is a rough summary of multiple drafts, definitely future subject to change whenever Trial Player AU will get to this point. Since this is still just a draft, this is not as detailed as the finished product would've been, especially in relevance to the main story. This is supposed to be Trial Player AU's Side-stories/Sequel Materials, some things to come after the main story. Thus, many major information are also omitted in this draft to avoid spoilers.

Thank you, @julietunknown, for sending your ask that motivated me to share this. 💕

Take this with a grain of salt, or like a free sample of a future dish—as a friend of mine put it. 😉

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

——oOo——

Draft 1.2_PART I: You and ‘Him’

The first thing you noticed was the way he looked at you when he woke up.

Your husband—or at least, the man who share the same looks—gazed at you with a strange, distant sort of curiosity. Your husband wasn’t one for subtlety when it came to his affection; this detached look didn’t fit.

It was in the way his gaze lingered on details he should have already memorized—the lines of your face, the small band on your finger, the photographs on the wall of the children and you together. It wasn’t his usual silent reverence. This time, it was as if he was seeing them all for the first time.

But you kept quiet, watching him. Hours passed. He tried to keep his responses vague, carefully navigating every word like he didn’t quite know his own story here.

Finally, that evening, after putting the children to bed, you cornered him. "You’re not… my Jinwoo, are you?"

He froze. His expression gave him away—confusion, then surprise, and then a flicker of guardedness. Slowly, he shook his head. “You’re… perceptive.” He paused, lowering his gaze, almost apologetically.

“What gave it away?”

“Oh,” you replied, almost chuckling, “I have my ways.” You leaned against the doorframe, watching his guarded movements, noting how he braced himself for battle despite standing in a place that should have felt like home. “Let’s just say… I know my husband.”

The guarded look in his eyes faltered for just a moment before returning, his expression unreadable.

“I… am Sung Jinwoo. But maybe… not your Sung Jinwoo.”

It was a confirmation you had braced yourself for, and yet it still brought a pang to your chest. You knew this was not your Jinwoo, and, if you had to guess, this was likely the Sung Jinwoo. The original one, from the story you’d read back in your world, the Jinwoo who knew nothing of you or this life.

“I’m guessing,” you said after a pause, “that you’re looking for a way back.”

He frowned, his brows knitting together as he seemed to weigh his options. Finally, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing just enough to suggest a sliver of trust.

Despite his efforts to remain aloof, you could sense a hint of unease beneath his calm exterior. In this moment, he reminded you of the man he was in the original story—the man burdened by impossible decisions, the lone soldier on a battlefield against insurmountable odds. It stirred something in you, something you had buried away for the Jinwoo you had fallen in love with, but that now resurfaced for this alternate version.

You exhaled, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach. “Alright,” you said after a beat. “Here’s the deal. You can stay until we figure this out. Of course, we’re sleeping separately.”

“But… please, don’t tell the kids.”

His brow arched, clearly surprised by your offer. “You’re letting a stranger stay?”

“Stranger?” You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, you’re not a stranger. Not really.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned in my life, it’s that normal doesn’t apply when it comes to us you.”

You gave him a small smile. “You’ll adjust. Until we fix this, you’re welcome here.”

His silence lingered longer than you expected. You caught the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he watched you, but you didn’t offer any further explanation.

——oOo——

It took days for the tension to ease, though Jinwoo—the original Jinwoo, as you’d begun to think of him—kept his distance. He explored the house cautiously, explored the world that mirrored his own but held their differences.

One difference was the children.

Your firstborn—a boy with his father’s hair and eye color—was an exact replica of his own son, thus clearly showing Hae-in’s features as well. The resemblance was uncanny, and Jinwoo almost thought that you were not this Suho’s biological mother, that was until he met the Cha Hae-in of this world.

He felt guilty, but you laughed it off, and Jinwoo found himself silently wondering if it was, in some strange cosmic way, certain things were just meant to be.

Hae-in visited more than once; she seemed closer to you than she was to him. Not that she didn’t treat him well, in fact, she treated him with an unfamiliar mix of rivalry and the closest of friends. And she was more… energetic than he remembered.

“You didn’t give (Name) a hard time while I was away, right?” She unceremoniously jabbed him on the side, grinning.

“Guess who’s back? ~”

“Auntie!”

“How’s my favorite nephew? Oh, don’t think I forgot my favorite niece as well!”

“Auntie, we’re your only niece and nephew!”

Then there was your second child—a daughter who looked exactly like him.

The first time she approached him; it was with the kind of confidence only a child could muster. She tugged at his sleeve, her small hand clutching the fabric tightly. “You’re not Papa, are you?”

Jinwoo froze, his mind racing as he tried to formulate a response.

But the girl simply smiled, her expression full of innocence. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft and sleepy. “Mama said Papa is special. You’re just... different special.”

Before he could respond, she climbed onto the couch beside him, curling up against his side like a cat, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Will you tell me a story?” she asked, her voice soft and hopeful.

Jinwoo hesitated. He didn’t know what kind of stories your Jinwoo told her, but the earnest look in her eyes made it impossible to refuse. And before he realized it, he was recounting tales from his own life, stories of battles fought and won, of courage and sacrifice.

She listened intently, her head resting against his arm, her small hand gripping his sleeve as if anchoring herself to him.

“Goodnight, not-Papa,” she murmured as sleep claimed her, her breath even and calm.

Jinwoo stared at her for a long moment.

——oOo——

One evening, as you prepared dinner, you caught him lingering near the kitchen door, watching you in silence. His eyes softened for just a moment before he realized you’d noticed, his expression quickly reverting to one of guarded indifference.

“Care to join us?” you offered, gesturing to the table where your children sat, eagerly waiting for their meal.

Jinwoo looked away, trying to muster a polite refusal, “I—thank you, but I shouldn’t.”

You looked at him, a gentle smile on your lips. “You know… you don’t have to be a stranger.”

And that’s how Jinwoo found himself reluctantly seated at your dinner table, your children talking to him as though he’d always been there. He knew, deep down, that he was a mere placeholder, a temporary stand-in for your real husband, but somehow, the warmth of this little family, the glances you gave him that were so full of kindness and understanding, chipped away at his defenses.

The meal was simple but hearty, the kind of food that spoke of a life filled with love and effort.

——oOo——

One afternoon, as the day waned into soft evening light, you proposed something he didn’t expect.

“Jinwoo,” you said, stretching out your hand with a slight smirk, “Fight me.”

He looked at you with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Fight you?”

“You heard me.” Flexing your hands as you stretched.

He was silent for a moment, before an amused smirk broke his usually serious expression. He couldn’t resist the spark of curiosity, taking off his jacket and rolling his shoulders. “You think you can keep up?”

“Oh,” you laughed, “I think you’ll be in for a surprise.”

Jinwoo expected to have to hold back, but instead, he found himself pushed to his limits. The last time—yeah, it was with Antares, but that was a live or die battle. This, however, was… exhilarating in a different way.

Your strength and speed almost a match for his own, but your endurance was the most superb. You were remarkably resilient, you were pushing him, truly challenging him. Each clash of your fists, each dodge, every calculated strike—it was like he’d found his equal, a rival who understood him on a level no one else did. In the end, his dagger was a hair’s breadth away from grazing your throat while the glowing tip of your scepter was aimed to the back of his neck should you will it to shot in a moment’s breath.

“Well,” you both were breathing hard. “Do you feel better?”

What?

As the days rolled on, he moved a bit more comfortably, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. But there was still a storm in his mind, and he spent his days pouring over books and papers, searching for a way to return home.

He was… restless

Don’t tell me she—

“Good,” Your grinned bright. “You needed that.”

——oOo——

“How… do you know me so well?”

That night, as you helped accelerate his healing factor (which too him by surprised too) on the faint bruises from your fight, he finally asked you what had been on his mind since his arrival.

“Who are you, really?”

There was a hesitation, the flicker of an emotion in your eyes. But then you nodded, as if deciding it was time to tell him the truth.

“I suppose you deserve to know,” you began, your voice quiet but steady. “I wasn’t originally from this world. I was just an ordinary person who read about you, who watched your story unfold like a tale in a book. You… your world, it was fiction to me. But one day, I found myself here, thrown into your life as the ‘Trial Player.’”

His eyes widened slightly, an edge of disbelief in his gaze, but he said nothing, listening intently.

You explained the special circumstances of your existence, from the start to the end—everything.

{Many information here have been cut off to avoid spoiling the main story. My apologies, dear Readers, you’ll just have to wait and see.}

You gave a rueful smile. “Funny how life turns out, isn’t it?”

“I came to know him, to trust him, and to… fall in love with him.” You finished; your gaze softened with memories of the man you loved.

“I choose him.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you as he processed the enormity of what you’d just revealed. He didn’t know what to make of it, of you—this woman who seemed to know every part of him yet belonged to another life.

The only her there is, huh?

“You asked me why I treat you like this? Even though you’re not him?”

“It’s simple really, almost silly.”

“I have always loved you… as the hero I first met on the pages. That’s a fact that won’t change, for any version of you.”

A forbidden thought crossed his mind as he watched you in the firelight later that evening, tucking the children into bed with a gentle smile and warmth that seeped through the home.

“But my heart belongs to the one I came to know here.”

What would it have been like to have you by his side instead?

He pushed those thoughts aside, he had his own life, his own family to return to.

——oOo——

Draft 1.2_PART II: What Was Supposed to Be

When Jinwoo opened his eyes, he immediately sensed something was off. The air felt different—thinner, quieter, lacking the subtle warmth that had always reminded him of you. And then he looked over, expecting to see the familiar curve of your form beside him, only to freeze as his gaze landed on another woman lying there, her face serene in sleep.

Cha Hae-In.

Jinwoo sat up abruptly, his heart pounding as he tried to process the sight. This can’t be right. He closed his eyes and opened them again, half-expecting to wake up beside you, his wife, his partner… but there she was, Cha Hae-In, lying next to him, the soft morning light casting a gentle glow over her familiar face.

In a controlled but shaky breath, he forced himself to get up, slipping out of bed to avoid waking her. Every step felt surreal as he moved through the house, his mind whirling with questions. A few framed photos on the wall caught his attention, and he stopped in front of them, his blood running cold as he scanned the pictures. There was him, standing beside Cha Hae-In, and… a small child, his hair dark, his eyes bright with a familiarity that twisted the dagger deeper.

His son, Suho.

But where was Aera?

Where were you?

——oOo——

Days passed in an agonizing blur. Jinwoo tried to act like the original version of himself, the one who had married Cha Hae-In, but it was like walking through a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Every time he saw her, every time Suho’s voice called him “Dad,” it felt like an echo from a story he’d once known. His heart pounded with a raw, aching desperation as he searched for you—your face, your touch, any sign that you’d ever existed here. But no matter where he looked, there was only emptiness, the quiet certainty you were nowhere to be found.

The realization tore at him, dragging him back to a memory he’d thought he’d buried. He remembered the day he had finally uncovered the truth about your origins, learned the truth of your existence as the ‘Trial player’—the day he learned that you were an anomaly—

{The following information have been redacted to avoid spoilers.}

—The knowledge that if you chose to, you could leave him, vanish from his life, and he would be helpless to stop it. He remembered the days that followed, how he had nearly unraveled, feeling as powerless as he had in his weakest days, before the power, before the trials. He had to live with the knowledge that at any moment, you could decide to walk away, to return to wherever you had come from. But you had stayed, chosen him, anchored yourself in his world. And he had never taken it for granted since.

But this—this was worse. In this world, you didn’t exist. You had never been his to begin with.

Every day, that fear twisted deeper into his soul, pulling him into a dark, spiraling despair. Searching for answers that didn’t exist, he would return to Cha Hae-In’s side each night, his body going through the motions, but his heart felt like it was being strangled.

One night, as he lay in bed, the panic finally overtook him.

I have to get back to her. The thought repeated in his mind like a mantra. “Where… where is she?” he whispered, choking on the words, a sob escaping his lips as he buried his face in his hands. He could barely breathe, the space around him closing in as his heart thudded in his chest, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. He was shaking, his fists clenching as the reality sank in further. Where is my wife?

[ERROR: Your wife < Cha Hae-in > is right beside you.]

(Name). He repeated. (Name). (Name).(Name)(Name—

[ERROR: No matches found for < (Name) >. Do you want to look for something else?]

No. No. He clutched his head, the world blurring around him as he felt himself unraveling. The life he’d known, the home you’d built together, your children, your touch—all of it felt like it was slipping away, becoming some half-forgotten dream.

——oOo——

Jinwoo awoke with a sharp gasp, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he clutched the sheets. For a moment, he was still caught between the nightmare and reality, his mind reeling, his heart still gripped in panic. But then he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, the warmth of a touch that soothed him like nothing else could.

“Jinwoo…?” Your voice was soft, concerned, as you looked down at him, a frown creasing your brow. “Are you okay? You’re burning up.”

For a moment, he couldn’t speak, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he took you in, alive and real, right here. He could barely register anything beyond the sheer relief of having you beside him, the way your hand gently cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin.

“I… I thought you were…” His voice broke, and you hushed him gently, pulling him into your arms as he clung to you like a lifeline, burying his face in your shoulder as his body shook with silent sobs.

“I’m here,” you whispered, your voice a balm against the ache in his heart. “I’m right here, Jinwoo.”

Above him, a faint message flashed in the corner of his vision:

{Error resolved; welcome back ‘Trial Player’s Sung Jinwoo, we apologize for the delay.}

But Jinwoo barely registered it, couldn’t care, because the only thing that mattered was the feeling of you, solid and warm in his arms.

——oOo——

Jinwoo had always been possessive of you, but this nightmare—this terrifying glimpse into a world where you didn’t exist—had perhaps, pushed him to the edge even further.

Over the next few days, Jinwoo’s attentiveness to you took on an edge, his glances lingering a little too long, his touch a little too possessive, as if he couldn’t bear to let you out of his sight. You’d catch him watching you with an intensity that made you shiver, his eyes dark, haunted, yet filled with a fierce protectiveness that bordered on obsession.

As for you, you kept silent about the other Jinwoo—the original Sung Jinwoo who had stayed in your home, the man you had come to befriend in the short while he had been here. Your Jinwoo didn’t need to know now. You weren’t sure how he’d react, and truthfully, it felt like a wound you had no desire to reopen. You wanted to hold on to the peace you’d found with him, to continue loving your Jinwoo, even if his grip on you felt a little tighter than before.

Once, you had looked at him through the detached lens of an observer. Back then, you had loved him, but it was the way a reader loves a character, a hero that existed in a world apart from yours. He was someone who deserved happiness, someone who, in your mind, belonged with Cha Hae-In. She was the light he’d found after a life of shadows, a gentle presence to soothe his broken heart.

For a long time, you’d believed he’d be happier with her, the one he was destined to be with. You’d accepted the idea that if he ever chose her, if he ever drifted away from you, you would step aside willingly, content with the knowledge that he was happy. You had even been prepared to disappear if it meant he would have the ending he deserved.

But that was then. Over time, the lines between fiction and reality had blurred, and you’d come to love him as a person, not just as the character who’d once graced the pages of a story. You had chosen him, and he had chosen you—your futures intertwined in ways you’d never imagined possible. Now, there was no turning back, no “right” ending for him that didn’t include you by his side.

And you knew, in your heart, that if he ever fell—if the world ever turned against him—you would fall with him.

——oOo——

One evening, as you were preparing dinner, Jinwoo entered the kitchen, his gaze tracking you with that same instantly. You smiled, stirring the pot as he came up behind you, slipping his arms around your waist and pulling you close.

“Jinwoo,” you murmured, laughing softly as he rested his head against your shoulder, his hair ticking your neck.

“Don’t… don’t ever leave me,” he whispered again, and there was a rawness in his voice that made your chest tighten.

You turned in his arms, looking up at him, your eyes meeting his as you reached up to brush your fingers along his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” you reassured him, your voice soft and steady. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though his eyes still held that desperate edge. “I mean it,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t—won’t—lose you.”

You leaned up, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “You won’t,” you promised.

Somewhere, the original Sung Jinwoo had found his light in Cha Hae-In, a gentle love to soothe his heart. But you… you were something different, a reflection of the man beside you, as fierce and unstable as the shadows that bound him. You weren’t a light that would pull him back from the darkness.

No, you were the one who would fall with him, hand in hand, if that was what it took. And as Jinwoo held you, his love for you all-consuming as yours was to him, you knew that you would never walk away from him—not now, not ever.

——oOo——

Draft ???_PART III: You and ‘Me’

“Just once… one more. A single chance, to meet you again.” –OG(?)!Jinwoo

——oOo——

Draft ???_PART IV: A Farewell Without Goodbye

“Do you really think… I can find that same peace, that same happiness, without… you?”

“You already have it. You had it long before I ever appeared. Don’t throw it all away. Please.”

“You… you want this…do you really want me to—”

“Yes.” It’s what you need.

Live a life untouched by my existence, free of this… obsession. I don’t want you to end up like my Jinwoo, someone who would break if I ever left.

Let this be the end of it.

“…Then do it. Take the memories (of you) away. Before I change my mind.” –OG!Jinwoo

Thank you… for everything.

“Welcome back,” Jinwoo’s voice greeted you, his eyes lighting up as he crossed the room to pull you into his arms. The weight of his embrace, the steadiness of his presence—it was everything you needed, everything you had fought to preserve.

“Did everything go okay?” he peppered your face with sweet little kisses, making you giggle.

You offered a gentle smile, nodding as you leaned into him, letting he soothe all of you. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice steady.

As long as you’re here, with me.

End Note:

It's bittersweet, I know. 🥹

When I said I'm not going to throw Cha Hae-in under the bus, I mean it, I'm really going to try not throwing her under the bus. I hope I'll do that well enough at least, considering what role I planned for her in Trial Player AU. 🫣

This is already a 3k+ worth of words. Damn.

Apparently, it's my definition of a summary, or rather, how bad I am at making one 'cause I put too much importance on details. It's both a blessing and a curse. 🥲

This is a 'summary' of drafts already planned long ago, like, the very same moment I decided on Trial Player AU's canon ending and the fact that Trial Player would be written as an AU. So, yeah, that's why this 'summary of drafts' is already like (and perhaps feel developed as) the usual main story's chapters when it is in fact isn't (yet).

This summarized version is obviously shorter than the original drafts (and far shorter than the finished product I planned for in the future), with these many things omitted:

Deeper emotional aspects;

Many instances of relevance from what we know now of the main story and its other spoilers, for example: The shadows and butterflies part in the scenario, small mentions like the light and shadow marks and how they worked in actuality, and so many others;

Many major spoilers, like the truth behind 'Trial Player';

PART III and PART IV (End of scenario) are actually fully-fledged (FULL scenes) in my original drafts. Here, they are just direct cut-offs from the original (like, they are actual dialogues from the scenes planned)—cut-offs that I think able enough already to summarize the main plot of those scenes respectively.

I think that's all I can say for now.

Oh yeah, "Aera" is the placeholder name for TP!Suho's younger sister as of now. 💕

Happy reading! ❤️

[hazelfoureyes]

Fuck Joke Around and Find Out (Part 2)

Part 1

Everyone say thank you to @dontfuckbutimfab for requesting this sequel with their donation! It very literally would have never happened otherwise bbs! f you enjoy this story (and can afford it) I still ask you donate and let the event organizers (like @fraugwinska ) know you did so we can keep track 💖 even 5$ is a lot, ya know?

A grey ace clueless reader thinks she finally knows what’s going on (narrator: she does not) when Alastor propositions they explore her interest by way of tormenting a stalker of his with some personal broadcasting she agrees… to help a friend, ya know?

A Piece of Cake

「Warnings/Promises:Ace Alastor x Ace AFAB reader, thigh fucking, voyeurism real or imagined, metaphors galore, not a food fetish I stg guys, grey ace, vaginal fingering, making out, smut divider」

smut begins when you see this divider

MDNI OR I STG YOULL BE LOCKED OUTTA THE HOTEL 🔐 🫵🏼🏨

You wished you’d been drinking. It’d have dampened the embarrassment of the situation. You’d never gone into those kinds of interactions with Alastor … raw. Alcohol had always been the lubricant that let you play without any guards up. 

It would be cruel and unfair to call it naïveté that you followed Alastor to his radio tower. It’d be accurate though to call you an idiot for not having noticed the shift in your friendship since the couch incident. Or realized how obvious you were being about your own concerns.

A movie night seemed cute when Charlie suggested it, but soon you and Alastor found yourself in common awkward situation. Charlie leaned into Vaggie’s side, lips bruising the curve of her ear. Husk’s hands wandered over to Angel’s thighs, thrown over his lap intimately. Niffty…Well Niffty couldn’t sit still long enough for an entire movie so she came and went with bursts of energy. 

When people paired up, even if already decidedly in pairs, it left you and Alastor in that uncomfortable position of being unlikely fifth and sixth wheels. 

So he recommended leaving, and you happily followed his lead. 

Alastor sat in his chair, small and wooden and swiveling side to side to his amusement, and you leaned against the desk of his studio. You’d never actually entered the tower before. No one had that you knew of. Taking in as much detail as you could you noticed equipment seemed more modern than you’d realized. Perhaps the 1920s wasn’t that long ago after all. 

“You turn all of this on and your voice carries across the ring?” You asked, gesturing casually with your open palm to the large metal boxes with dials and knobs and glass bulb lights. 

“It amplifies my signal, yes. Not an inch of the pride ring can hide from my broadcast.” His everpresent smile seemed a bit more smug as he said it. “Untethered to Vox’s power grid, there's nothing between me and my adoring listeners!”

You could only nod. Adoring wasn’t the word most would use, but you thought it was funny he saw it that way. 

With the room so silent, the air so still, you could hear a sigh and his clothes rustle as he leaned onto the desk with his elbows. Looking up to you from the side, his smile tugged to the left. 

“Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding my touch.”

You choked on your own saliva, eliciting a howl of laughter from Alastor. “Oh, now that’s a telling reaction! You know, normally you are very comfortable with me. I dare say you’ve rested your head on my shoulder at least twice. You’ve set your feet on my lap many times during morning readings. You never jump like the others when I come up behind you, brushing against your back. Until recently.” Alastor and his chair moved a little closer to your side, your eyes facing away and out the window. You knew it was important to hear what he was saying, but your mind was reeling trying to summon an excuse for your change. 

“Sooo, why now, when I touch you,” his elbow slid out to push into your thigh, your knees knocking together in a jerk reaction, “do you seem so skittish?”

Alastor could hear your heart pounding in your chest. The rush of blood to your neck and cheeks could be seen even in the red and hazy light of hell. 

Why?

You opened your mouth to lie, his hand coming to grip the side of the table between your thighs, “I’ll know if you’re being truthful, doll.”

Now with a very dry tongue and a small bit of sweat across your brow, you let your head hang low.

The truth then. 

“Last time,” You didn’t see Alastor’s eyes widen in excitement as you began to speak. Surely you would say something deeply uncomfortable for you and that was always a little fun for him. “I really liked kissing. It wasn’t just playing around for me, so, I thought it’d be,” this was going to sound presumptuous, “misleading to get into that situation again.”

Large red and black ears turned inward and down as his back straightened at the confession.

“I’d never kissed like that before. I always thought kissing led to touching which led to sex. An unavoidable series of events. So I avoid kissing. Well, avoided it. I didn’t think I’d get so into it.” Before then, you’d only ever mimed making out and being dramatically horny with Alastor. Maybe a mouth on your neck, or your hands in his hair, but never anything more. But it happened so naturally, the alcohol letting you get more caught in the nice sensations than in the lack of desire to do much more. If he wanted to mock the others again, in the safety of your shared disinterest, you couldn’t be sure you’d keep from reaching out for more. Once it started, it was good. 

So it was best to not start, atleast not with him. It felt like breaking an unspoken agreement between you both. A silent ‘don’t take this seriously’ between breaths. “I probably shouldn’t joke like that anymore, since for you it’s just messing around and making fun of others.”

Alastor was a little taken aback. He liked kissing very much, and getting his unsuspecting friend worked up was entertaining. And you’d seemed to be enjoying his company when you were shaking beneath him. Was that so wrong? His head cocked to the side. “Was that your first kiss then?”

“First like that. Like, with–,” you grimaced, “tongues.” His chortle cut you a little, “It felt good! All of it. But, so does listening to music and, and,” you searched the ceiling for help, “eating cake.” You frowned as soon as you had said it. Cake? But it was hard to say it without being crude. All your needs were met. Of all the avenues of feeling good, why exert the effort into anything different. 

Alastor hummed, “Shocking to hear you’d never had more than a peck.”

“Well, that stuff always leads to more.”

He tutted, “That’s a little naive of you to say. And sometimes more can be nice. If the mood strikes. If the right partner is near. With intention and a little effort…” His fingers flattened against their place on the desk, long nails coming to barely make contact with your inner thigh. You didn’t notice, to his slight annoyance, “Why do you think you solely decide how far my …” a devious look crossed his face, “playing goes? When I want to stop?”

Talks of kissing and touching always led to the assumed inevitability of sex for people, you thought. Was Alastor thinly speaking about it too? 

How far….it stuck between your ears like a stray hair in your mouth. You weren’t experienced enough to know the distance between A and B, just that kissing was where it began and full penetration was where it ended. Right? Was he….offering a short trip between the two, you wondered. 

Your silence weighed his ears down further. “Though, if the idea of me touching you like I did, or more, is something you detest, I can respect that.” You groaned, did you have to close the door on everything? Was there no grey space you could live in now and then? You hadn’t had time to think about this before the conversation was already starting around you. 

“I’m not a fan of sweets but on certain occasions I can enjoy a piece of cake. I know not everyone feels the same. I only went as far as I did because I thought we were of like minds in that aspect.” He added and you could tell by the tone he was also finishing the topic on his part. Alastor thought the safety net of your mutual disinterest in sex as a need provided could allow him to drop his walls a bit and relax more than usual. Knowing neither of you were going into the interaction expecting it to lead to sex let him enjoy things like heavy petting without concern. In truth he’d avoided comfortable touches like kissing quite a long time ago by then for the same reasons you had. His ears struggled to right themselves again under the weight of the idea he’d misunderstood. 

But he wasn’t one to show his sincere disappointment. The hand between your parted legs left and he sat back in his chair with a creak. Without meeting your desperate and confused stare, he began adjusting his bowtie and straightening his jacket. Alastor leaned back with a cross of his legs and tossed his microphone from the left hand to the right. The look in your eyes was akin to a turning sea. It was visible to him that you were struggling with articulating what you wanted. And that was almost as fun as your little quivers when he pressed you down onto his lap before. 

He wasn’t one to break another’s boundaries unjustly, but he reveled in watching someone come undone from his actions. Until you were clear in what you wanted and didn’t want, he was going to enjoy making you panic over it. 

“I like cake.” It sounded stupider outloud than it did in your head. You felt stupider when his characteristic Ha! followed. 

“Is this conversation easier for you if we discuss this in terms of food, then?”

You nodded eagerly. For the love of Lucifer, yes, please. 

A wicked grin spread from cheek to cheek as Alastor twirled his staff, “Do you have an appetite, dear?”

With another whine your head fell back now from its place hanging between your inward turned shoulders, “Not– usually, no. But we were already there, and you….” your hands came to hide your face, why did you say food?? “Made me…have a little sweet tooth. If someone puts a little piece of cake in my hands, ya know…why not, I guess. Just a couple bites even.” You were actually talking about cake at that point, but a flicker of the singular lamp on the table caught your eye and reminded you the conversation was not about desserts.

“Would you like me to test your mood? I can stop when you’re full.” Alastor bit back his own noise, the statement doing something to him he hadn’t anticipated. 

Your knees pulled up to your chest as you curled into a ball atop his desk, “But why? We just…start doing stuff? And go from there?” 

Hadn’t you fled the common area to avoid similar things?

Or had you left to just not be on display like before?

Alastor’s red eyes looked around the room, your form standing out in the otherwise dank setting. You needed a why? That was fair. He could manage that. Your reactions inspired a very gentle cruelty in him that he wanted to indulge. He could put in the effort of manufacturing a situation that let him do so. A reason to make you gasp like a fish out of water by putting you in situations that very much took you out of your element. 

“Would you like to help me with something then? I have a stalker of sorts who’d be dismayed to hear something illicit.” From your sitting fetal position you heard him stand, a small sound of a metallic click following. “I could just huff and puff into my microphone, but it’d be more effective to make him think I’m spending some quality time with a paramore.”

Tentatively, you dropped your legs. “You want to broadcast our sounds?”

“Just to him. Don’t worry.” His charm was rolling off of his tall frame, dark eyes and yellow teeth not dampening it an ounce. “What do you say? I won’t go any further than you see fit.” He saw your eyes flit around in consideration, “You’re just helping out a friend bully a creep.”

Well, when he put it like that. As soon as you let yourself meet his gaze, he turned on a switch without breaking eye contact with you and the broadcast equipment lit up with a soft green glow. 

Your body relaxed. No pressure, just letting yourself get carried away again for a bit for the sake of helping Alastor in his usual job as tormentor. That seemed normal to you. That seemed understandable. 

Humming, Alastor closed the distance between you and handed his staff over, “Hold this between your legs, will you dear?” It was cold, you could feel it through the fabric of your pants as your thighs held it in place. He waved his fingers to show they were free before setting his palms down on either side of you on the desk. “May I?” His face inched closer to yours, coming to stop with his nose a few inches from yours. He saw your complexion darken again, a rush of blood to your face. “Just a kiss between friends. A little swipe of naughty fingers through the icing.”

You’d never be able to see a cake in a normal light again. 

When his lips reached yours your eyes fluttered shut, you knew it was polite to close them. It was just as he had said; a peck. A little kiss, chaste and gentle. A second, a little firmer. A third, lips pressing into yours strong enough you had to reciprocate with a nudging of your lips into his to keep from falling back. Your shoulders relaxed. The pacing was good for you. 

Each parting made the tiniest sound. 

“A lick.” You heard his voice float from the radio on the table to your right, just beside the closed door. You noticed the lock had been turned. The click you’d heard earlier. But you couldn’t dwell on that for long,  immediately following the ring of his voice you felt his mouth open as he parted and returned with a soft tongue swiping across the seam of your lips. His head turned to let him get closer, and you followed suit in the other direction. 

Already your mind was floating aimlessly in your skull as his tongue pressed in and licked at your own shy muscle before retreating again. You braved a peek just to see him looking back at you, heavy and hooded eyes seemingly waiting for yours. His smirk could be felt against your skin for the briefest moment before his tongue was pushing against yours. 

You liked kissing. You’d be happy to do this for hours if your lips could maintain feeling long enough. 

One of his hands found your waist and slid behind your back. The action reminded you that you had arms and hands of your own. This part was easy, you’d played it before. Nails scratched down his scalp through his undercut like you’d done before. Like you’d seen others do in movies and open spaces.  Alastor’s deep moan in response shook your throat and made you whine. 

More sounds. That was the goal. With knitted brows you disengaged slightly and bit his bottom lip. You gave it a tug as you pulled away, only daring to meet his stare once you’d let go. There it was, the current of good feelings that swept you up once you actually got in the water. Quickly it took you out at the ankles and soon you found yourself floating with the rapidly moving events to whatever end they dumped you out at. First it was your mind going soft but now as you found the resolve to look directly into his eyes your entire self was atop the stream. 

You didn’t recognize the look he gave then. A flash of black, a spin of his pupils nearly missed by you. Had the room gotten darker? 

“What’s that face?” You asked quietly, the space between your lips so small. 

“Hunger.” Was the response, his hand jerking you closer to him. Your ass was now slightly off the edge. 

How dare you be so brave as to bite the overlord. How very dare you be so quick a learner. 

He watched your throat as you gulped at the reply. You’d been a hiding little ball-of-sinner just a moment ago but now you seemed so comfortable in his arms. Was that from your friendship or had you already grown accustomed to this kind of kissing, he wondered. 

His free hand gripped your face and turned it to the left, his breath soon blanketing your right neck and shoulder. Warm and wet, his tongue slid up from collarbone to jaw. The air quickly cooled the saliva left behind and made you shudder.

That was better, Alastor thought. Your little shakes pleased him. They excited him in the way he wanted now. 

Renewed kisses, his mouth hot and open leaving a trail back down your neck. When his nose brushed against the shell of your ear you remembered Vaggie’s shy smile when Charlie kissed her there. You knew how she felt now, able to decipher that soft expression it gave her. It tickled but a little bit of electricity sparked down from your belly button to your center.

Any ideas of softness were banished when his body made contact with yours. For a moment, the microphone staff slid between your legs before his right hand caught it and pulled it free. In it’s place his own hips slotted between your knees and pressed into your core. You drew in a quick breath as you felt his erection settle against you. 

He rolled his hips and huffed a breathy laugh at your body jumping from the friction. This felt like fucking, you thought. Surely. 

Another move into you, the pressure of his cock even through so many layers was taking away your breath. The blood pounding in your ears was partly nerves for every unknown second coming but largely from the rush of his scent. You’d turned your head forward again and looked down to see where you were connected now. Unlike the kisses, he wasn’t pulling away. His hair tickled your cheek as he began to nip and suck at the skin just above your collarbone. He smelled like peat moss and sea salt. And… and… you took a deep breath in through your nose; a faint scent of magnolia.

Odd, there were no magnolia trees in hell.

“Smelling me? That’s … new.” His grin widened against your body, your little sniff paired with the heat roiling up from your chest making him snicker. Your body reacted so honestly and with so little shame. 

He made you choke on your retort by sliding your ass further off the desk, your tailbone taking the brunt of your weight. His left hand supported you as he held you tighter against him.

“I think you’re being too quiet. He’s not hearing you well…,” Alastor pressed his lips into your ear as he said it. From head to center Alastor was monopolizing your senses. The staff was momentarily set down beside you, your eyes following it.

You noticed as it clinked on the table that none of the needles seemed to turn or move on the various gadgets supposedly broadcasting your interaction. But you did hear a faint noise from the radio. 

“Ah,” you hadn’t meant to say it out loud, as it was just a sound of clarity hitting you. He wasn’t broadcasting anything to anyone. It was looping through his personal radio.

Your head whipped back to him, your nose hitting his as he leaned down. His left hand was on the button of your jeans.

“A taste?” A question that was nearly more breath than words as Alastor said it.

You looked from him to his hand and back up.

“For your stalker?” You asked.

He grinned and you were sure he knew. With a rise of his brows he seemed to answer positively. 

Every point of contact was a new place you found yourself unraveling. Another?

You nodded, biting your lip as he popped the button open and wedged his hand between your panties and your skin.

Before you could focus on the fact you hadn’t expected him to go straight to skin on skin you were shimmying your hips and leaning back on a palm to give better access. 

Hot fingers slid roughly against your folds before one pressed forward and swiped up. For the briefest moment he dipped into you. Your body jerked forward at the intrusion.

The exploratory finger returned and pressed in. Concerns of balance flew away as your hands shot to his shoulders and gripped. You needed some nonverbal way to express how you felt. There was already so much humming in your veins that couldn’t be communicated any other way. You expected the obvious, an in and out motion. But instead he crooked his finger and pressed against something that gave a little to the pressure. Your breath hitched, it wasn’t fast or hard but the repeated action had an exponential reaction. The pleasure was building upon itself. 

And then he stopped.

Alastor was watching you pant and stare nearly unblinkingly at his arm and despite the growing fog of his arousal he stopped.

When the repeated stroking of your spongy g-spot ended the growing pleasure faded away. You wanted it back. 

Despite your dry lips you stretched your spine and kissed him, immediately licking at his lips for permission to enter. Kissing started it, kissing could revive it.

Tongues pressed together, slipping over each other as your kisses became sloppy. Kissing wasn’t sexual in nature, nor could you call the relatively gross sounding concept inherently romantic. Yet, with your nails digging into his coat and hips grinding down onto his hand, the feeling of his tongue behind your teeth was making you clench around his finger for more.

He gave as your pussy was begging, the petting deep within you starting again. With a gasp your kiss broke, your forehead coming to rest on his cheek as you honed in on the feeling of Alastor moving between your legs.

With a shrug of his shoulders he began slinking off his coat. Hurriedly you helped, not knowing what that meant but trusting it would lead to more of the same. You pulled the coat down both shoulders and only after one arm was free did it dawn on you both he’d have to remove his hand from your pants to fully take off the coat.

Alastor sighed through his nose at the sensation of his erection straining against his pants. Your upset sounds at the loss of his hand didn’t help the twitching. Reluctantly, he completely removed himself from your body.

He dropped the coat back on the chair and returned to your open arms, up and waiting for him. 

You both moved together, mouths reconnected as he crashed back into you. His hand was rushed, panties folding and catching at first on his nails before he managed to get past the barrier and return to your heat. 

Alastor’s mouth opened to swallow your first moan. His eyes downcast and focused on your lips.

“Don’t waste your pretty voice.” He whispered, bringing the microphone back to rest against your cheek as a second finger pushed into you. 

You felt full, but it didn’t hurt. The stretch at your entrance was uncomfortable but only sharpened the pleasure. 

His mouth returned to your neck when you let your head fall back. Eyes closed you could feel the rest of your body melt away. You existed only where his body met yours.

The microphone against your face was cool to the touch and grounded you a little back to your surroundings. 

“You,” you choked out, “you said he was your stalker. Your noises—,” you tore one of your hands from his shoulders and reached down between you both. “He’d want those.”  Your hand slid down the impression of his cock and held softly onto the round flesh at the base. “Husk did this to Angel once —- it seems so low but…” Alastor’s face was hidden by his bangs but when you gently squeezed and rubbed at his balls and the base of his cock his shoulders trembled. “Does it feel good?” When he lifted his head to kiss you again you moved the microphone to his mouth, “Tell him.”

Your boldness affected you both but in different ways. You avoided direct eye contact and Alastor hissed against a moan. He had been hoping to see you as overwhelmed and meek as before, but this turn of attitude was making equally strong waves through his resolve. How far could he take it? How far would your comfort allow it?

When your fingers slowly crept up his length his hiss filtered through static before an airy moan popped over the speaker of the radio.

His fingers quickened their sweet assault against your g-spot as your own hand began what was becoming a mock jerking off.

Every second seemed to loosen Alastor’s snarky facade. His smile was wavering as he cut into his bottom lip with the force of his sharpened teeth pressing into them. Groans and sighs littered the space between you both as neither of you could worry any longer about hiding how good your hands felt on each other.

Alastor tested the waters of his next step, fingers pulling out and spreading the slick from your dripping entrance. From hole to clit his hand moved with ease.

“Now, a bite?” His head pushed the microphone you gripped onto for dear life with one hand out of his way. “Just….” He took a moment to slow his breathing, your hand stilling to help, “a little more. I promise to not… I won’t be a glutton.”

You didn’t know what a bite meant, and he watched your wide eyes search his face for understanding.

“Just a nibble.” His chest heaved as he waited. 

The weight on the first word comforted you. That precious understanding of what was in jest was translating into what was too far. 

You nodded, the slight fear of the unknown in your eyes endearing you to him. Most fear he gave was something short lived, as was its bearer. But watching you trust him to guide you through that dark new place despite being scared of the uncharted territory stirred something in his chest. 

He could just eat you up. If you’d let him. 

“Take off all of this, and turn around.”

He pulled away, gesturing at your pants and panties. When you hesitated he grinned, the lamp going dark with a snap of his glistening fingers. Just the soft green glow of the assumedly unnecessary equipment and the red light of Pentagram City lit you now. 

You stood and began to lower your pants, “Niffty isn’t lurking somewhere is she?”

Alastor only laughed, the dim yellow backlight of the radio wavering with the frequency.

Naked from the waist down, you felt your arousal quickly waning. This was more than anyone outside of a doctor’s office had seen of you. But the extinguished lamplight helped.

“Oh! Yeah,” you’d forgotten the second half of his request. Turning around you stood stock still as you listened to his pants rustle behind you. Soon the heat of his body was against yours again. You tried to measure his size by the feel of it pressed into your ass and lower back. The height difference was making it difficult but you knew he was more than you’d seen in the few videos Angel shared of his work.

“Bend over and put your hands on the table.”

Just a nibble. was your internal mantra as you did as you were told.

“Cross your legs at the knee.”

That wasn’t … that was new. It was all new but that was truly unexpected. He stepped back, the skin cooling from the sudden loss.

You could hear the wet sounds of something happening behind you before feeling the heat floating off his body again despite him not quite touching you. But he was close, and it had your heart stuttering in your chest.

A bite. 

His cock slid between your thighs, swollen head catching on your clitoral head as he bottomed out. His balls were firm against the back of your legs as he stilled.  His breath shuddered above you. 

The staff had been forgotten, leaning against the desk to your side. 

It finally dawned on you that you were the cake in this meal, and you were fine with it as he began to thrust. Every pass was constant slippery contact with your clit, his head passing over twice for an added jolt each time.

This was a bite, you had to wonder how it’d feel if you let him devour you. The idea was becoming more and more agreeable with every slap of his body into yours. 

His own leaking precum mixed with what you assumed to be spit and made him glide with ease. There was that mounting feeling again, the build up of pressure. The table wasn’t cutting it anymore, flat palms didn’t let you expend the wild bouts of energy bouncing beneath the skin.

You reached tentatively for the staff and pulled it in front of you, perpendicular to your embarrassing position. Both hands around the long black handle, you tightened.

Alastor seemed determined to run every centimeter of his length between your thighs, pulling his cock out entirely before popping it back in.

His grunts were still soft, nothing bestial about it despite how much like animals you felt you acted. 

When your arms gave up and you let your cheek rest against the table, the new angle changed Alastor’s position.

A yelp, not of pain but excited shock, burst out of your open mouth as his head caught on your entrance before slipping back out.

You hadn’t wanted to go further than whatever this was, but every time his thick head threatened to fully penetrate you wished it’d just force its way in. 

Closing your mouth to keep from drooling onto his precious desk, you found your sounds didn’t stop. His grunts and groans accented with your own high pitched noises quickly filled the once silent room.

Tighter and tighter your core twisted. You wanted to ask him to go faster, and as if he was already in your mind a hard thrust knocked your head into a piece of equipment. The obscene sound of his balls smacking into the backs of your thighs grew in intensity as his pace changed. Alastor’s rutting was shortened now, a staccato as he kept his shaft buried against your lower lips. He only moved enough to keep his head entering and exiting the other side.

The hands on your hips had gone largely unnoticed until then, but the pain of his nails now digging into you opened your mind to the other sensations.

The ache in your thighs, the pins and needles in your feet, the dull ache in your head where you hit the metal. 

The stinging of raw skin being hit again and again with every return of his hips.

You didn’t jump when Alastor’s head came to rest atop of yours, his ragged breaths huffed into your cheeks and his typically pin straight hair curling with sweat as it stuck to your face.

The rhythm slowed, and you felt his cock twitching against you before you noticed the warmth spreading with each strong spurt. Strategy or luck, you fleetingly considered, Alastor came mostly into your folds than on the desk. 

It wasn’t luck though. He fought the instinct to cum deep, as in this case it’d just dirty his work station. And it’d be wasteful, as he felt sure he’d been successful in arousing your hunger.

You let your hips go slack, him slipping out from your thighs, before his firm hands pulled you up again.

“Full?” His tone was laced with mockery as his lips mouthed it into your ear.

When his hips began to move again and spread his seed like lube you could only keen for more.

“Needy.” He whispered as he focused his movements to bully your clit.

“That’s-,” you ground out, “How are you so good at this?” The question came out rushed and lacking distinction between the words. Deja Vu. 

He tutted, “I’m also a skilled pianist, but I don’t often find the desire to play. Should I speak of this in terms of musical instruments now or can we call an ace an ace?”

A wanton moan tumbled out of you. “S’not the expression. Spades.”

“What’s that now?” He dealt a particularly harsh thrust and slowed to a stop.

Shaking your head no, you tried to squeeze your thighs tighter.

When he didn’t move, you shook your hips a little. 

It was desperate, and Alastor loved it.

“Let’s call an ace an ace, fine, please —,” it ached, somewhere deep in your guts there was a frustrating desire for something. 

“Say it plainly.”

“I want more. I want you to keep going. Keep moving.”

“See, was that so hard?” He practically sang it.

Alastor waited for you to wet your lips to reply before beginning again, knocking the breath out of your lungs. If he remembered correctly, a steady pace always did the trick. With his own annoying fog of arousal lifted it was easy to focus on you. When he hit an angle that made you spasm and twist your hands around his microphone staff, he held you still in place and fucked your thighs with even speed.

You found your breaths shortening with each escalation of tension, each notch bringing you closer and closer to something you were uncomfortably in need of. You’d do or say nearly anything in that moment to reach that peak but you’d dissect that vulnerability later. 

A restrained scream let him know you were almost there, to not let up.

And then you tensed, body shaking from toes to shoulders, your legs twisted and he felt the squeeze as your own base instincts made you rock back onto his cock.

The wave hit, but as you kept your slow grinding you found aftershocks spiking through your body. From that same aching place in you there now we're hills of overwhelming pleasure spreading out until it bounced off your fingertips and echoed across your nerves. 

Only when you felt your muscles whining over the (just moments ago) deafening orgasm did you stop and let your body once again fall slack onto the table. Your lower half slid down until your knees found the floor and your head rested against the edge of the desk.

The room was silent beyond your pants, his soft chuckle, and the low static of an empty station playing on the radio.

After several moments to collect yourselves, Alastor broke the quiet, “What did you call it? A sweet tooth?”

You turned to sit on your ass and look up at him. He leaned down and offered both his hands to help you up.

Your legs were wobbly, so you clung to his forearm. “Yeah.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” You watched as he leaned over and turned off the broadcasting equipment, casting the room in relative darkness. When he offered you your pants and panties, kindly retrieving them from the floor for you, you chuckled softly.

“Still pretending your machines were doing anything?” Your panties stuck to your skin, making you grimace. The entire thing was pleasurable, that was a fact you couldn’t argue. But now that you were clear from the siren call of touch, you felt entirely disconnected from the experience. The mental image of being bent over the table with your pants at your ankles was mortifying and the fact you would have agreed to anything he asked if it meant he kept fucking you in whatever way that could have be called… cake was better, maybe. Easier. Less messy even if you ate it with your hands. 

Though if he asked, and if the friendly and playful kisses got carried away again… You noticed Alastor was staring at you in the dark, ears straight into the air as faint red light bounced off of them. 

“Who's pretending? Assuming he was home, Vox heard the whole thing from his stupid little AM/FM radio by his bed.” The glow of his eyes brightened.

You dropped your pants. “Vox?” Alastor hummed in reply. “The stalker was Vox? Of the Vees?” you slumped into his chair, hands sliding down your cheeks and pulling your skin with it so the pink of your bottom eyelids peaked out, “I thought you were joking.”

“Joking? I never joke, you should have figured that out by now.” He patted your head and picked up his staff, “Though…it was funny, wasn’t it?”

The embarrassment and shock quickly faded as your body gave up on the more difficult feelings, already too tired to carry them, and your only reply with a slightly unhinged laugh. 

“I knew I could make you laugh.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖  ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia @catticora , @angelicribbons , @xalygatorx

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei ,  @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk  , @whateverlololo , @psipies

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf ,  @fizzled-phoenix   , @star-kujo-platinum

, @a-case-of-attachment, @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk   , @bontensbabygirl  @smoky000

@hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain

@harley2223-blog  , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby

@dontfuckbutimfab @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12

[fayes-fics]

To All, A Good Night

Parings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome), modern AU

Summary: 'Twas the night before Christmas at Bridgerton House, and many things are stirring...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, no incest. Dom/sub dynamics, brat taming, spanking, mild restraint, dirty talk, voyeurism/exhibitionism, vaginal fingering, masturbation, edging, vaginal sex, handjob, hair pulling, verbal degradation, orgasms, creampie, aftercare.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author's Note: Happy Holidays, everyone! Have a filthy Christmas threesome. This is a sequel to Driven To Distraction, which I've been meaning to write for over a year. Best to read that first if you haven't already. This immediately follows that eventful car ride. Thanks to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta. Enjoy! <3

As Benedict pulls the car up outside their impressive London family home, all you can think is that it looks beautiful, the foliage clinging to its handsome facade bedecked with lights. 

It’s also the last place you expected to be tonight: a spirited spat with Anthony turning into something else entirely on your journey to London, with Benedict as an eager voyeur. Now, here you are with both Bridgerton boys—a flutter behind your ribs as to what awaits you behind those imposing doors.

Anthony rounds to your side of the car and chivalrously opens the door, offering a hand to help you out as Benedict retrieves the night bag you stopped at your place to grab from the boot of the car. Anthony doesn't let go as you walk up the steps to the front door.

“Welcome to Bridgerton House, y/n,” he smiles, entering a code onto a glowing keypad as the door silently pops open, revealing a grand hallway decorated so festively. 

“This is beautiful,” you gasp, the hallways almost fully lit just by the huge twinkling tree and lighted garlands hanging from every rail.

“I think we should all have a nightcap, don't you?” Benedict offers smoothly, a warm hand landing on your lower back.

“Excellent idea, brother,” Anthony concurs, offering an elbow for you to take and leading you down a corridor from the grand hallway.

You are swept into a wood-panelled games room, a large billiards table taking centre stage, a bar across one side of the room and collections of wingback leather chairs arranged in clusters. Another Christmas tree makes the room glow. You wonder idly if they have a tree in every room.

“Your very own private club,” you jest lightly, impressed.

“Indeed,” Anthony chirps, releasing your hand to round behind the bar and grab an expensive whiskey bottle from one of the glass shelves. Benedict slides closer behind you as you watch Anthony pour out three generous helpings.

“No one really comes in here except the two of us and Colin,” Benedict assures. “And Colin is off in South America on his travels.”

“So this is a private space. Devoid of interruptions?” you smirk, leaning backwards into his warm body, unmistakable in your intentions, his hand curling possessively around your hip. You doubt anyone else is awake in the house anyway, seeing as it’s almost 2am on Christmas Day.

“Very much so,” Benedict rumbles, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

You all grab a glass each and raise them in a silent toast. The caramel smoke of the drink is exceptional as it slides over your tongue.

“A game?” Anthony suggests, gesturing to the table.

“I'm terrible at it, but sure,” you shrug, thinking it an excellent excuse to have both teach you the correct technique, ideally close up.

“We will help,” Benedict chuckles as if he knows where your thoughts have slid before releasing his hold on you and moving to set up the table.

Within a few minutes, you have had both men instructing you. But you are not paying a jot of attention to their guidance, just enjoying the warm, solid press of their bodies as you line up each shot. It's Benedict’s second turn assisting you when Anthony throws out a statement that kicks things up a notch:

“I meant what I said in the car...” his words echoing into the crystal glass he sips from.

Anthony’s offer for you to fuck his brother while he watches rings in your mind as Benedict's hand slides over yours, guiding your placement. 

“I just have one other condition,” Anthony appends, his stare intensifying.

“What’s that brother?” Benedict queries, his breath warm on your shoulder as you retract the cue from the ball, aiming as best you can.

“You fuck her right here, over this table,” Anthony breezes, making you miss the shot entirely, the ball spiralling way off to the left.

“That was sabotage,” you decry, even as molten heat settles low in your stomach at the very thought. 

“Think of it as a Christmas gift for me,” Anthony quips, ignoring your indignation.

Benedict is still leaning over you, even though there is no reason for him still to be there, the warmth of his torso seeping through his shirt. You watch as Anthony stands, picks up his cue and bends over the billiards table directly opposite you to assess his shot. 

“I warn you though, brother, this one is a handful,” he advises coolly, looking at Benedict over your shoulder as you stare at Anthony’s mouth, wanting to kiss him so bad your lips tingle. “You saw how she was in the car. She is a brat who needs to be brought into line. Isn't that right?” he taunts, snapping his gaze to you.

“Only to you, Bridgerton,” you challenge, your heart quickening as he raises an eyebrow. “If your brother is nice to me, I’ll be a good girl. Just for him,” you goad, a craving to push both of their buttons, tilting your pelvis a fraction into Benedict’s, an insistent swelling brushing your bum.

“But what if I'm not inclined to be nice either?” Benedict queries dangerously, his teeth grazing your earlobe. A depth charge of lust as you realise they are cut from a similar cloth.

“Then I’ll rebel against you too,” you murmur, stuttering as the hand on your hip suddenly slides over the round of your buttock and yanks up your dress, exposing your flesh and scrap of underwear to the air of the room.

“Will you now?” he dares, fingers swirling promisingly on your bare bottom.

Anthony chuckles again, seemingly uncaring he cannot take his shot with you still bent over the table, Benedict bearing you down onto the slightly ticklish green felt.

“Most certainly,” you vow, twisting to look coquettish over your shoulder, your core burning hot already.

He grabs your jaw so your mouths almost touch, and there is a sharp, stinging slap to your bottom cheek. It makes you moan over his lips, adding to the inferno between your legs.

“Behave,” Benedict warns in a tone that makes you want to slide to your knees before him.

“Never,” you challenge, your lips hovering on his, as out of the corner of your eye, you see Anthony withdraw, abandoning his cue, the game apparently over. He rearranges a chair to face you directly. 

Well, he did say he wanted to watch…

“Her safeword is pineapple,” Anthony calls out nonchalantly as he settles into the wingback. “But she never uses it,” he smirks, the leather creaking slightly as he shifts his hips.

Benedict huffs a bemused noise over your lips; you taste the warmth of the whiskey on his breath.

“Kiss me,” you murmur.

There is another stinging slap to your bare bum, and again you groan.

“Only good girls get kisses,” Benedict teases, his chest rumbling against you. “Earn it.”

“How?”

He slides the billiards cue from your grip, standing upright.

“Hands behind your back.”

You follow the clipped order immediately, your chin resting on the felt. The cool, polished wood of the cue is fed between the crook of your elbows and your ribs, essentially pinning you down.

“If this moves, I stop,” his warning portentously, your stomach suddenly roaring with butterflies, on tenterhooks about what he might do.

He kneels behind you, large hands rounding your hips, tugging at your underwear, easing it over the globes of your bottom until it pooled around your heels. His breath is warm on your thighs as he taps your ankle to make you widen your stance, and then large hands pull your cheeks apart. You clench with excitement. To have one Bridgerton brother eat you out in an evening was wonderful; to have two seems miraculous. But instead, two long fingers trail down your slit and, with a force that robs your breath, hook into your leaking pussy. He groans as your walls cling hot and wet around his knuckles as he pumps in a rocking motion, his teeth grazing your bum.

“Come silently, then you earn a kiss,” he commands, and his fingers graze a spot inside that makes you want to scream, dragging harshly, making every hair on the nape of your neck stand on end.

Fuck, he knows precisely what he is doing too.

Your eyes lock with Anthony’s, who smirks at you across the room—making a show of toying with his straining fly. You want to kneel between his splayed legs and pull the metal tab open with your damn teeth. 

Benedict’s fingers are merciless inside you, the air filling with wet, cloying suction sounds. Your hands flex, pinned in place, needing something to grasp onto, toes scrunching into the satin footbed of your strappy heels. Wanting to call out, moan, or make any kind of noise but knowing it’s forbidden. Instead, you curl your lips under your teeth and whimper as silently as you can to the onslaught.

‘Say my name,’ Anthony mouths exaggeratedly, as his zip relents and his cock springs forth. Your eyes ping greedily between his fist, which starts to pump his cock lazily, and his face.

You know what this is. Even as his younger brother is taking you apart, he wants you to call out his name—a fraternal competition that just adds a delicious thread of tension. You shake your head, not wanting to break Benedict’s silence rule, needing to come.

‘Who is the best you’ve had?’ Anthony pushes the topic, mouthing slowly, overenunciating even though no sound comes out, his face arrogantly handsome, a bead of precum glistening on his knuckles.

‘Bridgerton,’ you mouth in return, just as Benedict twists his fingers, and your eyes roll, face planting into the felt, uncaring of the drool escaping the corner of your mouth as you fight the urge to scream. His thumb swipes between your cheeks and begins to massage your other hole. Not pushing in, just a circular surface motion that makes you shiver; it feels so good.

Benedict laughs richly as his little finger spears forward and catches your clit. You can't help it; you scream into your mouth, so much overlapping sensation at once, your thighs shaking, your body tensing, so close to breaking.

“You’re close now, aren’t you?” Benedict smugly assesses, his fingers moving so fast inside you, and you nod enthusiastically, your forehead rubbing harshly over the baize.

As you begin to circle that blissful edge, lungs and clit burning, he withdraws and stands up behind you. You can sense his victorious, lopsided smile as he looks down on you, writhing and squealing behind your teeth, the frustration of being denied at the last minute too much.

“Oh, you’re right, brother,” he sounds winded, “she’s glorious.”

You know your face is flushed and your eyes wild as you try to twist and look pleadingly at him to do something, anything, to nudge you over the edge.

“Shh shhh,” he hushes your quaking, moving to one side of the table but placing a firm hand on your lumbar, your skin dewy under the sequin dress gathered there. You stop moving but twist your neck to pout up at him, a trickle running down your inner thigh as you do.

A long, elegant pointer finger, scented heavily with your arousal, traces your chin and then lips.

“Don't pretend this isn’t exactly what you want,” Benedict withers, dripping with conceit.

“Please,” you mewl.

“Oh dear, you spoke before you came,” Benedict gloats. “No kiss for you, my girl.”

“I don’t care, just please let me come,” you plead, the cue a solid yoke across your back as you note Anthony, still idly pumping himself, in the periphery of your vision.

“How have you not married this one?” Benedict calls casually to Anthony, but he doesn’t turn to look at his older brother, his gaze holding yours blisteringly. “I would have her tied willingly to my bed all day.”

Your insides flip at the very thought. 

“She’s too wild to be a Viscountess,” Anthony responds laconically, cock still in hand.

Benedict’s thumb rubs around your ear, almost petting you like a cat. And you lean into his touch, desperate to do anything that will compel him between your thighs again.

“Hmmm, true,” Benedict hums, and you cry out as his other hand slaps your bottom. “Luckily for me,” he crows victorious and rounds out of sight again. 

You writhe in excitement as you hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down behind you, a thronging need to be thoroughly fucked.

Your eyes meet Anthony’s, and he twists his mouth into a bemused pout as you cry out with the force Benedict ploughs into you with one forceful thrust. He’s just as sizeable as you recall Anthony being: split open in just the same way, your channel clinging to him. 

Benedict curses and holds still. “Exquisite…” he groans, then his hands roughly grasp the cue looped into the crook of your arms, and he immediately withdraws and snaps back in. Your whole body rolling with the force of it, your hips slamming into the wood edge of the table. 

“Fuck her so hard she can’t walk,” Anthony growls through gritted teeth, making you tilt your head up to see him roughly tugging on his cock now.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” Benedict grunts, spearing into you again, the smooth wood cue rolling over your skin as he uses it as leverage.

You cannot look away from the sight of Anthony’s cock, red and angry, leaking over his knuckles as he tugs himself almost violently. A vein in his neck pulsing in sync with his motions.

Benedict bears his weight onto you and changes angle, glancing that place deep inside that few are able to reach, but when they do, it has you babbling nonsense. Panting ragged, begging words you’d never admit to, if not strung out on a vicious tide of hormones

“What was that?” Benedict menaces, looming close to hear your hoarse, desperate words.

“Please make my pussy yours…” You repeat in a whisper, throwing your head back to look up at the underside of his string jaw, eyes rolling, tongue feeling thick in your mouth. 

Benedict curses, and his hands grab the dip of your waist, clutching so strong you squeak, your forehead lolling back down onto the felt.

“I fucking will,” he growls, his chin pressing into a notch high on your spine. “Look at him while I destroy you…” he gruffs hotly into your skin. You do as commanded: tilting up to stare at Anthony as your body is slammed over and over, silently telegraphing that he now has to raise the bar next time he fucks you. 

As if he picks up on your provocation, Anthony rapidly jumps to his feet, stalking up to you, his rigid cock bobbing out of his fly as he does, still otherwise fully clothed in shirt and trousers. He pulls up beside you, the hand that was wrapped around himself sliding into your hair and grasping, a touch rough. 

“Release one of her hands,” Anthony barks. “One cock isn’t enough for this greedy slut…”

As with earlier in the car, that derogatory term - something you’d slap anyone for calling you usually - just rockets you higher in this context. Aglow with the idea you have both of them utterly feral for you now.

Benedict manhandles your arm that’s nearest his brother out from under the cue, and instantly Anthony grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to his cock, his other hand still holding your hair, your cheekbone pressed into the green felt.

“We will all come together, do you hear me?” Anthony instructs in a non-negotiable tone.

“Yes sir…” you demure, loving the feel of his heated, girth pulse in your palm as you say it.

“Lord,” he clips, “you can call him Sir…” he nods towards Benedict, not looking away from you for a second.

“Yes, Lord,” you correct, tongue sliding into your cheek and defiantly cocking an eyebrow at him.

“Fucking brat,” Anthony scolds, but it's breathy and commendatory; a little groan as you squeeze him, a bead of precum wetting your thumb as you swipe his head.

One of Benedict’s hands releases its vice grip on your waist and slaps your buttcheek so acutely you stutter an involuntary moan, the wind knocked out of your lungs temporarily.

“I want to tame this one in a hundred ways…” he grits out.

“And she’d love every single one, wouldn’t you?” Anthony prompts, his eyes wordlessly ordering you to respond.

“I’d like that, sir,” you enthuse, craning to look back at Benedict even with Anthony’s grip on your scalp.

“Fucking hell…” Benedict gusts, his cock rippling in response to your words, and you can tell he is getting close, his punishing pace wavering a touch as he closes his eyes and tilts to look up at the ceiling, needing to look away to last a little longer, his strong neck bulging as he swallows heavily.

“Come inside me,” you incite, needing him in your thrall. For him to paw at your skin, leave finger marks on your hips, handprints on your bum.

He tilts to look down at you, eyes ablaze. “I will. And you will take it all,” he warns, low and savage.

You nod, and your hand squeezes around Anthony’s cock, jerking him roughly towards his peak too.

“Please give it to me,” you entreat to both of them, burying your face into the table, pushing your hips as much as you can into Benedict’s pelvis, a febrile quake in your entire being, so strung out and close to ecstasy for the second time tonight. 

He is ruthless, almost brutal now, his steely tip glancing at your hilt with every deep thrust he takes, your toes lifting off the ground. Anthony’s hands slide to your shoulder blades and press your breast into the table harshly, nipples abraded by the sequins of your dress. Your mind supplies images of how things could be: you naked for days as they make you orgasm so often you feel detached from reality. Countless hours of visceral bliss, one debauched moment bleeding into another.

“Whatever you are thinking about, we need to hear it,” Benedict stutters out. “Your pussy is a fucking vice of fire right now… fuck!!” He exclaims, and you sense he is at the point of no return. 

His thrusts become erratic, and he unhooks the billiards cue from around your remaining arm, tossing it aside and grabbing your hand, lacing your fingers with his and hovering over your back, hot mouth open on your neck as he almost howls. He suddenly stills, then pulses deep within you. A warmth coating your walls that sends you over the edge, following him, your hand spasming around Anthony’s cock in time with the ripples of your pussy, floating away blissfully just as Anthony yells out, an arc of cum shooting across the table, landing in a glistening steak across the green felt.

For a few beats, there is nothing but heavy breaths; Benedict slumped over you. Anthony bent forward over the table, grasping the edge.

“Fucking hell…” he stumbles out, both you and Benedict puffing in agreement. 

You whimper as Benedict slides out of you, a slick of juices down your legs, your folds puffy and tender from his thorough treatment. A delicious ache you know you will still carry tomorrow.

“I guess you’ll need this rebaized…” Benedict remarks drolly, nodding to the table, and you all share a giggle. 

Tenderly, they both help you back up to standing, rearranging your dress and righting their own clothing, then pulling you into a sandwiched embrace. Soothing hands run over your form, one brother kissing your cheek, the other your shoulder. The room bathed in the soft, warm glow of the Christmas tree, the scent of the spruce pine needles and smokey whiskey competing with the smell of sex lingering around you.

“Thank you for our most wondrous gift,” Benedict plaudits sweetly. 

“I can’t think of a better present that simultaneously orgasms,” you admit wryly, snuggling into them, enjoying the way their chests vibrate against yours as they both laugh.

Anthony cups your face, drawing your attention to him wholly. “You will stay, won’t you? For Christmas Day?” His tone is so hopeful it melts something behind your ribs.

“Yes,” you confirm quietly. 

“I know you and I may play-act as if we are foes, but you are quite the most captivating, singular woman I have met.” His sincere tone is laden with respect and admiration. “And I do believe my brother now feels the same.”

Benedict turns you around so you face him in the joint hug, “Like you wouldn’t believe...” he murmurs fervently, his hazy eyes shining.

“So I hope you don’t mind having two Bridgertons devoted to your pleasure,” Anthony breathes, nuzzling your hair as you finally kiss Benedict for the first time—a sweet denouement to this thrilling evening.

What a Merry Christmas indeed. 

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict and Anthony taglist pt 1 : @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @kisskissshutmydoor @hanji-emo-blog @y0ur-favgerman @sya-skies

Lights divider by @/saradika [x]

[cute-n-curious]

Monster Dating App: Surprise Me #2

[Author's note: this is a direct sequel to the previous story. Highly recommend you start with that one. This was written for the few people who were disappointed that the previous story ended just as he was whippin' 'em out.]

"Oh you mean these?" he replies, unzipping his pants.

Your eyes widen as you see it, a bouquet of cocks, bristling out from where his manhood should be. Each one is unique, varying in size, shape, and color. Some are thick and veiny, others smooth and long, and a few have a girth that makes you drool. They all look eerily familiar, reminding you of past lovers, friends with benefits, and even a couple of one-night stands. It's as if every cock you've ever encountered had been meticulously studied and replicated.

"This one," he says, grasping one that's a bit longer and thicker than average, "was the original template for this body." He winks, "But thanks to your memories, I've got quite the collection now."

You can't believe it, your mind racing with the implications. You've always been a bit of a size queen, and now you have a veritable smorgasbord of dicks at your disposal. He seems to read your thoughts and says, "I hope you don't mind, I just had to try them all out."

The cheekiness of his statement sends a jolt of arousal through you, and any last shred of embarrassment or shock dissipates. You're not a prude, you've had your share of fun, and the idea of seeing and feeling all those memories in one go is exhilarating.

You fling the blanket off with a newfound energy, your naked body glistening in the moonlight. Your knees come up behind your elbows as you spread your legs wide open, eagerly awaiting the feast about to be laid before you. "You know how to use those?," you purr in challenge, your voice thick with desire.

He chuckles, his arms reaching out to stroke a few of the cocks. From their roots they shift around, sliding effortless past each other like the barrels of a gatling gun. "How about we start with this one?" He selects one that's a bit larger than the rest, a deep shade of tan olive with a tip glinting with a silver bead of precum at the tip. You recognize it from a wild night with a guy named Tarun, a cocky friend of a friend who backed up all his boasts when he couldn't keep his hands off your ass at an otherwise dull New Years Eve party.

As he guides it towards your hungry pussy, you feel a strange connection, like your body is shuffling through a coital rolodex, trying to set the right expectations for familiar penetration despite how deeply, thrillingly strange the current situation is. The anticipation is palpable as the head of the purple cock nudges against your entrance.

"You don't have to pick just one, you know," he says, his voice somehow both seductive and matter-of-fact. You feel the hypnotic pull of suggestion again as he pointedly asks "How many should I use?"

Your answer surprises you with the speed and confidence it comes out with. "All of them. Every last one. Stuff the smaller ones in two or three at a time if you can." You feel a vibration through the stiff cockhead pressed into your puckered labia as the cocks around it rotate and shuffle themselves into a new formation, surrounding Tarun's long straight beast with far more modest pick and brown members, as if respectfully clearing room for their leader to take the plunge.

He nods, his eyes scanning over his collection. "Anything else?" he asks, seemingly sensing the deeper yearning you only didn't express because he had not asked.

"Yeah." you respond, swallowing hard, "Cum inside me. All of them. Flood my pussy like every man I've ever fucked was running a train on me here in my bed." You pause momentarily, hunting for a specific erection in the arborising bloom of cocks just in front of your pussy. "And make sure you save your 'original' for last. He's new, and has to earn his place in line…"

Without waiting for another word from you, he presses Tarun's wide cockhead deeper into your pussy. As it plunges in, you feel the bizarre sensation of almost two dozen more erect dicks grazing and rubbing and grinding against you, dragging hot streaks of precum across the undersides of your thighs, depressing against the plump swell of your ass cheeks, and one well-placed pole grinding agonisingly across the surface of your clit.

It really is like having a train run on you, or at least as close to it as you've ever imagined. He pistons and hammers his star cock into you with the frenzied urgency of a man who only cares about cumming as hard and fast as he can. Usually you would take this as a mark of selfishness, of a man so fixated on his own pleasure he doesn't care to pace himself to ensure you're having a fulfilling time. But that isn't a concern tonight. He's bucking with the uniquely inhuman urgency of a being whose main concern is having too much cock to spare, trying to resolve the inherent tension of having so many cocks, each desperate to fuck, and only one dripping pussy poised to accommodate them.

It was a buyers market, and you were eager to corner it.

Unexpectedly, the desperation of the act builds you up as fast as him, and you find yourself cumming and clamping down with usual speed, only to be met by the redoubling stimulation of his first cock erupting inside of you, painting your insides with splashes of hot watery cum, just like you remember Tarun doing. Twice in fact, technically in two separate years that same night. He groans with uneven pleasure as he empties his icebreaking cock inside of you, and no sooner do you feel the still hard flesh slide all the way out of you, do you feel the tip of a second, slightly smaller but obscenely and refreshingly curved cock, push in through the dripping cum to take its place.

As he pumps away, you reach down and grab a pair of addition 'free' dicks in each hand. Its an embarrassment of riches. More penis than any self-respecting woman should be exposed to in a single sitting, but their collective smell, feel and look as they bounce and drip together with the pounding of his hips is simply intoxicating.

You moan and arch your back as he cums hard, again, and swaps out the curved cock for a stubby but gratifyingly fat member. God, you appreciated each of these dicks in their own times, but feeling them back to back is giving you a new-found appreciation for the nuances of the male organ. The sensation keeps changing, and that novelty keeps the pleasure intense. There is no time to habituate, no room for boredom. He's giving you the best each penis has to offer, like the condensed highlight reel of a lifetime of fucking, all at once.

This goes on for what feels like an hour, him switching between cocks, each one (or two, or three at a time) bringing back memories of past lovers and the sensations they brought you. And the cum, god, the cum, the increasingly obscene wet slapping as a small waterfall of cream gushes out of your well-used opening. Each dick aggressively pumping out the deposits of its predecessor, churning the thick spunk like Amish butter, mixing and pooling with your own juices inside you. It's a whirlwind of pleasure, and you can't get enough, even as you feel delirium and fatigue overtaking you.

You recall looking through heavily lidded eyes, as he lines up the one remaining erect penis out of a sea of shrinking away former lovers. His dick, the new one, his 'original' that he 'inherited'. Only as he slides the new dick inside of you does it really register for you. His body is all human flesh, just reworked and reshaped by some alien force. This face and this cock must have belonged to a human man at some point, now copied, or perhaps taken, by this strange and amorous psionic creature that was fucking you into an incoherent stupor. Before you could question it further, the underlying biology of the meat, the smell, the heat, this river of cum, your eyes rolled back in your head from another orgasm being jackhammered into your swollen womanhood. This is it, it is too much. You black out…

When you awaken the next morning, you're mind still swims with the blurry memories of the one man (or rather, one monster) gangbang that you had so brazenly called down on yourself the night before. What a first date… Werewolves and minotaurs be damned, you'd definitely hit the jackpot. You'd asked the app to 'surprise you', and it had delivered in a big way.

You're not surprised to find yourself tucked into bed with care and comfort, after all that is how he'd intended to leave you after the initial finger blasting, before you'd invited him to descend on you with a cyclone of cocks. You run your hands down your naked flanks, and gently touch the hood of your stiff puffy and overworked clit. People joke about 'not being able to walk the next day', but you're seriously considering emailing into work and telling them you can't come in on Monday.

"Can't come in Monday, got camed in on Saturday" you imagine yourself typing, with a sensible chuckle.

But the minute your fingers wrap around your phone, you thumbs take you straight back to the app. No one wants to seem like the needy girl, cloyingly reaching out immediately after a date that went well. But when a date goes THIS well, a certain enthusiasm is warranted, no, demanded. You need to see him again, as soon as he's able. If you're still sore, maybe he can sprout the tongue of every snide bitch whose ever insulted you and then spend the night licking apologies into every inch of your skin… Fuck, you don't even know what he is, but you need to see him again!

Encountering an inhuman creature, a monster, in the flesh is the kind of experience someone would usually describe as 'horrifying'. But a sense of horror only sinks in for you as you tap back through your date history, to 'most recent', and click on your amazing lover's profile.

ACCOUNT SUSPENDED - NON-COMPLIANCE WITH DATE CONDITIONS

Your mind reels. This wasn't you, right? Did he have another date earlier that same night that he fucking ate or something? At this point, you're fairly certain that wouldn't even put you off. Frantically, you look back at your own dating profile and recently entered preferences, and it hits you like a ton of bricks:

✓ Monster/Non-human - subtype: "surprise me"

✓ Open to: fucking (non-violent)

✓ Penetration preference: receiving (no anal)

☓ Agree to being bred

The little red "X" next to "being bred". You hadn't even thought of it in those crass terms, but you had begged him to cum inside you after setting a specific request in text for nothing of the sort. And sweetheart he was, he complied something close to 30 times, enough 'breeding' to knock up a city block.

A cold dread sinks in your stomach as two very unpleasant realisations dawn on you:

1) There is a chance you'll never see him again…

2) The app somehow monitors the kind of sex its users have…

With no way of contacting your shifting-limbed hookup, the next couple of weeks grind by with all the energy of a slowly deflating balloon. For the first few days, you checked the history tab of the mysterious app over and over, hoping that like an online video with a copyright strike, you may come back to find there had been some overzealous error and his account has been reinstated. But the same message greets you every time: ACCOUNT SUSPENDED - NON-COMPLIANCE WITH DATE CONDITIONS. And every time, your heart sinks that little bit further.

Every time you remember your encounter, your skin flushes and your crotch begins to moisten and tingle, only to immediately fizzle out with the memory that this was your fault. You had specifically requested to not be 'bred', then begged him to fill you up over and over, the contradiction not even occurring to you, and now your sweet compliant.. whatever he is, has paid the price for giving you the fucking you asked for.

You weren't sure what to make of the implication that the app, and whoever is behind it, somehow immediately knew exactly what the two of you had done. A lot of things about the app didn't quite make sense, and it feels like your mind actively resists any attempt to think about it clearly. Things only became more jarring when, only 11 days after your fateful encounter, an unsolicited notification popped up from the app:

YOUR EMBRYO HAS NOT IMPLANTED. ZYGOTE WAS HUMAN.

Feeling surveilled and unmoored, you wasted no time in grabbing a handful of off-the-shelf pregnancy tests on your way home, and after three negatives in a row, you had verified that the app was right.

You knew from moment one that you had no interest in having some bizarre monster's baby. Shit, you don't want any baby of any sort at this stage of your life, so this kind of near-miss is rattling, if admitted a bit exciting. The thing that gives you deeper pause, more because it was unexpected than anything else, was that little detail: "ZYGOTE WAS HUMAN".

Your date had fucked you with some version of every cock you'd ever handled, plus one, but is that how it worked? Had you been magically fertilised by one of your exes, through the unlikely proxy of a very amorous and obliging shapeshifting monstrosity? That would have been a Maury Povich episode for the ages, but luckily, it didn't take.

With the consequences of your own lustful actions gratifyingly dodged, you find yourself checking the app again. Not only has he not been reinstated, but his profile isn't even listed any more. Has he been wiped from their records permanently? Or has he been allowed to start a new profile from scratch? Either way, the man who so profoundly rocked your world feels less available than ever, and a part of you resolves to simply bite the bullet and move on. If the random shuffling of fate and preference brought you together once, perhaps it would again…

[While you can't find this guy, there's plenty of fish in the sea. Part 3 has been released.]

[ruewritesoccasionally]

A Symphony of Sin | Terry Richmond

Pairing: Dark!Professor Terry Richmond x Dark! Black Reader

Warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), stalking, obsessions, manipulation, teasing, jealousy, possessiveness, power dynamics, oral (m receiving), rough sex, choking, spitting, light slapping, hair pulling, degradation kink, praise kink, use of names (princess, slut, sweetheart) } everything is consensual but read at your own risk !

Summary: The final movement between her and Terry reveals who is really playing by the rules and who runs the game. The next moves are darker, more psychological, and with an even bigger power shift. By the end of it, she’ll know—this isn’t just her obsession anymore.

Word Count: 3.6K

a/n: this is a part 2 to 'Lessons in Obsession', one in which I initially had no intentions of writing because tbh sequels aren't my strength but @barnesnnobles comment inspired me to delve deeper so thank you bby. when i first started writing this, i didn't think it was going to be this dark but i think it's depraved in the best way 🤭...

The game had changed. She knew that. He had made sure of it.

Ever since that night—the night where her carefully constructed fantasy collided with his very real intentions—things had been different. She no longer watched from the shadows, no longer merely observed him like a scholar collecting data. No, now she felt him. Everywhere.

But the most dangerous thing?

She thought she had a handle on it.

Terry still carried himself with that same unbothered confidence, that slow, deliberate way he moved, as if every step, every glance, was calculated three moves ahead. In class, he was the same strict, enigmatic professor he had always been—sharp-minded, sharp-tongued, and completely unreadable.

And yet.

When she sat in his lecture hall, knees pressed together beneath the desk, hands folded as if she weren’t replaying the way those same hands had gripped her thighs, there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—where she swore she saw something in his eyes. A flicker of amusement when she adjusted in her seat, when she bit her lip without realising, when she lingered a second too long after class.

She was under no illusions now. He was watching. He had always been watching.

And God, she loved it.

It started small.

Little things—things that no one else would think twice about, but she caught them.

“Some of you seem to be distracted today,” Terry remarked one afternoon, his voice even but laced with something dangerous. His gaze swept the lecture hall, pausing for a half-second too long when it landed on her. “If you’ve got something occupying your mind, I suggest you clear it before it gets in the way of your work.”

Her breath caught.

A warning.

He didn’t need to elaborate. She knew exactly what he meant.

The previous night was still seared into her skin—his mouth, his hands, the way he made her admit to everything. How she’d clung to him when he finally let her have what she’d been chasing for so long.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together, pulse thrumming.

And Terry? He just continued lecturing, unbothered, as if he hadn’t just sent a shockwave straight to her core with a single sentence.

Then, he started testing her.

“Read the passage out loud,” he ordered one day, flipping through the textbook. “Slowly. Every word. Let’s see if you can follow simple instructions.”

Her stomach flipped.

She swallowed, gripping the page tighter, pulse pounding as she realised exactly what he was doing.

When she hesitated, Terry arched an eyebrow. “Having trouble, sweetheart?”

The term of endearment was so casual, so devoid of its usual weight, that no one else thought twice about it.

She knew better.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she parted her lips, voice coming out steady—too steady. She would not let him shake her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

She read. Slowly.

And he watched.

The entire time.

She liked the game. The push and pull. So she pushed back.

One day, she lingered after class—not out of necessity, but out of something else.

“You’re staying late,” he remarked, not looking up from his notes.

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just needed some clarification on the assignment.”

Terry hummed, unconvinced, flipping the page in front of him. “You’re a smart girl. I find it hard to believe you don’t already know the answer.”

Her stomach clenched. The way he said smart girl—like he was reminding her exactly who had the upper hand.

She exhaled through her nose, willing herself to keep her composure. “Can’t a student just want a little extra guidance?”

That made him look up.

Slowly.

She swore she saw it then—the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the knowing glint in his eyes.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said, his voice silky-smooth, as if they both didn’t know he was lying.

But then, she made a mistake.

She got too comfortable.

Too bold.

And she pushed too far.

It started as harmless flirting. A casual, easy smile to another professor in the hallway. A lingering laugh with a classmate in the library. Nothing that would have mattered before.

But now?

Now, everything mattered.

She should’ve noticed the way Terry’s eyes darkened when he caught the exchange. She should’ve registered the subtle shift in his body language when she walked into class the next day.

But she didn’t.

Not until he called on her, voice calm, smooth as glass.

“You. Come here.”

A command, not a request.

The air in the room changed. She felt it, like the drop in temperature before a storm.

She stood, swallowing hard as she walked to the front of the class, acutely aware of every pair of eyes watching her.

Terry gestured to the board. “Demonstrate the method we discussed last class.”

It wasn’t a difficult request. She knew the answer. But when she reached for the marker, her fingers trembled slightly.

She felt him behind her. Not close enough to be inappropriate, not close enough for anyone else to notice—

But she noticed.

Her heart pounded as she wrote, forcing herself to focus, to pretend she didn’t feel his presence like a second skin.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Your hands are shaking.”

She froze.

His voice was even, calm. But when she turned her head slightly—just enough to catch the edge of his expression—she saw it.

The warning.

The punishment brewing just beneath the surface.

She’d underestimated him.

She’d thought she had control.

But one look at Terry told her exactly what was about to happen:

She was about to learn—again—who really held the leash.

She expected him to crack. To seethe, to glower, to grip the desk and try to control himself in that careful, calculated way he always did. She wanted him to react, to burn hot, to show her that she wasn’t the only one consumed.

But when she risked a glance at Terry?

He looked... calm.

Unbothered.

Like he didn’t just watch her bat her lashes at another man. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

And that unsettled her more than if he had reacted.

A coil of unease settled in her stomach. She didn’t like this. The game was theirs and theirs alone, a perfectly balanced scale of control. But now?

Now it felt like she had miscalculated. Like she had poked something she shouldn’t have.

That evening, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

No name. No explanation. Just a location, a time.

Nothing else.

Her stomach flipped, fingers tightening around her phone.

She shouldn’t go. She knew that. Knew it the way she knew that staring into the sun would burn, that running her tongue along the blade of a knife would slice.

But of course, she went.

Because no matter how much she wanted to believe she was the one obsessed—Terry had been keeping tabs on her too.

She just hadn’t noticed.

Not until now.

The address led her to a secluded townhouse. Upscale. Cold. The kind of place that felt too pristine to be truly lived in.

Her stomach tightened as she stepped inside. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and something else, something undeniably him.

And there he was.

Sitting back in a leather chair, legs spread in that lazy yet controlled way of his. A glass of amber liquid in his hand.

Waiting.

Her throat went dry.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate.

Terry’s gaze dragged over her, slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch of her. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched. Let her squirm under the weight of his silence.

Then, finally—

“Sit.”

Her breath hitched.

“Don’t speak.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move.

The moment she lowered herself into the chair across from him, he hummed, swirling the glass in his hand. “This rhetoric has become a habit, you know? Thinking that you’re clever, smarter than me, even.”

She opened her mouth—

He raised a hand. Don’t speak.

She clenched her fists in her lap.

He sighed, shaking his head. “You really thought that would work?” A small chuckle, rich and amused. “Thought you’d get a rise out of me? That I’d lose control?”

A pause. Then—

“Tell me, sweetheart—was it worth it?”

Her pulse pounded in her throat.

“I—”

He cut her off with a sharp look. “Don’t lie.”

She exhaled slowly. “I wanted your attention.”

“Mm. And now you have it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the moment drag out. “The real question is... do you deserve it?”

A fresh wave of heat rolled through her, pooling low in her stomach.

She clenched her thighs together.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Terry tilted his head, studying her. “You wanted to play, huh?” He set the glass down, leaning forward just enough to make the space between them feel smaller. “You wanted to make me jealous?”

Her breath caught.

He smirked. “Tell me, then. When you batted those pretty lashes at that boy, did it make you wet?”

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Terry’s eyes darkened.

He leaned back, stretching lazily. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair, contemplative. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

She swallowed hard.

“You’re going to sit there and do nothing.”

Her brows knit together.

His smirk widened. “No touching. No begging. No moving.” He let the words settle, watched the way her breath quickened. “You’re just going to sit there and take it.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Terry reached for his drink, taking another slow sip.

Then, as if it was a passing thought, he murmured, “If you’re good, I might even let you come.”

Heat licked up her spine.

She clenched her hands in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

Terry smirked.

God, she wanted to wipe it off his face.

Or maybe she wanted him to ruin her.

Either way, she was fucked.

Terry’s eyes never left her as he rose from his seat, his movements slow, deliberate. It was almost like he was savouring the moment. He didn’t need to speak, not yet—his presence alone was suffocating. His hands undid the buttons of his shirt with a purpose, the sound of fabric pulling apart thickening the already heavy air between them. Each movement, each pull, every inch of skin exposed to her gaze was calculated, meant to drive her mad with want and frustration.

His chest was broad, his abs defined and tight. He was the perfect picture of control, yet there was something in the way his eyes darkened that spoke to an ache—a hunger that matched her own, though he’d never admit it. Not yet. He kept stripping, undressing with that same cold composure, his gaze trained on hers with intensity. Every inch of him being revealed, the heat radiating from his body, only made the ache in her chest worse. She clenched her thighs together, desperate to release the tension, but he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Terry tilted his head, watching her squirm, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Look at you, all worked up. You thought you could control this, didn’t you?" His voice was smooth, mocking, but there was a bite under the words. "You thought you had it all figured out. Cute."

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but he raised a finger, stilling her. "Ah, ah, ah, princess. No talking. I didn’t tell you to speak. Remember your place." His voice was low, a command now, one she was afraid to disobey.

Her body trembled under his gaze, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as the realisation hit: She wasn’t in control. She’d never been. Every part of her wanted to push back, wanted to break free, but there was something in him—something dark—that made her feel small, insignificant. His dominance was suffocating, and she couldn’t escape it.

Terry leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. Briefly, it almost felt like he was comforting her, his hand cupping her cheek in a tender gesture. But then he whispered, low enough that only she could hear, “It’s okay, princess. Let me show you how it’s done.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. They weren’t soft. They weren’t comforting. It was a promise. One she was scared to face.

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise, and something primal stirred within her. Before she could brace herself, Terry’s hands were in her hair, yanking her face up to meet his gaze. His kiss was brutal—demanding, possessive, a clash of teeth and tongues, each second a battle for control. He pulled away just enough for her to gasp for air, before descending on her neck with vicious intent, his lips and teeth leaving marks as though he was claiming her.

"Come on now, Princess. You’re better than this" he murmured against her skin. "You thought you could push me. Make me jealous? Make me lose control? You really didn’t know how to play this game, did you?"

She gasped again as he pulled her forward, his hands on her throat now, his fingers light but unyielding. "I’ll show you what happens when you make me mad, sweetheart."

He didn’t wait for permission. He was already on her, his dick shoved into her mouth before she could even process the movement. She choked, the thick length stretching her jaw, her mouth forced open in a way that hurt. But it was a good hurt. A reminder of her place, of his control.

He groaned as he thrust deep, his hand holding the back of her head, guiding her to take more of him. She couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe without his length hitting the back of her throat. He lost control in his own way—moans, growls, and guttural sounds poured freely from his parted lips, his knees bent ever so slightly, sweat trailing down every part of him that she’d been forbidden to touch. He reached down to feel the bulge in her throat, his length lodged perfectly there. The sensation nearly made him cum on the spot.

“It’s hard to talk back with your mouth full, isn’t it?” he growled. “Ugh, I wish you could see what I see right now. A fallen, over-ambitious slut too dumb to know when she’s been done.”

Her breath was shallow, her body trembling as he fucked her mouth with brutal force. She gagged, struggling to keep her composure as he forced his dick deeper, the back of her throat tightening with every thrust. She could feel him press against her, the sensation of him hitting her throat sending shocks of unwanted pleasure coursing through her.

“Such a good little toy,” he mocked, his voice dripping with both praise and contempt. “You wanted this, didn’t you? All you had to say is that you wanted me to yourself.”

She couldn’t answer. Not with her mouth full. She just moaned in response, her hands gripping the chair, nails digging into the armrests as he continued to ravage her with his thrusts.

His movements grew harder, faster, each thrust forcing her to take more of him. The ache in her jaw was almost unbearable, but the pain was secondary now. She was losing herself in the brutal rhythm of it all, in the way he made her feel so small, so insignificant, her body betraying her with each muffled moan that escaped her.

Terry pulled away from her mouth suddenly, making her gasp for air, but the moment she exhaled, he was on her again. His hands were everywhere—gripping her, tearing her clothes off, exposing her skin to his hungry touch. He worshipped her body, trailing his fingers over every curve, every stretch mark, every dip and rise of her form like it was a work of art he couldn’t get enough of. Her lingerie, the way it hugged her body, the way her skin glowed beneath it—he wanted to consume it all.

The sex itself was equally as pleasureful as it was torturous, a reminder that the moment she pushed him, she hadn’t broken his resolve—she had played into his hands once more. His actions juxtaposed his words, his touch both cruel and reverent. Her body was a canvas to him, a fragile porcelain doll not to be broken—unlike her mind. He admired every detail she put into her looks, how her lingerie complemented her dark, rich skin tone, the swell of her breasts, the stretch marks that looked almost hand-painted as they adorned the curves he had claimed. He trailed down her body, inhaling her sweet, natural scent like it was something sacred. He would kill for even just a vial of it.

His fingers slid down, finding the slickness between her legs. A low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as he pushed into her, slow at first, drawing out her moans, savouring the way her body clenched around him. Then faster. Harder. He swallowed each gasp, each cry, consuming her whole. She was on the edge of something—something dangerous, something that would burn her alive. But she couldn’t stop it.

Terry’s hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her pulse throbbed beneath his fingers, her body trapped between the firm press of his palm and the unrelenting pace he set. “Open your mouth,” he murmured, his eyes dark with something almost sinister—daring her to disobey. When her lips parted, his grip tightened just slightly before he let a slow stream of spit drip onto her waiting tongue.

“Swallow,” he ordered, watching intently as she obeyed, the heat in his gaze burning straight through her.

His fingers weaved into her hair again, the motion almost tender—until he yanked, sharp and sudden, pulling her back into the moment with a quick slap across her cheek. It wasn’t meant to hurt, not really. It was a reminder. A warning. A claim. The sting barely registered against the flood of pleasure overtaking her, her body betraying her, arching into him, silently pleading for more.

The kisses were a battle, all tongue and teeth, his dominance bleeding into every movement. He took everything she had, demanded more, never relenting—never letting her forget exactly who was in control.

He practically imprinted himself onto her, searing his every being into her flesh so he could never be mistaken for anyone else, and certainly not the lesser in this dynamic. They were equals in their obsession, but one always had the upper hand—to remind the other not to get too comfortable. Someone had to know what was lurking around the corner.

He held her down, fucking her hard, relentless, until she couldn’t think anymore. Until her moans became cries, until her body was trembling beneath his weight, her mind untethered from reality. His words blurred into a haze of pleasure and pain. She was floating in it, drowning in it, lost in the brutal rhythm he set. But it felt like freedom.

He was still in control. She was still his.

And as he came, shuddering against her, his body trembling with the force of it, he pulled her close, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, breathless whisper—

"You’ll never be the one in charge, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever."

Terry had barely left the room when her eyes landed on his briefcase, tucked neatly in the corner, the edge of a notebook peeking out. The sight of it sent a strange thrill through her, curiosity slithering up her spine. He had always been meticulous—calculated—but something about the way that notebook sat, slightly exposed, made it feel like an invitation.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, lightly stepping across the room, she reached for it.

The moment she flipped it open, her breath caught in her throat.

Pages and pages. Notes scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting. Her name repeated over and over. Every move she had made, every place she had been. Polaroids tucked between the pages—some she recognised, old photos she thought were buried in her past. Others… others she had never seen before. Shots of her walking home. Eating with friends. Sleeping.

Her hands trembled as she turned another page. More details. Names of her past lovers, their habits, their schedules. Addresses—previous and current. The make and model of her car, the exact date and time of her last oil change. A level of detail that made her own obsessive notes on him seem amateur, laughable.

She should have been horrified. And maybe, deep down, she was. But mostly? Mostly, she was impressed.

All this time, she thought she was the one keeping tabs, the one pulling strings, feeding her obsession in secret. But compared to this? Her work was nothing but a failed imitation of his masterpiece.

She was so enthralled, so absorbed in his twisted devotion, that she didn’t hear him return.

A quiet throat clearing made her snap the book shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned, and there he was—standing in the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression. But there was no panic, no urgency. No fear.

Because why would he be afraid? He had intended for her to see this one day. He had wanted her to know.

Terry stepped forward, slow, deliberate. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his voice a low murmur, thick with satisfaction.

“As you can see, sweetheart,” he said, his fingers trailing along the cover of the notebook, “you were mine from the moment you stepped into my class.”

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @notapradagurl7 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @wildcardmelaninfreak

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[back2bluesidex]

J-Hope Fic Recommendations (18+)

If you are already following me for quite some time then you should know that I am a massive masochist and I like to torture myself by reading and writing angsty stories. So, most of the stories that I recommended are angsty as well (might as well have sad endings). So please carefully read the warnings before proceeding. Have a happy reading.

And please don't expect much from me. There are several other rec lists far better than mine. The only motive I had behind creating this list to promote some of the stories, which I think are very underrated. especially angsty ones. These stories are beautifully written so.. I just wanted to let the authors know how phenomenal of a job they have done (As a writer myself I know how much this actually means). Thanks to these amazing writers and I am grateful that they decided to share their work here with us.

[Minors please stay away from my blog!]

Key: F - Fluff, A- Angst, S- Smut, Y- Yandere, *- Personal Favorite

Oneshots

1. Ash from his fire by @filmcrystal - A, implied S, cheating au

It will break your heart so please proceed with caution.

2. Forbidden Fruit by @deepdarkdelights - A, Y

This one deals with several triggering topics. Hence, read the warnings carefully. But I can say that you will love this twisted mafia Hoseok way too much!

3. Shadows by @borathae - A, exes au

One of the most underrated stories I have ever read! Yeah, it is very angsty and Hoseok is so cruel but... we all are masochist here. lmao!

4. Heaven sent by @aquagustd - A, F, S, f2l au

Sexy soccer player Hoseok is just another name for perfection.

5. Bound by @explicit-tae - S, kinda f2l

Talk abut BDSM! GOOOD Sweet Lord!!!

6. Jigsaw by @sunshinejunghoseokie - A *

I remembered crying after reading this one. So damn underrated that it physically hurts me!!

7. Delta Disorder by @bangtanintotheroom Y, S, Supernatural au

I don't usually read supernatural stuff but this demon Hoseok is way too sexy to skip!

8. Systems of Touch by @yeoldontknow - S, F, tiny A, S2l au

Beautifully written! The author used 100% of their capabilities to write this one. Perfectly drawn Professor Hoseok with a very attractive character of reader. Certainly a treat to read.

9. 2:00 AM by @likeastarstar - A, fuckbuddy Hoseok

Part of a series but can be read as a standalone. and Hoseok is a dick in this.

10. Love Quarrels by @mirahuyooo - A, F, mafia au

A cold yet soft mafia husband Hoseok chases behind his angry wife... could there be anything better than that?

11. The Hook Up ft. JK by @minisugakoobies - S

A little bit of a triangle.. but not love? if that makes sense.

12. Entelechy by @drmflm - suggestive (I believe)

Can't call this one angst and neither is this about Hoseok (he is there, don't worry). This one is more about the reader and her growth and it's beautiful.

13. Orgasms on the verge of a nervous breakdown by @sluttyandere - S, Y *

This is very dark and quite triggering, so please don't read unless you can handle those stuff.

14. For the night by @aseaofyoongi - A, S

I cried. that's all.

15. We Shouldn't by @beahae - S **

Hands down to one of my most favourite Hoseok smuts ever!!! This one has a Jimin follow-up so make sure to read that too.

16. Real or not real by @nmjoo-n - A, S, F **

Again one of the most exquisite Hoseok fics I have ever read!

17. Checkmate by @sunshinejoon - A, S

This was supposed to have a sequel but it is perfect regardless.

18. Do I wanna know - @yoongiphoria - A, f2? ****

Now, MJ knows how much I love this one. I often read this story and I never ever get bored of it! I love this to the core and you should too!

19. Scrap - @silv3rswirls - A, Y, S

Dark and sexy. Read the warnings carefully please.

20. It's a Promise by @sahmfanficbts - S, A, Arranged marriage au

Just read it.

21. Three by @hamsterclaw - S

Again.. VERY UNDERRATED!

22. Wonderwall by @kiara-ish - A with an open ending

Might not be for the faint hearted.

23. Infatuated by @bangtanfancamp - F

If you like high school love au then this one is for you.

24. Constellations of You by @persphonesorchid - S, F, established relationship au

This is so domestic that my heart almost exploded while reading!!

25. Burning flames or paradise by @/yoongiphoria - A, tiny f ****

MJ does magic.... that's all I can say.

26. Alone again by @archivedkookie - A, F

I loooove these kinds of stories. Just the right amount of despair with the right amount of hope... beautiful.

27. Feeling Good by @bonvoyagenoona - A, S

Everything I write about this will fall short.. so I will just shut up and let you enjoy the goodness.

28. Distracted by @dilfhoseokie - S

Ahem..

29. Drink Champaign in my airplane by @/bangtanintotheroom - F, S, F2l

Perfectly embodies a rich hot CEO friend Hoseok... a fun read.

30. Keynote by @missgeniality - S **********

MY MOST FAVORITE HOSEOK ONESHOT TO EXIST IN THE PLANET. yeah.. (this has a follow-up but I like this one better)

Series

The thing is that I don't usually read series. I just don't have that patience. So this list is pretty small and forgive me for that.

1. Transference by @dark-muse-iris - A, S, F, S2l *********************

[Completed]

I wasn't the same after reading this. I can't talk about this trantric therapist Hoseok, 'cause I will never shut up if I start.

2. Kanalia by @xjoonchildx - A, S, f (?) *********************

[Ongoing]

Honestly, who isn't a sucker for Lord Jung? You must be sick if you are not. (On a side note.. Kanalia is keeping me alive from jumping off trains on tough days)

3. Guarded by @/xjoonchildx - A, S, F, S2l

[Completed]

Mafia Hoseok with dogtags. I think that's enough of an introduction.

If you want to read the Hoseok stories I write, you can checkout my Masterlist.