#that is meant to be somewhere/something else

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

Imagine a reader ends up biting one of the Batfam members but it's not just any bite but a very strong bite that tears off part of the flesh, so how would the Batfamily react to that? (Bonus: and the reader ends up swallowing this piece of meat)

ᴛᴀsᴛᴇ ᴏғ ɪʀᴏɴ ♥︎

ʙᴀᴛғᴀᴍɪʟʏ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ʏ!)

Ho, is y'all sharks?

More here!

Jason’s grip is iron. Too tight. A gauntleted hand wraps around your wrist, the other pressed to your shoulder, heavy with intention. There’s no struggle from him, no hesitation, just certainty—like you’re some cornered thing meant to be subdued.

And maybe you are.

The Batfamily took you. Dragged you down into the depths of Gotham’s hidden places, where light doesn’t stretch and choices don’t exist. You had fought—clawed, spat, burned through every ounce of defiance like a fire unwilling to die. But they’re patient. They wear you down. A wolf pack that never tires, circling and circling, waiting for you to make a mistake.

Jason, though? He’s different. Not a shadow like Bruce, not methodical like Tim. He meets violence with violence, and right now, he’s underestimating you.

His mistake.

Your teeth sink into his forearm with the kind of force that shatters bone if the angle is right. Jason’s sharp inhale is more surprise than pain, and for a moment, you think he’s going to shake you off like a dog with a bad habit. But then you tear—not just a bite, not a warning, but something deep, something meant to wound. Skin gives way. Muscle rips beneath your jaw. The taste of iron spills over your tongue, hot and thick, a rush of something primal tearing through you as Jason jerks back—too late, too slow.

The chunk of him stays in your mouth.

Somewhere behind Jason, someone moves. A chair scrapes. The air shifts. But you don’t look away from him, and he doesn’t look away from you. He cradles his arm, blood seeping through the ruined sleeve of his jacket, dripping in uneven patterns against the floor.

And then, without thinking, without planning—

You swallow.

Jason watches.

The room goes silent.

Tim is the first to speak, voice low, horrified. "Jesus.”

Dick stands, expression unreadable. His usual warmth, the easy charm he carries like second skin, has slipped. “They need to be restrained.” A glance at Bruce, waiting for the order.

Bruce, silent and still. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel the weight of them.

Jason flexes his injured arm, expression unreadable. He should be angry. Should be throwing you against the nearest wall, spitting curses through clenched teeth. But he just looks at you, blood slick between his fingers, and exhales something close to a laugh.

It’s not humor. Not really.

“You actually took a chunk out of me,” he says, like he’s still processing it. He rolls his shoulder, assessing the damage, before locking eyes with you again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

You say nothing.

Your tongue sweeps over your teeth, tasting what remains.

Jason’s face shifts. The amusement—the disbelief—slips beneath something colder. He steps forward, ignoring the way Dick moves like he wants to intercept, ignoring the warning in Bruce’s silence. His good hand reaches out, fingers curling around your jaw.

You don’t flinch.

“Say it,” Jason murmurs. His voice is different now. Quieter. Interested. “Say you did that on purpose.”

Your lips part, not to speak, but to bite again.

Jason jerks back before you can sink your teeth in a second time, but the grin that stretches across his face is a dangerous thing. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“This one’s got fight,” he mutters, and there’s something in his voice that sets the others on edge. Tim watches like he’s cataloging data points, trying to piece together a reaction that makes sense. Dick’s frown deepens, a flicker of unease there now.

Bruce doesn't speak, he doesn't move.

“…You’re lucky,” Jason continues, tilting his head, gaze flicking to his arm. Blood still drips, slow but steady. “Anyone else, and you’d be missing a few teeth right now.”

His words should be a threat. Maybe they are.

But you meet his stare, unblinking, and you smile—soft, slow, just enough to show the stain of red between your teeth.

Jason laughs again.

He wipes more blood from his arm, still staring at you. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low, almost to himself. “We’re keeping you.”

And this time, it sounds like something closer to acceptance.

[romerona]

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Trigger warning: Mentions of the asshole Chef David Fields, some angst and anxiety attacks.

It was late—too late.

Carmy barely registered the walk home, his body moving on autopilot, his mind still tangled in the chaos of the night. The cold air bit at his exposed skin, sharp and unforgiving, but he hardly noticed. The city around him murmured in the background—streetlights flickering, cars humming in the distance, the occasional shout from someone leaving a bar. But it all felt muted, distant, like he was hearing it through water. What lingered instead was the crushing weight of the night pressing against his ribs, a dull and relentless pressure that refused to let up.

Dinner service at The Bear had been a disaster. One of those nights where everything that could go wrong, did. The shipment. Late. So late that it threw off the whole prep schedule. Orders were late. Tickets stacked up like a goddamn mountain, looming over him, mocking him. Then, of course, one of the fryers broke mid-rush. The kitchen had been thick with tension, and every sharp movement edged with frustration. Richie and Sydney had gone at it—again—voices rising over the clatter of pans, cutting through the already fraying nerves of the staff.

And Carmy? He could feel himself unravelling. Patience thinning. Jaw tightening. His fingers curling into fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, but there was no outlet, no way to fix it. And then there was the heat. The noise. The pressure of it all, building and building, squeezing in on him until it felt like the walls were closing in, the suffocating knowledge that he should have done more, been better, made it work. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how many hours he gave to The Bear, it was still just a ticking time bomb of mistakes waiting to happen.

By the time he peeled off his clothes, shoving them into a crumpled pile somewhere near the hamper, his body felt disconnected from his brain. Like his limbs weren’t quite his own—like he was floating just outside of himself, watching everything happen from a few steps away.

His muscles ached, the deep kind of exhaustion that settled in his bones, making every movement feel heavier than it should. His head throbbed in dull, rhythmic pulses, the pressure lingering behind his eyes, threatening to split his skull in two. And his skin—Christ, his skin burned. Still clinging to the heat of the kitchen, to the suffocating weight of the night, to the stench of grease and smoke that no amount of showers ever seemed to fully wash away. It was embedded in him, stitched into his fibers.

And yet, still, he couldn't stop.

His feet carried him toward the kitchen before he even registered the movement, muscle memory taking over where his brain had given up. His fingers found the knob on the stove, twisting it with a practised flick until the flame flared to life, a small but immediate comfort.

A pan. Some oil.

Something simple. Something controllable.

He should be asleep. He knew that. His body screamed for it, his eyes burned from the strain of the day, his hands still bore the small nicks and cuts from rushed knife work. But sleep meant stopping. Stopping meant sitting in silence, letting the weight of the night press down on him again.

And if he let that happen—if he let himself sit in the quiet too long—he knew what would come creeping in.

The doubts. The failures. The voice of the fucking asshole, even now, echoing in his head. You’re too slow. You’re too careless. You’re not enough. You should fucking die.

He cracked the egg, let it hit the pan, and barely noticed the sizzle. His eyes weren’t on the stovetop. They were somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t claw his way out of.

His thoughts swirled, a chaotic loop that refused to quiet down. Back to the heat, the noise, the impossible weight pressing against his chest like a tightening vice. He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he could physically wipe the memories away. Exhaled sharply. Tried to shake it off.

Too slow. Too much. Not enough.

His breath came a little too fast, his jaw clenching so tight it ached. Carmy barely noticed the first tendril of smoke curling through the air.

For a second, it didn’t compute.

His eyes followed the lazy drift of grey, sluggish, delayed, like his brain was still playing catch-up. Then— Shit.

The oil. The heat. The flames licking up the edge of the pan. The Déjà vu.

His body moved before his brain fully caught up. Fast. Sharp. Instinct taking over where exhaustion failed him. His hand shot out, killing the burner, while his other grabbed the lid, slamming it down over the flames before they had a chance to spread.

His pulse hammered in his ears. It was small—controlled—just a second of distraction. For a second, he just stood there, staring at the smothered pan, the burnt remnants inside. The acrid smell clung to him, to the walls, to everything. Embedded, like everything else.

Too much.

His feet moved before his brain could process it. He shoved open the door, barely feeling the cool brass of the handle beneath his fingers, stepping outside onto the hallway. The air hit him sharp, cold against his overheated skin. He inhaled deep, sucking in the crispness, trying to force his heartbeat to slow the fuck down.

Ground yourself. Breathe. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

Because the moment he lifted his head, he saw you. You were standing in the hallway, just a few feet away. Still. Watching him.

And you knew.

It was written all over your face. The way your brows pulled together, the way your lips parted like you were about to say something but hadn’t yet figured out how.

“Carmy, you okay?” Your voice was too soft—too careful—but somehow, it still cut through him like a blade.

His breath hitched, his pulse still too fast, too erratic, his body caught between the past five minutes and right now. He should say something. Smooth this over. Make it disappear before it became a thing.

“Was nothin’,” he muttered, shaking his head quickly. His voice came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Just—just got distracted.”

But you didn’t look convinced.

Your gaze dropped to his hands. The ones still trembling, even as he tried to disguise it, rubbing them against the fabric of his hoodie like that would erase the evidence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious, and it made his skin prickle.

“It doesn’t look fine. And that’s not what I asked,” you murmured, your tone even. Not accusing. Not pushing. Just… knowing.

And fuck, why?

Why did you have to look at him like that? Why did it feel like you were peeling him open with just a look?

Like you could see whatever was wrong, the way it clung to him, the way it seeped into his bones, wrapped around his ribs like a vice.

Why the fuck did you care?

His jaw tightened as he exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too loud. His heart was still racing, his breath coming in short, shallow pulls, and the way you were looking at him—it made it worse. Annoyance flickered up, hot and sharp.

“Well, it is, alright,” he bit out, voice low, clipped.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

Your eyes held him there. Concerned, not pitying. And for some reason, that made it worse. “What’s going on?”

Your voice was gentle, but he still felt like it pressed against something raw in him. He swallowed again, the motion tight, too quick. His shoulders tensed. Like a cornered animal.

“Fucking nothin', alright?” His voice snapped—not loud, but sharp. A warning. “Just got fucking distracted.”

There was a bite to it. A finality. A 'don’t push it'. But you didn’t look away. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the weight of the night crashing down again.

“Left something on the stove too long.” His fingers twitched, restless. “It’s fucking fine, just—” He gestured vaguely toward your apartment, his frustration turning in on itself. “Just go back to your house.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound harsh. But it did.

Your expression barely flickered, but he saw the way your brows knitted together for a fraction of a second, the way you took in his words, measured them, and decided not to take the bait.

Carmy knew what he was doing. Knew the sharpness in his voice, the edge he was putting there—not to hurt you, not really. Just to push you away, to create space where there was none, to stop you from seeing too much. From seeing him like this.

But you just stood there, calm, unwavering, like you had all the time in the world for him to burn himself out. You took another step closer, slow and deliberate, your gaze never leaving his face.

“Okay,” you said simply, shrugging. “Fine.”

That threw him off. He expected pushback, expected you to demand answers or call him out. Instead, you just… accepted his words. His anger fizzled out slightly, like a match burning out too fast.

You shifted your weight, crossing your arms. “But if it’s fine, then you won’t mind standing here for a second and breathing with me.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

You gave him that look, the one that was patient but somehow immovable. “I’m not asking you to explain. I’m not even asking you to talk. Just... breathe with me.”

Then, carefully, you reached out—not touching, not forcing, just holding a hand palm-up between you. Not a demand. A choice.

“Just once. If it doesn’t help, I’ll go inside, and you can keep pretending you’re fine,” you said, your tone gentle but sure.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He hated this. Hated being seen like this. Hated the way you were giving him an out but also making it real fucking hard to take it.

His gaze flickered to your hand. Just sitting there, open, steady, waiting.

Like an idiot, he took it.

It wasn’t much at first. His grip was tight, rigid. Like he was bracing for impact. But you didn’t squeeze or try to pull him closer. You just held it. Let him be shaky. Let his fingers flex, then tighten, then relax—like an anchor, like something solid in the mess of his own mind.

Carmy clenched his jaw. He should tell you to go, to drop it, to just—leave him alone. But then you inhaled, slow and deep, through your nose. And for some fucking reason, he did it too.

Not perfectly. Not steady. But he tried.

“Good,” you murmured, nodding. “Now out.”

He exhaled, shakier than he wanted it to be, his fingers twitching again. You stayed quiet for a moment, watching him, letting the air settle between you.

You shifted slightly, tilting your head. “Again.”

He hesitated but did as you said. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. One breath at a time.

Until the world wasn’t pressing against his ribs like a vice. Until the knots in his stomach weren’t so fucking tight. Until his hand—still in yours—wasn’t trembling anymore.

Finally, finally, his shoulders dropped a fraction, and you let out a small exhale, like there you are.

“See? Now it’s fine,” you said, voice lighter, teasing but not pushing. “Knew I could get you to listen.”

Carmy let out a quiet, shaky huff—half a laugh, half an exhale. “Didn’t say it helped.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “But you’re not telling me to leave anymore.”

“Guess not.”

You let go of his hand—easing the connection rather than dropping it. Still, he can't help but flex it, missing the warmth, the feeling.

Carmy exhaled again, slower this time. His jaw was still tight, but the sharp edge of his frustration had dulled, faded into something closer to exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his temple. “I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly.

That threw him off balance more than before. You weren’t asking for an explanation, weren’t searching for answers, weren’t waiting for him to fix himself before you’d stand there with him.

You just were. And for some reason, that made something in his chest pull tight.

Your smile softened, and you nudged his foot lightly with yours, the touch grounding, casual—like you weren’t standing there peeling back every layer of him without even trying. “You don’t have to say anything, Carmy. Just… let me be here, alright?”

Carmy’s chest rose and fell in a slow, measured breath. His fingers twitched, he wanted to reach you again but instead he let them fall, finally relaxing.

His gaze drifted over you then—really seeing you for the first time tonight.

The colourful oversized pajamas, a mismatched set that somehow made sense on you made you look impossibly comfortable. The messy bed head, strands sticking up in odd directions like you’d been in too much of a hurry to smooth them down. The thick glasses perched on your nose, slightly crooked, like you’d shoved them on without thinking.

And yet, none of it diminished you.

No, you were still—God, you were just so...

Soft in a way that didn’t feel fragile. Kind in a way that didn’t feel forced. For someone who should’ve looked a little ridiculous standing in the dim hallway at nearly midnight, dressed like a walking fever dream, you were still—

Still just you. Still perfect.

Not in the unattainable, polished way that made people feel like they had to measure up. No, you were real. Warm. The kind of presence that pulled people in without trying. Like someone who didn’t need him to be anything other than exactly what he was in this moment—messy, frayed, a little burnt at the edges.

His throat worked as he swallowed, the words forming but never making it past his lips. Instead, he just nodded once, short and barely there. But you caught it, you always did.

You smiled a quiet understanding passing between you and tilted your head toward your apartment. “Come inside. Just for a bit.”

Carmy hesitated, shifting his weight like he was already halfway out the door. “Nah, you really should go back to sleep. You, uh—you got to teach tomorrow, right?”

You scoffed, shaking your head with an amused little huff. “Please, I wasn’t asleep. I was on my Kindle, making poor life choices about just one more chapter.”

That made him glance at you, brow twitching slightly upward. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, waving a hand. “I sleep late all the time. Bad habit. I’m a terrible role model for my students. Preaching good sleep schedules by day, sabotaging my own by night. Not my proudest contradiction, but hey, I make it work.”

He pressed his lips together, unsure. He’d already taken up too much of your time, already made too much of a mess of himself in front of you. But before he could find another excuse to disappear, you tilted your head toward your apartment, eyes glinting mischievously.

“Tell you what—I’ll sweeten the deal." you said, "Come inside, and I’ll make you pancakes or something.”

His brows furrowed, but there was amusement flickering in his tired eyes. “You’re bribing me with pancakes?”

“I’m persuading you with pancakes,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Big difference. One’s morally questionable, the other is just good business.”

He exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head as he glanced past you toward your open door. The warmth of your apartment, the contrast of soft, golden light against the dim hallway, was enough to make him hesitate just a little longer.

You sighed dramatically, tipping your head back. “Fine. I see how it is. You don’t want pancakes. You don’t want warmth. You don’t want the chance to experience my culinary prowess, which, by the way, is heavily dependent on boxed mix and sheer confidence.”

Carmy exhaled another small laugh, “That supposed to convince me?”

“I don’t know,” you mused, tilting your head. “Is it working?”

He hesitated, then glanced at you, eyes flickering between your expression and the soft glow of your apartment.

He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at you again. “You even got syrup?”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare you. Of course, I have syrup. And not just any syrup. The good syrup. The expensive kind that makes my pockets cry.”

He looked back at the open door, at the warmth, then at you—waiting, expectant, patient.

“…Alright,” he muttered finally, turning off his light and closing his door . “Just for a bit.”

Your grin widened as you stepped aside. “Good call. I was prepared to escalate to full puppy-dog eyes if needed.”

Carmy hesitated in your doorway, eyes flicking between the warm glow of your apartment and the quiet comfort of your presence. The offer was simple—pancakes, syrup, a brief reprieve from his own mind.

And for a second, just a second, it felt familiar.

Too familiar.

His chest tightened. He didn’t mean to think about Mikey, but the memory crept in any way—uninvited and unavoidable.

He wasn’t sure when he noticed it, that pull you had. The way you could turn a moment weightless without even trying. It was something about the way you carried yourself—unapologetically bright, effortlessly magnetic, like the room revolved around you but you never let it go to your head.

Mikey had been like that.

Carmy swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned against the counter, watching you move around the kitchen, talking about some ridiculous pancake technique like it was revolutionary. Like this was normal. Like he wasn’t just outside five minutes ago trying to claw his way out of his own head.

Mikey used to drag him into things, into late-night runs for shitty gas station snacks, into arguments about what actually made a perfect sandwich, into moments that felt like they meant nothing at the time but everything in hindsight

And now here you were, doing the same thing.

Pulling him out of his own head. Out of the spiral. Out of the weight of it all.

You didn’t even realize it, did you?

Carmy never thought he’d meet someone else like that. Didn’t think he deserved to.

But here you were.

Different, but the same in all the ways that mattered. You lit up a room without trying, turned things that should’ve felt heavy into something bearable.

“Alright, Chef,” you teased, flicking a bit of flour off your fingers, breaking out of his thoughts. “You wanna help, or are you just gonna sit there looking pretty?”

Carmy scoffed, rolling his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, but his hands were already reaching for the whisk.

Mikey would’ve loved you.

A/N: Helloooooo. How is everyone!?? Okay first I want to thank you all for the support, for those likes, comments and shares ❤️ I still can’t believe the love for this fic. Thank you so muchhh.

And second of all I hope you enjoyed this one, I am personally not sure about it. It feels like it needs that je ne sais quoi factor… hopefully I'll have a good one for Valentine’s Day 🫶🩷

Be safe out there 🫶 Tell me if you would like to get tagged.

Tags:

@hiitsmebbygrl16 @urthem00n @svzwriting29 @tyferbebe @akornsworld @khxna @ruthyalva96 @beingalive1 @darkestbeforethedawn16 @turtle-cant-communicate spideybv28 veryberryjelly @daisy-the-quake leilanixx softpia cosmix-stxrs the-disaster-in-waiting memoriesat30 emerald-jade1 sabrina-carpenter-stan-account ateliefloresdaprimavera

[bambisnc]

          . . swimming through the cherry sky

° ˖ ➴ “forget whatever you think you knew. vampires exist.”

### . STARRING ⌢ n.rk ⋆ suggestive? + 1.3k // unedited + roommate trope + blood drinking ˖ ✧

🗨️ .. ⌞ XOXO ⌝ vamki enthusiasts hi + alt vrs hidden somewhere in txt + [m.list]

you've had your suspicions for a while now. the irregular, conspicuous late nights. the stains that eerily resemble dried blood and something else you can’t quite name but feel in your bones. an instinct that something was odd.

but bless your heart, you just can't bring yourself to actually accuse your roommate, nishimura riki, of anything.

besides, what would you have even said, anyway? 

"hey, roommate! what a wonderful day it is today, huh? the weather sure is … happening! by the way, if i may ask, is there any chance that you might be a bloodthirsty, monstrous creature? just curious haha!"

yeah. that wouldn't work. obviously.

not that you had the ability to even stay in the same room as him long enough to put together a few coherent words. but merely the air around him was enough to have shivers running down your spine. and yet, the worst part of it all? 

he’s never actually tried anything to cause harm to you. never once warranted your fears. which only makes you feel like you’re losing your damn mind.

so you do the only thing you can do. watch from a distance; observe. bide your time and keep trying to piece things together while ensuring to stay as far away as you possibly can. which, considering you live together, is pretty much next to impossible.

and then, after months of feeling like the tension would just about eat you alive, something finally happens. 

it had been a relatively slow day. your roommate had kept to himself as usual, doing nothing out of the ordinary. nothing you could consider hard proof, that is. 

having decided on an early night for yourself, you were in bed, adorned with comfortable night clothes. that was when you’d heard it. 

a dull thump! 

followed up, as if on cue, by a low, guttural groan. the pain in the raspy noise was clear enough to make your stomach twist. against your better judgement, curse you for being soft-hearted, you leave the comfort the safety of your room and towards the adjacent hallway. the door in front of you was slightly ajar, ink like shadows spilling out.

and then you see him.

hunched over, collapsed by the edge of his bed, barely able to hold himself up. riki looks too pale – ashen, almost, like all the warmth has been drained from his body. his breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps. he looks like he’s seconds from death’s door.

your entrance wasn’t as quiet as you’d meant for it to be however. he lifts his head, with a considerable amount of exertion, letting his gaze – dark, unreadable – meet yours. when he speaks, it’s hushed. completely unlike the usual confident drawl he uses otherwise. 

“it’s dangerous for you to be in here when i’m like this.”

“what-” you swallow down all the questions bubbling inside your throat. “... are you okay?..”

sure, this was probably the only opportunity you’d have with him this vulnerable but, you can’t bring yourself to take advantage of his weakened state. you venture a little closer to him, to properly be able to appraise his condition, despite your entire being begging you not to.

barely being able to hear his answer, you lean closer still to be able to pick up on the yet again hesitant, reluctant mumble, “i … haven’t fed in a while.”

your heart goes cold. you can all but feel the blood rushing into your ears as you struggle to process what riki just said. obviously, he doesn’t mean that in the literal sense. right?

but before you can even reach a conclusion, decide whether or not to let your flight instinct take control and rush out of here, call someone, anyone for help — with a fluid motion, you find your positions completely switched.

your back meets the hard edge of the bed with a jolt. he kneels in front of you now, towering. his frame eclipses yours, one arm braced on the bed, the other steadying himself on the floor. you can tell he isn’t even putting much effort, but he’s able to cage you in without even trying. no longer can you delude yourself into thinking you have any semblance of control over the situation. 

there’s no mistaking it. not with that look in his eyes, the pupils fast dilating – were they always tinged that slight shade of … red? there can be no more excuses, no more pretending that you’re just being paranoid. because this … 

… this is real.

“this isn’t happening. it can’t be.” you whisper, as if saying it out loud will manifest it into existence. as if it’ll wake you up from whatever bad fever dream this is.

he looks almost amused, for a second. lips twitching as if he finds your denial to be funny. 

and then he’s leaning in closer, closer until … something sharp grazes against your delicate neck. your breath hitches sharply at the sensation. 

“forget whatever you think you knew.” his voice is steadier than it was earlier. more certain, more sure of itself. “vampires exist.” ...

where riki’s lips ghost over your neck, his touch is featherlight but somehow still constricting. he tilts your head slightly, movements agonizingly slow exposing it even more to himself.

“can i?..” his voice is strained, as he grits out the words but you appreciate the warning. 

even if it might not be of any actual meaning, “do i have a choice?”

“not really, no. i’m sorry.” 

and then, a sharp, electric sting as his fangs pierce your skin.

the pain flashes for only a moment, though, before a haze-like dizziness takes its place. sinking into your bones, making your limbs go weaker than they felt before.

his free hand shifts from the floor – after he gains some semblance of his former strength, you assume – and he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers digging into the skin as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the living world. it’s a strange sensation, to say the least. the action is rhythmic, if nothing else. 

only when a soft, barely audible gasp escapes you does he pull away, fangs retracting. 

his tongue licks against the open wound in what you would only later discover was supposed to be a means to soothe. before you even realize it, you’re reaching for him, clutching onto his shirt, albeit rather weakly in some sort of attempt of grounding yourself.

you don’t know what to say about it. you don’t even know how to feel.

but what you do know is that he’s still looking at you. eyes dark, lips stained red with your blood, chest rising and falling like he’s just barely holding himself together. 

looking at him like this, it’s clear as day that he needs more. the struggle, the desperation, the way he seems to be at war with himself. 

so you do what any good roommate would do, the words leaving you before you can second guess your decision. you offer yourself to him. 

“take what you need.”

his expression flickers. hesitation, shock, relief, aching. “you don’t have to—” he sounds like he wants to refuse, like he knows he should refuse. 

but when you tilt your head back slightly, just enough for the previous mark to be visible, you practically hear his resolve crack.

riki presses in close again, with more an ease this time and as the alien sensation you’re growing more and more familiar to takes over, you exhale a breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

“you.. fuck.” his voice is muffled between slow, languid sucks – unhurried, this time. more deliberate. “you’re a terrible roommate.” 

you huff out as best as you can, in your (slightly lightheaded) condition “hah... why is that?”  a pause. his thumb swipes over the place his lips had been seconds earlier, as if reassuring himself of your pulse. “because this means i owe you.”

𐙚 . regulars : none yet! ⋆

[@bambisnc] 2k25

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: 5 Times Marshall Saw You Holding a Baby (+1 Time You Held Yours)

1. The First Time

Marshall had never thought much about babies. He loved his daughters more than anything, but the idea of having another? That was a thought he hadn’t entertained in a long time.

Until he saw you holding one.

It was at Denaun’s family BBQ, and one of his nieces had practically shoved her baby into your arms before running off. You looked a little startled at first, but then you adjusted the little girl against your hip, rocking her gently as she cooed up at you.

Marshall watched, something stirring in his chest.

“You’re staring,” Denaun teased, nudging him.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he didn’t look away.

2. The Time You Helped Hailie’s Friend

Hailie had invited a few friends over, everyone at your house working on wedding preparations and one of them had brought her baby along. Somewhere between dinner and dessert, the mom had gotten overwhelmed, and without hesitation, you’d stepped in.

Marshall had walked into the living room to find you sitting on the couch, the baby snuggled against your chest, fast asleep.

“You’re good at that,” he had said softly.

You smiled, brushing a hand over the baby’s back. “She was just fussy. Needed a little patience.”

His heart did something weird in his chest.

He ignored it.

3. The Time at the Grocery Store

It was supposed to be a quick trip—just grabbing some snacks—but then you got distracted by a baby in the next cart over.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, eyes wide. “Look at those cheeks.”

Marshall followed your gaze and, sure enough, there was a chubby baby giggling up at you. When the mom noticed, she laughed and said, “You wanna hold her?”

Before he could react, you were reaching out, grinning as you balanced the baby on your hip.

“She’s so cute,” you cooed, making silly faces while the baby giggled.

Marshall just stood there, watching.

Feeling something he really wasn’t ready to name.

4. The Time You Were Babysitting

Your best friend had begged you to watch her son for the night, and you had agreed. Marshall had come over, expecting a normal evening with you—until he saw you pacing the living room with a baby in your arms.

“Uh…” He blinked. “Something you wanna tell me?”

You laughed, shifting the baby to your other side. “Relax. He’s my friend’s kid.”

Marshall sat down, watching as you moved around so easily, soothing the baby with gentle whispers.

And that feeling was back.

It was starting to get harder to ignore.

5. The Time You Didn’t See Him Watching

He hadn’t meant to stare.

You were visiting Kim’s house, catching up with Hailie and her sisters, when she handed her baby over to you. You took the little boy without hesitation, bouncing hin slightly as he babbled excitedly.

Marshall stood in the doorway, unseen, just watching.

Something about the way you held the baby—so effortlessly, so naturally—made his chest ache.

Like maybe, just maybe… he wanted to see you like that for real.

+1. The Time You Held Yours

The room was quiet, except for the occasional beeping of machines and the softest little whimper.

Marshall had never felt this kind of fear before—not on stage, not in life. He was a grandfather, supposed to be done raising kids. But the second he saw you, sweaty and exhausted, holding his baby in your arms?

Everything else faded.

You looked up at him, tired but beaming. “Wanna hold her?”

He swallowed, nodding, but he didn’t reach out just yet. Instead, he just looked.

At you. At the tiny little person you had just brought into the world. At everything he never thought he’d have again.

Then, finally, he took his daughter into his arms.

And he knew.

This was everything.

[cattjull]

Sugary sweet

summary: You were supposed to go to a party tonight. Abby receives you at her home, though, crying about not having permission from your parents to go.

a/n: I'm so sorry for not posting but honestly I'm really really depressed since a few months ago and I cannot bring myself to do anything good or productive enough. I don't even think this passes my quality check but at this point and due to my inconsistency nobody will even remember I wrote fics once soo... Please enjoy or something :)

cw: implied age gap but not specified!

Abby laid down on her side, wet hair clinging to her skin and cascading down her neck and sprawling on her pillow, small droplets falling from her loose, golden hair onto the bedsheets and her pajamas like molten gold looking for a form in which to solidify.

It was 12 p.m. in a normal Friday night, which normally meant she could stay up to whenever she felt like it, go to bed anytime and mindlessly scroll down on her phone or read a book until she decided to turn all of her lights off, text you her usual good night message and drift off to sleep, her pillow being an one-way ticket to the land of dreams which you had took over and claimed as yours ever since you guys started dating.

But this was one of those nights. Those where you'd go out to some party and she'd be going to bed late without inviting anyone over or going out, where she wouldn't pay attention to her phone or get distracted with other simple activities because of her excessive worries, often finding herself fidgeting with her rings, adjusting her glasses, or eating fruits just because of her anxiety.

She loved you a lot, too much even but sometimes she didn't have enough stamina to be your company in parties, even if she really tried to attend with you almost always. She really didn't enjoy that lifestyle, mundane parties with shitty music and potentially dangerous people, but oh guess who does! Her girlfriend.

She feels lucky to have you, truly. It's not like she was planning on sleeping until you texted her you got home safe, but her mind started divagating somewhere far away from the book she held between her big hands and she just knew that, once again, she'd spent worrying over you at least until 4 a.m., maybe even after you texted her you were safe in your house. So she took off her glasses and placed the book down on her nightstand, signing loudly and preparing herself for another sleepless night.

You may be having fun in your friend's party, where you obviously invited her but she refused, knowing you'd most likely end up alternating your time between gossiping with your friends and clinging onto her while the others ignored her, which made her feel unwanted by them.

Maybe there was someone flirting with you and you were too drunk to tell them to stop. Maybe you were flirting with someone and tomorrow you'd call her like nothing talking to her about how much you hate hangovers. Maybe you were crying because someone was mean to you. Maybe you were doing something stupid. How could she know?

Her anxious thoughts were interrupted by the small sound coming from her window. It sounded like a small rock: there it was, your signature way of getting into her house. She didn't know why but everything about your behaviour was so sweet and dumb, just as any teenager but make it cute romantic comedy like. Everything you did was a small reminder of the small age gap between you two, which made her feel guilty every time.

She got closer to the window and saw you standing there with your eyes looking slightly red and swollen, as if you had been smoking weed, with your mini bag being clutched to your waist with one hand while the other waved at her. She quickly rushed downstairs, not even bothering to put her slippers on, and unlocked the door for you.

Luckily, her dad was out in the hospital so he wouldn't wake up by the sound of her feet pattering on the wooden floor or the tinkering of the keys or... Anything else you'd be doing.

When the blue eyed girl opened the door, she took in your appearance, noticing you had the same clothes that you had worn a few hours ago when you sent her nudes and a really thoughtful video. You told her that would be your outfit for the party, so why were you in her house if this hour wasn't even close to the one you usually would be going home?

Her orbs shamelessly fixed on you, and how couldn't they when taking you in felt so natural? After what felt like an eternity, Abby started functioning again and regained her speech. "Babe... What happened with the party?" She questioned.

"My parents didn't want me to go. So I escaped. Sorry for not telling you but they took my phone away." You explained, in that moment you felt so angry you were crying, something you were deeply ashamed of to be honest. Your voice was completely sweet towards her when you didn't talk about your parents, though. Abby cupped your face with her warm, big hands, noticing you hadn't been smoking anything. Your pretty eyes were spilling diamond tears.

"You'll stay with me tonight, honey." She reassured you. "I'm not driving you to that party, yeah?" You immediately smiled and hugged her, burying the side of your face in her god-sculptured chest and nuzzling your cheek against her. "I'll do as you say." You obeyed lovingly.

"I bet you prefer me over those parties, sweetheart." She replied with a soft smile.

"Of course I do. You're the best Abby, I love you so much and I'd choose you over anything, okay?" You reassured her, causing her to giggle at your directness. That kind of words often came out of your mouth by themselves, as always you praised her. As if you just quoted every love song you heard.

"Didn't you bring anything by the way?" She asked as she hugged you back, embracing you with her buff, juicy arms and picking you up.

"I brought my toothbrush, makeup and fifty dollars." You said, prideful of your improvised packing skills as she held you up to her body with one arm, using the other hand to close and lock the door.

"Pretty good." She nodded with approval, heading upstairs.

Last time you escaped home for something like this, you had brought your phone charger (your phone was taken), a bar of chocolate, your earphones (again, your phone was taken) and no money.

"I know." You smiled and placed a kiss in her clavicle. In Abby's room, she sat down as you straddled her, shifting so you were using her chest as a pillow as she laid on actual ones, staring down at you.

"You aren't really... Crying anymore." She commented, caressing your cheekbone as she observed the change in your mood.

"No. I stopped crying when you picked me up. Guess I was happy to see you." You confessed, kissing her cheek.

"Is that so?" She questioned with affection, caressing your hair.

"You know you heal my heart, Abby." You whispered before kissing her. It was velvety, wet, and sweet. Abby's lips were the cake to your sickly sweet frosting, joining together on a wet and tender kiss, intertwining your souls and tying them up together with an invisible string without even knowing it. That's just how you were.

[nameless-jamie]

And they were Roommates...

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes

9 pm. The knocking at Y/N's door was loud. Too loud. And too persistent for it to be anyone but Jamie Tartt.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the coffee table as she made her way to the door. She was so close to ignoring it but knowing Jamie, he’d either stand out there all night or start texting her ridiculous things like I’ve been kidnapped or What if I perish in the hallway?

With an exhausted huff, Y/N pulled the door open. Personal assistant is a 24/7 job after all.

There he stood, his signature pout firmly in place, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and his hoodie damp like he’d just run through a car wash. His normally perfect hair was sticking up in odd places, and the scent of chlorine and something vaguely metallic clung to him.

She blinked. “Jesus. What happened to you?”

Jamie exhaled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Fucking pipes burst, didn’t they? Whole place’s flooded.”

She turned to watch as he plopped his duffel bag on her floor and immediately started toeing off his sneakers right in the middle of the hallway like he lived here.

“Okay… but why are you here?”

Jamie gave her a look. “Where else am I supposed to go?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Y/N crossed her arms. “Maybe a hotel? You can literally afford to stay at The Savoy.”

Jamie scoffed. “Yeah, but that ain’t as fun as annoyin’ ya in your own home.”

She stared at him, unimpressed.

“‘Sides,” he added, flashing a more genuine smile, “you’re my PA, love. Pretty sure takin’ care of me is in your contract somewhere.”

She opened her mouth, ready to argue—but technically, he wasn’t wrong. Managing Jamie Tartt’s life was literally her job. His schedule, his bookings, his diet, and sometimes even making sure he remembered to do laundry like a normal human being.

She groaned. “Fine. One night. But if you so much as breathe weird, you’re out.”

Jamie smirked. “Knew ya couldn’t resist me.”

Day One: And the chaos begins...

Her mistake was thinking Jamie would behave.

Within an hour, her flat had transformed into a disaster zone.

His boots? Dumped haphazardly by the door. His duffel bag? Exploded across the living room. And somehow—somehow—he had already managed to use every single clean glass in her kitchen.

“Jamie,” she groaned, stepping over a random sock, “I didn’t realize letting you stay here meant signing up for a full-time babysitting gig.”

Jamie, currently sprawled across her couch under her blanket, flashed her a lazy grin. “This is what ya signed up for when ya decided to work for me, love.”

“I work for you, not live with you.”

“Semantics.” He waved a hand. Then, after a beat, he smirked. “Kinda nice, though, yeah? Like a married couple an’ that.”

She shot him a glare.

He only cackled.

Day Two: The Naked Incident™

She woke up way too early the next morning.

It took her a moment to remember why her flat felt off—why there was an extra presence in her space, why she could hear the faint sounds of movement from the kitchen.

Jamie. Right.

With a groggy sigh, she stumbled out of bed and padded toward the kitchen. Her brain was not functioning yet. She just needed coffee. Nothing else mattered.

Except—

She stopped. Dead.

Jamie was standing by the counter, casually buttering a piece of toast. Shirt on top. Nothing else.

Her soul left her body.

“JAMIE.”

He looked up, completely unfazed. “Mornin’, love.”

She slapped a hand over her face. “What. The fuck.”

Jamie blinked. “What?”

She gestured wildly at all of him. “Why are you NAKED in my kitchen?!”

He snorted. “Not naked. Got me top on.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“‘Course it does,” he argued, taking a massively casual bite of toast. “Top half’s covered. Bottom half’s—y’know—free. I get hot at night an— ”

She made a strangled noise. “Jamie. Put. Some. Pants. On.”

He smirked. “Why? You peekin’?”

She almost threw a dish towel at him.

Instead, she turned on her heel and marched out of the kitchen. “This is exactly why you should be at a hotel.”

Jamie called after her, still grinning. “Oi, if we were married, ya wouldn’t be so uptight about seein’ your husband in his natural state.”

She grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at his head.

Idiot.... His ass is fuckin' phenomenal, though.

Day Three: The Honeymoon

She had no idea how this happened.

One moment, they were watching a movie. The next, Jamie was close. Way too close.

He was draped across the couch, arm along the back, body turned toward her in a way that made the air feel different. His knee bumped against hers, and his stupid cologne was messing with her ability to think straight. They were freaking cuddling on the couch aka Jamie's current bed.

Then, he turned his head toward her, voice softer than usual. “This is nice.”

She swallowed, face beet-red. “Yeah. Kinda cozy.”

Jamie’s gaze flickered down to her lips, and suddenly, the air shifted.

Thick. Heavy. Loaded with something unspoken.

His eyes searched hers. Daring. Waiting.

And then—he smirked.

“Kinda romantic, yeah?” he teased. “Like it's our honeymoon, just without the sex. I mean doesn't have to be—”

The moment shattered.

She groaned, shoving him away. “Oh my God, GO TO BED.”

Jamie cackled. “Sweet dreams, missus Tartt.”

She threw a pillow at him. Again.

Day Four: Maybe, just maybe…it ain't so bad.

By the time Day Four rolled around, she had officially lost control of her own flat.

Jamie had taken over every inch of her space—his socks scattered around the floor, his duffel bag still wide open, and somehow, his ridiculous number of protein bars had migrated into her kitchen cabinets like they belonged there.

She could handle all of that. She could even handle the way he walked around half-naked and left his stupid expensive (sexy) cologne smell lingering on her couch.

But what she couldn’t handle was the way he was making it too easy.

Too easy to get used to. Too easy to imagine him sticking around.

And that thought? That was dangerous.

Because Jamie Tartt wasn’t hers.

She was his assistant. This was temporary.

Right?

So why did it feel like something was shifting?

Jamie was still a slob. A slob that cared... He can't seem to pick up his socks but does the dishes every night. He's so bad at cooking, but he makes her the best damn coffee every morning.

That night, everything came to a head.

It started with an argument.

A stupid one.

She’d been exhausted, running on fumes after a long day of sorting out his schedule, making calls, and handling things she probably should’ve let him deal with himself.

So when she got back to the flat and saw Jamie sprawled on the couch, feet kicked up like he didn’t have a single care in the world, something inside her snapped.

“Do you ever clean up after yourself?” she blurted, tossing her bag onto the table.

Jamie blinked up at her. “What?”

She gestured wildly. “This! All of this! Your boots, your socks, your ridiculous protein bars in my cabinets—Jamie, you’ve turned my flat into your personal playground.”

Jamie sat up, frowning now. “Alright, what’s this really about?”

“What do you mean?”

He tilted his head. “You ain’t mad about the boots. You’re mad about somethin’ else.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m mad that you act like this is normal. Like we—like you’re supposed to be here.”

Jamie stared at her for a long moment.

Then, his voice softened. “And what if I enjoy being here with you?”

Her stomach flipped.

She shook her head. “Jamie—”

“I really like bein’ here,” he admitted, standing now, his expression serious in a way that made her breath hitch. “I like wakin’ up in the morning and seein’ you walk out all grumpy ‘cause you ain’t had coffee yet. I like makin’ you laugh when you’re tryin’ real hard to be pissed off at me.”

She swallowed. “That’s—”

He stepped closer. “And I like sittin’ on that couch with you, watchin’ shite movies, even when you’re yellin’ at me for leavin’ crumbs everywhere.”

Her heart was pounding.

Jamie reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Gentle. Careful.

“I don't know, feels right, doesn’t it?” he murmured. “Like I belong here. With you. Near you.”

Her breath caught.

She could feel it—the moment balancing on a knife’s edge.

The air was thick with something dangerous. Something inevitable.

She could step back. Laugh it off. Pretend like this wasn’t happening.

Or—

Jamie’s fingers traced down her jaw, his eyes locked on hers.

“Tell me I’m wrong Y/N and I'll be out that door, no more socks on the floor, no more coffee in the mornin',” he whispered.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Instead, she did the only thing she could—

She closed the gap and kissed him.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Safe Haven

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Insomniac!Reader (Prison Era)

Warnings: Mentions of insomnia, exhaustion, mild language, lots of fluff & comfort

Author’s Note: I absolutely love writing for my baby boy soft, protective Daryl, and I’ve missed my boy a lot so here we are, from your fellow insomniac💜

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

——

The nights before the prison had been hell.

You could still remember them in vivid, suffocating detail—the exhaustion, the aching pull of sleeplessness gnawing at your body, the way your mind refused to quiet no matter how tired you were.

Back at the camp near Atlanta, when the group was still smaller, you'd spent more nights awake than asleep. The ground had been too hard, the air too open, every shift of the wind sending your nerves into overdrive. Every snap of a twig, every rustling bush, every distant groan of the dead kept you on edge. Even when you did doze off, it was never real sleep—just restless minutes of slipping in and out, waking with a racing heart and the crushing weight of exhaustion pressing down on you.

The farm had been better—safer—but even then, the same cycle continued. You had tried everything: closing your eyes and counting, focusing on the sounds of nature, forcing yourself to stay still and breathe slow. But it never worked. No matter how exhausted you were, sleep never came easy. The others never knew just how bad it was. You’d learned how to hide it, how to function on empty, how to smile when your body ached from the inside out.

But then came the prison. And then came him.

Daryl had been there from the beginning, gruff and guarded, always lingering on the outskirts. At first, you weren’t sure where you stood with him, but over time, something shifted. It was in the way he started looking for you after runs, in the way he always made sure you had enough food, in the way he silently handed you his blanket on the colder nights without a word. He noticed things that others didn’t. And eventually, he noticed this, too.

The first time it happened—when you finally let yourself go to him after yet another sleepless night—you’d hesitated. You had stood outside your cell, heart pounding as you approached where he slept, feeling foolish for even considering it. Letting your feet guide you to Daryl’s perch, Daryl had made his bed up there instead of taking a cell like everyone else. He preferred open space, somewhere he could see everything, somewhere he didn’t feel caged in. When you whispered his name, he didn’t snap at you, didn’t question why you were there. He had only lifted the blanket and grunted, "C’mon, then."

And just like that, everything changed.

——

Tonight was no different.

You sat up in your cot, staring at the darkened ceiling of your cell, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. The prison was quiet—still. Somewhere in the distance, a walker groaned beyond the fences, but inside, everything was calm.

And yet, sleep wouldn’t come.

You exhaled softly, swinging your legs over the side of the cot and rubbing at your tired eyes. You didn’t even hesitate this time as you stood and made your way toward the perch. You knew where you needed to be.

Daryl’s mattress was up high, tucked into a corner of the metal platform where he could see the whole room below. He had a rifle leaned up nearby, always ready, always alert even in sleep. When you climbed up and reached his space, you hesitated for just a moment before whispering, “Daryl?”

A low grunt answered first, then a rustling of fabric as he shifted. His voice, rough with sleep, followed. “Again?”

"Yeah."

Even in the dim light, you could see the way he blinked at you, drowsy but not surprised. Without a word, he lifted the blanket, making space for you.

Relief flooded your chest as you crawled onto the mattress beside him, slipping beneath the blanket. The perch wasn’t the widest space, which meant you had no choice but to press up against him. Not that you minded.

Daryl let out a slow breath, his arm coming around your waist, securing you against him like it was second nature. The warmth of his body immediately sank into yours, chasing away the tension in your muscles.

"Y’know you ain’t gotta keep askin’," he muttered, voice thick with sleep. "Told ya before, just come to me."

"I don’t wanna wake you," you murmured against his collarbone, your forehead resting lightly against his chest.

Daryl let out a small, tired huff. "Rather you wake me up than sit in that damn cell all night sufferin’." His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against your back. "Ain’t right, you not sleepin’ like that."

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. No one had ever cared like this before—no one had ever noticed. You had spent so many years dealing with it on your own, convincing yourself it was just the way things were. But Daryl saw you. And somehow, somehow, being next to him made it better.

"I only ever sleep when I’m with you."

Daryl stilled at that, his grip unconsciously tightening around you. For a second, he didn’t say anything, like he was letting the words settle in his mind. Then—

A quiet hum. A slow exhale. Then, soft lips pressing against the top of your head in a fleeting but deliberate kiss.

"Ain’t gonna let you go without sleep, then. Y’need me, I’m here."

The words settled deep in your chest, warm and steady. The slow rise and fall of his breathing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I got you—it was all you needed.

And for the first time that night—like so many nights before—you finally closed your eyes, and let sleep take you.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[urbaebarnes]

be mine

summary: you were convinced life would never be the same again after losing Nat, but your life's never the same after Bucky either

post endgame bucky barnes x fem avenger reader

warnings: grief, curse words, reader uses she/her pronouns, no use of y/n

i know people like flowers and everybody was so kind about it i couldn't wait to start writing this! this was also meant to be much shorter but here we are i guess

word count: 3.9k words

Grief was a scary thing. No matter who you were, realising that somebody is gone from your life is difficult. But it seemed to be double the blow for you and Bucky.

Natasha had been your lifeline, your only family. You came here with her, and part of you felt as though you left here with her too. It was supposed to be easy to understand, but no matter how many times people explained it to you, it didn’t quite make sense how everybody else got their families back and you just didn’t.

You figured Bucky must feel similar, the two of you never really ventured outside your designated people. He had Steve, and you had Nat. Sure, everybody else was still close, but they would never be able to fill the void that was left by the redhead assassin. Who were you supposed to run to after a good date- or a bad one at that?

It was fine, you tried to convince yourself, as everybody else moved out the compound, as everybody else moved on, you were stuck here.

The only other person who’d remained was Bucky, although that seemed to be partly down to the fact the government still wasn’t exactly sure what they were supposed to be paying him. It was a room, a bed, a constantly stocked kitchen. It made sense to stay.

After Bruce officially moved out, you were convinced you didn’t see Bucky for two weeks. He was good at being sneaky, you only ever caught glimpses of him, or often a still steaming mug of tea on the countertop when you’d abandoned your attempt to sleep and decided you wanted a glass of water. If you appeared in a room, he was gone before you could even open the door, only leaving a trail of proof behind him.

One day, it seemed to change. The solitude was starting to mess with your head a little, not like you weren’t used to it, but normally there was something, anything. An off hand comment, a morning or goodnight, the more time you spent around the compound, it felt like you were chasing ghosts. But seemingly, Barnes had gotten sick of dropping whatever he was doing and escaping.

It was late at night, or early in the morning - there never really was a cut off for that time - but either way, you were losing a race to sleep, constantly slipping from your fingers before your eyes opened, more awake than the last time. You’d grown to feel guilty about kicking Bucky out of every space you found yourself in, but you didn’t have it in yourself to sit in this room any longer, tracing every bump and scratch on the ceiling.

This time, however, it was different. As you pushed open the door, wiping your eyes as they adjusted to the dark and wandered down the corridor, you could hear scuffling from somewhere down the hallway, and by the time you got to the kitchen, Bucky was still there.

As you pushed the door open wider, Bucky seemed to notice you, freezing like a criminal caught in an act. His stance was almost laughable, leaning slightly forward, a pink mug in his metal hand. His hair was scooped into a small bun at the back of his head, and the light blue vest top seemed to match his wide eyes.

You gave him a faint smile, still feeling sluggish despite your lack of sleep. Bucky’s mouth opened and closed once, eyes shutting for a moment before opening on a loud exhale of breath, straightening his posture. 

His shoulders seemed to hunch, looking between the mug, a newspaper on the small circular table, open a few pages in. “I can go-”

You tried to ignore the ache in your chest that the first words he’d said to you was him offering to leave. “Bucky.” You cut him off, voice sharp but with no malice behind it, “It’s okay, I’m just getting a hot chocolate. Don’t leave because of me.” 

Your head tilted as he seemed to look shocked at your words, bun bouncing as he shook his head at you. “I don’t want to bother you.” He kept the mug clutched close to his chest, other hand reaching for the newspaper.

“You’re not bothering me, I won’t even talk, sit down and read your newspaper in peace.” You walked around to the hot chocolate machine, watching him out of the corner of your eye as he hesitantly sat back down, gazing over his shoulder at you until he caught your eye, quickly turning around.

You smiled softly to yourself, stirring around the drink with the teaspoon, keeping your eyes trained on the brown liquid. Part of you feared to look back up, scared to make him uncomfortable. Really, his presence was comforting, even if the only sound in the room was you stirring the drink and the rustling of paper as he flicked through the pages in his newspaper.

When you did turn around, he was squinting at the text on the page, pulling a face at whatever he was reading before moving along. You took a seat on the barstools, blowing on it as you pulled out your phone, scrolling through some news stories, a few unanswered emails from Sam. The warm taste of the hot chocolate slipping down your throat was almost as comforting as Bucky’s hums at the newspaper every now and again.

You sat like that in silence for god knows how long, even with the brightness turned down on your phone, the white light still illuminated your face as you ventured through your photos app, venturing years and years back. One picture in particular caught your eye, you and Nat just before you had to leave for Wakanda. She was pulling a stupid face at the camera, so normal and usual. You feared you’d never feel that carefree again.

At first, you figured you were imagining the feeling of eyes staring into the side of your head, but as you placed your phone down and picked up your cup, you glanced over to Bucky. His face flushed a little as he coughed, looking at the floor before looking back at you, lips slightly parted.

“You good?” You questioned, switching off your phone as you took a sip.

He nodded slowly, swallowing thickly before frowning, “Did you have another nightmare?” His voice was quiet- it was quiet earlier, but this was the most hesitant you’d ever seen Bucky Barnes. Your eyes must’ve shown your shock, how did he know about your nightmares anyway? He quickly licked his lips, sitting forward, “I’m not trying to be weird, it’s just I can hear you after you wake up sometimes… with the whole super-hearing-thing.”

You smiled slightly, shaking your head at his immediate nervousness, “No, didn’t get the chance tonight. Just couldn’t sleep is all. You?”

“Nightmare.” His eyes flicked from your face to around the room, biting the inside of his cheek.

You instantly regretted your question, seeing as he seemingly built walls around himself. “You wanna talk about it?” You already knew the answer, even before he shook his head, eyes refinding your face. 

You gazed down into the now empty cup, feeling more relaxed than you had in a while. “I’m gonna try and get some sleep.” You stand up, placing it down next to the sink. Your legs moved before you could fully register that you were walking all the way around the counters to walk past Bucky. It was the longer way, the much longer way, but you couldn’t help but slow down next to him, noticing the bags under his eyes. “You should too.” You whispered, placing a hesitant hand on his shoulder for a moment before quickly retracting it.

His face froze as your thumb laid over his collarbone, but just as quick as the warmth of your hand appeared, it left as you walked out the room, the door closing softly behind you as he stared at the door.

Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

[⭐]

After that night, it was as if you couldn’t stop seeing Bucky everywhere you went. The times where he’d once ran out of rooms to avoid an encounter seemed long gone by now.

It started with him making you a coffee in the morning, even if he wasn’t around. Then came the books that he’d leave alongside them, sometimes he wrote in the very margins, little things that made you laugh, or notes in the very first page giving you a brief description. You made a point of reading them when he was there, you noticed that he liked to watch you read them. Then, every night, before bed, you’d sit together in the kitchen.

“Do you ever look at something and just think of her?” He asked you one night. His eyes looked heavy, his back hunched as though he was carrying the weight of the world. “Natasha?”

You looked over sadly at him, his eyes trained on the Iron Man mug in his hands. “Everyday.” You whispered with a bittersweet smile. “I go to show her things sometimes, things she would’ve found funny and then it hits me.”

“I do that with Steve.” His voice was barely audible despite the fact there was nobody else here. They found themselves whispering lite that often, as though everybody else was asleep and they didn’t want to wake them up. There was never anybody there. “I guess now I show you the things I’d show him.”

You hummed at that, shoulder brushing with his. 

Eventually, your lives became so intertwined that it seemed like you were shadows of one another. It wasn’t always intentional, but you’d both just show up at the gym at the same time, or go on a walk at the same time. It made sense, as you’d grown closer, that your everyday activities just fit together.

The first time after getting closer to Bucky that Natasha’s death really hit was when you realised how handsome he actually was. Sure, he’d always been an attractive man, but something about how peaceful he looked on a night, watching you so intently as you tilted your head at his snarky comment written in his loopy handwriting. 

You looked up at him, knowing he was already watching, and found his smile so intoxicating you forgot all about the little note for just a second, too busy being far too infatuated with his grin. In that moment, you wanted nothing more than to run to Natasha, curl up with your head in her lap as you rambled about how his upturned lips made your heart feel as though it was preparing to make its grand escape out of your chest.

But you couldn’t, so you feigned a smile that you hoped he didn’t notice was fake and made some excuse to use the bathroom in an attempt to avoid the swirl of emotions. By the time the words had left your mouth, you’d already shut the door, taking deep breaths as you splashed your face with water, “Fuck, come on. Pull yourself together.” You murmured, drying your face on the navy towel.

When you exited, you peeked your head out first, hoping your heart would grow used to the sight of him if you watched him a little longer, even though all that did was accentuate the dull ache left by the thought of Nat. Though you quickly came to the conclusion that time couldn’t make this go away.

A few weeks after that, Bucky slept in your room for the first time.

You were a light sleeper and though you’d woken up to Bucky moving around after a nightmare many times, this was different. He’s told you recently in the kitchen one night over a cup of steaming lemon and ginger tea about how bad his nightmares could get. He explained most of them were memories, but the really bad ones, the ones where he couldn’t differentiate the real from the fake, had subsided a little after Wakanda. He’d also said he screamed sometimes.

If this was what he meant, then it was much worse than how he’d described them.

It felt as though somebody had fished around your body and found your heart strings, then tugging sharply. He sounded scared, and in pain, and it took everything in you not to run to his bedside, so instead you sat there, attempting to quiet your own breaths in hope of hearing him moving in the now silence.

You couldn’t tell how long it had been, time seemed to blur as you stared at where you figured the door would be, everything hazy in the dark, but however long it had been, the relief you felt when you heard the three sharp knocks couldn’t be matched.

Springing out of bed, your toes curled at the feeling of the cold wooden floor before feeling your way along the wall, switching on the wall lamp, flooding the room with light on your way to the door. As your hand grazed the doorknob, he knocked again, this time quicker, more desperate.

You pulled at the door quickly, letting the light grace his face like the sun on a soldier back from war. “Bucky?” You whispered softly, seeing his distraught face, his eyes raking over your body, head jerking in small movements as you stood there.

“You’re…” He trailed off, placing his flesh hand over your heart. “You’re okay.” His eyes closed, nodding to himself as his head dropped. You wrapped your own hand over his, stroking your thumb over the back of his hand.

“I’m okay, you’re okay.” Your voice was gentle as you watched his chest begin to stop moving so violently, letting his shoulders relax, or drop, it didn’t look overly relaxing or comfortable.

He mumbled something, opening his eyes slowly before pulling away his hand, even though he pinned your thumb in between his pointer and middle finger. “I’m sorry, it was just… I had to make sure…”

You walked backwards, pushing the door open with your back, letting your arm stretch out, “Come on.” You whispered, pulling your arm slightly as he still clutched your thumb. Bucky’s mouth opened, standing dumbstruck for a moment before he nodded, walking closer, letting the door shut softly behind him. 

Even as you bent down beside your bed, he never let go of your thumb, and you never tried to pull it away. “What are you doing?” He questioned, voice still shaky but a hint of something else rearing its head, trying desperately to escape his tone.

Smiling, you tugged out a mattress, standing up and letting the arm that was stretched rest for a moment, he tilted his head curiously at it, “You want a blanket?”

Bucky was too stunned to speak, looking between you and your overly kind gesture, “I can’t, you shouldn’t have to-”

“When are you gonna start believing that I’m doing this because I want to, Bucky?” You questioned faintly, wrapping the rest of your fingers around his. “Lay down, please?”

Your eyes seemed to win him over, begging a pleading with him to just let you take care of him. That night was the best sleep he’d had in a while.

The only problem was that after that, he couldn’t do anything without you anymore, he couldn’t fall asleep in his own room, he couldn’t concentrate if you weren’t around. If he thought he was dependent before, this was another level- not that you seemed to mind. He’d just gravitated to that mattress in your room, the next night, he knocked again and you’d left it where it was, almost as though it was waiting for him.

From there, your relationship flourished, even if neither of you ever referred to it as a relationship, or anything really. You were just you and Bucky, there didn't have to be anything else. Despite what Clint suggested when he came to visit, or the raised eyebrows you’d received from Sam.

Sam had committed a full day of trying to get a picture of Bucky looking at you. He seemed to figure it would ignite something in you two, but it proved a harder task than originally thought out. After a full day of hiding his face with his hand whenever Sam would pull out his camera - partly to hide his pink cheeks from you - and pulling a stupid face at the camera, he’d managed to snap one.

You were both in the kitchen, Bucky sat across from you on the barstools as you yapped away, half expecting them both to zone out, but Bucky didn’t. The only time he’d zoned out when words were coming out of your pretty mouth was when you were standing a little too close for his own self control.

In the picture, he was leant forward, resting his tilted head on his wrist, nails grazing his lips as he stared up at you. The very corner of his lip could just be made out, the flash of pink pointing upwards as you didn’t notice him at all, looking down at the pan in your hand, mouth slightly apart. 

When Sam showed it to you, he swore he could trace the hearts in Bucky’s eyes, but you quickly dismissed the idea, shaking your head as he saved it to his favourites folder and murmuring something about how this would be shown at your wedding.

Sure, Bucky was everything, he was your everything, but you weren't about to ruin all of this just because you got selfish.

Sam, being the little shit he was, then tried to show Bucky, but he was even quicker to shove the phone away, insisting he delete it asap, despite the smirk on his face. 

The first time you were away on a mission felt like hell for Bucky. Whilst you could put on a brave face and spend three days in Germany, fighting alongside someone from S.W.O.R.D, his life was a mess without you.

It frightened him how much he seemed to depend on being able to see you while you were sleeping, or the fact that he couldn’t make anything but toast and pasta. Bucky wasn’t fully sure how he’d survived without you before. He’d already lost so many people and he didn’t think he could survive if you disappeared from his life too. You weren’t allowed a phone on the mission, so he couldn’t contact you, his only comfort was the small picture of you he kept in his wallet. 

It was stupid, but you were one of the few photos on his phone, and your face just looked too damn perfect not to fit in the small space. This way, every time he had to leave the house or got to the shops or be separated for the smallest amount of time, you were right there with him. It also helped him remember to bring his wallet- he couldn’t leave you in between the sofa cushions after all.

He’s been alerted of your arrival back an hour before your jet got back, and it seemed like the longest hour he’d ever known. Bucky sat on the bench, he stood up and paced in a circle, he leant against the wall, he sat on the ground, all within the space of ten minutes. But his dirty trousers were worth it as he spotted your face, a cut down your left cheek and a mark on your jaw.

But you were fine, and Bucky couldn’t care less about the agents who stopped and stared as he stepped forward and engulfed you in a hug. Your eyebrows raised in surprise as you froze before wrapping your arms back around him. The two of you were close, but this… this was different.

“I missed you, doll.” He murmured, squeezing you tightly as you hummed.

“Me too, Buck. Me too.” As you pulled apart, his hands cupped your face, careful to avoid the cut. His brows knitted together as he observed your face, eyes flickering around every part of you, only stopping as you let your hands rest on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?” He didn’t reply, just staring into your eyes, transfixed as people moved around you.

You took his head and led him inside to the compound, into the kitchen. Bucky could feel everything he’d ever felt rise to the very surface as you pushed his shoulders down so he’d sit in a chair as you set off, busying yourself around the kitchen as you tidied away his attempts at cooking something edible.

“I love you.”

The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he even had the chance to think or do anything to stop himself. It was stupid, so very very stupid, but you made Bucky a stupid man. He hadn’t even told you he liked you, he felt like he’d skipped through steps that were fairly detrimental to any stage of a relationship, and god he really wanted a relationship. He wanted to call you his and wrap his arms around your body from behind, pepper kisses on your neck-

Bucky was quickly pulled out of his fantasies by you, you could pull him out of anything with one glance, even your presence alone could calm down the waves of self hatred that reared their pathetic heads every now and again. But there you were, a pan in one hand, stopped mid stride as you stared at home with parted lips.

This had to be a bad thing, he thought, you looked like a deer caught in headlights and that didn’t often end well.

He was too busy wrapped up in his whirlwind of feelings to even notice your upturned lips, or the way you neared him, saying his name so softly. He didn’t register anything until your hands found his cheeks, he looked up at you, eyes wide with confusion as he took in your smiling figure. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think an-” His voice was a whisper, scared of losing you through his pure stupidity.

But all those thoughts were put to rest the moment your lips graced his, just a peck, a gentle brush of affection, but the moment he registered just what was happening, he wrapped his arms around your centre, pulling you in between his legs as you stood back up from bending down to his height. You let yourself be pulled in, his head resting against your body as he grinned to himself like a love drunk fool.

He stood up soon after, hands never moving from your back as he kept you flush against him, biting his lip as he looked at you as though you were the only thing in the world - maybe you were. “I had a plan in my head of how this was going to happen.” His words were strained, but the small chuckle that escaped his throat was enough to reassure any doubts in your mind. “But screw it, screw it all, just be mine, please be mine.”

His forehead rested against yours as he closed his eyes. The universe owed him this, it owed him his happy ending, and you yours.

After everything you’d lost in the past year, Bucky had made you smile, he’d made you laugh, he’d made you happy- something you weren’t even sure was possible after you snapped back, after you’d been told of what happened to Nat. But he helped. He didn’t try to fix everything, he didn’t try and bring a magic hammer and smash the broken parts of you back together, you grew together, you helped each other. You understand each other because even on your worst days, he was with you, and he would help, and love, and care.

“I’m yours.”

[odyswap]

Log #5 "You owe me, Penelope of Ithaca."

So, the biggest person next on the chopping block was a tough one, but I decided to spill a big one.

The antagonistic, prideful God of the Sea, Poseidon HAD to be switched with someone of equal grandure. But who...

When Polyphemos’s club came down, there was no trick, no clever deception. Penelope saw it coming, but there was no time to move. The force of it crushed her against the ground, and for a moment, there was nothing. No sound, no breath—just a ringing silence as the world faded to black.

Dolius was the first to reach her. He dropped to his knees, hands gripping her limp form, searching for anything—any sign that she was still there. The men behind him stood frozen, waiting for a command that wouldn’t come.

Because their captain wasn’t breathing.

Some of them thought about running. Some of them thought about fighting. But Dolius did neither. He hoisted Penelope onto his back and stood his ground. If she was gone, then she was gone—but he wouldn’t let her body be taken like this.

And then, the singing started. They would protect their captain's body and their lives for her sake at the very least.

But somewhere else, Penelope was still fighting. She wasn’t in her body anymore, wasn’t in that bloodstained cave. She was somewhere darker, colder. She knew where she was—Hades (For those who don't know, The Underworld was commonly referred to as Hades, while its king was also Hades). And she knew what that meant.

But she wasn’t ready to stay. So she called out, not to Hades, because he would not be one to help her here, but to another god entirely. Ares. He had chosen her, hadn’t he? Had dragged her into this path, had watched her cut down foe after foe in his name. If he had truly wanted her to be his champion, then he wouldn’t let her die like this.

At first, there was no answer. Then, a begrudging sigh.

He told her that he couldn't save her at this point, that it would break the cycle of life and death and that Hades has had people like Asclepieion, son of Apollo and ressurector of the dead, killed over acts like this. Penelope pleaded for her life, knowing that in this moment, if she died, she would never see her husband again, never see her child, grown up.

She would die as a warrior, not as a mother, and in realizing this, she couldn't have it happen.

She promised Ares that she'll deal with the consequences herself, and that all she can ask of him, is to keep her alive once.

On the battlefield, her breath hitched. Her body convulsed. And when she opened her eyes, the song of her men still echoed in the air. Dolius barely had time to react before he felt a shadow looming over them. Polyphemos had reared back again, ready to finish the job.

There was no time, so he threw her.

With every last bit of strength he had, he hurled Penelope forward, sending her crashing into the dirt as the Cyclops’s club came down on him instead.

When the dust settled, Dolius was gone. And Penelope was alive.

But not everyone was happy about that.

Because death wasn’t something you could cheat without consequence. And in the Underworld, Hades had noticed what had been taken from him.

Penelope had stolen her soul back from where it rightfully belonged.

And now, she owed him.

[thatgurl3things]

MAID~~~~

One piece characters reaction to their girlfriend wearing a sexy maid outfit.

Warnings: slight suggestive nothing too crazy tho.

Characters: Zoro, law, kidd, ace, and Marco.

Zoro would initially be taken aback, his usual stoic demeanor faltering for a moment as he processes the sight before him. He’d try to play it cool, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall, but the slight blush creeping up his cheeks would betray him. “What’s with the outfit?” he’d grumble, trying to sound indifferent. However, his eyes would be glued to you, and he’d find it hard to concentrate on anything else. As the day goes on, he’d become more flustered, especially if you playfully tease him by bending over to pick something up. Eventually, he’d pull you aside, his voice low and serious, “You’re making it hard to focus… Let’s find somewhere private.”

Law would be intrigued and slightly amused by the sight of you in a maid outfit. He’d raise an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans against a wall, arms crossed. “You know, that’s quite the outfit you’ve got there,” he’d say, his tone teasing. He’d enjoy watching you move around, a playful glint in his eyes. If you decided to tease him by pretending to serve him, he’d chuckle softly, but his heart would race. Eventually, he’d pull you closer, whispering in your ear, “You’re going to have to make it up to me for distracting me like this.” His hands would find their way to your waist, pulling you into him, and you’d know exactly what he meant.

Kidd would be unabashedly vocal about his appreciation for your maid outfit. “Damn, you look good!” he’d exclaim, a wide grin spreading across his face. He’d likely make a few bold comments, teasing you about how you should wear it more often. Kidd would be playful, perhaps challenging you to a little game of chase around the ship. As you run away, he’d enjoy the thrill of the hunt, his laughter echoing as he pursues you. When he finally catches you, he’d pull you close, his eyes darkening with desire. “You think you can get away that easily?” he’d growl, before kissing you fiercely, his hands roaming over your body.

Ace would be utterly captivated by you m in a maid outfit. He’d have that signature grin on his face, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wow, you’re really trying to kill me, huh?” he’d joke, though he’s clearly flustered. He’d love to see you playfully serve him, but he’d also be the type to pull you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you. “You know, I could get used to this,” he’d say, his voice low and teasing. If you decided to play coy and tease him, he’d chase after you, laughter bubbling up as he tries to catch you. Once he does, he’d pull you into a passionate kiss, his hands exploring as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear.

Marco would be both surprised and delighted to see you in a maid outfit. He’d chuckle softly, a warm smile spreading across his face. “You look adorable,” he’d say, his tone affectionate. He’d enjoy the sight of you flitting around, but he’d also be a little protective, making sure no one else gets too close. If you decided to tease him, he’d play along, pretending to be oblivious while secretly enjoying the view. When you finally catch his attention, he’d pull you into a gentle embrace, his voice soft. “You know, you’re making it really hard to concentrate on work,” he’d murmur before leaning in for a sweet kiss, his hands tenderly caressing your back.

————————————————————————

Thanks for reading! I’m going to make a part two with; shanks, mihawk, Aokiji, sabo, lucci. Let me know who else I should add!!!

[breakyourrxles]

❥between two breaths (m) | 𝟙𝟜

𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡

↳ Revenge tastes so sweet.

kim sunwoo x fem!reader (side lee juyeon x reader) — idol!sunwoo, fan/trainee!reader. forced proximity, forbidden love, friends to lovers, angst, slow burn, idolverse-typical themes regarding; dating, image, public perception, etc. happy ending, plot-heavy!! reader thinks she's nonchalant about it but she rly isn't. smut. [4,8k wc ongoing] cws: heavy themes of wanting-but-can't-having, mild jealousy, explicit sexual content, a little alcohol consumption, dancing on the edge of career suicide, poor decision making because of The Wanting.

❥ masterlist | ao3

"So, that's what this is," he says, "Payback."

Whatever this is, you're not dressed for it. Maybe you have preconceived notions of what a scenario such as this one might entail, maybe your idea of what a situation such as this one might actually look like in reality is entirely off base; or maybe it's the nagging feeling inside of your stomach that really, you shouldn't be here, at all.

Little effort had been made upon your exit from the dorm. You did not hide the fact that you were leaving, neither did you care for the fact that Miyoung and Kaia would know. It's a dangerous game to throw all caution to the wind; to disappear into the night, crawl into the back of an unmarked vehicle sent by someone else and drive off to a place that you don't even particularly know. The building you're inside now is a large one that offers numerous different places for passersby to enjoy, and at the very least, you figure that this particular spot is the one least traveled by people looking for a good time.

The van had pulled inside of the building—private parking. Private entry for people who cannot take a risk of being spotted. The chain of events leading up to the affair make one thing you had always known all the more clear: Juyeon is no novice in matters such as this one.

MVNE's popularity is a sort of intangible thing to you, something that you don't quite understand the weight of, and so you wonder how far out you are from the ability to engage in escapades such as these. Have you already passed that point? Are you already too recognizable to be taking risks such as these? You don't know the answer to those questions, but more than anything else right now; you don't care.

You owe the girls and the guys on the other side of this at least the minimum amount of effort and respect to remain lowkey in your treacherous endeavors, but beyond that? You wouldn't mind if this whole thing burned to the ground right before your eyes.

Confirmation from the company be damned, Sunwoo has not messaged you since the story broke. As far as you're concerned, that's all the confirmation you need.

The hotel room isn't fancy but it's above standard quality. It doesn't need to be, all things considered, because you probably won't be here long. It's clean and unscented—unnervingly so—making you feel as though you are trapped in the liminal space between somewhere previously untraveled and nowhere, at all.

You finish your drink and wince as you swallow it down. Looking at the bed from the table where you are sitting, it seems so inviting. Perhaps it would be nice to spend the evening here and then shuffle off to where you are supposed to be early in the morning. Enough people know that you are not where you are meant to be right now, what difference would it make returning later in the evening?

The inevitable knock on the room door comes, you can hear the keycard being pressed into the slot and the loud click that follows as the lock unclasps. Everything feels as though it is in slow motion when the door cracks open and your companion for the evening slides inside.

With chilled air outside, Juyeon's long, black coat is apt. He wears a mask covering half of his face and a hat atop his head though you cannot fathom that stares do not accompany him regardless of these things.

Though the door has long since shut behind him, Juyeon lingers in the entryway as if a barrier stands between himself and this place. You watch him tug the mask away and pull the hat off, his hair a mess of black strands with styling products still clinging to them. His coat remains on though, and rather than motioning to begin its removal, he stands in place and leans his shoulder against the wall with arms crossed over his chest.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.

The question is remarkably strange to you, and with that fact evident on your face you reply, "What do you mean?"

"We both know exactly why I'm here."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

Juyeon hums as he mulls over the question for a moment, but before he has a chance to respond you double down and continue the thought. "Are you worried about how it might look if it were to get out?"

"Public perception is not a concern, because this is solely between you and I," Juyeon reasons. "My being here at all is skirting the line of 'morally reprehensible' a little too closely for my liking." He pauses for a moment to think, but then goes on to say, "But I think you're a smart woman with a good head on your shoulders, and I also think your feelings are hurt and you're lashing out because of it. Suppose I'm here in an effort to make sense of that."

"What's there to make sense of?" Your eyes pull away from him, staring down at the empty glass still clasped in your hand. "You've seen it. Everyone has seen it. If there's anything that doesn't make sense it's…" You stop, shake your head and change the trajectory of the topic slightly. Looking at Juyeon again, you ask, "Did you know? Did anyone else know?"

"No, none of us knew."

"Then I guess I can at least take solace in the fact that we all found out the same way."

"So, that's what this is," he says, "Payback."

"And what if it is? You didn't have to come, you seem to have known precisely what I intended for our meeting when I called you, but you're apprehensive now that you've arrived."

Juyeon huffs out a laugh from under his breath. "Anyone not apprehensive in this situation is no one you should be here with, I can tell you that much. They certainly wouldn't be someone with your best interest in mind. Look…" 

You watch as he begins to slowly shrug off his coat, broad shoulders beneath a smooth, immaculately fitted black button down shirt. He has just come from a photoshoot and the aftermath of it still clings to him in minute, easily overlooked ways. Dark shadows that elongate his sharp eyes, and a barely remaining tint to his lips that might suggest them having been freshly bitten by another.

"I'm fine with being your revenge-fuck, but you need to be sure about it. Because you're the one that's going to have to deliver the news to him, and that day will come."

Those words send a chill across your skin. "And why would I need to tell him anything about it?"

He takes a few steps forward to cross the room and makes his way towards you. Upon his arrival, Juyeon does not extend a hand to touch you, does not move to urge this event along. Instead, he stands ahead of you and looks down as if affording you the time to recognize that all of this is very real, and should you decide to go forward with it, impossible to ever undo.

There is gravity in all of this, and Juyeon is sure to make you aware of that fact.

"This could all be temporary," he says, "But this? Right here, right now? This is very much permanent."

The weight of that sinks your heart inside of your chest. You swallow hard, shrug slightly and then say, "There's pictures. The company didn't even deny it. So, why shouldn't we?"

"He's going to find out about it. He's going to know. I just need you to make peace with that and not make a decision based on what you think you can get away with. You can't play both sides. This isn't a situation where we're dealing with the public." Juyeon's eyes are intense as he stares down at you, a look that makes you nearly tremble in your seat. "Sunwoo is my bandmate, he's my friend. He's also crazy about you, and I can't make sense of the way all of this fits together either, but those are things I do know for a fact."

With your eyes locked onto Juyeon's, you inhale slowly and deeply and then say: "I know them, too."

Leaning down, Juyeon's hands each find an arm of the chair you are seated in, effectively boxing you inside of it. His face inches closer to yours—something you have experienced once before—only this time, you are fully willing to let the cards fall where they may once his lips finally find yours.

The scent emanating off of him is light, yet intoxicating. Juyeon kisses you gently, tentatively; not at all like his appearance on stage might suggest him to be. There is still apprehension lingering in his motions, awaiting the moment where you might eventually come to your senses and decide not to go through with this. However, the more of him you taste, the further from your mind the possibility of this falls.

You reach up, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him further down against your mouth. 

Finally, you begin to feel some of the tension in his form melt away.

Once chaste kisses quickly transform into needing, wanting open mouth desire to taste and consume. You pull him towards you even more despite the way his body is bowed and his inability to be felt against you as a result of that, and having grown tired of this, Juyeon's frustration seems to hit a breaking point as he shifts away, brings you up to stand and swiftly works to rid your body of the sweatshirt hanging against it.

With your head spinning, you want nothing more to taste more of him, feel more of him beneath your fingertips; but before you have a chance to make a move to do so, Juyeon is pressing your back into the mattress and slipping himself between your thighs.

Your mouths connect again and this time, the urgency is white hot atop his tongue.

A soft hand smooths over the flesh of your side, though he does not immediately search for the front of your chest. Juyeon's evident desire for you is dizzying; gasping for air between unrelenting kisses and the firm press of his hips at the aching point between your legs. His lips eventually leave your own, smoothing down your jaw and making their slow journey with teeth accompanying to the sensitive skin of your neck. No other thoughts exist in your mind now beyond the hedonistic desire of where this all may lead; your flesh hot and damp with a light sheen of sweat, heart racing, and the aching throb of need pooling at your core.

Where his mouth meets your neck, hot breath wafts over it soon after. You could stay like this—do nothing more than this—all night and be perfectly content. 

But you do want more.

Juyeon pulls off of you and kneels between your legs to begin pulling the buttons of his shirt apart. You watch as he does; each one falling away and more skin becoming no longer hidden underneath. He shrugs the fabric away from his shoulders, easily pulls his lithe but toned arms from the sleeves and discards it somewhere on the floor beside the bed as if it is representative of something else, entirely. This thought comes to mind but you discard it just as swiftly in favor of the fact that his hands have now begun to find their work at his belt.

With the leather binding stripped just as quickly, he leans down towards you again and slips his hands behind your back. You aid in his endeavor, leaning up and once again finding his lips with your own.

Now that you can feel him, you waste no time in doing so. Juyeon rids your torso of the only remaining garment keeping the flesh of your bodies apart and the two of you fall against the bed all over again with hands desperately feeling for every dip of muscle and supple, plush offering that they can find. One hand slips down between the two of your bodies, Juyeon's last ditch effort at unfastening the button to his slacks before they are to be removed entirely in the future, and though you anticipate the warmth of his touch after the fact to once again find its way to your chest, rather than doing so, you feel his fingertips breech the top of your leggings; sliding down slowly past the elastic band and curving down to dip where you most need them.

His touch coaxes out a gasp from you, which he easily tastes off of your tongue.

Back arching and chest pressed against his, you melt into the feeling of thick, long fingers dragging slow, firm circles against you. 

"Good?"Juyeon asks, whispering the question against your nipped lips.

But the answer of yes is barely comprehensible, and most of it dies in your throat.

"Good," he says again. Shifting himself from between your legs ever so slightly, his face drops from yours and instead he begins to kiss down the front of your chest to make for different use of his sinister tongue. Juyeon looks up at you as his lips clasp around the waiting bug, tongue swirling over it in ways that make your toes curl only to then break away and say, "You're so wet. I want to fuck you, but I need to taste you."

Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you all but melt into the mattress beneath you as he goes back to working you from top to bottom.

Slipping down further against you, Juyeon slips his hand out from your pants and makes easy work of pulling the displeasing fabric from your legs. His eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you, regaining his position between your thighs but much further down than before. A single finger slips up the seam of your folds, you sigh into the teasing feeling of it, and then Juyeon wastes no more time; hot, wet tongue following the very same path his finger only just did.

The once free hand finds work in different ways, a finger slipping inside and gently prying you open for him. For the first time and unexpected even to you, a moan escapes from your lips; unable to be fought away any longer.

And Juyeon knows what he's doing—has certainly done this many times before. Every movement he makes into or against you is expertly crafted and delivered with intent to unravel you before him. Your back arches, body writhing beneath him as he undoes you thread by thread. Sliding a hand down, your fingers tangle into the hair that sits atop his head as if waiting to be touched, and worst of all, Juyeon groans into the feeling of your nails gently digging into his scalp.

His fingers sink deeper inside of you, his tongue firmer at the place that has you whining and gasping for more. Your muscles tighten in your thighs and abdomen, warm with the feeling of a mounting release.

You gasp out, desperate to speak but the words get lost in the dryness of your throat. The grip in his hair tightens, inadvertently so. You don't intend to cause discomfort, but when Juyeon groans even louder as you do, the realization of the fact is far too much for your weary body to overcome. Your hips grind against his mouth as your body is wracked by release; jaw clenched tight and head pressed back into the pillow below. 

By the time your awareness finds you once more, Juyeon is already making his way back up the length of your body and lining the path with light presses of his lips along the way. He does not immediately go to kiss you—as if unsure of your willingness to do so—and thus you take it upon yourself to arch up and find his mouth once more.

"Need a minute?" he asks in a broken whisper, but you shake your head and make it clear that you intend to do no such thing.

Juyeon smiles devilishly against you, and after stealing another kiss, he pulls himself away from you and begins the final removal of the last remaining pieces of clothing that still cling to him.

Once removed, he digs into one of the pockets… and then this all becomes so very real.

You think about his words from earlier all over again: 'This is very much permanent.'

And incredibly attuned as he is, Juyeon's gentle hand finds the inside of your thigh. It is not a touch meant to entice, but rather, to soothe.

"We don't have to do this," he says. "This is something, but it's not everything. We both know that, it doesn't have to go further."

"I know, but I want it to."

Without pressing the issue further, Juyeon busies himself with readying for this. You are thankful for his emotional aptitude and his willingness to trust you and believe that the words you say to him really and truly mean what you're feeling. He does not push, he does not pry; he asks you the question and then takes your answer for precisely what it is.

Craning over you again, Juyeon kisses you and then whispers against your lips, "Tell me what you need from me, I want to feel you come around me."

His hand slips between your bodies, reaching down and carefully pressing himself inside. Once the initial push is made, the very same hand reaches up to cradle your head and the other grips your thigh to hold you open for taking him.

With a sly smirk pulling at his lips, Juyeon appears perfectly happy to drink down the gasp that escapes you as he inches deep inside.

Giving you time to settle into the feeling, he remains still inside of you for a few moments, instead focusing on tasting the way your wetness still lingers on your lips.

You're drunk on wanting him, hips subtly grinding against where you meet in an effort to find the friction you so desperately seek. Juyeon is happy to accommodate the desire, and takes it as his opportunity to slowly, shallowly make his drives.

Hands smoothing down his chest, you revel in the dips and curves of the muscle there. Once he finds rhythm in his motions, your hands wrap around to his back and shoulders; fingernails digging deeper and harder as each stroke becomes faster, harder and more intentional against you.

When it all culminates just right, you clutch his flesh and laboriously moan his name.

Juyeon's eyes find yours, glazed over with lust; makeup that has begun to warp and smudge still clinging to his eyelids and lips that are far redder than his first meeting you here. Captivating and beautiful. His mouth sits slightly parted as he focuses on the task at hand, and more than anything else you know that the task is you.

The excitement of a first time paired with the devilish inclinations that neither of you should be here—a surefire way to have this all quickly coming to an end.

You moan. "Harder," you plead, though it's quiet and bitten back. Juyeon takes the direction well, gives you exactly what you've asked for, and just as quickly the tact you've once had melts away in favor of desperation and unrelenting requests for more.

Then, Juyeon's face presses down and with his lips against your ear he says, "I want to have you on your knees."

Arousal immediately washes through you and pools in your gut. The shift is fast—your head spins as you're easily flipped onto your stomach and large, strong hands grip your hips and yank them upwards. Once in position, his palm smooths down the center of your back as he carefully fits himself back inside; bigger, thicker, harder than before. Juyeon is gentle and mindful with the repositioning, but it is merely seconds before you're pushing back against him and so, he happily takes the hint with longer, fuller drives once again.

However, now your hopeful composure is nothing in comparison to the way he feels inside of you. You whimper and moan unabashedly with every purposeful drive, hands clutching the bed sheets beneath your body. It's overpowering; his hands gripped tightly at your waist, your hips, sometimes leaning forward to grip at your shoulder for even more leverage than before. Juyeon pants lightly as he fucks you, the occasional hint of a groan rippling in his chest as he sinks inside. You twist to change the position of your face as it remains pressed against the pillow, but what finds you upon doing so comes to be your ultimate undoing.

Staring back at you is yourself, the reflection of a mirror you'd not noticed before standing tall on the wall and perfectly offering vision of every movement that either of you make. You're able to see the veins in Juyeon's arms shift beneath his slightly tanned flesh and protruding on account of the strenuous physical work. His eyes remain fixed on the place where he stretches you open to accommodate his size, now easily taking all that he has to offer. Black hair sits wet and pressed against his forehead, his fingers carve indents into your flesh as he holds you in place; Juyeon is kind, but there is nothing gentle about the way that he takes you now. His drives against you are hard and fast, chasing release for the both of you, the sound of his hips finding your skin reverberating throughout the otherwise empty hotel room.

You feel yourself tightening around him, and a groan from him follows as a result. You can't stop watching, you're drunk with the sight, sound and feeling of him. You're so close, nearly painfully so. Desperately begging for something that you know is soon to come.

"Good?" he asks again, voice broken off and barely audible. The growl residing within the tone travels down your spine and settles right between your legs.

"I'm gonna come," you say. And you sound utterly pathetic as you do so.

"Take that as a yes then."

The following drives are even more purposeful than before, seconds that feel like a lifetime of steady strokes inside of you until you are whimpering and writhing beneath him with no actual words to offer as a response. In mere moments you're coming undone around him just as he had hoped for, incomprehensible nonsense falling from your parted lips as he shows no signs of slowing in chase of his own release.

Juyeon's hands grip around your waist, repeatedly pulling you along himself until his jaw tightens, a visceral, animalistic groan gritted out between firmly clenched teeth until finally his mouth falls slightly slack, he offers one, final hard press of himself as deeply inside of you as he can manage and he spills into the unfortunate barrier that must exist between the two of you.

As the moments following begin to settle and your heart begins to find a more normal pace, you hear Juyeon huff out a heavy sigh from behind you, slowly pry the try of you apart, and then unceremoniously lobs himself to lie on the bed beside you. His eyes are closed, chest heaving in the aftermath of his rather impressive work, and surprising even to you; you smile.

"Good?" you ask, cheeky.

He cracks a single eye open to look at you and says, "Yeah, good."

"Is it going to be weird now?"

A little late to broach the subject, you realize. Better late than never, you suppose.

"It doesn't have to be," Juyeon says, breaths still laborious as he makes an effort to engage despite it. "Was it weird with Sunwoo?"

"That's different."

"Is it, though?" Turning himself on his side, Juyeon faces you fully with messy hair and even messier black smudges circling his eyes. He says, "It's different because if Sunwoo weren't in the picture, then maybe this might have a shot at being more than what it is." A smile curls into his lips in spite of your heart beginning to sink. "But your heart isn't in it, and that's okay. You're not hurting my feelings. If it was going to be weird, I'd be the one making it that way, and I have no intention of doing so. We both knew exactly what this was when you made that call."

His eyes narrow mischievously and then he adds: "Really glad I'm the one that got the call, actually."

You swat at his shoulder. "Shut up, don't make me regret this."

"I'm not the one that's at risk of doing that," Juyeon says through a sigh, "You are going to have to tell him. Eventually."

"Why? Are you going to tell him if I don't?"

Juyeon appears as though he flips the question over in his mind a few times before he makes any motion to answer it. All things considered, you couldn't exactly blame him for landing on the side that you would be far less pleased with.

"No, I think it's far more appropriate if you do," he says. "You seem to believe that there's a version of this story where he never has to find out, but I assure you that's just not going to be the case. I know you don't see it now, but I'm fairly confident there's a future where you're going to feel compelled to do so."

Staring at him, you allow a few moments of silence to buffer and then you say, "You think we're going to make up."

"That's what your heart's in, isn't it?" Juyeon shrugs then inches a bit closer to your body, a hand timidly smoothing over the flesh of your thigh. "This was fun—wouldn't mind fitting another one in for the road—but once we leave here we both know this is never going to happen again."

Glaring, you shift away despite not entirely hating the idea.

"Both groups have to go overseas in a week, talk about an exciting secret getaway."

"The damage has been done," Juyeon says, reaching up to gently push stray strands of hair away from your eyes. "There's really no need to double and triple down. Don't call me when we're abroad… Call Sunwoo."

"And if I don't?" you reply, petulant.

Juyeon rolls his eyes, sighs again and simply says, "You will. For some reason, you're the only one who doesn't seem to know that yet."

Dragging himself out of bed, Juyeon hauls himself off to the bathroom to clean up and as he strides past you, you can't help but think that he wears the afterglow of sex exceptionally well. His skin seems to shimmer with a glow that hadn't quite been there before, and upon this realization you cannot help but wonder how it is that you look right about now. Not particularly well, you figure. In more ways than one, at that.

You wonder how Sunwoo looks with the very same afterglow. You wonder where he is, and if he is wearing it right about now.

There's a lump that forms in your throat at the thought, in spite of everything that has just transpired. You don't know if that's fair—the way that thinking about it makes you feel. Playing tit-for-tat games that have no clear victor crowned at the end. Have you won? Is the victory yours? And why, above all else, does it not taste so sweet?

The inhale that follows is sharp and unsteady. Juyeon can be heard in the bathroom with the faucet on, but not much else making his movements known.

"Do you think he'll be mad?" you say, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the running water. Unsure if you have the strength to dare utter the question again.

But he does hear, and his head pops around the corner without bothering to shut the faucet off. His hair is wetter now, pressed away from his forehead and a few droplets still clinging to his skin. The look on his face is one that you can't quite decipher; some mixture of emotions that don't quite equate to pity, but rather something more akin to compassion. 

"I don't think he's going to be mad," Juyeon says, and it's evident through his delivery of the words that he is choosing them with immense care. His lips thin into a line, one corner dipping downward ever so slightly and he says, "If he's going to be mad at anyone, really, it's only going to be at himself."

And maybe that's worse, you think in response. 

[28harryssunflower]

Broken paradise

The Italian coastline stretched endlessly before you, the deep blue sea kissing the golden sand beneath the balcony of your villa. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, and the soft sound of waves filled the quiet space between you and Harry.

Everything was supposed to be perfect.

And for the first few days, it was. Mornings tangled in the silk sheets of his bed, afternoons spent floating in the infinity pool with glasses of white wine, evenings filled with laughter and whispered confessions over candlelit dinners. Harry had made sure of it - meticulously planning every moment, every detail, down to the playlist that played softly through the villa’s speakers. It was your own little world, untouched by reality.

Until now.

Now, you were standing on opposite sides of the bedroom, voices raised, hearts pounding - not from passion, but from frustration.

Harry scoffed, running a hand through his curls. “You can’t seriously be mad about this.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “I’m not mad… I’m just tired of you making me feel like I’m being ridiculous every time I bring something up.”

His green eyes flashed with exasperation. “Because you are being ridiculous!”

Your stomach twisted. “Wow. Thanks for that.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “That’s not what I meant. But really? You’re upset because I said you overpacked? It was a joke.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It wasn’t just that, Harry. It was the way you said it - like you were rolling your eyes at me, like I was being annoying. And it’s not the first time.”

His jaw tensed. “So now I’m not even allowed to joke with my wife?”

“Not when it makes me feel like an idiot!”

Silence fell between you, thick and suffocating. The golden light from the setting sun spilled into the room, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Somewhere outside, the waves kept crashing, oblivious to the storm brewing inside.

Harry let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You know, I don’t know why we even bothered with this honeymoon if we were just going to spend the whole time fighting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snapped. “This was supposed to be perfect. I planned everything to be perfect. And yet, here we are, arguing over nothing.”

Your hands balled into fists. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out. “Did you expect us to just exist in some fantasy where we never have problems?”

“No, I just didn’t think we’d be like this. Not now, not so soon.”

His words stung.

Your voice was quieter when you asked, “So soon?”

He hesitated, rubbing his jaw, his frustration evident. “We just got married,” he muttered. “And we’re already fighting like this. It makes me wonder if we’re going to be doing this for the rest of our lives.”

The air in the room shifted.

Something in your chest ached, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Well, if you already regret it, maybe we should just get a divorce now and save ourselves the trouble.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back.

Harry’s entire body stiffened. His face paled, the anger in his eyes flickering into something else - something shattered.

“What?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling sick. “Harry, I didn’t mean-“

But it was too late.

His expression darkened, hurt flashing across his features before he masked it with more anger. “Right,” he said coldly, nodding as if he finally understood something. “So that’s where we are now? One fight, and you’re already throwing divorce in my face?”

“That’s not what I meant!” you said desperately. “I was just frustrated!”

“Frustrated?” he repeated bitterly. “Frustrated enough to throw away everything we just promised each other?” He let out a dry laugh, stepping back like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “Unbelievable.”

Your throat tightened. “Harry-“

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t just say things like that. You don’t throw divorce at me like it’s nothing.”

Guilt twisted inside you. You had said it to hurt him, to make a point, but you hadn’t expected it to cut this deep.

“I don’t want that,” you said, your voice trembling now. “I don’t want anything but you.”

His jaw tensed, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. For a moment, you thought he was going to turn away, to walk out.

But then, his shoulders sagged, and his face softened - just barely. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a slow breath before looking at you again.

“I don’t either,” he murmured. “But you can’t say things like that. Not when I mean forever with you.”

The fight wasn’t gone, but the anger had faded, replaced by something more fragile. More raw.

You hesitated before stepping closer, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I was just upset, and I wanted to hurt you the way I was hurting.”

His fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. “I know,” he said softly. “But I hate fighting with you. And I hate even thinking about losing you.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me,” you promised. “I love you. Even when we fight. Even when we’re both being idiots.”

That finally brought a small, tired smile to his lips. He sighed, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “I love you too,” he murmured. “Even when you overpack.“

You groaned, but there was no bite behind it. “Too soon, Styles.”

His laughter rumbled against your skin, and just like that, the tension eased.

The honeymoon wasn’t perfect.

But love wasn’t about perfect. It was about choosing each other - even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.

[bajibitch]

Silly me - Clark Kent

"Your name?" The receptionist’ voice pulled you out of the shock you felt being at the infamous Daily Planet. You managed to say your name but it came out a bit shaky and he let out a soft chuckle. "You'll fit in great." The space you'd be working in was small like you expected but seeing the surrounding work spaces was a bit intimidating. It was easy to get distracted picking up pieces of the stories they chatted about but the dizziness that came with it was enough to remind you to focus. Where would you start, how was it that people found stories again?

“First day?” Looking up from your desk, you met a pair of enchanting blue eyes on a beautiful face. The smile he wore didn’t make it any easier to turn away. Your face was hot from the lack of preparedness, hopefully, he didn’t think you were forming a crush, it’d be embarrassing, he’d be right but you wouldn’t admit it.

“Is it obvious?” You thought you were playing it off well given that you managed to type out an exaggerated amount of the food article with little effort. “What am I doing wrong?” Surely an employee wouldn’t interrupt your work for nothing, or so you thought.

“Nothing, you seem to have it handled.” He eyed the screen with your nearly complete work. “I’m still cramming in yesterday's story.” His laugh was going to be in your mind later. Although it was short it managed to sound so wholesome and warming in the small time it had. “It’s just, I've never seen you around before.” His arm was resting on the computer monitor, if he was anyone else it would’ve irked you but he had good intentions so you’d ignore it for now.

“I started today, used to work at a different company in Oklahoma.“

“How was it there?” You considered offering him a chair to sit in since it felt as if he planned on hearing your life story.

“Given that it was my first job in journalism it’ll always have a special place in my heart, but I wanted to be somewhere more interesting.”

“You didn’t catch any stories?”

“Nothing worth mentioning, I did an article on food and the impacts of-” Nothing worth mentioning but I’ll list every one. You put a hand to your forehead as you cursed yourself for not catching the prattling sooner.

“Why’d you stop?” He took a glance around the office and stared back at you. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you sighed and went back to typing out your work. “I just have to finish this.”

“I’ll be out your hair then. It was nice meeting you… I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t get yours either.”

“Clark. Clark Kent.” You stopped your typing and locked eyes with him once again.

“Y/n.”

“Well, y/n, I’ll catch you later.”

The strange thing for you is that usually when people tell you that, they never meant it. It was more like an, I’ll see you should we meet again kinda ordeal, not a follow you out of the office kinda thing.

“What is it, Clark?” You turned to see him not too far behind. His suit seemed a tad too big for him but it added a soft look to him.

“Just checking in on you. How’d you feel about the job? It’s not too much is it?”

“You aren’t from here either, are you?” He tilted his head and his lips parted but nothing came out. “You’re nicer than plenty of the people I’ve met so far. Some of them get irritated from my smile alone.” That’s why you learned to hold a poker face, the city lost its charm rather quickly when you arrived. His shoulders dropped and his lips had its default curve that made him sweet on the eyes.

“I used to live out in the country too, but as much as they tried, they could never break my smile.” Oh, you had to admit by now that he was hard to hate, not that you ever did. His spirit was almost contagious, the smile on your face showing he already infected you, maybe a harmless work crush wouldn’t be bad after all.

“Ready to go?” The both of you turned to the woman who needed no introduction, her work spoke for itself, she was a bit of a celebrity herself. You were shocked to see him kiss her with no hesitation and looked away from the affection. It was clear he had no qualms with showing his love.

“See you, tomorrow.” Fuck my life. When you buckled yourself into the seat and began to drive away, you couldn’t help laughing at how naïve you were to think he wouldn’t be in a relationship.

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

"I'm just happy that James and Lily are finally together because they deserve it and I love them both"

And that was Remus. The poet that would find the beauty in insignificant things. The kid that believed in happy endings and true love. The kind of person to be happy just because others were happy. How gorgeous was that?

The way he was smiling now made Sirius shiver. But maybe it was because he was dizzy of too much smoke.

Smoking with Remus was his new favorite thing. Not because he wanted to be cool or he actually enjoyed cigarettes. It was because of Remus. A million times Remus.

Because he got to be close to him. Because it was something intimate between them. Because Remus spoke and told Sirius things and he laughed only for him. And Remus was beautiful when he laughed.

"I love James" Sirius declared, taking a drag of his cigarette.

It was easy to love James. It was wrecking to love Remus.

"And Lily?"

Sirius shrugged, making an 'eh' sound.

Remus smiled and shook his head.

Sirius was the idiot that made Remus smile. It had always been like that. Like a bufoon making his prince laugh of how silly he was. Because the prince would never fall for the bufoon.

"I just think that James deserves the best"

"And Lily is not the best?"

Sirius let out some smoke into the night sky.

"Maybe the perfect match for him is somewhere else. Out there. James is just obsessed with Evans"

Remus shook his head "I don't think so"

Sirius looked at him expecting an explanation "Why?"

Remus bit his lip, so deliciously "Because if he's meant for someone else, he would have been over her a long time ago. His heart keeps circulating back to Lily. Over and over. They keep coming back to each other. Over and over"

How did Remus always manage to say smart things and all that came out of Sirius’s mouth was bollocks?

And Remus took a drag of his cigarette in thought. Sirius wished for a second that he was thinking about their similar story. Back to each other. Over and over. And Sirius’s heart still felt the same. It hadn't stop beating for Remus. Never.

"That's ridiculous" Sirius said because, see? He was a scared idiot who said bollocks "Evans just tosses him around like a toy and James is a masochistic who lets her. One day, yes. Another day: 'I hate you'"

Remus's eyes fixed on Sirius. That kind of look that made Sirius feel naked in front of him.

"I know the feeling" Remus whispered mostly to himself, finally looking away.

"What?"

And Sirius was aware of how Remus blushed. The shade of pink that blended well with his freckles. Sirius wanted to be able to count them all and know them by heart.

"You just don't know the feeling, Sirius" Remus cleared his throat "You've never been in love"

Sirius almost laughed. Because the feeling he had always had for Remus couldn't be anything but love. He would sacrifice himself for him. He would go to the end of the world for him.

"And you do, Moons?" Sirius asked trying to hide away his hope.

Remus was quiet for a while, he smiled to himself and spoke : "No... I just read many romance novels"

Sirius giggled. His little nerdy Moony.

"They are very descriptive about feelings and such"

Sirius tucked his head to the side. "Is fiction"

Remus shook his head.

"You are an idiot"

As long as Sirius was his idiot.

"Love?" Sirius scoffed "We are too young for that. We are meant to enjoy life and have fun" he opened his arms to emphasize "Then when we are like thirty or so we will worry about spouses and stuff like love"

He said that because 1) it was his facade, always had been. The idiot womanizer who was too cool to fall in love, and 2) Because it was true. And he wanted as much time with Remus he got before he found someone to settle in. A nice partner that would make him happy.

Sirius’s heart ached at the thought.

Sirius would end up alone. Because nobody would ever stand him. Not truly.

Remus eyes moved around Sirius thinking about what he was saying. He chuckled at the end and shook his head again.

Because Sirius was the bufoon.

"You're an idiot, Pads"

As long as he said it affectionately like that.

Sirius grinned "And you know what is my idea of fun right now?" he raised an eyebrow.

Remus swallowed.

"What can that be?" he smiled.

Sirius scooped closer. He saw Remus's chest breathing rapidly. His cheeks went more pink and his lips parted.

God he loved provoking that on Remus.

Although that was Sirius provoked in people. Desire. He knew he was good looking because of his family's rotten but gorgeous genes.

However that's all that people saw in him. A handsome boy.

And Remus was gay, so he naturally reacted. He closed his eyes waiting for the kiss.

But Remus was not in love with him. Nobody was actually prepared for the train wreck Sirius was.

The second his lips touched Remus, Sirius was doomed. He was intoxicated. He wanted to bury himself onto Remus. Melt with him. Be his and be wrecked by him. Over and over.

Fuck, Sirius was selfish. And he knew Remus didn't feel the same. And he knew someday he would want more than kissing his best friend. And Sirius shouldn't be getting more and more attached.

But he was selfish.

He kissed Remus and tried to pretend he wasn't getting weak in the knees with the mere touch on the lips. And he pretended he didn't saw stars when Remus opened his mouth for him.

And he pretended his brain wasn't whispering: "Mine, mine, mine, mine" and "Moony, Moony, Moony, Moony"

Over and over again.

[tojisprettylittlething]

Mr. and Mrs. Fushiguro 10

Pairing: Assassin!Toji Fushiguro x Assassin!Reader

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (NSFW), strong language, rough sex, power dynamics, teasing, unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL guys), biting, marking, mild choking, a bit of a struggle for control, Toji being an absolute menace. Toji being insatiable and absolutely ruining reader

Masterlist

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Chapter Ten : Secrets Under Silk Sheets

chpt. one - chpt. two - chpt. three - chpt. four - chpt. five - chpt. six - chpt. seven - chpt. eight - chpt. nine - chpt. ten - chpt. eleven - chpt. twelve - chpt. thirteen - chpt. fourteen - chpt. fifteen

And that’s how you got here.

In your apartment.

With Toji.

Stripping you bare with each step you took toward the bedroom.

Your dress—one you hadn’t even realized was riding up your thighs until his rough hands were pushing it higher—was the only thing left between you and the inevitable.

His touch was fire, burning through fabric and skin alike, and yet, you didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that—like he had already won.

“Always so fucking difficult,” Toji muttered, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he spun you, pressing your back into the wall before his hands skimmed up your thighs. "But you don’t seem to mind me touching you now, huh?"

You wanted to bite back—to remind him that this was nothing, that this meant nothing—but then he was gripping your chin, tilting your head up, his breath hot against your lips. His smirk was lazy, knowing.

“Go on,” he taunted. “Tell me to stop.”

You opened your mouth, ready to say something, anything—

But then his fingers hooked beneath your dress, dragging the fabric higher, his palm skimming over the heat between your legs, and the only sound that came out was a sharp, shaky inhale.

Toji chuckled. "That's what I thought."

The bastard.

You were going to kill him.

After this.

Before you could collect yourself, he moved again—this time lifting you effortlessly, carrying you the short distance to your bed and tossing you onto the mattress like you weighed nothing. You barely had time to adjust before he was on top of you, caging you in with his body, his weight, his presence.

"You gonna keep pretending you don't want this?" he mused, running his fingers along the hem of your dress, teasingly slow.

You glared at him. “Shut up.”

Toji grinned. “Make me.”

Oh, you hated him.

But you yanked him down anyway, crashing your lips against his in something that was less of a kiss and more of a fight—neither of you willing to surrender. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, consuming.

It was a mess of heat and desperation, of weeks—maybe months—of tension snapping all at once.

You felt him everywhere, pressing, demanding, pushing you further and further into the mattress. His hands explored without hesitation, mapping out every inch of you, squeezing your thighs, gripping your waist.

And then—

A sharp tear of fabric.

Your breath hitched as the cool air hit your skin.

“You—” You turned your head to glare at him, your dress now in tatters. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Toji just smirked, tossing the ruined dress somewhere behind him. “Shouldn’t have worn something so flimsy.”

"You owe me."

"I'll buy you a new one," he murmured, his lips tracing down your neck, his hands already working to rid you of whatever else you had left. "Or maybe I'll just keep tearing them off you."

Before you could respond—before you could even process the weight of his words—his mouth was on your collarbone, biting, sucking, leaving behind marks you’d have to deal with later. His hands found your thighs again, parting them with ease, his fingers dragging along the damp fabric of your panties.

“So wet already,” he murmured, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to your jaw. "You sure you still hate me, sweetheart?"

You refused to give him the satisfaction of a response, but your body betrayed you, your hips instinctively shifting, chasing the friction you craved.

Toji noticed. Of course he did.

"Desperate, huh?" His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding through your slick folds. "That’s cute."

You dug your nails into his shoulders in response, dragging them down his back, smirking when he hissed.

"Fuck," he exhaled, his eyes flashing. "So that's how you wanna play?"

You barely had time to process before he was yanking your panties off, shoving your legs apart, and dipping his head between your thighs.

Your breath caught as his mouth found you, hot and wet, his tongue teasing before flicking over your clit with deliberate precision. A sharp gasp escaped you, your hands flying to his hair, tugging, but he just groaned against you, the vibrations making your body arch.

He was good. Too good.

And he fucking knew it.

He worked you up so easily, alternating between slow, torturous licks and quick, sharp flicks that had your thighs trembling, your breath coming out in uneven gasps.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge—just as that blissful heat coiled in your stomach—he pulled away.

Your eyes snapped open, frustration mixing with lust as you looked down at him. “You’re an asshole.”

Toji only grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?"

That was all the warning he got before you grabbed his shoulders, flipping him over, straddling his waist. His smirk widened as his hands settled on your hips.

"You wanna be on top, sweetheart?" he teased, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Go ahead. Show me what you got."

You didn’t need permission.

You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around his cock, feeling just how hard he was. He groaned, his grip tightening on your waist as you dragged the head of his length against your entrance, teasing.

"Fuck," Toji muttered, his head falling back against the pillows. "Don't fucking tease."

You smirked. "You started it."

And then, with one slow, deliberate movement, you sank down onto him.

The stretch was intoxicating, the sensation overwhelming. A broken moan escaped you as Toji groaned beneath you, his hands flying to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Shit,” he breathed, his voice rough, strained. "You feel—fuck, sweetheart—"

You didn’t let him finish.

You moved.

Slow at first, savoring the way he filled you, the way he stretched you perfectly.

But then his grip tightened, and suddenly he was guiding you—

No, forcing you—into a rough, punishing rhythm.

It was messy, desperate, a collision of bodies and ragged breaths. Toji's hands roamed everywhere—gripping your waist, palming your breasts, sliding up to wrap around your throat just enough to make your breath hitch.

"You look so fucking good like this," he muttered, his voice low, dangerous. "Fucking yourself on my cock."

You clenched around him in response, and he groaned, his grip tightening.

"Fuck, do that again," he growled. "Gonna make me ruin you."

You were already ruined.

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

The tension coiled again, hotter, sharper, both of you chasing that inevitable release.

"Come on, sweetheart," Toji murmured, his other hand sliding between you, his fingers finding your clit. "Be good for me."

That was all it took.

Your body tensed, pleasure crashing over you in waves, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you came undone. Toji followed soon after, cursing as he thrust up into you one last time, filling you with his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just heavy breathing. The lingering heat.

And then—

Toji chuckled. "Told you you'd let me."

You groaned, smacking his chest.

He only grinned, pulling you down against him.

"Hope you're not tired yet, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, teasing. "I’m not done with you."

Fuck.

You were so screwed.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Toji moved again.

His arms wrapped around you, flipping you onto your back with effortless strength. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his weight settling between your legs, still inside you, still hard.

Your body jerked in sensitivity as he rolled his hips, slow, lazy, deliberate. You twitched under him, your breath hitching as the overstimulation burned through you.

“Toji—”

He hummed, dipping his head to your neck, his lips trailing down, nipping at your pulse. "What, sweetheart? Thought we were done?"

You had thought that.

Apparently, you were wrong.

A shudder ran through you as his hands roamed your body, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your thigh. He lifted your leg, spreading you further apart as he pushed deeper, making you gasp.

"You're still dripping," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "Still so fucking tight."

Your fingers dug into his arms, trying to ground yourself as he began moving again. Slower this time. Deep, agonizing strokes that had your body arching against him, your breath coming in uneven gasps.

“Toji—” You tried again, but your words fell apart as he thrust harder, his pace turning rough, demanding.

He owned you in this moment.

The realization should have pissed you off. Should have made you shove him away, remind him that you were just as deadly as he was.

But then he leaned down, his breath ghosting against your ear, his voice low, dangerous.

“You can still fight me off,” he murmured. “If you really want to.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

You didn’t want to.

You wanted to let him take. To ruin. To claim.

Your pride warred with your pleasure, your body betraying you as you clenched around him, a strangled moan slipping from your lips.

Toji groaned, his grip tightening.

"Fuck, look at you," he muttered. "So fucking desperate for it."

You weren’t.

But you didn’t stop him, either.

His hand slid up, wrapping lightly around your throat, pressing just enough to make your breath falter. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmured, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to make your pulse jump. “Being underneath me. Letting me use you like this.”

You could only whimper in response, the sensation of him inside you, the weight of his body, the pressure on your throat—everything—building into something devastating.

Toji smirked.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He let go of your throat, shifting his weight, and before you could react, he grabbed your hips, yanking you up until you were nearly off the mattress.

And then he slammed into you.

A cry tore from your throat, the angle forcing him deeper, hitting spots that had you trembling beneath him. The pace was brutal, relentless, his grip on your hips so tight you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

But fuck, you didn’t care.

Your fingers clawed at the sheets, your head thrown back as the pleasure twisted inside you, tightening, overwhelming.

“Toji—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. "You're close, huh? I can feel it."

His hand found your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles that sent shockwaves through you. Your body jolted, the overstimulation mixing with the pleasure, pushing you over the edge so fast you barely had time to brace for it.

Your climax crashed over you, your back arching off the bed, a strangled moan breaking from your lips as you shattered beneath him.

But he didn’t stop.

Toji kept moving, fucking you through it, pushing you further, dragging you into a second orgasm before the first had even fully faded.

You sobbed his name, your body writhing, your legs trembling.

Too much. It was too much.

And still, Toji didn’t stop.

"Look at you," he muttered, watching as your body twitched, helpless beneath him. "You can take one more, right? Be a good girl for me."

You wanted to tell him no.

To shove him off.

But the moment he leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, you knew you were done for.

Because you wanted to give him one more.

And Toji fucking knew it.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up—higher, higher—until they were nearly over his shoulders. The stretch had your breath hitching, your body already sensitive, already ruined, but Toji didn’t care.

He smirked, watching the way you trembled beneath him, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate gasps.

“Too much?” he murmured, teasing, his voice thick with amusement.

You hated how weak your voice sounded when you whispered, “Yes.”

But Toji?

He just chuckled, leaning in, his lips ghosting over yours. “You can take it.”

And then he drove into you.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as the new angle had him hitting even deeper, the force of it making your vision blur. Your hands scrambled for something—anything—to hold onto, nails clawing at his arms, his back, trying to ground yourself as he ruined you.

Toji groaned, his grip on your thighs tightening, his pace rough and unrelenting. “Fuck—” His breath hitched as he watched your body take him, stretching around him so perfectly. “Look at that. Look at how good you take me, sweetheart.”

You could barely think. Could barely breathe.

The pressure was too much, the pleasure mounting, twisting, overwhelming you. Your thighs shook around his shoulders, your body burning under his touch.

Toji tilted his head, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. “You’re crying,” he murmured, voice half-taunting, half-genuine. He leaned down, licking a stray tear off your cheek, his smirk widening.

You hadn’t even realized you were.

But the pleasure was too much, the intensity of it crashing over you in waves, your body betraying you as you sobbed out his name, fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders.

Toji groaned at the sound, his pace quickening, his thrusts turning sharper, rougher, dragging out every little noise from you that he could.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he muttered, breath ragged. “One more, sweetheart. Just one more.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t.

But then his hand found your clit, his fingers rubbing rough, fast circles, and you broke.

Your body snapped, your vision going white as your climax hit you so hard you could barely breathe, barely think. A wrecked, shattered cry broke from your lips, your body convulsing, trembling as the pleasure overtook you.

And Toji felt it.

He groaned, his movements turning erratic, his fingers digging into your skin as he slammed into you one last time, his body tensing as he broke right alongside you.

The heat of him filled you, his breath ragged against your skin, his body heavy against yours as he stilled, his lips brushing over your temple in something dangerously close to tenderness.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

The only sounds in the room were the harsh breaths, the faint hum of the city outside, the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.

Toji sighed, his hands finally loosening their grip on you. His movements were slower now, deliberate, as he gently untangled your legs from his shoulders, massaging the backs of your thighs when he felt the tremble in them.

His voice was low when he murmured, “You okay?”

You shouldn’t be.

But weirdly, you were.

You swallowed hard, nodding, though your body still felt like it wasn’t entirely your own. “Yeah,” you breathed, voice hoarse.

Toji hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw. “Good.”

And then, surprisingly, he took care of you.

He eased out of you carefully, muttering a quiet “Shit” under his breath when he saw how much of a mess he had made. He didn’t gloat, didn’t tease—just ran a warm hand over your stomach before slipping away.

A minute later, he was back with a damp towel, cleaning you up with an uncharacteristic gentleness, murmuring something low when you shivered at the touch.

Then, without a word, he pulled you against him, his arms wrapping around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked up at him, still half-dazed, heart still racing. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

You huffed, but you didn’t push him away.

Instead, you curled into him, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours, your fingers brushing idly over the scars on his chest.

Toji sighed, his lips pressing to the top of your head.

And maybe—just maybe—you let yourself enjoy the quiet, the warmth, the illusion of safety in his arms.

Even if you knew it couldn’t last.

My lil taglist ₍₍ ◝(　ﾟ∀ ﾟ )◟ ⁾⁾ : @t4naiis - @crimsonxm00n -

[secretsmutcorner]

Discovery

1,491 words | The dragon’s toy (sequel to Ready)

Content | NSFWhump, explicit non-con, monsterfuckery, blood, implied fighting/violence

Notes | The elf's circumstances... change.

There was always going to be a timeskip but there's a few nice and whumpy pieces still planned between this and the previous one >:) I'll get to them eventually. Also, I thought I had this almost finished and then I almost doubled the wordcount jdsklfla

Taglist | @i-walk-on-the-dark-side @echo-goes-aaa @scoundrelwithboba @whumpzone @saffitaffi (I don't remember you asking to be taglisted but you did ask about this conitnuation specifically so I'll tag you this time <3 let me know)

Spring arrived for the third time.

That afternoon, the dragon was laying in its nest with its hind legs stretched behind it -- a pose bound to look silly in any four-legged beast, but one that allowed it to slam its pubic bone into the elf's clit with more force as it fucked into them; a torture it sometimes employed when it missed the way they had erstwhile winced and whimpered with every thrust. The elf suffered it like they suffered anything, now: knowing that their pain didn't matter, and without tormenting themself with imaginations of how they would like things to be.

Presently, the dragon paused, buried wholly inside their stretched-out cunt, and started grinding against their battered clit, drawing a wail from them like few things did anymore. They knew the dragon enjoyed the way they squirmed and cried and tensed around it, and that was what mattered. That was what they were for. They were a good little toy, avoiding unnecessary pain by bearing the necessary, serving their function, without a fuss.

That was what mattered.

Soon the dragon came, and without pulling out, relaxed on top of them. Unfortunately this meant its weight was now bearing down on their clit by one sharp bone. But why would the dragon move when it was comfortable? Their fingers dug into the blanket beneath them as they sobbed through the agony, waiting patiently for the dragon to start thrusting for another round, or gather itself enough to toss them aside.

It was several long moments before they noticed something entirely else had caught its attention. Through a veil of tears, they saw its head attentively turned towards the entrance of the cave. It sniffed audibly, then it got up, roughly yanking its cock out of them in the movement.

"Go to bed."

It was unusual, but it wasn't their place to question their Lord's orders. "Yes, my Lord."

They stumbled into their alcove without forgetting their stretching toy; in their dark little corner, they knelt over it and worked it back in, making sure not to touch their clit, which they knew would continue throbbing with pain for hours, if not days. They laid down on their back when they were done, arranging their legs apart as comfortably as they managed. The dragon had desired the additional pressure of another large toy thrust up their ass, and it hadn't removed it; even by their standards, they felt unusually full. They were never comfortable with how far the dragon liked them stretched, the toys pressing into sore spots and bruises and overstimulating anywhere that was naturally sensitive into discomfort, though now they understood they ought to be grateful for the care it was taking; but with two overlarge toys, the worst part was the way they cinched their tissue between them.

Yet they suffered it. This was their life.

They heard the dragon growl like it never had before, the sound vibrating through their bones and sending a shiver through them. Somewhere inside them, a small spark of primal instinct begged to flee, but it found nothing to set alight.

They simply stayed where they were, eyes unfocused on the rocky ceiling above them. It meant nothing.

They didn't even try to make sense of the sounds coming from the front of the cave. They had never heard anything like it, the screams and the roars and the clink of metal, but it didn't matter, even if the volume pushed their heartbeat faster.

It didn't matter. The dragon had sent them away not to witness whatever was happening, and soon, they would receive more orders. Or a new, always-same day would begin, and they would know what was expected of them then.

Eventually, the commotion died down.

They stayed where they were. The dragon knew where to find them, could easily pull them from their resting place even, if it wanted to.

They weren't listening hard, but they heard steps out in the cave--steps, and softer metal clinking. It wasn't the dragon's familiar step, either.

It didn't matter. They were just a toy. It didn't matter who was out there, or how they might use them.

When the steps approached their alcove, they worked themself into a crouch to see a large figure step in front of them. An elf, or more likely, by their broad proportions, a human, or something of the sort. They were large and armour-clad, a sword in their hand, red with blood.

The elf had no doubt whatsoever that they could overwhelm them as easily as the dragon could.

Not that they had any reason to put up a fight.

It didn't matter.

*

The monster hunter was familiar with the elation of just having taken down another plague upon the earth. A fully-grown dragon, though -- it felt different. A dragon was the peak of any hunter's career.

They were a dragon slayer, now.

They couldn't be getting too cocky too soon -- they still had to secure the lair, make sure there were no traps or minions left that could endanger them when collecting their rewards, or whoever would be sent to clean up the rest of it afterwards.

The cave was full of treasure -- heaps of gold, precious artefacts, even priceless books. They'd known this. Their promised reward had been as much of the dragon's treasure as they could carry. They were sure the royals expected them to make off with an overfilled backpack of gold like the dumb brute they saw them as, but a friend at the Zutira acadamy had tipped them off about some magical tomes that had gone missing. They could barely read, but it would be enough to identify them and bring them safely to the scholars before they could vanish in someone's private collection.

What they hadn't expected was the sacrifice.

They had heard that there had been one, of course, a few years back. They just hadn't thought they'd still be alive.

Yet when they peered into a dark, filthy alcove, they found someone crouching there -- pale in the dark, stark naked and painfully thin, even for an elf. The elf's skin, from the waist down to the thighs, was wholly black and blue; it was only too clear what the dragon had used them for. More bruises blotted their shoulders, and a few were just scattered about.

The evidence of their suffering was gut-wrenching, and it was eerie enough to recognize that they still maintained some of that mythical elven beauty. But what sent a chill down the hunter's spine was their eyes. They were wholly expressionless, vacant.

The hunter had met victims of monsters before -- a vampire's thrall, various mangled corpses. But they could hardly imagine what abuse the poor thing had endured in the years they had spent here, in the dragon's lair. For a long moment, they were struck silent.

Then they realized they were still standing there with their bloodied sword up. They quickly lowered it, although the elf gave no sign of being afraid.

"You're safe now," the hunter finally blurted out. "Are you -- is there anyone else around here?"

"No, my Lord." Their voice was as expressionless as their eyes.

The hunter suddenly realized they should probably stop staring. "Here-" They pulled off their cloak and handed it over before they could think about what they had just heard. Lord?

The elf accepted the cloak and threw it over their shoulders, but made no move to wrap it around themself and cover themself. They just crouched there, looking to the hunter -- not into their eyes, but in their general direction, expecting -- what?

"Can you... walk?"

"Yes, my Lord." They stood up in janky, painful motions, but they didn't hesitate for a moment to walk towards them, as instructed.

The hunter led them out into the main cave. The light of the sinking sun was even more unforgiving, revealing the deep rings under their eyes, the dullness of their silver hair, the strange bump in their otherwise too-flat belly.

It took the hunter a moment too long to realize what it was; then a bout of nausea overcame them.

"You- you can take that out now, you know?"

"Yes, my Lord." Without a flinch, the elf crouched down again and pulled out of their battered body a dildo that looked far too big to ever have fitted in there.

And then another.

The hunter couldn't look.

The dragon's body laid just outside the cave's mouth. They had looked at it with the hatred reserved for monsters before, but now-

They weren't usually glad for the killing. It needed to be done, and they were good at it; that was all. But looking at the dragon now, they felt themself filling with grim joy at its death.

The elf stepped forward on unsure legs. Their eyes were fixed on the dragon, too.

The hunter couldn't begin to imagine what was going through their head.