#the bird and the hand dynamic

[thegreatzombieartisan]

The Bird and the Hand Dynamic: RoP Edition

“[Celeborn] is the Hand to Galadriel’s Bird. A stable yet strong perch while she flies singing her song. The cherisher and the cherished.”— from my response to Calam Lynch cast as Celeborn

If the Hand tries to hold the Bird too tightly, it will fly away forever. If the Bird doesn’t make the Hand feel confident it will return, the Hand will find another Bird.

The Bird: cherished/beloved/nurtured/supported

The Hand: cherisher/lover/nurturer/supporter

It’s a dynamic that occurs in all relationships. People seek complements. Birds need occasional freedom and Hands need occasional excitement. We can alternate or switch roles depending.

Problems occur when both parties wish to play the same role. Two Birds won’t commit to each other. Two Hands are boring together.

Birds and Hands in RoP, as I see it:

Galadriel was the Hand, Finrod was rhe Bird.

Disa is the Hand, Durin is the Bird

Poppy is the Hand, Nori is the Bird.

Elendil is the Hand, Galadriel is the Bird.

Arondir is the Hand, Bronwyn is the Bird.

Nori is the Hand, the Stranger is the Bird.

Kennen is the Hand, Earien is the Bird.

Elrond is the Hand, Galadriel is the Bird.

Elendil is the Hand, Miriel is the Bird.

Halbrand was the Hand, Celebrimbor was the Bird.

Elendil is the Hand, Isildur is the Bird.

Pharazon is the Hand, Miriel is the Bird.

Halbrand is the Hand, Galadriel is the Bird.

Galadriel and Sauron are two Birds circling each other until the Third Age.

Theory: Despite his ambition to rule Middle-Earth, at his core, Sauron is a Hand

The wills of Eru’s Children are Sauron’s Bird and he is the smothering Hand.

As Sauron and Mairon, he’s most successful, most natural, and acutely happy in a supportive transformative role. His desire for order via dominantion is him as a Hand perverted.

Think about it: Sauron spent 300 years teaching and mentoring the Elven smiths. He could have shortened his a time and tell them how to make the rings. But why wouldn’t Sauron enjoy working with Celebrimbor, the greatest of Elven smiths, while it lasted (thanks to compartmentalization)?

Aule was the Hand, Mairon was the Bird. Did Aule try to hold on too tightly? Did Mairon want too much freedom? Or outside the master-apprentice environment, were they two Birds?

Sauron was the Hand, Morgoth was the Bird. With his master defeated, Sauron lost a Bird to “nurture” and presumably an established means to achieving his own goals, likely sending him into a spiral for a time.

Quite likely, Sauron’s “fair deeds” during his coined “repentance phase” began as a Hand. Tolkien tells us Sauron’s vast knowledge and power contributed to his fall back to evil. In other words, he realized his ultimate goal could be achieved as alternately Hand and Bird.

But Sauron is a natural Hand. He’s going against his nature when he tried to play both roles. I wouldn’t call the Witch-King or Saruman Hands. It’s very transactional.

[untitledgoosegay]

the dimidue special sauce is that they're very well-suited to a king and lionheart amv but only if you switch their roles every verse

[masonheiralscrossbow]

mahana song. trust me

[earlyspringtranscendence]

the things that are generally wrong with the volstovic cycle are made (naturally, by virtue of the setting and pov characters) so much more egregious in shadow magic but like. kouje & mamoru are unfortunately still the only prince/retainer dynamic i’ve ever read like nothing else compares. sorry. forever.

[yaoiadderall]

@fox-draw-s it makes perfect sense and you’re the only person who has shared my understanding of them so clearly. we will be wedded in the fall.

i’m rewatching the apothecary diaries season 1 in preparation for starting season 2 (i like to wait until a little bit into the season to start new shows) and i forgot how immediately jinshi’s whole “maomao glared at me like i was a bug and i got so hard i passed out for a second” thing started. literally the moment he realized his #prettyboyswag moves were actually making her shudder in disgust he was sooooo ready to become her full time malewife.

think abt it. he has been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and everyone around him chomping at the bit to make him happy (besides his nanny and gaoshun’s family ig) and then this wickedly smart servant girl begrudgingly treats him with the only bare minimum amount of respect she can get away with considering their statuses and doesn’t even bother to hide her distain for his whole Deal and he’s this close to proposing marriage, eunuch cover be damned.

maomao please put this man on a leash already his desperation is scaring the hoes

[satoruslovey]

We're married,no?—G.Satoru

synopsis: Principal Yaga assigns you and Gojo Satoru a mission: investigate a cursed inn—as a married couple.

He’s delighted. You’re horrified,but with couple-only train cabins, one bed, and a honeymoon suite with a private onsen, there’s no room to keep your distance literally. Gojo teases. You resist. The tension builds. Until you decide to play his game and he realizes he was never ready for you to make the first move. So what happens when he finally gets a taste of his own medicine?

Pairings: g.satoru!×f.reader!

Words: 2.9k

warnings: fake marriage,mutual pining, slow-burn, heavy sexual tension,suggestive content, lingering touches,emotionally charged intimacy, light flirtation-turned-serious,Gojo Satoru down bad, unresolved tension,undercover couple dynamic, one bed trope, private onsen scene, soft domestic vibes, “we’re married, no?” energy.

pt1. pt2.

“Married?!”

The word jumps out of your mouth before you can stop it,sharper than intended, too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You blink once, then again, unsure if you misheard,or if reality has just decided to mess with you today.

Yaga doesn’t even flinch.

“You’ll be going undercover as a couple. A married one, yes.”

You whip your head toward him.

“Excuse me?!"

Across from you, Gojo Satoru shifts in his seat, casually slinging one long arm over the backrest of his chair. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.

He smiles.

Not his usual cocky grin. No,this one’s subtle. Crooked.

The kind that looks like he’s already imagined this exact scenario a dozen times and is thoroughly enjoying it.

Principal Yaga, unfazed, sets a folder on the desk and folds his hands.

“There’s been a steady spike in cursed energy around a private inn in the mountains,” Yaga says, completely unfazed. “It’s quiet, remote, and completely cut off from Jujutsu surveillance. We’ve confirmed multiple low-level disappearances tied to curse activity. Possibly something nesting. You’re to investigate.”

You open your mouth, close it again.

“But what does that have to do with--marriage?!”

Yaga flips a page in the mission file.

“The inn accepts couples and honeymoon only"

Silence.

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, your gaze shifts

To the man sitting across from you, entirely too relaxed.

Satoru Gojo looks like he’s just been handed the key to paradise.

One leg crossed, chin balanced in his hand, sunglasses lowered just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes.

“I mean…” he says, voice smooth as ever,

“It’s about time, don’t you think?”

You glare at him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely.” His grin grows. “This is the best day of my life.”

“It’s a cursed inn.”

“And a romantic getaway.Two birds, one bed.”

You ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Can’t I go with someone else? where's Nanami?”

“On a mission in Okinawa,” Yaga replies.

"Maki?"

"injured"

"Anyone else?!"

Yaga exhales, tone flat.

“You and Gojo are the only two available with the cursed energy capacity to manage long-range detection, combat, and concealment. Statistically, you have the highest compatibility. You’re the best choice.

He pauses for a bit then says,

"and frankly, “Out of everyone, you two have the most… natural chemistry. It won’t be hard to sell the illusion."

Gojo lets out a quiet, pleased hum like Yaga just announced your engagement.

You exhale sharply.

“So my only option is him?”

Gojo lifts one hand to his chest, mock-offended.

“Him has feelings, you know.”

“Stuff them into your infinity.”

He chuckles--low, and far too pleased with himself.

“So, honeymoon suite? Or do we request the one with the heart-shaped tub?”

Yaga cuts in before you can hurl the mission file at his head.

“You leave at sunrise tomorrow. Train tickets are booked. Report back within 72 hours or earlier.

You stare down at the folder in your hands.

Your cursed energy practically vibrates with frustration.

Gojo stands, stretching his arms with a hum, like he’s already picturing the trip.

“We should work on our backstory,” he muses, sidling up beside you. “Do we call each other babe,or,oh wait, sugarplum? Cupcake? Mrs. Gojo?”

You shove past him without a word.

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

_

The next morning comes too fast.

You barely sleep. You’re still scowling as you drag your bag down the platform, half hoping the train derails before he arrives.

No such luck.

“Oh good, they got us the window seat.”

Gojo’s voice is too chirpy for 6:42 AM.

He drops into the aisle seat beside you, stretching his long legs out with a pleased sigh, like he’s boarding a first-class honeymoon cruise.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter.

“Rude. Married less than a day and already ignoring me in public.”

You turn away, staring out the window with a deep inhale and deeper regret.

The train hums to life, soft vibrations shivering beneath the floor. People around you are already murmuring excitedly about mountain air, hot springs, romantic getaways.

Gojo leans in, just enough for you to feel his voice ghost against your ear.

“This is pretty realistic so far, don’t you think? The whole spouse vibe.”

You don’t even flinch. You just keep your eyes forward.

“I will divorce you mid-mission.”

He chuckles,quiet, amused.

Doesn’t press further.

The ride is long.

You scroll through the case file again just to keep yourself from staring at him.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, and the quiet murmur of other couples in the car seeps into the background-laughing softly, hands brushing, heads tucked together.

You refuse to play into it.

You fold your arms tightly and focus out the window.

But it’s impossible not to notice,

Gojo’s leg is stretched out beside yours, long and warm and stupidly close.

The side of his thigh bumps yours with every shift of the train, and he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even pretend to give you space.

Your knees knock once.

Then again.

Then… they just stay like that.

And his arm, draped casually across the back of the seat-

It’s just barely grazing your shoulders, the fabric of his sleeve brushing the back of your neck each time he breathes deeper, leans just a little closer.

You try not to lean into it.

But your body,traitorous and tired,starts relaxing anyway,like it’s used to his presence,like it knows his warmth,like this has happened before.

You shift away an inch.

He shifts closer without even thinking.

Not intentionally. Not obviously.But it’s there.

His scent clings to his hoodie there's warmth and something just distinctly him.

And no matter how many pages you flip in the file, you’re aware of every breath he takes beside you.

The heat at the edge of your ear.

The slow, subtle way your body drifts closer anyway.

You hate how natural it feels.You hate how you don’t hate it.

He’s quiet for a while. Eventually, you glance over and find him leaned back, head tilted, hair a soft mess and mouth slightly parted.

Asleep.

You scoff under your breath and go back to reading,until, somewhere between half a page and one blink too long…

Your head tilts.

And rests on his shoulder.

You don’t notice when it happens.

Only that it feels… warm.

Solid. Like your body gave up before your brain did.

And you certainly don’t notice the way he shifts slightly,barely there,so your cheek fits better against him.

Or the way his lips twitch.

_

The train gives a sudden jolt, you're awakened from the movement.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, confused, heavy with sleep,until you register warmth beneath your cheek.

Soft cotton. A steady rise and fall.

A shoulder.His shoulder.

You jerk upright a little too fast, heart lurching in your chest.

Your bag nearly tips off your lap.

Gojo turns to you, his voice still low and rough with sleep,

or maybe amusement.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You blink at him, dazed.

“Did I-?”

“You did.”

He stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual.

“Whole nap. Right here. So cute.”

You press your fingers to your temple, mortified.

“How long?”

“Thirty-five minutes.”

He taps his phone. “You even sighed in your sleep. Pretty sure you said my name.”

You gape.

“You're lying.”

He leans in, voice pitched just for you--

“Sure I am,sweets”

You grab your bag and storm off the second the train doors open, not looking back.

But you feel him behind you.

All smug.

Still warm.

And worse,you can still feel the shape of his shoulder against your cheek.

_

After a long walk through the quiet mountain path,cobblestone streets, warm golden light, and distant wind chimes,and ofcourse, gojo pestering you to let him carry you, you finally reach the inn.

It’s quaint, charming, and just barely not tacky.

The wooden sign above the door reads:

“Love’s Retreat — Couples Only.”

You exhale.

“Seriously?”

“Don’t be shy,” Gojo grins beside you, bumping your shoulder. “Our love deserves the best.”

“I will push you into the nearest koi pond.”

You’re just about to step inside when the paper screen slides open, and an elderly woman steps out onto the porch. Her silver hair is tied neatly, her yukata a soft blush, and her entire face lights up the second she sees you.

“Ahh! You must be the newlyweds!” she beams. “Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

Your brain short circuits.

Gojo, of course, doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s us,” he says, warm and easy, placing a steady hand on the small of your back.

But this time,it lingers.

Just a second too long.

His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of your top in a motion so natural, so practiced, it feels like he’s done it before.

You tense, but you don’t move.

Her eyes sparkle.

“What a stunning couple! So in sync. You just radiate love.”

Your face warms instantly.

You'd have corrected her if it wasn't for the mission, Gojo on the other hand doesn't miss a beat.

“We hear that a lot,” he says, glancing down at you. “She gets all flustered when people notice.”

His gaze lingers, like he’s watching your reaction too closely.

“She’s shy.”

Your jaw clenches.

“So shy,” you mutter, without meeting his eyes.

He smirks.

The old woman beckons you both toward the reception desk, where a delicate wooden charm dangles from a heart-shaped key.

“We’ve prepared the honeymoon suite especially for you,candles, rose petals, and the most breathtaking view of the mountain onsen.”

Gojo hums, pleased.

He leans in as you pass her, voice brushing low and soft against your ear.

“Mrs. Gojo has a really nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.But your steps falter.

Just slightly.

And his hand doesn’t leave your back.

You step on his foot a second later, just for balance.

Or that’s what you tell yourself.

He doesn’t flinch,just laughs softly behind you.

Like he knows something’s shifting.

Maybe,because it is.

_

The staff from the inn leads the way into your room,

The room is soft and warm when you step inside,golden light spilling through rice paper, the faint scent of hinoki and rose petals in the air.

Your eyes land on the futon first.

You freeze in the doorway.

One futon.

Laid out dead center. Covered in soft white sheets and a gentle scatter of pink petals like the universe is mocking you. One bed. Two people.

You sigh.

“There’s only one.”

“How romantic,” Gojo says, sauntering in behind you. “Should we use it now or after the onsen?”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I don’t see a couch.”

You gesture to a floor cushion in the corner.

“Improvise.”

He places a hand on his chest like you’ve broken his heart.

“You’re really gonna make your husband sleep on the floor? On our honeymoon?”

“You can line it with your ego. That should cushion the fall.”

He laughs, easy and bright, throwing himself back onto the futon like he belongs there. Limbs everywhere. Shirt riding up again. Stupidly perfect.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone. When you’re cold and lonely in that big empty bed.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll cave.”

e says it with that lilt,that confidence, like he knows you always eventually do.

But this time?

Something in you coils.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already decided you won’t make him sleep on the floor.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already caved.

And worst of all,he thinks he’s still winning.

You set your towel down, tight-lipped. You're about to walk away when he shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side. Head propped on his hand, bare forearm flexed, blindfold still slung loose around his neck.

“Unless…”

His voice dips, teasing,

“You just want me close tonight, huh? That’s why you’re making a fuss. You want me to beg.”

You look at him.

And in that moment-something snaps.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just… an internal click.

You’ve had enough.

Of his mouth. Of his touches. Of him looking at you like he owns the upper hand.

He wants to play? Oh you'll play.

He stretches back, smirking at the ceiling.

“I’ll be in the onsen. Don’t keep me waiting too long, wifey.”

He says it like a joke.

Like he doesn’t expect anything.

And that’s his mistake.

_

The onsen is dimly lit, steam curling around the rocks, moonlight pooling silver in the water.

Gojo’s already in.

He’s leaned back against the smooth stone wall, arms out along the edge, hair wet and slicked back, collarbones gleaming, eyes closed in total smug satisfaction.

Until the door slides open behind him.

He doesn’t look.

“Changed your mind?” he calls over his shoulder. “Couldn’t resist me, huh?”

“Care to join me, wifey?” he drawls lazily, not even opening his eyes.

He doesn’t think you will.

He never expects you to take it that far.

But you do.

Silently, you untie the towel around your body, letting it slip down with a soft thump against the wood.

You don’t answer.

The sound of it hitting the floor is quiet.

But not quiet enough to miss.

His head snaps toward the sound,and when he sees you, standing at the edge of the steam, bathed in warm light and nothing else-

And when he finally turns and sees you...

It knocks the breath from his lungs.

You’re stepping into the water slowly, bare skin glowing in the light, steam kissing every inch of you like it’s lucky to touch you. Your body is all soft curves and smooth lines, thighs glistening, collarbones gleaming, hair pinned messily up so the heat traces down the nape of your neck.

And your eyes. Calm. Eyes slightly lidded.

The moment he sees you, he stills.

Completely.

You don’t stop.

You wade toward him, bare and composed, eyes locked on his like you’ve been planning this. And maybe you have,maybe somewhere between his shoulder brushing yours on the train and his smug grin on the bed, you decided,

You’re going to break him.

You reach him with a soft splash of water, skin glowing in the golden light, lips barely parted.

His hands twitch against the ledge.

“Y-You…” His voice is low. Shaky. “You actually came in.”

You hum softly, like you hadn’t noticed the wreckage in his expression.

“You invited me, didn’t you?”

Your voice is honey.

“It’d be rude not to.”

You place your hands on his shoulders,hot skin against his, your fingers smoothing over damp muscles.

He tenses instantly beneath you.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You lower yourself gently onto his lap, slow enough to feel his breath hitch. Your thighs spread, your knees bracing against the stone ledge behind him, your bare skin sliding over his.

And then you settle.

Chest pressed to chest.

Your cheek brushing his.

Your lips a whisper from his own.

You feel his heartbeat hammer beneath you.

You feel every inch of him,tense, aching, desperate.

“You’ve been teasing me all day, Satoru,” you murmur, breath soft against his jaw. “You thought I’d stay quiet forever?”

His hands finally rise,hesitant at first, then desperate, grabbing at your hips, pulling you closer like he might die if there was even an inch of space between you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps. “You’re—fuck—you’re actually gonna kill me.”

You smile against his cheek.

And then,you move.

Not much. Just a roll of your hips.

A shift.

But it’s enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

His head falls back as your mouth brushes up the side of his neck, not kissing,just there, hovering, letting your breath tickle along his damp skin.

“You’ve had your fun, haven’t you?” you whisper.

“It’s my turn now.”

Your arms wrap slowly around his shoulders.

Your chest presses flush against his.

Water sloshes softly as you adjust,your thighs now firm around his waist, and your lips brushing his, just enough to taste the heat of him.

He’s breathing ragged now.

His hands are everywhere,your back, your waist, sliding over your thighs like he doesn’t know what to touch first.

“Fuck- baby just one—”

And then-

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK-

Sharp. Sudden.

“Room service! Fresh towels, Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

You go completely still.

Satoru? Flinches.

The tension snaps instantly, like a curse seal unraveling beneath his ribs.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

And he looks ruined.

Flushed. Panting. Needing.

You laugh,soft and sweet and far too pleased with yourself.

“Oops.”

He stares at you like you’ve just burned a hole through his soul.

You climb off him, slow and graceful, every brush of your skin against his a punishment.

You step out of the onsen, glancing over your shoulder, water dripping down the line of your back.

Satoru doesn’t move.

He Can’t.

“Also, Satoru,” you say, wrapping the towel back around your waist.

You turn fully to face him, water running down your neck, eyes soft but unreadable.

“We can share the bed tonight.”

You pause,let the silence hang.

Then you smile.

“We’re married, no?”

You say with a wink.

Yeah,His soul leaves his body.

note: this actually took me more than five hours and I've thought of this for so long, I actually really like this,let me know what you guys think and if this deserves a part two...yk🤭

[em1i2a3]

Lovers

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

[callmenigma]

His

You want him to hunt you because you want to be his prey.

Pairings: Jinu x Fem!Reader

Warning: Prey/Hunter dynamics, Obsession, NSFW

Part 2

*

It was your idea.

You’d said it with a half-smile and flushed cheeks, barely able to meet his eyes when you asked. “What would it feel like,” you murmured, “if you hunted me?”

Jinu had blinked, frozen for a beat. Then slowly, a grin crept onto his lips. Not the teasing kind. No, this one was darker. Thirstier. The kind that curled in the corners like smoke before fire.

“You want to be prey, sweetheart?” he’d asked, voice husky with disbelief—and something else. Something feral. “You want me to chase you?”

You had nodded.

And so you ran.

Night fell over Seoul like a silken veil, shadows pooling in alleyways and between streetlamps. The city had never felt so alive—so dangerous. You darted through the streets, breath catching with every step, the cold night air sharp in your lungs. Somewhere behind you, Jinu moved unseen.

Hunting.

He gave you a head start. Told you he’d wait until you were out of sight. But he’d warned you, right before you turned the corner:

"Once I start… I won’t stop until I have you."

And you’d trembled. Not from fear.

From want.

Now, your pulse raced in your throat as you ran through narrow streets, heart hammering like a war drum. You couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t see him. But you felt him.

Watching. Waiting. Closing in.

Then—

Arms.

From behind, strong and sudden, they wrapped around you like chains made of heat and silk. A gasp caught in your throat as your back hit his chest and his hand splayed across your stomach, pinning you in place like you belonged there—because you did.

“Got you,” Jinu growled against your ear, voice low, victorious, obsessed.

Your knees buckled at the sound, and he caught you easily, pulling your trembling form tighter against him, one arm banded across your waist, the other trailing slowly up to cradle your jaw.

He buried his face in your neck.

God.

The scent of you hit him like a punch to the gut.

Sweet. Wild. Terrified—but not from fear. It was the high of adrenaline, of surrender, of wanting to be caught.

He inhaled like it was oxygen, like it was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind completely.

“You smell like prey,” he whispered, voice wrecked with lust and something deeper—something reverent. “Soft little thing, running through the city like I wouldn’t find you.”

God, the feel of you—panting, warm, shaking in his arms—it sent a thrill down his spine that nearly made him dizzy. His heart pounded, but not from exertion. From the sheer, overwhelming satisfaction of having you right where he wanted you.

Where you belonged.

“Oh, sweet girl…” he breathed into your ear, voice husky with praise and something more dangerous. “You ran so well.”

You shivered, and he felt it. Every tremble rippling through your small frame. Your skin was warm and flushed, and he could practically drink the adrenaline humming through your veins.

Jinu buried his face into your neck from behind, groaning low at the scent of your skin. That prey-sweet smell—fear and want, heat and surrender.

It was intoxicating.

His nose dragged along the slope of your neck, slow and reverent. And then he found it—that same pulse point he knew too well. Rapid. Fragile. Fluttering like a bird’s wing under his lips.

He pressed his mouth to it. Just to feel. Just to taste.

And gods, it nearly broke him.

“You smell divine,” he growled, voice vibrating against your throat. “Like something meant to be chased. Meant to be caught.”

His canines grazed your pulse point.

Not a bite. Not yet. Just a tease.

But it was enough.

You bit your lower lip, hard—trying, failing, to suppress the soft moan threatening to spill. He felt it in the way your body pressed into his, the tension in your thighs, the way your hands curled around his forearms holding you in place.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered, teeth dragging along your skin, deliberate and slow. “So obedient. So sweet.”

He was obsessed with you. Every breath, every reaction, every sound you made was his drug. Your trembling was his high.

You belonged to him—not metaphorically. Not romantically.

Utterly.

Spirit. Skin. Scent.

You were his prey, his possession, his perfect addiction.

And Jinu had never felt more alive than he did with you in his arms, shaking and silent, caught between danger and devotion.

And he had no intention of letting you go.

Jinu’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as if he needed your body pressed to his to breathe. But it wasn’t enough—not when your pulse was still fluttering against his lips, not when your body still trembled in his grasp.

So he moved.

His hand slid up from your stomach to your chest, fingers splayed over your heart, possessive and firm. Then, slowly—so slowly—his other hand reached up, curling under your jaw. With effortless strength, he tilted your head back, exposing the delicate line of your throat to him like an offering on a pedestal.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your skin.

And then his lips descended.

Open-mouthed, starving, he kissed along your neck—each press slow, deep, worshipful. His tongue dragged across your skin like he needed to memorize your taste, his teeth grazing the soft spots just enough to make you gasp.

You moaned—quiet, involuntary—your hands flying to his forearm, the one that held your chest tightly against him. You grabbed it, needing something solid to ground yourself as your knees began to weaken beneath his mouth.

The hand on your jaw shifted, his thumb brushing your cheek, angling your head just right to give him more space—more you.

And you gave it.

Because there was no hiding anymore. No pretending you didn’t want this. No pretending he didn’t own every part of you in that moment.

“Jinu… please…” you whispered, breath trembling.

He froze for half a second.

Then smiled against your throat.

A slow, devilish grin.

“Please?” he echoed, voice thick with smug amusement, tongue teasing the word like it tasted better than blood. “Please what, little prey? You’ve gotta be more specific.”

He pressed a kiss right below your ear, hot and lingering. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whimpered—shook your head.

“Didn’t think so,” he whispered, his voice now a wicked purr. “You asked me to hunt you, remember? You said you wanted to feel it.”

He nipped at the edge of your collarbone, just enough to make your breath catch again.

“How’s it feel, mm?” he murmured. “To be caught by the very thing you should be running from?”

His hand on your chest moved, just slightly, stroking down your ribs. His body caged yours in, holding you completely, and still—you didn’t move.

You let him have you.

Because you had asked for this.

And Jinu was going to make sure you never forgot what it felt like to be hunted.

Wanted.

Claimed.

His.

Jinu held you like a secret, pressed between his body and the cool wall behind you, his mouth still trailing hot, slow kisses across your neck. You were trembling in his arms, your breath coming in stuttered gasps, your hands gripping the forearm wrapped tight across your chest.

But it was when his other hand moved—slowly, deliberately—that your whole body locked up.

Fingertips skimmed down your belly, feather-light, the silk of your blouse shifting beneath his palm. You shuddered, gasping softly as his hand traveled lower, teasing the waistband of your skirt. There was a pause—brief, torturous—and then—

He slipped beneath the fabric.

And the moment his fingers brushed over you, over the aching heat he’d drawn out of you with nothing but words and teeth and breath—

Jinu shivered.

A sharp inhale cut through his lips. His body tensed behind you, and he pressed his face deeper into your neck as if the sensation had nearly undone him.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice wrecked and reverent. “You’re soaked.”

His grip tightened on your chest, pulling you closer, holding you in place as he groaned low against your skin.

“All this…” His voice turned teasing again, but it was laced with something darker. "All this just from being chased? From being caught?”

You whimpered.

He chuckled, slow and dangerous. “And here I thought I was the demon.”

You could feel him shudder against your back, like your scent alone was enough to shake him apart.

And then—his power began to bleed through.

Lilac-colored markings bloomed across his pale skin like ink beneath ice, rising over the backs of his hands, crawling up his arms like quiet fire. His breathing deepened, the control in him unraveling inch by inch. His amber eyes—already glowing—sharpened, blazed.

The pupils slitted fully now. Like a serpent’s. Like something no longer pretending to be human.

He buried his face into the curve of your neck again, inhaling deeply like your scent was air, like your trembling was fuel.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he murmured, his voice distorted slightly by the force behind it, by the beast inside him inching forward.

“You have no idea what it does to me—feeling you like this. Letting me have you. Just like this.”

He didn’t need to say more.

Because his body said it all.

He was feral for you.

And you’d offered yourself up like prey…

But now?

Now, you were his salvation and his ruin—wrapped in one perfect, trembling body against his.

*

[warrior-of-storms]

Ooooh DC you wanna bring back the Jaybin & Donna Troy dynamic so bad... you wanna retcon in another Jason-Teen Titans team-up... ooh DC you know you wanna do it...

Had Jason gotten to live and if he'd had more irl time as Robin, I think it would've been sweet if he had become better friends with Donna. Not only is she the only person who was on both of his Titans missions, but she's also like a sister to Dick and I think it would've been sweet for her to be like "you know what, my brother's brother is also my brother now. Hey kid wanna go to space?" Like I just think they could've been really cute.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Food for thought: imagine lion!mydei with a prey reader!!! Yk, toss in some dub con and predator/ prey dynamics 🤭. Oh, the way us floofy ears would twitch and his tail would wrap around your leg!!

I'm absolutely convinced mydei is 10000% mean man when it's between the sheets.

Have a good day/night <3. I rlly luv your works and what's your secret to writing rlly good smut? Teach me your ways professor!

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 warnings : nsfw/smut, bunny fem!reader, creampie, multiple of rounds, spanking, size kink, breeding kink, biting, huge dubcon alert, multiple of orgasms and tit slapping and other stuff. ^.^

𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 note : tysm! i’m glad you enjoyed my writing sweetie. And I don’t really have a secret lmao! i’ve been writing long stories ever since I was 11. also reader is implied to be chubby and curvy! also not proof read (as always).

The forest was quiet. Too quiet.

You should have noticed it earlier—the way the birds had stopped singing, the way the wind had died down as if holding its breath. But you were a bunny, and a very stupid one at that. Soft and slow and terribly, terribly unaware.

That was why you didn’t realize you were being hunted until it was far too late.

A branch cracked. Your ears twitched, your breath hitched, and then—

A massive force slammed into you from behind, knocking you down into the dirt. Your heart pounded as you scrambled to flee, but it was useless. Large, clawed hands pinned you down, pressing your softer, squishier body into the earth. A deep, rumbling growl ghosted over the shell of your ear, and your instincts screamed.

Predator.

Your body locked up in fear, trembling beneath the sheer weight of the beast above you. You had heard the stories of the lion-king before—the ruthless ruler of the wilds, the monster who tore through his prey with teeth and claw. And yet, when he dipped his head, sniffing along the side of your neck, he didn’t bite.

He inhaled. Deeply.

And then, to your absolute horror, he groaned.

“Fuck,” the lion rumbled, his voice thick, heated, laced with something primal. His heavy tail coiled around your thigh, holding you in place. His hips rolled against yours, and you felt it—the thick, hard shape of him pressing against your ass. “You smell too sweet to eat, little rabbit.”

His tongue flicked out, running a slow, wet trail up your throat. You shuddered, trying to shrink away, but his hands only gripped you tighter, claws grazing against your skin.

“You’re lucky,” Mydei murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’m hungry for something else.”

Your breath hitched when he grinded against you again, slow and deliberate, letting you feel just how big he was. Your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly despite the fear still prickling at your spine. His hand moved, fingers dragging down your stomach, teasing at the plush softness there before dipping lower.

“Gonna ruin this dumb little bunny cunt,” he growled. “Make you scream for me.”

You whimpered, but there was no escape.

The lion had caught his prey. And he wasn’t letting go.

A rough hand forced your back into an arch, making you whimper as your ass lifted higher. Mydei chuckled, low and dark, his heavy tail coiling tighter around your plush thigh. The fur was deceptively soft against your skin, a contrast to the ruthless grip he had on you.

“Look at this,” he murmured, his large palm sliding over your hips, groping the softest parts of you like he was testing his prize. “Built to be fucked. You were never meant to run, little thing—just to be caught.”

A sharp smack landed across your ass. You yelped, lurching forward, but he dragged you back with ease. Another slap—harder this time—sent a hot sting rippling through your body, making your legs twitch. Your fluffy tail twitched too, betraying you, and he laughed.

“Sensitive,” he mused, palming your sore flesh before delivering another punishing slap. “You get wet from this, don’t you?”

You shook your head, ears flopping as you whimpered, but you both knew the truth. His fingers slid lower, past the heat pooling between your thighs, and—fuck—he found you already slick.

“Stupid little thing,” he purred, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your clit. “What kind of prey gets wet for their predator?”

You gasped as he slid a thick finger into you, then another, stretching you open in cruel, lazy strokes. Your walls fluttered, trying to take him deeper, trying to milk something that wasn’t even inside you yet. Mydei groaned, nosing against the base of your fluffy ears, dragging his teeth lightly along them.

“Bet you’ll take my cock just as easy,” he murmured. “Gonna make you mine. Stuff you so full, you’ll never be able to run again.”

Your thighs trembled as he pulled his fingers away, leaving you empty and aching. Then—something hotter, heavier, pressed against your entrance. You gasped at the sheer size of it, instinct screaming again, but his tail tightened around your thigh, holding you still.

“You’re made for this,” Mydei rasped, rubbing the thick head of his cock against your slick folds. “Made to take my seed, to be bred nice and full.”

He thrust in, stretching your pussy open, forcing a ragged cry from your throat. Your fingers clawed at the dirt, your ears pressing flat against your head as your walls clenched around him, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him.

"That’s it," he groaned, his grip on your hips bruising. “Gonna make you all mine, little thing.”

And with another rough thrust, he set a brutal, unrelenting pace.

Each thrust was brutal, knocking you forward only for Mydei to yank you back onto his cock, forcing you to take him deep. Your plush thighs shook, your body burning with overstimulation, but he didn’t let up.

“Ngh—too much—” you gasped, voice breaking between ragged moans. Your ears twitched wildly with each slam of his hips, your tail fluffing up in distress.

“Too much?” Mydei echoed, voice dripping with mockery. His claws dragged down your sides before settling on your tits, gripping them roughly, squeezing the soft flesh between his fingers. “You’re dripping all over my cock, little thing. You love this.”

You whined as he pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers before slapping your tits, making them bounce from the impact. Your body betrayed you—each slap sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to your core, making your walls clamp down even tighter around him.

"Fuck," he growled, his tail curling possessively around your thigh. “Look at you. Dumb little prey, taking my cock so well. Taking it like you were made for it.”

Your arms gave out, leaving you to slump forward onto your elbows, tits pressing into the dirt. Mydei loomed over you, his golden mane brushing against your back as he fucked you harder, deeper, his breath hot against your nape.

"You’re mine," he groaned, one clawed hand gripping the back of your neck, keeping you in place. "Say it."

You could barely think, barely breathe, pleasure crashing over you in waves. His cock was splitting you open, dragging against your walls in a way that had your stomach twisting in knots. Making your ears flattened as your tail fluffed up.

“Mydei—“ you whimpered.

His hips snapped forward, making you scream.

“Say it.”

“I—I'm yours!” you sobbed, voice breaking into a desperate wail. “Yours—your prey—your—ahhh!”

His teeth sank into the side of your throat, claiming you fully, and your vision went white as you came hard around his cock, your walls milking him greedily.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarled, his thrusts turning erratic. His hands clamped down on your hips, holding you still as he drove into you one last time, pressing himself deep.

Heat flooded your insides as he spilled inside you, thick and so much—your already-sensitive body trembled as you felt it seep even deeper. His cock throbbed, pumping more and more into you, and Mydei let out a pleased growl, licking over the fresh bite mark on your throat.

“Mine,” he murmured again, his hands smoothing over your plush body, possessive and satisfied. “And now… you're bred.”

His tail remained wrapped around your thigh, keeping you close.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Your body trembled beneath him, overstimulated and wrecked, but Mydei wasn’t done with you. His cock still twitched inside your soaked, swollen cunt, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he shifted his weight over you. His tail curled tighter around your thigh, keeping you spread open, forcing you to take every last drop of his seed.

“You look so fucked-out already,” he murmured, one large hand smoothing down your spine before gripping your hips again. “But I’m not done with you yet, little prey.”

You shivered as his hand ghosted lower, spreading your ass to watch his cum leak out of you. He groaned at the sight, his claws digging into your plush flesh. “Already dripping, and I haven’t even knotted you yet.”

Your ears twitched weakly, your breathing still ragged as you turned your head to look back at him. Your wide, dazed eyes shimmered in the dim light, glassy and unfocused—doe-eyed and utterly lost. Mydei sucked in a sharp breath, his cock throbbing at the way you gazed up at him, helpless and ruined.

“Fuck,” he growled. His hand suddenly snaked around your waist, dragging you up off the dirt. You gasped as he pulled you flush against his chest, your legs barely able to hold you up as his cock throbbed deep inside your cunt.

“You’re looking at me like you still don’t get it,” he murmured against your ear. His palm slid up your soft belly before grabbing your tits, squeezing, toying with the sensitive flesh. “You thought I’d stop after one round? Thought I’d just let you go?”

You whined, jolting as he suddenly slapped your tits, making them bounce under his grip. Your whole body jiggled from the impact, heat blooming across your skin, and Mydei “groaned” as his cock twitched inside you.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, rolling your hard nipples between his fingers before giving another sharp slap to your tits, watching them jiggle in his grasp. “Mine to fuck, mine to fill—“

His other hand suddenly slammed against your lower belly, pressing down right where his cock stretched you open. You gasped, your walls fluttering around him as he chuckled darkly.

“Feel that?” he purred. “Right here. My cock, stuffing you so full.”

You sobbed, your hips twitching as he began grinding against your overstimulated clit, pressing down on your belly with every slow, deep thrust.

“Too much—Mydei, please—”

“Please?” he mocked, nosing along your flushed cheek. “Please what, little prey? Please keep fucking you? Please breed you again?"

Your mind was fogged with pleasure, your body trembling in his grasp, but you still managed to choke out a desperate, ruined—

“Yes!”

Mydei snapped.

His tail tightened around your thigh as he slammed you back onto his cock, spearing you open, making your tits bounce wildly with each punishing thrust. You could do nothing but whimper, drool spilling from your lips as your walls spasmed around him, milking him for more.

“Fuck—you’re perfect,” he groaned, licking over your ear before biting down on your shoulder, claiming you. “Gonna fill you up again. Gonna knot you—make sure my seed takes—“

You let out a choked cry as he pressed his palm against your belly again, feeling himself inside you, knowing he was going to breed you until you couldn’t take anymore.

Until you were nothing but his.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[abyssyby]

maybe a dragon

— Lucian wants to be like his papa, which strikes fear into Sylus's heart like no other.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: lucian & sylus spotlight!!! did i cry when i wrote this? yes, i did. it was just supposed to be a soft banter thing exploring their dynamic but it kinda snowballed into this... now both lucian and kyros (coming up next! out now!) have angsty drabbles. i hope you enjoy this one! ❀-urs

important heads up for context of this story: lucian is (my headcanon) 1/2 of sylus's twin boys. around 4 years in this one! ᡣ𐭩 read lucian's twin's chapter here ᡣ𐭩

sylus & lucian | sylus x reader | angst, fluff, comfort, sylus's son showing him that every part of him is lovable, dad!sylus, mom!reader tw: mentions of past violence/self-harm

Lucian likes it when papa is startled. It’s an emotion he’s extremely gifted in bringing out of him. Not by hiding around corners and going ‘boo!’. No, papa just smirks at that and shakes his head, tells him to try again. 

Lucian is especially talented in being in places papa never expects (or never wants) him to be in.

“Lucian!” Sylus barks, rushing over to him who balances himself on the window sill. Peeling fat little cheeks off of the glass and cradling him to safety. 

“Lucian.” Sylus warns when Lucian is halfway up the bookshelf. He supervises, but when Lucian loses footing, Sylus is quick to scoop him up and out of the study, drawing him close to his heart and calming his own erratic breathing. 

“Lucian?!” Sylus exclaims, rushing down the stairs after his son who passes him, sliding down the banister. 

Statues, trees, shelves, counters, tables and chairs— Lucian craves height. A bird’s eye view. Everything would be so much easier for him if tiny dragon wings popped out of his back. Although, that would be another headache for Sylus altogether.  

“Papa?” he asks one morning, already hauling himself up his father’s legs. Hair messy from sleep, having followed Sylus out to the balcony. His bare feet had pitter-pattered on the cold tile, and now he longs to be lifted.

Sylus has since shifted his routine to keep up with his family. He doesn’t mind it, not when he spends most of his waking hours being cuddled by his two boys, and his evenings snuggled up against you. 

“Yes, angel?” Sylus quirks his elbow out, just enough for the boy to use it as leverage. 

“D’you—do you likes going up?” 

“Upstairs?” Sylus asks, slightly teasing. He tilts his head to the side to give Lucian his shoulder to grip.

“No, no,” Lucian says. Shifting comfortably, completing his climb now with both legs dangling off of Sylus’s shoulders. He is pointing to the slowly coloring sky, tilting his head down just enough that Sylus can see his eyes. “Up, up-high, papa?”

“Oh,” Sylus nods. He thinks, he does appreciate being out on the balcony, checking in hotel rooms on the top floor, plane rides, looking at the scenery from atop a mountain after hiking it with you. Perhaps he does, although he doesn’t outwardly seek the thrill of it. “I do. But I don’t… look for it. I’m tall.” 

Hopeful eyes shine with enthusiasm only children can exude. “Will I be tall?” 

Sylus revels at this, singing, “Maybe.” 

“Why maybe?” 

“Because mama’s small.” 

“Mama not small.” Lucian giggles.

“Mama’s a kitty cat. Very tiny.” 

“No, mama not!” he giggles again, little bubbles of joy bursting from his chest. Stomach trembling against the back of Sylus’s head, ruffling his father’s hair. Contagious, Sylus grins too, straining to get a glimpse of Lucian’s laughing. 

Tiny means Mephisto— and Lucian distinctly recalls looking upwards when asking mama for sweeties.

Sylus reaches up and pinches his cheek. “Who knows? Maybe your whiskers will come in before your wings.” 

Lucian flinches, gasping like he’d just been startled by thunder. An excitement rushes through him, and his little fists tug at two spots on Sylus’s head that would’ve been too sharp for such soft hands a lifetime ago. “I’ll get wings?” 

It feels like an attack, when it flashes in Sylus’s mind like lighting— the image of his son with wings and scales and the tiniest of horns. Sylus has to take a grounding breath, distress reflecting in how his voice drops into a somber tone. 

“Or whiskers.” he tries to play along, to steer him ever so gently elsewhere. To you, back to you. His son will have his face, but he prays for him to have your heart, your soul. 

But Lucian has already invaded his vision— bright amber eyes and a happy smile. One Sylus has never seen on a face like his regarding turning into a monster.  It makes his stomach churn, his throat tighten, his muscles into stone. Like when he once lived in that cave, unmoving and undisturbed. Like when he was slain for being that very thing Lucian’s eyes shine for now. 

What once was something cursed unto his body, bloody and battered by his own hands— his son now craves. His son now wants with unabashed wonder. A gripping, heart-leaping prospect rather than the most horrific of fates. 

Sylus takes a deep breath through his nose, reeling it in. He feels his jaw tremble at the exhale, refusing to be dragged into the riptide of his anguish. Not now, he wills himself, not in front of Lucian. 

But his child’s desire knows no fences or stone walls, especially when he feels it draws him closer to his father.

“Papa, I want wings.�� he says simply. Upside down, kissing his forehead, because mama does it when she’s near papa’s face too. 

Sylus flinches slightly at the all-too familiar action, not enough to jostle Lucian, but just so for the boy's voice to lower just that little bit. As if he thought he’d startled a poor deer. Lucian whispers, “Two please?” 

Sylus can feel the phantom crystal heart in his chest crack. And he knows for sure that one day, his love for his children will be the cause of its inevitable shatter.  

And he thinks this is his punishment for all the grief he’d caused you when you found him that day tending to his crumpled wings and bloodied horns. These things he’d purposefully hidden and tucked away to not horrify you now like he did back in that life, in that cave. 

To be faced with a soul that is both yours and his— with his face and your smile— telling him he wants to be just like him. Just like Sylus. And every inch of hate and dread for who he was is sickeningly turned on its head, slapped across his face in the image of his boy. Because how could he hate that of what he loves so dearly? 

And yet, maybe this is what you see when you look at him. This is what you marvel at with galaxies in your eyes and tenderness in your touch— his face, with the heart of a dragon. This— in the shape of a little boy— is who he is. One who cares, not abandons. Who feels, not hurts. Who loves, not leaves. 

Just like you did, your son cradles his being in tiny hands. Just like you did, his son looks at him with boundless affection. Just like you did, his son caresses his horns, embraces his wings. Just like you do, his son is cleaning his bloodied wounds, whispering words of comfort and telling him— “It’s okay. You’re beautiful, and I love who you are.” 

And somehow, that makes the pain bearable. Maybe now, he believes it too.

“Okay.” Sylus says through the lump in his throat. Swallowing thickly sticky sentimental pain to replace with something else. Something better. Something good. 

He gently maneuvers his beautiful beastly boy down into his arms into an embrace, burying his nose in his starlight hair and pressing his lips to the space between his brows. “Two then, for my Lucian.” 

His Lucian, whose talent lies in startling his papa with how little of him it takes to heal the wounds he’d thought were too deep to reach. Though, he supposes little hands can squeeze through the crevices of his heart just fine. 

His Lucian, whose talent also lies in making his papa cry. 

In silence, you catch them staring at the dawning of a new day. Two silhouettes of the same shape, talking fondly to one another, against the rising orange hues of the endless sky.

“Will I get big wings?” Asks the little one.

“Maybe.” Says the big one. “Mephisto’s wings are small.”

“Papaa!” Lucian whines and hopelessly buries his face in Sylus’s hair. Just like you do. And, for Sylus, what a delightful thing it is.

✧˚ ⋆｡ next: maybe a turtle (kyros) || read more with the little twins here || more sylus thoughts ✧˚ ⋆｡

thank you for reading!

[hunnieknight]

Little Soul

A leyline abnormality has occured in the House of Hearth!

Gn!Reader, unspecified relationship status, SUBTLE power dynamic, OOC, bad grammar and no beta read, quick story, canon divergent?

~~

Being House of Hearth's best leyline researcher means you work outside a lot. Always be on the field, directly studying the leylines themselves.

Being the best also means that the Head of the House always rely on you whenever there is an abnormality. You and the Lady are quite close, in professional matter. Everything is mostly about documents and mission.

With few personal teacup party.

The very first tea party was a nervous wreck. The Lady herself request for your presence, only you, just you. Oh boy, despite the bad thoughts clouded your mind, you just hope you got a raise or promotion.

Thankfully, it was just her asking for a plan. A quite specific plan of a very specific leyline abnormalities. It was Clervie, one of House of Hearth's children in the past.

That's where you learnt more of the Head of House of Hearth's past. She doesn't tell much other than Clervie need to be gone as she isn't suppose to exist and wandering about. Putting a soul to rest, again.

After hours of talking, she settled with a plan, thanking you by promising a raise on the next salary. Somehow, knowing how she was in the past is a promotion itself for you, imposing into her life story where not a lot of people are lucky enough to know.

Knowing how a leyline can manifest, how a memory of the past can exist as a visible soul, how an innocent soul can stuck in time, how...Arlecchino was just a child.

Leylines, basically Tevyat's biggest hive network memories, everything that has happened in the world is recorded and remembered.

Including the very memory that Arlecchino wants to forget.

You always see the Lady herself is all calm and collected, barely anything makes her break a sweat. She often does things her own way, it is quick and precise.

Now imagine your shock and dread when a pigeon bird flies to you with a small note "S.O.S". You know this bird, in fact, this one particular pigeon is only assigned for you. A messenger pigeon, reserved only for you, only for emergency, only from the Lady Arlecchino.

Door slams open, all due respect but anxiety fills your body, there is no time for greetings and formalities, if the Lady herself sending urgent message there must be some-

Huh?

It took you a moment to realize another abnormality like Clervie happens again but..in..the appearance of..the Lady?!

The task is simple, RETURN PERUERE. Okay, it's not that dreadful but the fact the fact the Lady trusting you to do this task, you feel like she is testing your skill. Testing if you are truly her best researcher.

You nodded, agreed to keep Lil Peruere a secret, her small hand engulf by yours when you guide the little soul into your private research office.

The true challenge is not sending her back, the TRUE challenge is to not grow attachment to the soul. Yes, she is a bit unique but the way her little hands always wanting to help stacking books, papers and catching small spiders making you grow fond of the little one.

So this is how Arlecchino was when she was a child, huh?

Makes you wonder what would Arlecchino's child be like.

This challenge also creating a bridge, more personal bridge rather than professional. Often times you only meet Arlecchino if there is a task, it was professional and formal, over a teacup party.

When Little Peruere stays with you, Arlecchino always shows up before your research office, o'clock, with..basket of sweets?

It was nice, the atmosphere is less formal and more domestic casual. Conversation is not always about the research progress, sometimes it's about Arlecchino's upbringing, what Little Peruere likes to do, and your own trivial stuff. The intimate talk only be witnessed by the papers and whiteboards in the research office.

Weeks passed and with Arlecchino's power, Little Peruere passed on, same with Clervie, the warm sunlight enveloping the lost soul as the little one disappear into small glistening petals. Just like Clervie, Arlecchino accompany Little Peruere, but you also sits next to her. Arlecchino have asked you to stay in the research office as the night is cold, yet here you are...

Sitting next to her, leading the conversation as both Peruere and Arlecchino prefers to listening in. The dawn sky is beautiful, dark twilight-blue night sky slowly painted with yellow-orange lights. Peruere watching with fascination, yours watching the little one with adoration, and you felt a pair of eyes watching you from the side.

~~

Clicking, typing, rustling filled your research office. You need to make a report on the little soul, as formality of your works. Arlecchino was there to proofreading the report herself.

The Harbinger doesn't miss how you sighed a lot, recalling the little pitter-patter of Peruere's feet around your office, the small hands tidying up the papers around, and the small bug container-which always contain any bugs found in your office- in the corner is empty now that Peruere is not here.

Arlecchino thinks, you have gone this far to send the soul back. Perhaps she should give you something in return, it's only fair in transaction,right?

What is it? A day off? A vacation? A raise? A promotion? A kid of your own?

Well, it seems you have grown fond to the little Peruere, perhaps...another real Peruere would be a delight?

And what a delight it is~! The House of Hearth burst into happiness when the news of another member, from the Father herself , was announced when the children are eating dinner.

This raised the House's morale, everybody work and play safely, determined to go home in one piece looking forward when cries of an infant burst into the house. It would be hell to get used to but the House of Hearth is used to not cry for pain, no tears of loss and grief.

This is the only cry they would have, the only wail in the building, the only tears they would be happy to hear. The only tears in the House of Hearth....

Oh hey, The Tsaritsa send a baby care package~♡!

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♡♡

.

.

.

Another one is in the oven

[valeisaslut]

cursed are the ones who stay .♱ ݁˖

previous part — blessed are the ones who sin

♱ word count: 6.2k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

♱ content warnings: country!ellie x preacher’s daughter!reader, switch!reader x switch!ellie, oral sex (r!receiving), tribbing, religious guilt/blasphemy, nipple play, use of southern accents/drawl, internalized shame, heavy misogyny, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, AFAB reader. MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

header edited by my beloved @satellitespinner <3 ilysm. also, i highly recommend listening to hozier — my emotional support poet — while reading. it truly elevates the experience.

the dress feels like a noose as you drag it down your body.

stiff, pale, a fabric that doesn’t breathe, doesn’t give. you stand in the mirror for too long, brushing a palm over the faint sting where ellie’s fingers pressed into your skin the night before. the marks aren’t gone. they’re still there, blooming dark and sinful on your hip.

a rosary rests cold and delicate at your throat, its beads brushing the hollow of your collarbone. your hair is brushed, styled, molded into obedience. the reflection stares back at you like a stranger, a saintly ghost you can’t recognize.

downstairs, your father’s voice hums from the dining room, wrapped in scripture, politeness and the sound of silver clicking on porcelain. you draw a breath — shaky, sharp — and walk down the stairs.

the room goes quiet when your heel finds the last step. 

the dining room is a shrine. a long table groaning under the weight of a meal your mother spent all afternoon making, sweat staining the apron she refused to remove until moments ago. bowls of mashed potatoes, roast chicken still steaming, slices of cornbread lined up like offerings. your father didn’t lift a finger to help — never has. he presides at the head of the table like a statue, hands resting on the wood as if he built it, as if he earned the right to occupy it.

every surface hums with judgment. a cross on the wall, a framed verse hanging slightly askew, amen stitched into cloth and laid across the mantel. it's a house that doesn't murmur or beckon, nor offers absolution — it proclaims.

you find yourself at the threshold, suppressing the sharp sensation rising in your throat. aware that this room was designed to remain oblivious to any word you speak tonight — and even if it does hear, it will not heed your voice.

because there he is.

austin.

older than you by nearly a decade, a boy your father picked the way he’d pick a calf for sacrifice. crisp shirt pressed, sharp as a blade, hair meticulously combed as if for a sunday sermon, and a smile that never truly reaches his eyes. a handshake that is excessively firm, lingering too long, like a claim being staked. you recall every reason why you can’t stand the way he looks at you, as if you were a deed awaiting signature, a piece of land he already aims to call his.

“evenin’, darlin’,” he says, rising halfway like it’s some display of courtesy. “you look…well.”

“thank you,” you barely mumble, voice tight.

your father motions towards the empty chair, and you settle into it as if you were a condemned thing.

meanwhile, the table hums with talk that doesn’t need your voice. 

your father takes a long sip from his glass. “we were just talkin’ about the wedding. might be a spring one, if austin here has his way.”

austin grins like a boy with a toy. “sooner the better, reverend. i reckon the lord likes a house that’s in order.”

“indeed.” your father’s voice softens, silk draped over a dagger. “ain’t no sense in lettin’ a good girl sit too long, might as well make her a wife. build a family.”

your mother chimes in, voice resembling the sound of a gentle, caged bird. “have y’all talked about a date? perhaps after easter services?”

austin rests a hand on the table, palm big and flat. “that’s about when i was thinking, it gives us enough time to settle things before summer.”

each word lands like a stone, both sharp and weighty, punching the air from your chest. you open your mouth, breath poised to voice a protest. “i—”

“perfect.” and your father doesn’t even glance your way. “that’ll give the church time to plan. we can have the ceremony right after morning service, so the lord can witness it all.”

“...have you talked about children?” your mother asks.

“of course,” your future husband replies smoothly, brushing an invisible crumb from the table. “reverend, i was raised to provide and lead. my father gave my mother five beautiful children, and might be the lord has a similar plan for us.”

the lie that statement holds is enough to make your stomach turn — you’ve never spoken of children, never spoken of anything beyond polite nods and practiced smiles. and that is truly the last straw.

you let your fork fall just hard enough for the sound to slice through the air, every eye snapping toward you.

“what about what i want?”

your words slice through the air in the room like a whip, sharp and stinging.

but your father remains unresponsive, unyielding, not even looking at you. he simply takes a long sip from his glass, his voice rising in volume when he finally chooses to speak.

“you don’t get a say. this ain’t about what you want, it’s about what’s right. a woman’s place is to obey, bear children, and walk the path a man sets for her — and the lord will save the rest.”

the words land like a hammer blow. you flinch, swallowing hard as a sting blooms behind your eyes. you drop your gaze to the ground, lashes quivering, trying desperately to blink the piercing sensation away before it can spill down your cheeks.

austin’s voice softens then, rehearsed and too-sweet. “honey, this is a blessing. we’re just making sure your future is secure. you’ll be taken care of. you’ll be…happy.”

happy.

the word itself tastes like ashes, resounds like deceivement. you sink back in your chair, struggling to force down the bitter bile rising in your throat.

they carry on as if you hadn’t spoken, as if you weren’t breathing, weren’t shaking, weren’t burning with the memory of a red bandana cinched tight at your wrists. of a low, smoky laugh brushing your ear. of hands that molded themselves to every scar you’ve ever tried to forget.

your mother doesn’t speak either. she just nods, a tiny, brittle tilt of the chin before looking down at her plate, like it’s all she knows how to do — like this was always her fate too. she’d walked this same path, sat at this same table, sat in this same silence when she was your age.

here, you’re a silhouette, an ornament polished and placed just so. holy words spill forth from holy mouths, binding you tighter than any rope ever could.

you glance down at your hands resting in your lap, faint red marks sitting across your skin.

and across the table, austin grins like a boy about to inherit the world.

but inside, deep down, you’re already gone. gone to a hayloft where holy means burning, gone to hands that pray a different kind of prayer. gone to a place where silence doesn’t mean obedience.

but still, you pick up your fork.

still, you force a smile.

“of course.”

the house goes quiet long after midnight. long after the low hum of conversation has dried to silence, after austin goes home, after the dishes are clear, after the holy portraits have gone dark and the lamp in your father’s study has winked out.

you’re in your nightgown — soft, lavender silk brushing your thighs — perched on the edge of your bed, listening to the slow drum of your own heart. your fingers brush the crisp, white coverlet that feels like a shroud.

through the window, the moon spills a long, silvery line across the floorboards. you watch it move, slow and languid, as if it carries no worries in the world. as if it chose to stay silent too.

it’s a room that doesn’t feel like yours, if it ever did. pale walls, too clean, too bright, lined with crosses and saints that judge you from every angle. a row of pressed dresses hanging in the closet, a golden rosary resting on the nightstand, a bible lying open on the desk, pages dog‑eared from hands that weren’t your own.

and you can't help but wonder how long you can bear this. how long until your voice fades completely, how long until austin transforms from a mere man to your... husband. wonder how will be like to feel a ring resting on your finger and him beside you in bed, a presence that still feels unbearable even from miles away. a man you will never truly love.

a man who will never be — not even half — of her.

and here, in the silence, in the pale glow of the room, your condemnation settles like a spectre.

hours feel like days when you can’t sleep. you can't think, can’t do anything except stare out the window, at the velvet black of the fields beyond. and somewhere deep, deep down — under godly walls and godly rules, under the sting of a night that won’t end — you whisper a prayer.

and just like if the sky itself answered, a faint tap at the glass snaps your spine straight. you rise, bare feet brushing the floorboards, and move to the window. when you slide it open, your breath catches.

ellie.

she's there, leaning against the house like a shadow. lopsided grin dancing on her lips, auburn hair tousled, flannel half-tucked. her freckles are barely visible in the glow of the moon, but those piercing green eyes flicker like a match in the endless night.

and you don’t hesitate— you never did. you lean down quickly, tugging her by the hand until she’s hauling herself through the window and into the room, brushing dust from her worn jeans like she hasn’t just risked falling ten feet for you.

you stare at her for a moment, shocked, voice shaking. “oh lord, you…you can’t be here. if my daddy finds out—”

“i know,” ellie mutters quietly, brushing hair from your cheek with a hand that still carries the sting of work. “i just… fuck, i just wanted to see you.”

you swallow hard, brushing your nose along the sharp curve of her jaw. “you’re gonna get yourself killed, ellie.”

she grins, low and soft, brushing her thumb across your lip.

“maybe,” she rasps, leaning closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “but i don’t give a damn if i get to be with you.”

you draw in a shaky breath, brushing your hand down the worn fabric of her shirt like you can’t bear to let go. “you’re crazy, you know that?”

and ellie just tips her head, brushing her nose to yours like she can quiet the sting in your chest with a single breath.

“then let me stay tonight, baby,” she breathes, voice gone soft. “even if it’s just for a minute.”

and when her mouth finds yours, when her hand cradles the back of your neck and draws you closer like a orison answered, you don’t ask questions anymore.

her hand presses the small of your back, hauling you closer like gravity itself can’t bear to have space between your bodies. her mouth finds yours, urgent and burning, a kiss that tastes like midnight air and belonging. it’s deep, hungry, desperate.

you whine quietly when her hand skims down, brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown, the press of calloused fingers making sparks race down your spine. you tug her closer, swallowing the sound of her low groan. the room shrinks down until it’s just the two of you — breaths and brushing hands, tangled threads that don’t request permission.

ellie’s hands bracket your waist as she guides you backward until your knees bump the bed. she eases you down onto the mattress carefully, like she knows your father’s shotgun could be at her throat in any moment, and decides you’re still worth the risk. every breath. every bullet.

you sink down, arching as her mouth finds your throat, brushing along the curve of your collarbone, the thin strap of your nightgown falling down your shoulder under the tug of her fingers. the sting of it brushing the marks she left makes you shiver, your voice breaking into a breathless gasp.

“ellie…”

“shh,” she whispers, brushing the sush across your skin like a kiss, your fingertips finding her hair. “i’ve got you.”

her hand slips down, brushing the bare skin of your thigh, the soft fabric rising with each languid stroke. she’s shaking too — brushing a hand across your jaw, cradling it like the precious thing it is.

and then she’s kissing you again like she means it, like she needs it — deep, commanding, but tender in all the ways the world has never been for either of you.

the room holds its breath. you can feel the weight of the crosses watching, the saints framed in gold leaf and dust, their painted eyes casting down in judgment from every wall. the moonlight spills across the floor, glinting off rosaries, off the edges of the little silver crucifix above your bed. the air hums with the kind of rigidity that makes your pulse stutter in your throat.

but everything ceases to matter when ellie’s hands are on you — slow, sure, shaking just enough that you know she’s been waiting for this as much as you. she ghosts her fingers over the hem of your nightgown, eyes locked on yours, asking. you respond with a single, sure nod.

she lowers the fabric inch by inch, slow enough to feel the cool air kiss your skin, slow enough to feel your breath catch in your chest. the garment pools at your feet, forgotten, and you lay bare in front of her in the pale glow, skin warm and trembling under her gaze.

ellie draws in a breath, reverent, as if she’s seeing you for the first time all over again. her hands find your ribs, tracing the soft lines of you with fingers roughened by rope. then she peels off her brown flannel, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her freckled chest bare to the night, to you.

your hands find her before your mind catches up — tracing the dip of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the faint scar that cuts across her side.

you caress her gently, like she’s the last spark of joy you’ll ever know, and maybe she really is. her skin is warm, solid beneath your palms, and she shivers under the weight of your strokes.

“fuck, baby,” she whispers, voice fraying at the edges. “you gotta stay quiet for me, yeah? can’t have anyone hearin’ us.”

you nod, swallowing hard, the heat of her words making your insides go weak.

you tilt your head back, breath caught as she kisses a path down your chest, her hand slipping up to part your thighs. her mouth finds the swell of your breast, taking your nipple between her lips, sucking deep, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak.

the heat of it shoots straight through you. you arch up into her, one hand fisting the sheets while the other buries in her hair. you have to bite down on a gasp, remembering her warning.

she moves to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. her free hand roams down your body, mapping every inch, every dip. her touch is greedy and kind all at once, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your hips as she kisses lower, leaving a trail of heat in her wake.

“so fuckin’ beautiful,” she mutters against your stomach, voice thick with want.

you can’t look away. the sight of her — wild and flushed in the pearly somber, freckles dark against her skin, her mouth trailing fire down your body — makes your head spin.

then she’s on you.

her tongue parts you slow, savoring every slick inch like she’s starving and you’re the first thing she’s been allowed to taste. she doesn’t rush — not at first. she drags the flat of her tongue through your folds, slow and purposeful, as if the shape of you is a language only she knows how to speak.

you whimper, low and broken, and she moans in response — the sound vibrating against your cunt, sending a jolt up your spine that makes your back arch, your thighs twitch. she presses you open with her palms, firm and unrelenting, pinning you down.

you bite your fist, hard, trying not to cry out. tears prick the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of it — the mess, the pressure, the way she devours you like she’s trying to undo every ounce of pain this house ever put in your body.

it’s wet, obscene. you can hear it — the slick, slow drag of her mouth, the desperate breaths through her nose, the low hum of approval she gives every time your hips stutter under her touch.

the saints above your bed don’t blink, the crucifix on the wall doesn’t move, but you swear you can feel the weight of their gazes.

and ellie? she doesn’t even pause. she buries her mouth in you like she’s trying to climb inside, like if she could live between your legs, she would — and maybe she already does.

your body starts to tremble, your thighs twitching under the strain of holding still, of remaining silent. your whole being narrows down to the wet heat of her mouth, the swirl of her tongue, the way her lips suck your clit just right — over and over and over until your stomach tightens, breath caught, vision gone white behind your lashes.

you come with a soft, strangled sound, clenching around nothing. your teeth sinks into your knuckles to keep you from screaming, a metallic taste following in your mouth from the force. it rips through you like fire, like grace, like a hymn too big for your chest.

and ellie moans like it’s happening to her. she holds you through it, lets you ride her mouth through every aftershock, every broken little sound you can’t quite bite back.

when you finally collapse against the bed, damp and panting, she pulls back slowly, chin slick, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with something close to worship. she leans up on her elbows, breath catching on her words.

"you're mine."

still catching your breath, you shift — thighs slick and trembling, the pulse behind your ribs pounding like a warning bell.

you reach for her jaw, grip firm, thumb pressing into the hinge. her breath catches — sharp, needy — and you draw her up by it, eyes locked the whole way. your mouth finds hers halfway, no grace, no patience, tasting yourself in her lips. it’s teeth and tongue and breathless heat, your kiss all demand, all hunger, all response to her words. i'm yours.

ellie groans into your mouth, her hands twitching at your waist. but she doesn’t take back control.

“get up here,” you whisper, voice cracked and gritty against her lips.

and she listens.

her knees slide through the sheets, jeans half-off, boxers already damp and bunched around her thighs. you take care of it — quick, eager fingers working her out of them, dragging denim and cotton down to her ankles, stripping her bare.

she's slick and flushed, her cunt glistening in the silver glint, the soft auburn bush above it dark with want. the sight makes your stomach twist tight, breath catching hard in your chest.

you stare. you let yourself.

“ellie...” you murmur, voice dark. “you’re soaked.”

ellie’s face burns. “can’t help it,” she mutters, breath short. “you—fuck—you do that to me.”

you hum, hand dragging slow up the inside of her thigh. “then come here, baby.”

she starts to shift forward — but you don’t let her. your hands catch her hips, steady and sure, guiding her back down, easing her until her spine hits the mattress with a soft thud.

she gasps, sharp and breathless, her eyes wide as her hands catch your waist, like she wasn’t expecting to give up the ground so easily.

you crawl over her slow, the weight of your body pressing her into the sheets as you settle on top — your thigh sliding between hers, your mouth already hunting the soft line of her jaw.

“my turn,” you whisper, voice low and full of heat. “you just lay back.”

“fuck,” she whispers, hips jerking. “i—need you. need all of you.”

you shift again, slotting your thigh beneath hers, angling your hips so your cunt presses right up against hers, heat meeting heat, slick on slick. the friction is immediate, maddening. you both gasp, shoulders curling in.

ellie’s eyes flutter shut, jaw slack. “holy shit—.”

you roll your hips once — a slow, grinding drag that sends a full-body tremble through both of you. your clits catch, nerves lighting up like wildfire, and ellie buries her face in your neck, breath hitching hard.

“stay quiet,” you whisper. “or we’re both dead.”

“then kill me,” she breathes, hips grinding down. “don’t care. fuck—feels so good—”

you take the rhythm, force it slow and brutal, hand gripping her hip so tight you’ll leave bruises. she follows, your slicks smearing together in sticky, messy bursts of pressure, each stroke hotter than the last, each one dragging another broken moan from her throat.

you drag your teeth down her shoulder, your hand slipping between her body to press against the space where you meet — hot, swollen, pulsing.

“feel that?” you whisper.

“fuck—yes—yours, all yours—”

your hips snap forward, and she shudders violently, clinging to your body, mouth parted in a silent scream. you’re dripping now, slick pouring down your thighs, soaking into the sheets, the friction loud and obscene in the stillness of the room.

“harder,” ellie whispers, voice ragged. “baby—fuck—don’t stop—please—”

and you give it to her, you give it all. every scrap of rage, every drop of want, every buried ache they taught you to swallow. every ounce of your fury, your desire, your powerlessness, your love.

you grind down harder, deeper, fucking her into the mattress with nothing but your cunt and your will, chasing something raw and wordless between her thighs. your bodies tangle, slick and trembling, no space left between you, no light — just the wild rhythm of it, until you don’t know where she ends and you begin, until it feels less like fucking and more like melding into her. and if you could, you surely would.

her hands clutch at your back, head tipping back, whole body arching. and when she comes, it’s a wreck — twitching, gasping, wet, a mess of breath and heat and muscle. she’s soaking you, her slick coating your thighs

you’re right behind her.

your body locks, hips stuttering against hers, a moan slipping past your lips that you barely muffle in the crook of her neck. it rips through you — bright, electric, endless — your cunt clenching and spasming against hers as wave after wave crashes down.

you stay there, buried in the chaos, trembling and shaking as the adrenaline courses through your veins, sweat pouring down your face and body. the scent of sin hangs heavily in the air, an aroma you have grown to love more than anything else in this world.

a sensation that seems more heavenly than heaven could ever be.

and when ellie finally speaks, her whisper is wrecked.

“i think my soul just left my body.”

you grin against her throat, breath shaky. “and went straight to hell.”

she shifts just enough to look at you, her face flushed and glowing. “worth it.”

you brush her sweaty hair back from her face, hand trembling. “you’re insane.”

“for you?” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again — slow this time, filthy-sweet. “always.”

the air has gone thick and slow again.

your skin is still slick with sweat and salt, your thighs sticky where they pressed against hers. ellie’s chest rises slow and steady against your back, her breath warm at the nape of your neck, one arm draped heavy over your waist, fingers threading through your hair in lazy, reverent strokes— as if she’s trying to memorize the shape of you, the feel of you, the weight of you in her arms before the sun comes and the world steals you back, before she has to slip into the dark again.

she hums something quiet under her breath — no melody, no words. just sound, just presence. her lips press against your shoulder once, then again, softer the second time. she buries her face in the curve of your neck, and for a moment, it feels safe here.

“still with me?” she mumbles, voice gone hoarse.

you nod, barely.

her hand drifts down your back. her fingers follow the ridge of your spine, lingering at the dip of it. another kiss, placed gently between your shoulder blades.

and that’s when your chest cracks.

it’s quiet, at first. just a hitch in your breath, a tremor you try to swallow. your lips part, but no sound comes. only tears — sudden, hot — slipping from the corner of your eye and landing on her forearm, where her skin is still warm from where it pressed into yours.

you try to stay still, try to breathe through it, but it rises anyway — thick and unbearable. and suddenly, it’s not just the night catching up to you. it’s everything.

the dinner table. the weight of your father’s voice naming your future without asking for your permission. austin’s hand reaching for yours like it already belonged to him. your mother’s silence. your own reflection in the mirror — pretty dress, quiet mouth, no way out.

and now here you are, wrapped in the arms of the only soul who has truly gifted you the feeling of freedom. the only person who ever let you be more than decoration, than duty, than daughter, than property.

and it hits you all at once —this is the last time.

the last time you feel her hands on your skin, the last time her breath curls against your neck, the last time you get to feel her heartbeat pressed into your back.

because you’ll be someone else’s. you’ll walk down an aisle you didn’t choose, toward a man you can’t stand, and you’ll spend your life pretending that the night in this bed — her mouth, her voice, her love — was just a dream you were lucky enough to wake up from.

you feel the future closing in.

a door slamming, a lock turning.

and that’s when your breath breaks.

you don’t mean to make a sound — but you do, just the tiniest whimper.

and ellie hears it. of course she does.

she lifts her head fast, already alert. “hey,” she whispers. “hey, baby—what’s wrong?”

you turn to bury your face in her shoulder, shaking your head, but the tears keep coming, unstoppable now. she reaches for you — palm at your jaw, thumb swiping at your wet cheeks, her own breath starting to fray.

“darlin’,” she says, accent drawn low. “what is it? what happened?”

your voice breaks on the first try, then again. and then, finally, it comes out.

“they want me to marry him.”

you feel her whole being go still.

a few seconds pass, but you have to keep going. your weak voice wobbles through the air.

“he came over tonight. austin. sat right at our table, talkin’ to my father ‘bout rings and church dates and kids, like i wasn’t even there.”

ellie blinks, slow. “...kids?”

“yeah.” your throat closes again. “five of ‘em, if he gets his way. that’s what he said. sat right there, talkin’ ‘bout fillin’ up a house, makin’ me a wife.”

you let out a breathless laugh that sounds nothing like laughter.

“he said i’d be happy, said the lord made me for it, and i just sat there... because i can’t say no. i ain’t got no money, no way out. i’m stuck, ellie. i’m so—” your voice cracks, helpless. “i’m so fuckin’ scared.”

you expect silence. you expect her to gather her clothes without a word, slip out the window like a secret, leave nothing behind but the ghost of her hands on your skin. you expect her to look at you different now — not with longing, but with loss. with hurt. you expect her to let you go, to decide you’re not worth the trouble. that loving you isn’t worth staying.

instead, ellie pulls you into her.

her hands cradle your face, holding you steady as her eyes search yours in the dark. and when she speaks, her voice is deadly steady.

“run away with me.”

you blink, breath caught.

“what?”

“run,” she mutters again, this time firmer. “come with me. tonight. right now. fuck this house, fuck their prayers, fuck austin and your daddy and every last person who thinks they get a say in what you do with your life.”

your heart kicks like a drum against your ribs.

“ellie—”

“i’m serious.” her hands are on your cheeks now, fingers trembling. “i’ll take you far from here. i’ll carry you if i have to. i swear to god, baby, no one’s gonna put a ring on you unless it’s the one you choose.”

your lip quivers.

“i got nothin’, ellie.”

she shakes her head, fierce and wild and unwavering.

“you got me.”

“and where would we go?”

“don’t know, and i don’t give a shit. i’ll find us somethin’. i got people, i'll find work, we’ll sleep in the truck. we’ll make it.”

you press your forehead to her, your hands fisting the sheets. you can feel the weight of the saints above your bed, the moonlight splitting the cross on your wall. every breath you take now feels like rebellion.

“they’ll hunt us.”

“then let ‘em.” her voice is steel. “they ain’t ever gonna touch you again, not while i’m still breathin’.”

you close your eyes.

and you believe in her.

you feel the promise of her in every inch of your skin, in every kiss she left there. in the ache between your legs, in the sting of your throat, in the beat of your heart that only ever felt right when it was beating next to hers.

“i can’t lose you.”

“you won’t.”

you lie there for a long time, breath tangled. her thumb brushes your cheek again. you press your lips to her shoulder, aching. she whispers something bitter under her breath.

“should’ve taken you sooner,” she mutters. “should’ve known they’d try to take you from me.”

“you didn’t know.”

“still, i should’ve. you ain’t built for their world, sweetheart. you’re too—” she pauses, searching. “too alive. too much.”

“and you are?”

she huffs a breath, her nose brushing yours. “hell no. but i’m mean enough to fight it.”

you laugh, cracked but less broken than before.

“and what happens if i say yes?”

she pulls back just enough to see you — all of you — eyes shining with something reckless.

“then i kiss you again, i help you pack, and we don’t look back.”

you stare at her. then you take a breath, long and deep.

“okay,” you whisper. "let's run"

you say it, and something shifts.

not in the room — it stays still, judging, stubborn — but inside you. deep in your chest, under your ribs. a weight lifts, a door creaks open.

and for the first time in your life, the world feels wide open. you can finally breathe.

ellie watches you like she’s waiting for you to take it back, but you don’t. you just nod, slow and sure, and whisper it again, steady this time.

“let’s run.”

what happens next, happens quiet.

the floorboards know your feet by now, and you know theirs — which ones creak, which ones threaten to give you away. your wear a simple black dress pulled from the back of the drawer. it doesn’t rustle, it doesn’t snag.

she’s waiting by the window now. one boot braced on the roof, one hand curled around the sill. the moon paints her collarbone silver, and she turns to you with eyes sharpe— the same look she wore the night she kissed you behind the grain silo. the night she first pulled her name out of your mouth.

you hold the letter tight in your fist. the paper’s torn from the back of your bible — the page where the genealogy used to be, listing who belonged to who.

you wrote over it.

don’t come after me. this life isn't mine. i’m not sorry, and i won’t be.

— your daughter

you fold it once. then again. lay it on your pillow.

and then you give the room one last good look. crosses nailed on the wall, saints with dust in their eyes, bed you were meant to make children in. a bed that only ever held pressure and silence—until her.

you breathe it all in, then you go.

you climb through the window and fall straight into ellie’s arms. your breath hitches, caught somewhere between fear and freedom. but you don’t fall. she's there to catch you.

“got you,” she murmurs against your hair. “always.”

and then you run through the grass, wind slicing through your hair, breath ragged in your chest. you don’t look back. not at the house, not at the porch light, not at the second-story window where your life was folded into someone else’s idea of salvation.

you only look at her.

the truck waits at the edge of the field, tucked under the trees. the night holds its breath around you. ellie yanks the passenger side open for you and circles the front, her boots hitting gravel. she slides in, hands on the wheel, mouth tight.

“you ready?” she asks.

you glance at her, freckled, flushed. glowing from the fire you lit in her.

“i been ready.”

she nods once, turns the key, and the truck rumbles awake. the tires crackle, gravel spinning under the wheels.

and just like that — you’re gone.

you end up in a town with no name. somewhere south of where they’d think to look, two states from home and a lifetime away. you rent a trailer that leans to one side when it rains, with a screen door that sticks and a front step that creaks under your weight. wildflowers grow in the ditch just past the yard. sometimes, you pick them and leave them on the windowsill.

you work mornings at the diner. ellie picks up whatever she can — oil changes, hay bales, fence posts, odd jobs that leave her knuckles bruised and her shirts stained. no one asks for more than your first names, no one cares who you were before.

you don’t have much — a bed, a radio, a coffee pot that sputters before it pours — but you’ve got quiet. you’ve got a place to touch her without hiding. you’ve got a truck that takes you down dirt roads with the windows down and her hand resting easy on your thigh.

on good days, you both wake before the sun. sit on the porch with bare legs, her head resting against your shoulder, the sky bleeding soft colors above the trees.

on bad days, she holds you close in the dark, rocks you slow, tells you over and over: “you’re safe. you’re safe. you’re safe now.”

some nights, when the air’s too thick to sleep, you strip down and pull her on top of you. let the fans blow hot air across your damp skin while she fucks you slow, both of you too gone to pretend it isn’t perfect. you don’t hide your sounds. you don’t cover your mouth.

after, she lies heavy on your chest, the sheets kicked to the floor. her fingers draw shapes on your belly, and her mouth finds that spot under your collarbone where you keep your leftover fear.

“can’t get enough of you,” she says one night, voice thick, lips brushing warm against your skin. “not now, not ever.”

you card your fingers through her hair, gentle.

“you won’t have to,” you whisper. “i’m yours ‘til the end."

and that way, months pass, seasons shift, nothing spectacular happens — not in the way the world expects. but still, things bloom. inside your body, and inside hers.

you learn to grow things, she learns to fix things. you stop jumping when the phone rings, she starts singing while she washes dishes.

but one night, it happens.

you’re sitting at the table. it’s small, uneven, a little wobbly on one leg. dinner’s done, her hands are still greasy from fixing the truck. the fan hums in the corner, blowing auburn locks into her eyes. she looks at you, quiet for a second.

then she reaches across the table and takes your hand.

“i wanna marry you, proper or not. don’t need a preacher. just need you to say yes.”

your heart falters. you remain silent for a moment, just smiling, warm and full of every mile you’ve traveled to get here.

and then, like a whispered prayer, you say it.

“yes.”

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ WOW OKAY I DID NOT EXPECT TO WRITE THAT MUCH 😭 but god, i genuinely loved every second of this concept — i’ve always wanted to write something like this and it shows. mia said “write riding country!ellie” and my brain immediately went “religious trauma and running away from an arranged marriage.” maybe my favorite drabble i’ve written to date. hope you all enjoyed it, lovesss <333

perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[oplishin]

starting a collection? I guess?

bryan danielson vs tyler black ROH Southern Navigation 2008

[pearlispunk]

Never took you for a pervert, Miller.

pairing: dbf! joel miller x female reader summary: you borrow a jacket from joel, and it returns to him with a stain. he goes crazy over your scent, and he wants more. warnings / contents: 18+ (minors please dni!), big unspecified (but legal!) age gap, brief mentions of alcohol, smut, f masturbation, dbf! joel, perv! joel, dom! joel, spanking, choking, dd/lg dynamic (kinda), daddy kink, praise kink, light dacryphilia, pet names, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it please!), creampie, no outbreak, no sarah word count: 4k a/n: i recommend listening to every girl gets her wish by saint avengeline while reading this! it really sets up the whole vibe >< enjoy °༄ !

It all started with that damn jacket. 

“It’s so cold, Joel. Please.” You whined, skin shuddering from the breeze. “Told you to bring a coat or somethin’, y’never listen.” He huffs, shedding off the outermost layer of his clothes. He holds it over you, eyebrows raised combined with pursed lips. 

You smile at him, quickly grabbing hold of the jacket and putting it on. You waste no time, zipping up the front of the jacket and tugging the ends of it to try and fit your body. It felt huge wrapped around you– it extended past your torso, and you had to tug the sleeves up just to use your hands. 

You looked so cute like this, he thinks for a moment, staring at you blankly. His eyes raked over you, eyeing you from head to toe. “Anyone ever tell you it’s bad manners if you stare?” Your voice chimes in like a chirp of a bird, and he’s back to reality. 

He shakes his head, walking past you, “Shut up.” He mutters. And you smile. 

You were fully aware of what effect you had on him. Ever since moving across his house a few months back, you’ve made it your life’s mission to make him fuck you. 

It didn’t take long for him and your dad to form a friendship over football and beer. However, ever since meeting Joel, he was always just this stuck-up, grumpy– presumably lonely– middle-aged man to you. You were just determined to help him, what’s wrong with that? Every time your dad invited him over for dinners or outings, you made sure you wore something that caught his eye. 

Even if that means wearing something skimpy during a cold weather. 

“I’ll wash this up for you and bring it back tomorrow morning, promise!” You say, looking at him with a glint of mischief in your eyes. He nods, shaking his hand in the air, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

Is it wrong that he turns you on?

Is it wrong that you’re thinking about getting stuffed full of his dick? Of his cum? 

“Come on, girl.” He calls out to you, and you follow. 

For the evening, your dad had invited him to an outing. A fancy word your dad uses for just ordering take-out and eating it in the truck by the woods. They talked for a while, with pauses and laughs in between. 

“.. Anyway, I have to drive back to our old place tomorrow.” Your dad says, biting down on his food. You nod before tilting your head, “Why?” He finishes his food before wrapping the packaging and throwing it in a piece of plastic, “Forgot some of my boxes, kid.” He shrugs casually then turns to Joel, “Keep an eye on her, would ‘ya?”

When you get back home, you rush up to your room. You sigh in relief, welcoming the warm air while taking off his jacket. You lay down on your bed, holding the jacket close to you and taking a deep breath of his scent. It was so distinct, so unique, so.. him. Your fingers trace over the fabric, a mental image of him appearing in your head. Your breath hitches in your throat, and your other hand hooks your panties down. 

You take a pillow, placing the jacket above it. You straddle over it, forcing the pillow between your thighs. You lean down, burying your face in the jacket as you start grinding on it. Your pussy rubs over the cloth of his jacket, and you can’t help but whimper at just the thought of that. 

You were like a woman possessed, chasing your own high as you kept his jacket close. It didn’t take long– his scent drives you mad, almost crazy, and just a few moments later, you let yourself unravel.  Sweaty and tired, you collapsed on top of the jacket, coating it with your sweat and essence.

You woke up in a panic, your dad’s knocking alarming you. You sit up straight, tossing the jacket to the side and yanking your blanket over your legs. “Yeah, dad?” You clear your own throat, stretching out your limbs. “Joel’s here, and I’m going.” He says from the outside of the door. “Alright, drive safe!” You call out. 

You make out the thuds of his boots down the stairs. You then eventually hear the engine of his car. You look out your window, waving your hand as your dad honks the car before driving off completely. 

You get up, picking a pair of shorts from your drawer and putting them on. You grab the jacket from the side of your room, sighing to yourself before stepping out. You walk downstairs to the smell of a fresh coffee pot and some pancakes. 

“Figured you could eat somethin’.” Joel’s voice grounds you, his back facing you as he finishes cooking the last pancake. “Coffee’s there, if ‘ya want.” He points towards his right, the tone of his back muscles visible through his shirt. You nod, setting the jacket on one of the table chairs. You help yourself to a cup of coffee, taking a sip before sitting by the table. He turns around to face you before slipping the plate of pancakes in front of you. 

“I have to head out to the hardware store, d’ya wanna come?” He asks, sitting on the chair across from you. You nod, taking a fork and getting a bite out of one of the pancakes, “Mhm. Should let me change though.” Your voice is muffled, you haven’t finished the bite. “Now, sweetheart, I believe it’s bad manners to talk with your mouth full.” He grins at you, a smug look spreading across his face.

You roll your eyes, swallowing it before locking eyes with him. “Let me shower and change, Miller.” He chuckles, nodding as he takes a bite of a pancake. You finish your cup of coffee along with the pancake with a satisfied hum before standing up. 

Oh! You almost forgot his jacket. 

You reach over to the hunched cloth on the chair, grabbing it and sliding it in front of him. You’re off to the shower now, your footsteps echoing throughout the hallway.

He swears you’re trying to fuck him over. 

After your little banter, you slip him his jacket and you’re off on your feet. He shakes his head with a smile before his eyes glaze over his jacket.

Just as he was going to turn his gaze away, something caught his eye. A stain. A dried-up stain that left a darker patch on the hem of his jacket. It couldn’t be water, it would’ve dried up normally. He’s familiar with it. After fucking around with multiple women in a variety of compromising situations, he’s all too familiar with what it was. 

Dirty. Fucking. Girl. 

He takes a deep breath, the confines of his shorts tightening around his hardening erection. He looks down at it, shaking his head. 

This is fucked. He thinks, his hand going down to palm his cock through his shorts. He grabs the jacket, bringing the stain close to his nose to get a whiff of it. 

Fuck. You smelled amazing. Something sweet, something fresh. By now he’s rubbing his cock with his hand, hips bucking up into nothing. 

“Joel! Mind handing me a towel?” 

Your voice cuts through his heated session. A grunt caught in his throat, shaking his head and trying to shrug it off by clearing his throat. “Yeah, erm,” He lets go of the jacket, “Where?” He stands up quickly. “Should be one by my room.” You hum from the shower.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He mutters to himself, dragging his feet up the stairs and towards your room. He creaks open the door, scanning the room for your towel. He sighs, walking in and looking at every corner. Your scent is everywhere, making his head spin and cock harder. 

He finds your towel hooked on the back of your door, and relief washes over him. He grabs it hastily, pulling a top you discarded days ago with it. It drops down to his boots, and he stares at it. A white lacy tank top, one you wear at home only. He takes a deep breath, every fiber of his being screaming no. 

This isn't right, he's too old for you.

He was just going to put it back where it came from. What’s the harm in that? He was just going to put it back nicely, as if this never happened. He scoops it up, the soft feel of the fabric a contrast to his rugged hands. Then it hits him. Your scent. He can smell it all over the top. Didn’t even need to bring it close to his nose to be able to get a whiff of it.

He folds it neatly before tucking it in his pants. 

Oh, he was going to hell for this.

It took you days to notice that some pieces of your clothing went missing. First were the tank tops you wore at home, you always tucked them away by the first drawer of your cabinet. Second were the laced bras you bought from a city a long time ago, you mostly just use it when you’re out. Then finally, your favorite white lace thong. 

Joel started to come over more frequently, always by the front door with a pack of beer. Your dad was more than happy to let him in. It was strange, some pieces of your clothing came back during the days Joel was over. You thought nothing of it. 

Not until you saw him sneaking about the door of your room. He had just excused himself to go the the bathroom, a routine you picked up on ever since he came over more. It was like a tick in your brain– you just needed to know what he was truly doing in there. 

Instead, you catch him by your room, thong in hand, nose-deep, and cock hard. You were by the lower part of the stairs, enough to get a good view of what he was doing. Your eyes widen in shock, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. 

You had him hooked.

Joel knew how fucked up it was. He was inviting your dad for drinks and a good time, only for his main objective to be to sneak into your room and snatch a few pieces of your garments. All for what? Jerking himself off late at night, when all of his pillows are covered in your scent, when all he can think about is the way your hips move, the way your tits bounce. 

He knew how fucked up it was, cumming on your garments, moaning your name, and imagining how sweet your pussy would feel wrapped around his cock. He knew how fucked up he was. 

But it was better than actually touching you, than actually crossing the line and fucking his friend’s daughter. He kept a safe distance, he kept boundaries, and he made sure he never stepped the line. So, surely, this was better, right? He’d slip into your room, grab a bra, a thong, or a top, and he’d be satisfied. And that was enough. 

It had to. 

But goddamn you were making it hard. You were making him really hard. 

You knew how to push his buttons, knew how to drive him to his limits. Every outfit you put on for him just got more and more enticing. And for tonight, his eyes are now shamelessly scanning every curve and dip of your body. 

The hour was late, your dad had excused himself to his room– his head was hurting. It was only you and him now, sitting on the couch, in front of the television. The past few moments were pure torture for him. Every skin-on-skin contact with you made him go crazy, and every time you walked past him, he could just inhale your scent.

He has one of the couch pillows set over his thighs, a weak attempt to cover up the hard-on he earned just by looking at you. Your eyes were glued to the screen, a knowing smile displaying itself on your lips. 

20 minutes pass, and so far, he wouldn’t budge off the couch or even get a new bottle of beer. “Would you like a new one?” You turn your head towards his direction. He hums, nodding, “Mhm, sure.” You walk over to the table, grabbing a new bottle of beer before walking back to him. You bend over a bit, handing it out to him.

His eyes lock in on your chest, the soft flesh of your boob peeking out through your low-cut top. And for a moment, he stays like that, mind completely distracted by the view in front of him. “Joel?” You ask innocently, beer bottle still in hand. He clears his throat, nodding his head before taking it out of your hand. 

He quickly takes a sip, trying to focus on what shows the television is playing. You smile to yourself, taking a seat beside him. You have a finger over your mouth– you feel the tension, and you scooch closer to him. “What’re ‘ya doin’, kid?” He asks, his voice low, eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s cold.” You shrug. 

He turns his back on you, his body facing the other way. Your eyes graze down on his back, admiring the way his muscles bulge through his shirt. Then, you catch a glimpse of your thong in his back pocket.

That was it.

“You know, it’s weird..” You start, looking at him. He looks over at you with his eyebrows raised, “Hm? What is?” You hook your finger on it, pulling it towards you in one swift motion. You dangle it in front of him, a smug look on your face. 

“Never took you for a pervert, Miller.” 

He looks at you, eyes wide with shock as his grip on the pillow tightens. “M’kay- fuck, I can explain–” He starts, standing up and letting the pillow fall to the ground. Your eyes lock with his boner, a smile forming on your lips. “Yeah?” You tilt your head to the direction of his boner. 

His eyes look down for a second, assessing himself. He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Been sneaking around and stealing my things when you could’ve just asked nicely.” You tut, standing up on your feet. “I know you want to fuck me, Joel.” You take a step closer to him. He looks at you, unsaid thoughts crossing over his eyes. He sighs before shaking his head. 

“Not here.” Is all he says before picking you up and placing you over his shoulder. You giggle quietly,  feet dangling in the air as he makes his way to your room. He fumbles with the door knob before clicking it open and setting you down on the bed. He locks the door behind him, turning around to face you properly.

You’re on your knees, fingers hiking up and glazing over your thighs. He eyes your movements, shaking his head. He walks closer to you until all you can see in front of you is just his tall frame. He grabs your chin, forcibly tilting your head to make you look at him. You don’t utter a word, your eyes scanning the entirety of his face. 

“Makin’ it so fuckin’ hard to control myself around you, angel.” He rubs his thumb by your bottom lip. You poke your tongue out, eventually taking his thumb in your mouth. “Just so happens you don’t have enough clothes to cover yourself with when ‘m around, is that it?” He looks at you with a dark gaze, his other hand reaching to unbuckle his belt. You nod, the sides of your lips curling into a smile. 

He takes his thumb out, tossing his belt to the side. He sits down on the edge of the bed before unbuttoning his pants. 

“Bend.” 

His voice drops an octave lower, his hand gesturing to his lap. You’re dumbfounded, lips parted with shock. “What are ‘ya, deaf?” He glares at you. You shake your head and do as you’re told, bending over his lap. He yanks your cotton shorts down, the cold air hitting your bare ass. “No panties?” He asks, his hand groping and getting a feel of your ass. You shake your head, squirming under his touch. 

You flinched as the sharp sound echoed throughout your room, a sting following– hot and immediate. 

“Words, baby. Let me hear ‘ya.” His gruff voice cooed from above you, his hand soothing over your flesh. “Deliberately wearin’ nothin’, hm? Is this for me, angel?” His fingers rub against your pooling hole. “Y-Yes.” You shook out the word, your hands pressing against his thighs. 

Another slap. “Yes what?” Oh, he sounds pissed. 

“Yes d-daddy-!” You whimper, your knees pressing together. He leans down on you until his lips are just by your ear, “Now you’re gonna have t’be quiet if you want me to fuck ‘ya properly, understood?” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. You nod your head, a tear slipping out of your eye. “Aw, poor baby.” His thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping your tear away, “Does it hurt?” He hums. “N-No daddy, promise!” You say earnestly, trying your best to be good for him.  

“Count for me, sweet girl.” He orders, his tone leaving no room for protest. 

His hand landed on the flesh of your ass, sharp and unyielding.

“O-One.” Your voice trembled under the contact. 

“Wearin’ nothin’ but short skirts and cropped tops, tryin’ to kill me.”

The next landed with no hesitation, your cheeks retracting at the contact.

“Two!” You bite your lip, muffling your whimpers. 

“Intentionally wearin’ nothin’ underneath those pretty white bottoms.” 

The next was harder than the last, more painful– the impact of it spreading heat through your skin.

“Three..!” By now you were crying, your pretty pink cheeks glistening with tears. He pulls your body against his, letting you lean against him. His hands were brushing against your ass, a tender touch– a contrast to his earlier actions. “Did so good for me, angel.” He kisses your cheek, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Makin’ me so proud.” 

You straddle on his lap, taking one of his legs between your thighs. You start moving, eager for the friction. “What’s this? Pretty baby beggin’ to get fucked?” He coos against your ear, the palm of his hand on the back of your head. “Y-Yes please, please.. been so g-good for you..” You whine, moving your hips faster. His hands travel back to your waist, holding you in place before flipping you over and letting you lay on your back.

He pulls away, tugging his pants along with his boxers. Your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, long and girthy, twitching and begging to get buried inside of you. Your legs unconsciously spread open, your pussy all on display for him. He smiles at you, leaning over you before kissing your forehead. 

“Keep quiet. Think you can do that f’me, baby?” He whispers, his hands on the back of your knees. You nod, your pussy pulsing against the tip of his cock. He leans down, pressing your thighs to your chest as he pushes his cock deep into you. Your knees touch your shoulders, and your hands find their way to his. 

Your pussy is stuffed, and you lightly tap him as a signal for him to give you a few seconds to adjust to his size. “Little girl taking me in so well.” He breathes, his hips staying in place. You bite down on your bottom lip, trying your hardest not to make a sound. 

Just when you thought he was all in, his hips pressed further against you, driving the extra inches of his cock inside you. “D-Daddy..” You hiccup, tears flowing from your eyes as your legs tremble in pleasure. “I know baby, I know.” He kisses the tips of your eyes, nodding, “Don’t worry. I’ll stretch you out real good, angel.” He whispers by the side of your ear. “Have you beggin’ for more in no time, you want that, yeah?” He lets out a low moan, burying his cock deeper. You try to relax your body, nodding at his words.

His grip on your legs tightens, his hips rocking into you. A moan slips out of your mouth, and he’s quick to cover it with his hand. You look up at him, beads of sweat forming around his forehead, some of his hair sticking on his skin. He looks down at you, his eyes gazing at your chest– your hardened nipples moving against the fabric of your top. He removes his hands from the back of your knees, relocating them to grope on your tits. 

He grabs the fabric, tearing it into two impatiently. You gasp at the contact, his hips snapping rapidly as he grunts by your ear. Your tits bounce, and this only fuels him further, “You’re so beautiful, angel,” He praises, peppering kisses on your hands, “Always so good for me.” Your legs hook around his waist, his other hand making its way to your neck. He puts pressure on your airflow, your hands wrapping around his arm.

The obscene sound of your squelching pussy and his invading cock fills the room, and you start to feel light-headed. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your back arching against his towering body. You clench around his cock, your legs pulling him closer to you. “Need me buried deep in your pussy, yeah, angel?” He smirks, his other hand teasing your nipples. Your pussy pulses with his words, your head nodding frantically. “M-Mhm- mmfh..” 

“You needed this so badly, huh?” He asks, his fingers glazing over your clit. You buck your hips up, desperate for his touch. “So pretty for me.” He rubs your clit with a soft and teasing touch. “M-More.. pleasepleaseplease– hngh–” You gasp, “So close, daddy!” He nods, adding more pressure to your clit. 

He looked so perfect right between your thighs, his large frame towering over yours, his hands exploring your body. His hips staggered, “This pussy is mine, understand me?” He lets go of your neck, hands pushing the back of your thighs to your chest. You nod, biting your lip while tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “D-Da- haaah– yours, all y-yours..!” He speeds up the pace, his fingers working their way on your clit. 

Your hands fall to your sides, your mind solely focusing on your release. “Just needed t’be fucked stupid.” He whispers, pulling his cock out before slamming it back in. Your back arches, and you’re met with your release. His hands land on your hips, pulling you towards him as he thrusts his cock into you one last time. 

He holds you still, his hands kneading on your hips as he leans over you. You feel his cum seep into you, steady ropes of it shooting inside you. He keeps still, making sure that you got every last drop. You feel breathless, your hands finding their way to his chest. 

He brings one of your hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on your fingertips. “So good for me, sweetheart.” He pulls out, collapsing by your side. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

He scans your face, his hand cupping your face. He rubs his thumb over your cheek, leaning closer to kiss it. He was so tender, so sweet with you– like you were the most precious thing to him. His hand rests over the back of your head, cradling you to his chest. You sigh contently, your eyes fluttering as your breathing steadies itself. 

He kisses the top of your head, muttering sweet nothings and praises as you drift off to sleep in his arms.

Every girl gets her wish. 

white lace divider by @chilumitos , cupid divider by @ioveartfilm ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ !

a/n: my second work! tried to do something new DOMJOELAHA, please feel free to correct me about any mistakes i made! i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! reblogs, comments, likes, or any kind of interactions are deeply appreciated!! xo, pearl!

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