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shadyfestivalperfection · 1 month ago

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Fifth Time’s The Charm~Oneshot

Summery: Every date gets interrupted before they can steal the deal. By the fifth one, they’re both so wounded up, it turns explosive-in the best way

Characters: Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Vibes/warning: Sexual tension, mutual pining, flirty banter, interrupted make out sessions, smut, tension building.

Note: All characters except y/n are not mine.

||Master List||

🌙 Date One: Rooftop Romance & a Falcon Crash

Bucky’s hand is warm as it slides over yours, his vibranium arm resting on the rooftop table like it belongs there.

The rooftop restaurant is quiet. Just a few candle-lit tables surrounded by fairy lights, with soft jazz playing through overhead speakers. The skyline behind him glows like a dream. And Bucky?

He’s in a button-up. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Hair tied back. Eyes locked on you like he still can’t believe you said yes to dinner.

“So,” you murmur, swirling the wine in your glass, “this is… kind of perfect.”

Bucky smiles. “I figured if I’m going to ruin someone’s night, might as well do it with a view.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not ruining anything, Barnes. Though I’m still not convinced this isn’t some weird pity date.”

He leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Sweetheart, if this were a pity date, I wouldn’t have rehearsed what to say in front of my mirror five times before picking you up.”

Your heart flips.

It’s funny—everyone sees Bucky Barnes as the brooding soldier, the stone-faced assassin, the Winter Soldier. But here, tonight, he’s just Bucky. Soft-spoken. Charming. A little shy. And very into you.

“So… what’d you rehearse?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He groans, covering his face with his hand. “Nope. That was supposed to stay buried.”

You grin. “Come on. You owe me at least one line.”

He groans again. “Fine. I was gonna say…” He sits up straighter, exaggerating the delivery. “‘You look beautiful tonight, doll.’ And then maybe something cheesy like… ‘Nothing in this city shines as bright as you.’”

You blink. “That’s… actually good.”

“Right?” he says, pleased. “Sam told me it was too much. Said I sounded like I was

quoting a romance novel.”

You’re about to respond—something flirty and appreciative—when your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t check it. I’m trying to live in the moment.”

You nod. “Me too.”

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten until his knee brushes yours beneath the table. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second. And your breath catches.

He leans in.

You lean closer.

He’s inches away. One hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His voice drops—

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time you handed me a cup of coffee in the break room—”

CRASH.

A loud thump echoes above you. Then—

“Shit! Sorry!”

You both jump as something heavy hits the rooftop ledge and rolls, a few pebbles scattering across the floor.

Bucky’s eyes go wide. “No. No no no—”

“BUCKY!”

You turn to see Sam Wilson—in full Falcon gear—tangled in his own wings, skidding to a stop right in front of your table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bucky hisses, standing up.

Sam grins sheepishly. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you were up here. Testing some tech. Kinda… overshot the landing.”

You just blink. “That’s… impressive. Actually.”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. “Sam. I swear to God.”

Sam glances between the two of you. “Oh. OHHHH. Shit—were you two—”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky snaps. “We were on a date.”

Sam’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then he shrugs.

“Well… my bad. I’ll just… backflip off the side and leave you to it.”

“You do that.”

With a whoosh of his wings, Sam vaults back off the building—leaving behind only a couple of knocked-over chairs, one blown-out candle, and the unmistakable sound of Bucky’s teeth grinding together.

You burst out laughing.

Bucky glares at you—but it’s mostly mock offense. “Glad you’re enjoying the death of our first date.”

You reach across the table and take his hand again. “Okay, it was interrupted, not dead. Honestly? I like that he crashed it. Now you owe me a second date.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” You squeeze his hand. “Next time… somewhere Falcon-proof.”

His grin is soft. Wicked. “Anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

You smirk. “As long as I get that kiss you were about to give me.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, you’ll get it. Trust me.”

🎬 Date Two: Movie Night & Third-Wheel Steve

The sound of a movie plays quietly in the background, but neither of you’s really paying attention.

You’re curled up on Bucky’s couch, under a fleece blanket, one of his old sweatshirts hanging off your shoulder. He sits behind you, legs spread, body warm and solid, and you’re tucked between them like you belong there.

Spoiler: You do.

“I swear,” you mumble, reaching for more popcorn without taking your eyes off the screen, “if this ends with another crash landing, I’m suing Sam for emotional damages.”

Bucky laughs into your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “This one’s Falcon-free, I promise.”

“You said that last time.”

He groans, playful. “C’mon, don’t hold that against me. It was one crash.”

“It was our almost first kiss, Barnes. That’s a felony in some states.”

He leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah. I do.”

You twist in his arms, shifting so you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips. The movement is smooth. Bold. A little reckless.

But he doesn’t mind. In fact, he looks thrilled.

“Well damn,” he says, hands gripping your thighs through the thin fabric of your pajama shorts. “Is this part of the movie, or…?”

You smile, teasing. “Bonus content.”

His eyes flick to your lips, then back to your eyes. “You’re killin’ me, doll.”

And then his hands slide up your thighs, fingers curling around your waist. You can feel him underneath you—hard, hungry, ready—and you’re barely even kissing yet.

His voice drops, rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop now if you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, breathless.

That’s all he needs.

His lips crash into yours—hot, intense, a kiss you’ve both been aching for since the rooftop. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him, moaning into his mouth as his hands tighten on your hips. You rock forward instinctively, and he groans, hips bucking beneath you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, “you’re gonna make me—”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A heavy knock slams against the front door, startling you both.

You freeze.

“No,” Bucky mutters against your neck, lips still brushing your skin. “No. Not again.”

“Ignore it,” you whisper, grinding against him a little just to tease.

He groans. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re gonna kill me.”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Bucky!” a familiar voice calls from the hallway. “I brought pizza!”

You pull back, blinking. “Is that—?”

“STEVE,” Bucky growls.

You scramble off his lap, cheeks blazing as Bucky nearly explodes off the couch.

The front door swings open—of course he still gives Steve a key—and there stands Captain America himself, smiling, holding two pizza boxes and a six-pack of root beer.

“Hey,” Steve says, totally oblivious, “movie night?”

Bucky’s expression is somewhere between a murder charge and emotional devastation. “STEVE.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Bucky gestures wildly. “What does it look like?!”

Steve finally notices your flushed cheeks, the messed-up blanket, the very awkward distance you’re both now keeping.

“Oh,” he says.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Should I… leave?”

Bucky looks like he wants to throw him through a wall. You try not to laugh.

“Probably,” you say, standing and adjusting the oversized sweatshirt. “Unless you wanna be very scarred tonight.”

Steve holds up the pizza hopefully. “I brought pepperoni?”

You groan. “Okay, fine. But I’m picking the movie and you’re sitting at the other end of the couch.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about “damn super soldiers and their terrible timing,” but you give his hand a squeeze as you walk by.

When your eyes meet, he mouths:

“Next time. You’re mine.”

And something about the heat in his stare tells you next time’s gonna be very worth the wait.

🖼️ Date Three: Art, Anticipation & An Unwelcome Mission

The Met is unusually quiet for a Saturday evening. Dimmed lights. Velvet ropes. Elegant, whispered conversations.

But Bucky’s not paying attention to the Monet in front of him.

No—he’s watching you.

Your dress hugs your curves too perfectly. Your eyes shine every time you pause in front of a new piece. And when you tilt your head, smiling at some abstract sculpture like it just told you a dirty joke, he damn near loses his mind.

“You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” you murmur, not even turning around.

“You make it hard not to,” he replies, stepping closer, voice low. “You know that dress should be illegal, right?”

You smirk, still pretending to focus on the painting. “So arrest me, Sergeant Barnes.”

His fingers brush your lower back. Soft. Teasing. “You sayin’ you want me to cuff you, sweetheart?”

You shoot him a warning look, cheeks heating. “This is a museum.”

“This is foreplay,” he corrects, voice deep and delicious in your ear.

You nearly choke on a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His metal hand slides down your waist, resting right at the curve of your hip, “…you still came out with me.”

You turn to face him, caught in that pull he always seems to have over you.

“I came because I like the way you look when you pretend to care about art,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow. “I do care. Especially about the nudes.”

“Bucky!”

But you’re laughing, and he’s leaning in—smirking, dangerous, beautiful. The tension between you crackles like electricity in the air.

“I need to kiss you,” he whispers. “Right now.”

“Not in the middle of the sculpture room.”

His smirk grows. “Then come with me.”

Before you can protest, he takes your hand and tugs you down a quiet side hallway labeled “Staff Only.”

“Bucky,” you hiss, half laughing, “we’re gonna get kicked out—”

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says, pulling you into the shadows.

The hallway is dark. Silent. Cold stone walls and empty echo. And Bucky?

He’s all heat and hands and hunger.

His mouth finds yours like it’s been waiting too long. You melt into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands grip your hips and press you against the wall. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you whimper—soft, needy—hips rocking forward just slightly.

The sound he makes? Absolutely feral.

“God, doll,” he groans, grinding into you. “You keep makin’ those noises and I’m not gonna make it to date five.”

You gasp against his lips. “Then make this one count.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His lips travel down your jaw, nipping along your throat. One hand slides under your dress, brushing the inside of your thigh—and you know if anyone catches you right now, you’d be banned for life.

And honestly? Worth it.

Just as his fingers start to trail higher—

Bzzt. Bzzt.

His phone vibrates hard against his chest.

Bucky groans like he’s in actual pain. “Ignore it.”

But it buzzes again. And again.

And then your phone starts to vibrate in your bag.

You both freeze.

He curses softly, reaching into his coat. The moment he checks the screen, everything changes.

His entire posture shifts. Military. Tense. Ready.

“What?” you ask, straightening, heart dropping.

“It’s Sam,” he mutters, already walking back down the hallway. “HYDRA hit a black site in Berlin. Nat’s down. Cap’s calling us in.”

You’re suddenly cold all over.

He turns back to you, jaw clenched, eyes apologetic. “I have to go.”

“I know,” you say quietly, following him.

“This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end,” he admits, pulling you into a brief, fierce kiss that tastes like regret.

“I know,” you whisper again. “Just… come back in one piece, Barnes.”

He cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “You too.”

And then he’s gone.

You’re left standing in that dim, forgotten hallway—heart pounding, skin still tingling from his touch—wondering what the hell it’ll take to finally finish one damn date with him.

🌧️ Date Four: Rain, Restraint & a Damn Phone Call

It starts as a simple walk after dinner.

You and Bucky wander through downtown Brooklyn, hands tangled together like you’ve been doing it for years. The streets are damp, slick from a light drizzle that started an hour ago, but neither of you care.

You’re laughing. Warm. Buzzed off good food and wine and him.

He keeps sneaking glances at you like you’re the most stunning thing in the entire city. And truth be told, the way the rain makes your dress cling to your curves? He

might be right.

“You cold, doll?” he asks, pulling you a little closer under his umbrella.

“Not with you like this,” you reply, and rest your hand on his chest. It’s firm, warm even through his jacket, and you feel the way he subtly leans into your touch.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “You say things like that, I’m gonna have to press you against this brick wall and make out with you like we’re in a damn movie.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

His smirk could melt steel. “Why don’t we find out?”

And that’s all it takes.

You stop walking.

Grab the front of his coat.

And pull him into the nearest alley.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, stunned, as you shove him gently against the damp brick. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve waited long enough, Barnes,” you say, pressing your body to his, looking up through soaked lashes. “Every single date, someone or something gets in the way. Not this time. I want you. Right now.”

He growls low in his throat, both hands grabbing your waist with barely restrained hunger. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, sweetheart.”

Then he kisses you—hard.

Tongue, teeth, rain-slick lips. It’s messy and desperate and hot. One hand slides down to your ass, gripping it like it belongs to him, while the other slides up under your dress, metal fingertips dragging fire across your thigh.

You whimper against his mouth, grinding into him. He’s already hard, pressed right against your core, and the friction makes your knees damn near give out.

“You feel that?” he rasps against your throat, dragging his mouth down to your collarbone. “That’s what you do to me. Every time.”

You moan, tugging at his belt. “Then do something about it, James.”

The way he groans at that—your real name for him, full of need—it’s feral. You feel him fumbling to push your panties aside, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and—

RING. RING.

You both freeze.

The loud, shrill ring echoes in the alley.

“No,” you gasp, panting. “No. Don’t you dare—”

He pulls back just enough to glance at his phone, face wild with frustration.

“Ignore it,” you plead, nails scraping down his chest.

“I want to, believe me,” he groans. “But it’s Sam.”

You nearly scream.

He kisses you again—fast, deep, like a fucking apology—then answers the call with a snarl in his voice.

“What?” he snaps.

You can hear Sam on the other end: “Uh… hate to ruin your date again, but we’ve got a situation.”

Bucky closes his eyes and lets his head thunk back against the brick wall.

You adjust your dress and sigh, already knowing the answer.

⸻

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back at his place, soaked and pissed off, watching Bucky gear up like he’s going into war. (He is. Kinda.)

“I’m starting to think the universe hates our sex life,” you say flatly, arms crossed.

He gives you a tight smile as he straps on his thigh holster. “I’m gonna kill something just for interrupting us.”

You walk up to him, grab him by the collar, and pull him in for a slow, intense kiss. Your lips barely part, breath warm and heavy between you.

“When you come back,” you whisper, “you’re not getting another first date.”

He nods. “When I come back, you’re getting every inch of me.”

Your cheeks heat. “Bold talk for someone who’s gotta run.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice ragged. “I’ll be back soon. And when I am… we’re not stopping.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You just let the promise hang between you—thick with tension, soaked in heat, and aching to be fulfilled.

💥 Date Five: No More Waiting

He doesn’t knock when he comes back.

He storms through the front door, drenched in rain and adrenaline, chest heaving like a man who’s run straight through hell just to get to you.

And when he sees you—curled up in one of his shirts, waiting on the couch with wide eyes and bare thighs—he stops.

You rise slowly, heart thudding, drinking him in. His hair’s wet and messy, jaw tight, dog tags clinking as he drops his gear to the floor.

“Bucky—”

“No more interruptions,” he growls, striding toward you. “No more missions. No more waiting.”

You don’t speak. Just back toward the bedroom.

He follows.

You barely make it through the door before he has you pressed against the wall, kissing you like it’s the last oxygen on Earth. Tongue, teeth, need. You moan into it, fingers already tugging at his shirt.

“Off,” you breathe. “Want to feel you.”

He rips the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling as he tosses it aside. You press your palms to his chest—scarred and strong—and slide down, mouth open as your lips trail kisses across his pecs, down his abs.

But he stops you with a growl, metal hand in your hair.

“Not tonight, doll,” he says, voice rough with control. “Tonight’s about you.”

He lifts you easily—like you weigh nothing—lays you gently on the bed, and kneels between your legs.

“Bucky—”

“You’ve been so damn patient,” he murmurs, dragging your borrowed shirt up your torso, kissing every new inch of skin he exposes. “Four. Fucking. Dates. And every single one? Ruined.”

His mouth ghosts over your navel. “I haven’t touched you the way I want to.”

“Then touch me now,” you whisper.

He looks up at you—eyes dark, starved, desperate.

“Oh, sweetheart… I’m gonna do more than that.”

And then he slides your panties down your legs and devours you.

His mouth is sinful—hot tongue swirling, slow licks that make your hips jerk, breath catch. He doesn’t rush it. He feasts. Like you’re dessert and he’s been starving.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, back arching as his tongue circles your clit.

He groans into you, loving the sounds you make, the way your thighs shake around his head.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “Come on my tongue.”

You do.Hard.

Your climax crashes over you like a goddamn wave, and Bucky doesn’t stop. He guides you through it, tongue relentless, even as you squirm and gasp from overstimulation.

“Too much—” you whisper.

But he pulls back, just enough to kiss your trembling inner thigh. “Too much? Or not enough?”

You blink, dazed. “Bucky—”

“I need you,” he growls, standing, shedding his pants, revealing just how ready he’s been. “Been dreaming about this. About you. Every fuckin’ night.”

He climbs over you, forearms braced beside your head, his tip sliding along your still-wet folds.

“You want me?” he asks, voice thick.

“Yes. Please—”

He sinks into you in one smooth, slow thrust, and everything else disappears.

Your moan is filthy, and his? It’s practically a growl.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he hisses, forehead resting against yours. “God, you feel perfect.”

He starts to move—slow at first, deep and steady—rocking into you like he’s savoring every inch.

“You take me so good, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Like you were made for me.”

Your nails dig into his back. You wrap your legs around his waist. “Harder.”

He obeys instantly.

His thrusts pick up speed, power—his metal hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread wide as he pounds into you with deep, possessive strokes.

The headboard hits the wall. The bed creaks. The room fills with the sound of skin, breath, moans.

“Fuck—Bucky—yes, just like that—”

He leans down, nipping your jaw, your throat. “You’re mine,” he groans. “This pussy? Fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”

He kisses you then—hungry, messy, like he’s claiming you—and slips a hand between you to rub your clit, fast and perfect.

You shatter around him a second time, crying out his name, your entire body trembling. He follows moments later, burying himself deep, moaning low in your ear as he comes.

He doesn’t move for a moment.

Just holds you, breathless, bodies tangled, hearts racing.

Eventually, he rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, cradling you on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your sweaty face.

You hum, nuzzling into him. “Absolutely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time,” he whispers, “we skip the date and go straight to dessert.”

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed.

And for the first time in weeks, nothing interrupts the night.

-The end

(Yes, I know that I said I don’t write smut. I am not good at it. But… I gave it a shot to see how it goes.)

#marvel #avengers #fanfiction #romance #female reader #captain america #shadyfestivalperfection #sebastian stan #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #james bucky buchanan barnes #smut

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kenyummy · 2 months ago

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✰ 01. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 01. sparkless life.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: guys i couldnt resist posting criesssss . also master is used as a gender neutral term!!!! couldn't be bothered to put master/mistress every time so

prev. ✰ masterlist. ✰ next.

When you wake up, your eyes are permeated by a hard light. Your eyes are squinted hard and you're having a difficult time getting your eyes to focus.

Your brain is fuzzy and feels like melted candy in your head. What was going on, again...? This bed... it's really comfy. It's like laying on a bed made of clouds, fairy dust, and your hopes and dreams.

(Nothing like your lumpy mattress back home... May told you it built character.)

You reach your hand up, to try and block out the harsh glare directed right into your retina. It dims in a second, and for a moment—you think you've finally developed mutant powers of telekinesis. You sit up—only to discover you were not actually the one who turned off said lights.

"Apologies, Master [name]." An older man with a distinct British accent stands in the door—a few feet away from the bed you're resting on. "I did not realise you had awoken already. I would've turned down the lights, if I was aware."

You blink, surveying the room around you. It's big. Unfamiliar, as well. Modern. Really big. Wait, did he just call you—

"Master [name]?" Your mouth moves faster than your mind, and your brows furrow deep. "What... where am I?"

The older man looks genuinely puzzled at how defensive your stance is. "Oh dear. Perhaps you did end up getting lead poisoning. Or a concussion. ... No matter. This recent amnesia is common within traumatic injuries."

He clears his throat with strict elegance and straightens his posture, "[name]. I believe you were attacked in an alleyway, when your brother found you. You were in the hospital for a few days, and brought back here—back home—this morning. You're currently in one of your father's guest rooms. The doctors said you were healing miraculously fast."

You hiss lowly. You really hope they hadn't gotten a blood sample—you haven't had the best of experiences with people getting your blood.

"You seem to be alright now. A bit..." He looks at your exposed, scarred shoulders. "Scuffed up—but better than when Master Jason had found you."

Your brother... Jason...? Who even...?

What's going on here?

Your heart seems to skip a beat as the calculations start going off in your head. A world you had never heard of... a place you'd never seen before—perhaps you weren't on a different world, and like you had suspected... it was definetly some multiverse shenanigans again.

You knew you should've made Jess take that mission instead of you. Damn. You and your dumb rivalry with Doc.

But you couldn't understand why this random man knows you. He speaks as if you've lived a life with him—like he's known you since...

You chew down on your bottom lip. "... This is... my home. I live here, don't I...?"

You play with words cautiously, speaking slow and methodical. It only serves to confuse the man even further.

"Yes, you... do? Master [name], perhaps you should go back to the hospital. You're sounding rather frazzled—"

You almost jump up, out of the sheets, "Uh—no! I... I'm fine. My head's just a bit... messed up right now. Sorry."

It's not—after that flashbang, you're feeling fine. Your shoulder only burns with a stretch whenever you put too much pressure on it—but you're completely okay otherwise. But you don't think you should let him know that just yet.

"If you insist, Master [name]." He bows his head. "Do you require any further assistance?"

You blink, considering your choices.

Eventually, you land on the safest option. Search your surroundings. Find out what's going on here before going all Spider-ham on them. For all you know—they're super skrulls waiting for the right moment to strike. You need to be smart about this.

"Yes... I would like to go to my room... could you... walk me there?" You don't meet his stern gaze. "I'm not sure I'm able to walk on my own two feet just yet. I'm sorry."

You don't see how his stare softens at your words. "Of course, Master [name]."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and steadies you with a hand on your shoulder as you shakily stumble out of the bed. It's bouncy enough to launch you forward slightly—and it takes every muscle in your body to stop your Spidey-instincts from taking over and jumping backwards.

He slips your arm within his and steadies you as you both slowly walk out of the large guest room. If this was a guest room—you wonder what your room looked like.

The hallways weren't anything to sneeze at, either. Decorated with contemporary art pieces—sleek and so shiny you could see your face in the tiles below your bare feet. You felt so out of place—the civilian clothes you sported since you got here still dressed your body, and it wasn't even close to fitting in.

As you stumble down the halls with a bit of overdramacy, a man suddenly appears from around a corner. Deep black hair and the brightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His smile is wide and he waves enthusiastically, "Hey, Alfred! I got back from Blüdhaven after uh—I heard what happened."

"Hello, Master Dick. It's lovely to see you back home again." Alfred nods his head. The man in question—Dick, apparently, which makes the immature teen in you giggle—gives you a sorrowful expression.

But... doesn't say anything past that. He continues small talk with Alfred—and you're left propped up in the older man's arms with a lost expression.

Did he... just blow you off?

One—that was pretty rude. Two, did he not just say he came back after he heard what happened? Not to toot your own horn or anything—but you'd assume being shot kind of counts as a "what happened".

You press your lips firmly together. This was getting awkward for you, especially seeing how comfortable this huge Dick (yeah, you're taking it and running with it) seemed to be with leaving this sickly, wounded (maybe you're being a tad dramatic) person to stumble like a baby fawn, in silence.

Alfred, however—catches sight of your one-sided tension, and abruptly ends his conversation. "My apologies, Master Dick, but I must help [name] to their room. I would love to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Oh yeah, no sweat, Alfred." He gives the older man a gleeful thumbs up. Then, his eyes meet yours. "Get better soon, okay?"

You avert his stare and only nod in response. Well, at least he noticed you were there. You're still in mild shock, but you somehow manage to keep a pleasant expression. With one last small smile, Dick walks away—where, you don't really care about.

Alfred slowly helps you up a flight of stairs. He only breaks the silence after you find yourself standing in front of a room with a faded name on it. Your name. "... All these years, and only now, you've suddenly changed. I wonder..."

His words are cryptic, but his expression even more so. What was he talking about? "... Huh?"

A small smile fades on his face. "Ah... no. It's nothing. I was thinking out loud. Call me if you need anything else, Master [name]. I am at your service. And please... get better soon."

Somehow, it sounds nicer when he says it. You smile a little, and give him a nod.

"Thank you..." You test out his name on your tongue. It feels natural. "Alfred. I'll try my best."

He leaves with a curt nod and not another word. You finally slide the door open, and take a look around.

You step inside, and it's like you've entered a whole new world, again.

It's... small. Not by regular standards—it's almost double the size of your room at home—but compared to a guest bedroom in this overly massive home... it's rather small. Like a closet, more than a bedroom.

It's empty, too. Your room at home is decorated with posters and trinkets of your favourite shows, pictures of you with Harry and MJ (sometimes even the four), and memorable items you've collected with your friends and family over the years.

Memories. You had memories.

There is nothing here.

It's like you're standing in a blank slate—in a world where you are nothing and yet everything you've ever had. It sends a chill down your spine.

You walk barefoot across cold wood and take a seat on the bedsheets. Bare white with a childish print. Something a young child would use. It looks pretty scuffed up. Old. The mattress creaks under your weight and you wince.

There's a bookshelf just opposite to you. There's not much in it—in fact, it's smaller than small and is almost completely empty. There's nothing but school textbooks and thick novels. And...

It catches your eye almost immediately. A little pink slip in the midst of deep black and brown colours. You stand up—ignoring the creak that follows—and walk over to the shelf.

You slip the book out, and immediately take in its cover. Pink, and with your name in wonky cursive. It's rather dusty, as if it hadn't even been touched in years.

You flip open the cover. Big bubble letters spelling out My diary flash you and you quickly flip the page before the glitter sears into your eyelids.

The first entry is there. Exactly seven years and two months ago. It's nothing like those entries you've seen on those corny 2000's TV shows for tweens—nor is it like those aesthetic journaling girls on Pwinterest.

It's something, familiarly, you. A short clunk of text about your day, on days that had some sort of exciting event going on—something you'd undoubtedly do. It almost makes you grimace.

This whole multiverse thing might be worse than you thought.

Two days ago I moved into a new house. My mom said she couldn't take care of me anymore, and I had to live with my dad. I've never seen him until today, but he's really busy, so we don't talk much. Alfred is nice to me, and his cooking is really yummy.

There's a little sketch of a baked dinner—and despite your pre-tween art skills, it does seem rather tasty looking.

You flip the page. The next entry is a week after the last.

I still haven't talked with dad yet. But I did meet two new people. Alfred said that they're my new brothers. Mom never wanted any more babies, so I was very excited to meet them! Jason is fun to play with. He's really bad at hide and go seek, though—I always win! Dick is fun too, but he's busy a lot, like dad. But he always makes time for me and Jason. I really like it here.

There's a small picture of three stick people holding hands. One is significantly short than the other two—labelled with your name above. The one on the left to you is Jason, with black curls and a wide grin. The one on the right is labelled Dickie, much taller than the other two and with shaggy black hair.

The drawing is innocent. Cute. Wholesome, if you will. There's even heart stickers pasted (and peeling, by now) between each of your heads.

You flip the page with a small, fond smile. The next entry is three days after that one.

Dad played with me, Jason, and Dickie today. He was really bad at hide and go seek too—but Dad and Jason chased each other all around the house before I caught both of them. I was so happy I won today! Dad took us all out for dinner, even Alfred. Alfred said he only came because I always look very happy when we're together. The dinner was really yummy!!!!

The drawing underneath is a picture of what looked like a smaller version of you, standing triumphantly with a little tiara on your head.

You flip the page. This time—there's a significant gap between the dates. This was a whole 5 months after you last wrote in your diary.

I don't know where Jason is. Dad and Dickie look really sad. They've been really busy for a long time, and we don't play much anymore. The only times I see Dad is at dinner. But we don't talk. Sometimes he doesn't eat dinner, either. Alfred still puts my drawings on the fridge, and he says that Dad and Dickie are just sad now, and they'll be better soon. I miss Jason. I want him back home.

There's no silly-looking drawing to go underneath this entry. This Jason—apparently the man who saved you—seemed rather fun-loving, despite whatever happened to him. You wonder what it was.

You flip the page, again. This entry was 3 months after the last.

I miss Dad, and Dickie. Dickie told me he had to go away for a bit, because he has something important to do somewhere else. Dad is busy all the time. I haven't seen him in 4 days. I don't play with anyone but Alfred now, but he's not that fun to play with, because he's so serious all the time. Dad tells me to go on my iPad and not bother Alfred when I'm bored, but I miss them.

Next one is 2 days after.

I met a new boy today. Dad told me he's my new brother. I was pretty excited because he's my age. But he didn't want to talk to me. He said he was too caught up in important stuff, and that I should just come back later. But he looked real annoyed when saying it—so I didn't come back. He didn't say anything, so I don't think he cared.

A week later.

My dad is Batman, and my new brother is Robin. I'm freaking out. He never told me—I saw them sneaking out one day and I got really mad. Why didn't he tell me? Did Dickie and Jason know? Was I the only one who didn't? Tim got mad at me when I started yelling. I felt really sad so I hid in my room to get away from them. I've been here since. Alfred brought me dinner, but I'm not hungry.

So... this Batman who you saw before, is actually your dad? In this world, this is your father? You almost drop the diary in shock, but you can't tear your eyes away. You can't stop reading.

The next few entries don't catch your eye—it's all teen angst about how you're sick of how busy your dad is, how annoying Tim can be, how Dick won't even visit your room anymore—until something else catches your eye.

3 years later.

Jason is back. He's back home. I don't know why, but he's back. I was so excited to see him again—everyone else has become so busy and won't even talk to me. Nobody else has time for me, but Jason did. But he looked different. He's way older than me, now. He won't even look at me. I tried to hug him but he just put a mask on and walked away. Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do? It's not fair.

Your writing grows into chicken scratch near the end—as if conveying your frustration. You skim through a few more entries. More teen angst. More about how you can't even hold a conversation with your siblings anymore.

Some were sweet, like how you met some people, unnamed, and treasured their friendship so deeply, but they were few and far between.

I met a girl today. She's my sister now. Her name is Cassandra, and she has very pretty eyes. I tried to talk to her, but dad got pretty mad at me because apparently she doesn't like to talk much. How was I supposed to know that? She didn't even look at me as dad pulled her away. Who even is she? Why does my dad like her better than me? Why does he like them all better than me? It's not fair.

You're bitter. You're upset, and so, so bitter. It's so abundantly clear that as time went on, you became progressively more and more spiteful. It was rather sad to watch.

This stupid little kid tried to kill me. Claimed I was unworthy. I couldn't give less of a shit what he thinks—but my family couldn't give less of a shit about me. They said he's troubled, that he needs patience.

The new few words were less than family friendly. Unkind? Definitely. Deserved? Possibly.

I can't believe this. I'm so sick of this. I want to get out. I can't take this anymore. Jason kills people now, but Bruce still loves him. Even Steph and Babs get more love from Bruce than me. They're not even in the family, but they're better. Because they're superheroes, they're better. Maybe I'll be a hero myself. Maybe then, they'll see me.

You flip the page. That's the last entry. The last page of the book—but behind it, there's a page made of sticky notes on the back cover. Your eyes widen in shock at what you see.

It's all...

"Spidey," you read out the name atop this pasted page in a low whisper.

Your fingertips trace over the detailed drawings. Your costume. Though not made of nanotech—the suit was intricately designed with spider patterns falling all around your arms and legs, with a large spider torso. It looked somewhat like Silk's suit.

Web shooters, with thorough calculations on how much you'd have to bulk up to swing without taking your arm off (which, by what you're reading, was humanly impossible for a regular you), and detailed explanations on what the web fluid was made out of.

More environmentally sustainable than your ones. You'd have to take these notes back home.

It wasn't like your family would go looking—you can't help but think, chewing on your cheek. This was incredible. You must've been a real genius to figure all this out.

Back home, you had Reed and Tony help you with all your spider stuff. Sure, you were the one who came up with all the base ideas and constructed it all yourself—but they helped out a lot with all the technicalities. But to come up with something like, from what you can tell, all on your own...

It was nothing short of incredible. And your family had no idea.

You snap the book shut, eyes narrowing down at the ground. Your Aunt May never would've treated you like this—and if you were correct, this other you must be with your aunt right now.

Good for them, you think. Maybe they'd be happier there, anyway.

A sudden knock at your door brings you out of your stupor. You slip the book away quickly as Alfred opens the door, bowing his head slightly. "Master [name], dinner is ready. If you're feeling better, please come down."

The prospect of a family dinner leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, especially after all you've read from this diary. No matter. You don't know how this you behaved before, but you have bigger issues to deal with than becoming a copy of this sad child.

But despite everything... Alfred really did seem to care for them—for you. You nod, smoothing out your cami. "Thanks. Let's go."

You and he both head down the stairs, and you finally come face to face with the family you've heard so much about.

They're all grinning from ear-to-ear, laughing about something that "happened on patrol" as you take a seat at the end of the table—beside a blonde girl who you think was called Stephanie—chewing on the food.

It was good. Really good. Almost as good as Aunt May's meatloaf. The thought makes you feel a little homesick, but you persevere. The hard glare given to you across the table by this small kid (definitely Damian) isn't helping, though.

Dick catches the look and follows his little brothers gaze to you. He doesn't say anything about it—only ruffles the boy's hair, chuckling, and asks why he seems so glum. The child hisses and starts trying to stab the man with a steak knife, to no avail—of course.

That was the last time you were even glanced at for the rest of the dinner. You almost can't believe it. How could somebody really fade into the background like that? How could such a family let it happen?

How could they be so ignorant? You lose your appetite soon enough, and stand up. The chatter dies down for a second. Stephanie—being the closest toward you, gives you an uncomfortable smile, "Are you not going to finish? You were out for a while... you need energy to get back up and do..."

Whatever it is you do at home, you guess that's probably what she was thinking. Who said you hadn't gotten a telepathic mutation?

She doesn't finish her sentence. You'd just met these people and already you were sick of this. Seriously, you don't think you could get any more uncomfortable if somebody strapped you to a chair and tossed you down a dark well.

You miss the most fantastic of fours you know. They'd never do this to you. Sue was far too sweet.

You shake your head, plate held tight in your hand. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. There's much more important things out there in Gotham, isn't there? Besides—I have more than enough time to heal. Not like I'm doing any hero stuff, huh?"

Your laugh lacks any kind of humour, and you walk out in your typical Spidey fashion. The chatter doesn't spike up for a good ten minutes until after you leave.

You meet Alfred in the kitchen, and he's doing countless dishes alone. There's a stack of plates almost as tall as he is. You roll up your sleeves.

He gives you a confused look. "Master [name]? I have told you before, you—"

"I don't care what you told me." You say, suddenly—but you backtrack when you realise how flat your tone was. Cheeks flushed, you correct yourself, "Ah—sorry. I meant... I don't care what you told me, because it doesn't matter if you don't want help... I'll offer it anyway, you know? I can't help it. It's how I am."

It's why I'm Spidey. Not because I have powers. Not because I'm good at swinging around. Not even because the costume is awesome.

It's because you can't help but help others. You have the power to do so—now it's your responsibility.

You take a sponge, and douse it in dishwashing liquid. You scrub down a porcelain plate beside Alfred in silence.

The pensive look on his face was now replaced by a small, fond smile.

we getting into the typical diary entry stuff okokokkkk but. love interests next chapter. smirks let me cook!!!@

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if you asked to be on the taglist but aren't there, your account couldn't be tagged for whatever reason. im not too sure how tumblr works, but if you manage to fix it, ask me again!!!

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velvet4510 · 3 months ago

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A Defense of Snow White’s Prince Florian

“He kissed a random corpse in the forest!”

“He’s preying on a child!”

“He stalked her!”

Please, please, you guys, I’m begging you to actually WATCH the original Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

WATCH.

THE.

MOVIE.

Because the Prince kissing Snow White is, to me, one of the most heartbreaking scenes in Disney history.

And here’s why.

First of all, the Prince is clearly close to Snow White’s age. He is both drawn and voiced as very youthful. He looks and sounds about 16 or 17, at the oldest. He is NOT a “predator”. He’s a boy who loves a girl, like in any good fairy tale.

Secondly, the Prince meets Snow White early in the movie. She’s NOT a complete stranger to him at the end. And their first meeting is significant. The Evil Queen makes a big deal out of Snow White’s looks, being “the fairest of all”, etc. But the Prince is first drawn to Snow White’s VOICE. He’s captivated by her singing and her kindness to the birds. He sees beyond her looks. He sees past the rags she wears and recognizes that this is a good person, a beautiful person on the inside. Then when she’s startled by him, he’s very polite and soft-spoken, apologizing for frightening her. He’s a total gentleman. Then he serenades her, letting her know how much he admires her. (Words that she has NEVER heard from ANYONE else in her life, by the way.) Then he even smiles at and is kissed by a dove that lands on his finger, hinting he has a connection with animals somewhat like hers.

And then there’s a fade to black. So we actually don’t know if she came out again, if they talked for a while. Maybe they didn’t, but maybe they did. The film doesn’t clearly tell us one way or another. But there is a possibility that they did get to know each other a little there. And if they didn’t, something is still beginning between them. They share warm smiles and affectionate looks. They both feel it, and they both hope to pursue it.

Then Snow White finds out her stepmom wants her dead and has to run away. Which means the Prince noticed her absence.

And the narrative text later tells us that he “searched far and wide” for her after she disappeared. (This guy walked so Fiyero could run, let’s be real.) Imagine the person you’ve been thinking about, hoping to get to know, wondering if they may be the one, suddenly vanished without a trace. And she’s the Princess of your neighboring kingdom. And then the Queen of the same kingdom also suddenly disappears. Wouldn’t you be alarmed? There’s a chance the huntsman may have gone to the Prince’s kingdom for help, and warned him of the Queen’s horrible actions. There’s also a chance that the Queen already had a bad reputation in the area, and the disappearances were a confirmation of what was already suspected. So the Prince nobly tries to find out what happened to his newfound love, worried about her safety. Snow White sings about her hope that she will see him again and tells the dwarfs about him … but the full truth of the situation is that he’s been thinking about her too. It’s a mutual young first love, pure and innocent.

Then the Prince FINALLY finds his beloved… in a coffin. After a “far and wide” search, there she is, apparently DEAD! All his hopes and wishes for a possible relationship with her are dashed. A 17-year-old who once dreamed of reuniting with his first love has just found her dead. He knows absolutely nothing about the poisoned apple’s spell or its cure. He doesn’t know a kiss will save her. He thinks she’s gone. Forever. All he knows is that he has found the girl he loves too late, and he couldn’t help her, despite all his searching. So, he kisses her goodbye. He kisses her as an apology, a sign of regret for lost dreams, a chance that he seems to have been denied. A 2-second touch of her lips to show his devotion. Then he bows his head and grieves.

This moment demonstrates than in him, Snow White has found the genuine love she’s been yearning for. While her stepmother tried multiple times to murder her, now she has someone who genuinely values her, so much so that he searched everywhere to find her when she went missing. Who was so heartbroken and crushed at the notion that she was gone forever that he gave her what he thought was a goodbye kiss, his one and only way of showing what she meant to him before he became haunted by the ghost of her memory, of his failure, of his lost chance at love.

This is a deeply and tragically romantic moment that has sadly been widely misunderstood. Do not slander Prince Florian! He doesn’t deserve it!

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yandere-wishes · 9 months ago

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Alice in Marvel-land

𐙚Yandere! Deadpool (Wade Wilson) x Reader x Yandere Wolverine (Logan Howlett)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ In some worlds, you were Logan's little darling. In others, you were Wade's starry-eyed lover. But here in the void, there is only one of you and two of them.

⁀➷ GORE, yandere behavior, kidnapping, Deadpool being Deadpool.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ IDK, probs the Deadpool and Wolverine soundtrack

Logan feels the world slipping away.

Piece by piece, atom by atom.

In a blink, he's falling down darkness.

An endless rabbit hole.

What was the name of that fairy tale you liked so much?

The one with the girl who gets lost in splendor?

The dust is kicking up, framing the sunset portrait along the horizon.

The envoys are nearly home, this time they've brought someone back. The cage balls chime along the unsteady road. If you squint just far enough you can almost make out vibrant specks of red and yellow.

Strange, the void tends to wash out bright colors. Well, it tends to wash out just about everything.

You scrape your nails along the skeleton's sockets. Leave crescents in the decaying cartilage. "They're almost here" you call out awaiting Cassandra's next move. You watch dolefully as she's transfixed on a portal. The sparky thing unfurled like a fresh wound, strewing salt on persistent lacerations. She watches her brother, or well some variation of her brother. Surrounded by his new family, surrounded by those he loves. He's forgotten her, or maybe never even knew her. You think that the latter would hurt the most.

"Cassandra" Your voice rises in octave, this time getting her attention. "They're here".

"Coming" She sings, voice so chip it almost sounds like unshed tears. You send a final glare at the portal before it collapses on itself.

If you tried hard enough, maybe you could bring yourself to understand her pain. Those pesky notions of desperation for someone to love. But it

doesn't matter now everyone you've ever loved is dead anyway. And unlike Cassandra, you've long since given up on the childish dreams of being rescued by someone who would offer up love so freely.

"Maybe shut up now"

Logan's nerves are frying. Thin strings snapping with every syllable that leaves the red merc's mouth. He's starting to appreciate Stryker in a way he didn't even know he could. The man was a psychotic sadist but at least he knew when to sew someone's mouth shut. Maybe he can convince this Cassadra chick to do the same.

Logan's eyes are almost at 90 degrees of a roll when they stop. He stops, frozen. In the gaping mouth of the rotting skull, something all too familiar stands.

Or rather someone.

Someone he knew.

Someone he loved.

Your name tastes bitter on his tongue. All death and whisky.

Maybe cause it's been so long since the attack. Since he walked off for the night and left his family to die. Cause the last time he saw you, you were a mangled corpse laying in an open grave. Deadweight as he cradled you in his arms.

You walk closer. Face painted in too many shades of confusion.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Damn, he's started quoting that stupid book again.

"How do you know my name" You ask. You look just as beautiful as he remembers. Spine carved straight in pride with perfect lips, perfect eyes. His talons itch to glide across your soft skin, to feel you so intimately once more.

"LOOOGAN did you see what the bald chick just- HEY!!"

It takes too much effort to pull his gaze away. To stare at red and black and be reminded of cruel realities. But Wade has a tendency to be a persistent ache, some unwelcomed anchor to every problem he's ever had.

Only this time when he actually looks at him. Looks at the jittery body that's stilled abruptly. He can't help but be glad that he did. A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat. Maybe Wade's shut up for good this time.

He always knew you were special but this is truly a miracle.

"IT'S YOU!!"

Nope, didn't work. He knew he couldn't be that lucky.

Wade whispers your name, a forgotten prayer. Logan didn't even know the loudmouth knew how to pray. But he seems to almost soften when he sees you. That feral, cheeky killer, looks so so soft when he stares into your doe-eyes. Reaching out zealously to twirl a lock of your hair around his blood-soaked finger.

He can almost feel Wade choking on your essence, heart erratic, like a child finding a lost toy. He's drowning in ecstasy, and Logan is almost tempted to join him. You're here, a breath away. So close it's taking every ounce of self-control not to pull you to his chest and keep you locked between his arms until he finally dies too.

"Penunt look that's my girl!!"

"Your girl!?"

He had taken you for granted as he tends to do with most peaceful things. The realization had occurred a little too late. Right as he had been emptying a round into the target of the week's head.

He lands.

Arms high like an Olympian pleasing the crowd.

He wonders if he can make you cheer for him.

Clap and shout his name as he twirls around the mess he's made.

He wants to feel loved, although he'll never say it out loud. He's only ever been good with words when they're laced with sarcasm and profanity.

And maybe 'I love you' is just about the most obscene thing he can ever say to someone as sweet as you.

Wade plays the white rabbit, fluffy coat stained red from every kill. Tricking poor Alice into following him down cruel rabbit holes. Making you chase him through labyrinths then leaving you at every turn. He leads you to every kill, makes you watch as he dances in slaughter. He can even feel your eyes right now. Starlight slicing him open to quench vulgar interests.

Alice always follows the rabbit.

He stalks closer, white eyes fixated on your deliciously bewildered expression. Precious thing caught in a warzone. He can almost taste you on his tongue, the sharp tip of a star slivering the inside of his mouth, soft hands painting crescent moons along the back of his neck. He needs to carve his essence across your lips, to pour the after-kill adrenaline into your soul. He needs you.

Only this time...

This time he'd been too distracted. So caught up in claiming you as his victory prize that he didn't notice the grizzled man clinging to life...

And a pistole.

The bullet punctures his shoulder. An afterthought.

But the lead keeps going.

Penetrating the air until it lands bunglingly between your eyes.

You fall into his arms.

Deadweight.

Did the white rabbit ever miss Alice?

Did he ever realize how truly special such a curious girl made him feel?

He doubts it.

Doubts that a stupid rodent would have better emotional stability than him.

He's been given a second chance. A whole plethora of them actually. He's been deemed holy, righteous. And aren't gifts of marvel bestowed upon the truly blessed? What better blessing than the sight of you standing amongst the sand and skulls?

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

He lets the blood trickle down his claws.

What else is there to do but dream of you?

It's the fourth day of his massacre and he's lost count of how many humans he's killed. Maybe cause after the first hundred the faces tend to blur.

He leaves your pleasants in between the rotting carcasses and broken glass. Only taking the torturous parts of you. The things that can hurt him. The sharp edges that he can slit his pulse point on, the vague memory of your glare before you cried. The soft skin of your neck between his jagged teeth.

Enough to keep the hate burning.

He wonders if the creatures of Wonderland wept after Alice left. He wonders if Wonderland lost its wonder.

But now you're standing here.

Alive.

And he wants so badly to remember the sweet taste of your lips. The soft push against his chapped lips as he swallows you whole. Even desperate rabbits can go a little feral. His eyes take in every breath, every scowl.

Alive.

Good to see your affinity for dainty dresses spans across all universes...

Aliath skids forward, mystified in lightning and smoke. You feel your bones collapsing under the rugged man's, Logan's, vice grip. You thrash and scream trying to break free but he only barks out orders to his friend before they take off running.

"Your safe, don't worry we got you." There's a comedic cadence to every word Wade says. You can almost fool yourself into enjoying it if the two weren't actively attempting to defy Cassandra, to defy Aliath, to defy deities and absolutes. To ripe you away from the only semblance of opulence you've come to know.

"Let me go, you custome-wearing freaks." His gripe tenses. "Don't struggle so much, we said you're safe, now hold still" Logan's anger ripples through you. It's almost muscle memory to still, to obey.

Did you know him? Know them?

In some past life too out of reach?

The ground shutters to a jagged rhythm. You're flying up, escaping the misty horrors of the ground. Your head pounds with the force, air slapping across your body as you taste the cotton of the clouds between your teeth.

Is this how Alice felt as her head hit the roof?

Wade mutters about the stars and educated wishes. About people who live and matter. Logan slices through his thigh, the mercenary's optimism making his body ring with phantom pains.

No one matters.

And when they start to, they die.

There are cruel absolutes in this world. He's tasted them all. Let them slice his tongue and heart and danced to every tune they've sung. He rips his claws out and digs them into Wade's chest.

Again

And again.

Wade savors the salty tang of blood inside his mouth.

Licks his teeth and runs his tongue over the gaping holes.

He's sitting in the front seat head rolled back.

High off the blood and adrenaline and the thought of having you so close.

"I take it all back, the Honda odysseys fucks hard"

Bones crack, interrupted mid-heal as Logan turns his head to glare. "Shut up" he rasps and Wade almost, almost, hears approval.

There's a low moan reverberating across the broken car. Late night sleepy mumble that's half 'I love you' and half 'I need you'. Neither one has heard it in such a long time.

"Finally awake sleeping beauty? Kinda surprised you could sleep through all of that" Wade shimmies to the back, only to be greeted by your foot smashing into his face, cracking his nose open, and sending a fresh wave of blood into his mouth. He pins your knee to the seat and wiggles himself between you. caging you with his elbows as he stares down at your pretty face. "Miss me, angel baby?"

"Wrong fairy tale" Logan turns around in his seat, claws out running them across your cheek "Please stop, just let me go" you've never begged before, never fallen so low. But these two things, mutants, mutates, or whatever they are, scare you. Reckless, suicidal, dangerous. You feel so helpless in their presence. Never knowing you're to be kissed or killed.

"You're as lovely as I remember" The melancholy colors him in a monochrome of sympathy. Here is a man who's gone through every horror and still gets out of bed. Or maybe he has to, maybe he can't quite die and can't quite reach heaven. So he gulps down his immortality with black coffee to at least pretend he's being buried six feet deep. "Even after all this time I still love you" You almost melt in his brown eyes. So lonely, so desperate.

Kill or kiss

You want him to do both. Want to kiss extinction on his lips while being impaled by the claws. Kill or kiss.

Both, both, both.

"You know~" Wade pushes himself up, "I think your dress should be red...and black. To match your favorite man."

"Who the hell said you were the favorite?" Wade leans forward, in a blink he's gripped Logan's wrist and lunged the Wolvarine's claws into your abdomen.

You writhe, the bones and metal feel almost heavenly inside of you. When he retracts the claws you moan out, it's too saccharine to hold back. Everything feels so much lighter, colorful. You feel your essence slipping out, gushing over the back seat.

Red waterfall, so pretty.

Dress stained red.

"Told ya so!"

Wade pulls you roughly by the shoulders and smashes his lips against yours. He's so cute, fickle Cheshire cat, tongue dancing across your mouth, slitting itself on your peaked teeth, and filling your mouth with thick red caterpillar smoke. "What the hell is wrong with you? You really are God's perfect idiot" Logan's anger is tangible, sweet, and bitter like hatter tea at midnight.

"S'okay Logan, it feels nice" Your words slur, slipping gauche from your tongue as you giggle profusely. You feel like Alice cracking open Wonderland's ribs, crawling inside, and smearing the wonder across your face.

"When I used to read fairy tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one" You've heard these words before, Alice's words. she's right. Your fairy tale is painted red with pretty, crazy, princes who think that slicing open a princess is easier than kissing her. You reach out for Logan, desperate for a kiss. "eat me" you mutter, and Logan's face morphs into pure terror "Wade what the hell have you done to her?".

"What? It's better this way trust me"

"I hate you"

Logan bends, meeting you halfway. He kisses you with all the wary of a dead man walking. All teeth and heart and bitter memories left to rot three lifetimes ago. He pushes himself between your bones, trying to carve out his ethos in your body. He'd burn the world so long as he gets to keep you.

You squeeze your thighs around Wade's muscular thighs and hips unlocking a gibby giggle from the man. His mask is half pulled up as he trails sloppy fervorous kisses across your neck and chest. The nostalgia slithering under your skin has you squirming, you've been through this all before. In a past life somewhere where storm monsters and voids don't exist. "Remember how good this feels?" Wade mumbles as his fingers dig into your puncture wounds, drawing slow, desperate moans from your puffy lips. You don't dare answer you don't know what would be worst admitting to liking the loudmouth ministrations or admitting there were other versions of you out there, other happy versions.

"Oh for hell's sake," Logan reclines the front seat and shuffles closer. Pulling down the back of your dress. His kisses are bite marks in disguise rabid and feral, the two things the man will never escape. His name rolls across your tongue, you let it slip in an airy moan. "No fair " Wade complains "I want you to say my name too." He pulls out his baby knife and etches the skin of your thighs. Scribbling doodles of stars and half hearts and the little symbol he wears on his belt. "W-wade" you gasp never knowing whether to scream in pain or giggle in bliss.

Logan laughs into your neck. You didn't even know he was capable of such a gentle thing. You bite his lip playfully. Dragging your fingers across his muscular arms. Your thumb pushes into the space between his knuckles asking for the claws. For the most macabre parts of him. You glide your tongue across the parish where flesh meets metal. Kissing the metal and bones and lapping at the blood. Watch curiously as he draws out a long airy sigh. "Good girl" he mumbles voice marred with ecstasy and you almost see the ghost of a smile smear across his pretty lips.

Wade's thumb gently rubs against your hips. Softly usering you into peace, tranquility. Your eyes get heavy, the car gets blurry. The grotesque realignment of their bones steering you into a deep, content sleep.

"Hey Peanut, you think Alice in Wonderland here would mind if we keep going? "

"Shut it, moron "

"Oh, how I wish I could shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if only I knew how to begin.”

🎀Bonus

Deadpool: "Do you think the author's going to write about us again? Or is she planning to finally write that Dune fic she keeps talking about?

Wolverine: "I have no fucking idea what the hell you're even talking about.

🪐@yandere-romanticaa @bad4amficideas @sugarplumz100 @oscarissac2099 @facelessfionna @siphite @tocotuesday69 @linoleunm @mei-simp @shamelessdarkprince @gabriqllas @lovely-liliacs @shiroi-asashin17 @failinguniversity

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zepskies · 20 days ago

Text

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in.

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you right," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He laughed softly. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean smiled in amusement, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new chapter. ❤️

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vibelladonna · 3 months ago

Text

❛ 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒻 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Lately, things have been feeling off. You’ve been getting way more attention than usual, and not from anyone you’d expect. Someone’s been sneaking around your place, and you’re done just sitting back.

Here’s the twist, though—what if this person actually wants to be your dog? Yeah, you read that right. With a few clues, a little digging, and hanging out, you’ll know.

And you might just be hearing a “woof” real soon.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: This one's for @1heartsubm1ssivemen. Sorry for the delay, dearest, but I wanted to make sure I wrote the best smut possible for you. Honestly, when I read that request you sent me in the middle of lecture, it totally made my mood—it was so out of pocket, and I absolutely loved it.

I’ve woven a bit of my own lifestyle into this, shaping it into how I personally see myself treating Sol.

Trust me—you’re gonna love every second of it.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Sol x afab!reader, sub-Sol, dom!reader, gn!reader, smut, bdsm, possessive Sol, teasing, manipulation, power dynamics, pet play, praise kink, control, dominance, vulnerability, kink, intimacy, emotional intensity, slow burn, forced proximity, teasing, obsessive behavior, body worship, raw tension.

Look, living alone in an off-campus apartment?

Absolute dream.

No roommates leaving passive-aggressive notes about dishes, no weird smells wafting in from a shared fridge, no one side-eyeing you when you stumble in at 3 AM with a suspiciously large tote bag full of things you probably didn’t need but absolutely had to buy.

Just you and your perfectly curated chaos.

And your place? It’s whimsical as hell.

The walls are covered in mismatched tapestries and posters—half of them vintage, half of them weirdly cryptic, like something out of an indie horror film. Fairy lights snake around the ceiling, tangled in ways you weren’t there last night, casting a soft, golden glow over everything.

There’s a collection of odd little trinkets scattered across the shelves—porcelain dolls with unsettlingly glassy eyes, tiny jars filled with things that look like cursed relics but are probably just cool rocks, and a slightly suspicious music box that sometimes plays a note or two on its own.

The floor? Funky rugs galore. Every single one is different—one looks like an old Persian carpet stolen from a museum, another swirly like a fever dream from the ‘90s, and somehow, they all just work. The furniture is a mix of antique finds and comfortable, overstuffed pieces that you’ve practically melted into over time.

Your couch? More of a nest at this point, covered in plush blankets, embroidered pillows, and at least three half-read books that you keep meaning to finish.

The kitchen? Tiny, but absolutely drowning in charm. Mismatched mugs line the shelves, each one with its own little backstory—some stolen from diners, some gifted, some picked up because they spoke to you in some inexplicable way.

There’s a jar of honey on the counter, a half-melted candle that smells like cinnamon and something vaguely magical, and a fridge covered in postcards, weird magnets, and cryptic notes to yourself that even you don’t fully understand.

And the best part?

The sheer vibe of the place. It’s cozy, it’s eerie, it’s you.

A space that feels like it exists just slightly out of sync with reality, like if you turned a corner too fast, you might step into another world entirely. You love it here. You adore it here. It’s your little haven of weirdness, your own personal fairytale that doesn’t always make sense but always feels like home.

Except… there’s one tiny problem.

You, uh… kinda have a stalker.

Not in the full-blown, ‘call the cops and get a restraining order immediately way—at least, not yet’. But in the ‘this is getting really weird, and I might have to start locking my doors properly’ way.

It started off small. Little things. Things that made you question your own memory more than anything. A book on your shelf slightly out of place, turned the wrong way when you swore you hadn’t touched it.

Your favorite mug—you know you left it in the sink, crusted with juice from your all-nighter, but somehow, it was mysteriously washed and put away. Annoying, but whatever. College was melting your brain, and maybe you were just forgetting things.

And then there was the fridge.

At first, you thought maybe you were imagining it, but no—there was more food. Not just any food, but your food. Your favorite snacks, the stuff you had literally run out of, were just… back. Sitting in the fridge like they had never disappeared in the first place.

The expensive cheese you told yourself you wouldn’t waste money on anymore? Back in the drawer. A brand-new carton of oat milk? Sitting pretty on the top shelf like it had always been there.

You almost convinced yourself it was a roommate thing—except you don’t have a roommate.

Then, the underwear went missing.

Yeah. That’s when you started losing it a little.

One missing pair? Weird, but maybe it got lost in the laundry. Two? Annoying. But three? Okay, no. Now you’re pacing around your apartment, flipping through your drawers like a lunatic, muttering under your breath, "There’s no way I’m imagining this. There’s NO WAY."

That’s when it hits you.

Somebody has been in your apartment. Somebody who knows your habits. Somebody who washes your mug stocks your fridge, and—apparently—has an interest in your underwear.

And that? That’s when things stop being weird and start being a problem.

Because it’s not just the missing underwear anymore. It’s not just the fridge stocking itself or your mug getting mysteriously cleaned like you’ve got a ghost maid.

It’s the dreams. At first, you brushed them off. Everyone has weird dreams. Stress-induced nonsense, sleep paralysis, the occasional why the hell did my brain come up with that? kind of dream. But these?

These weren’t just dreams.

These felt real.

Someone holding you. Not the fleeting, vague sensation of a dream-hug, but something solid. Firm. A grip that lingered, too warm, too sure, like whomever it was had done this before. Like they belonged there.

Breath—soft and even, ghosting against your skin. The press of lips, deliberate and lingering, trailing from your temple down to your cheek, your jaw, lower.

And the worst part? The voice.

Not some faceless dream-stranger, not the usual nonsense whispers that fade upon waking. This was clear. Intimate. Kinda hot?? Like someone was right there, mouth pressed against your ear, speaking just for you.

"So pretty like this."

"Mine."

"You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll always take care of you."

And yeah, normally, you’d just blame it on sleep deprivation. Stress. Maybe even some weird subconscious bullshit messing with your head. But last time you checked? You don’t wake up with bruises.

This is exactly why you’re standing in your bathroom right now, one hand holding your hair up, the other gripping the sink like it might do something to fix this entirely unacceptable situation. Your reflection stares back at you, looking just as pissed and exhausted as you feel.

Yeah. Those are fucking bruises.

Upper neck. Side of your throat. Deep enough to linger, tender enough to ache under the brush of your fingertips. Right where someone’s lips would have been.

Like the kind of mark a lover would leave. Slow. Intentional. Possessive.

Your stomach twists, a sick feeling creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers pressing between your shoulders. You prod at the bruises again, wincing when a sharp sting shoots through your skin. Yeah—definitely real.

Unless you’ve somehow started aggressively making out with your pillow in your sleep or developed a habit of sleepwalking straight into a damn wall, there’s only one explanation.

Something’s been in your apartment.

Someone’s been touching you.

The air feels thick now like the walls are closing in, the dim glow of your lamp suddenly too warm, almost suffocating. Either you’re being haunted by the horniest ghost imaginable, or—

Your stalker is getting real fucking bold.

You exhale sharply, raking a hand through your hair. "And what the hell were they even after?" you mutter, scowling at your reflection. If he wanted to actually do something while you were asleep, he could’ve. But they didn’t. Why? Was he holding back? What the fuck is thier game?

Ugh. You shouldn’t be this used to this. Shouldn’t be thinking like this.

"This is getting ridiculous…" you grumble, shaking off the chills running down your spine. Stepping out of the bathroom, you do a quick sweep of your windows. Still locked. Deadbolt on the door? Secure. No signs of forced entry. And you live on the third floor, so it’s not like some creep is climbing in through the damn balcony.

So how the hell is they getting in now?

Now, you could call the police. That’s an option. But, uh… what exactly would you say? "Hey, officer, someone is mysteriously cleaning my dishes, refilling my fridge, and also swiping my underwear? Please help." Yeah. No. That sounds insane. You’d be laughed out of the station.

You could move out. That would be the smart thing to do, right? Pack up, break the lease, disappear into the night like this is some low-budget horror movie.

Except… yeah. That’s not happening.

Your lease isn’t up. And even if it was—this apartment is a steal. Literally. Because you’re not paying rent. At all. Your landlord? Super chill. Too chill, actually.

All you have to do is work your very specific (and slightly questionable) job, and in return? Free apartment. Free utilities. And best of all? He’s paying your tuition. This setup is golden. Platinum, even. You are not about to throw it all away just because some weirdo with boundary issues decided to play Domestic Phantom.

Still, if some creep thinks they can mess with you—thinks they can slither into your life like some discount horror movie villain—they’ve got the wrong one. Because you? You’re not about to be the dumbass who ignores all the red flags and ends up in a true crime documentary. Nope. Not happening.

There’s gotta be a way to handle this.

A plan. A solution. Something.

But for now? You’re staying put. You wander into the kitchen, rip open a box of Pop-Tarts, and bite into one straight out of the foil—because, honestly, you’ve got bigger things to deal with than toasting the damn thing. Later, you’re changing the locks. And as for protection… your eyes narrow.

Yeah. That might not be a problem.

You shove the paranoia down and focus on what you can control.

You get dressed. Something comfortable, something you. Mary Janes with soft knit socks, and a flowy black maxi skirt that moves like a whisper with every step. A black and red v-neck top sprinkled with delicate floral prints—subtle, but enough to make a statement.

Over that, a knitted wool cardigan, loose and cozy, its sleeves hanging past your wrists. A thin black choker wraps snugly around your neck, a long beaded pendant resting over your chest.

Your hair? Down. Messy but intentional. Just enough to veil the bruises. A bit of makeup, too—not too much, just enough to cover what needs covering.

Then? You’re out the door. Today’s agenda? Thrifting.

Something to take your mind off the weirdness crawling under your skin. You love thrifting—not just for the thrill of the find, but because it’s how you build your world. Your space, your aesthetic, your armor.

The thrift shop itself? A dump, but in the best way.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz and flicker, the one in the far-left corner struggling like it’s gasping its last breath. The air is thick with the scent of dust, old paper, and cheap lavender air freshener, the kind that doesn’t actually freshen anything.

The racks are overstuffed, clothes jammed together in a chaotic mess—vintage jackets crammed against grandma blouses, faded band tees fighting for space with outdated prom dresses.

And the shelves? A fever dream.

Antique picture frames missing their glass. Stacks of yellowed paperbacks nobody’s touched in decades. Rows of porcelain dolls, their glossy eyes following you no matter where you move. It’s a treasure hunt and a haunted house rolled into one.

And, like always, Sol is here.

He’s become some sort of guard dog. You invite him thrifting, not because you love hanging out with him—okay, maybe you do, but you’ll never admit that to his face—but because no men come up to you and he’s always there when you inevitably find yourself hauling way too much stuff back home.

Stuff you absolutely cannot carry alone.

Plus Sol? He’s freakishly strong.

Like, ’s so strong it makes no sense for a guy who dresses like he just crawled out of an indie film. Ripped sweaters, and oversized band tees, and his hair always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed—he looks like he spends most of his time listening to sad guitar riffs in his bedroom. Not exactly the type you'd expect to lift heavy furniture with one hand like it’s nothing.

But there he is, standing near the iron-metal-and-glass bedside table you’ve been eyeing for the past few minutes.

You test its weight in your hands—yep, heavy. Not happening by yourself.

“Hey, loser boy,” you call over your shoulder, already planning to rope him into doing all the hard work. Sol, who’s busy inspecting a studded belt like he doesn’t already have three of them, looks up with that signature nonchalant expression. “What?”

You point at the table, a wicked grin creeping up on your face. “Think you can carry this for me?”

He sighs dramatically like you’ve asked him to do something impossible, but without skipping a beat, he steps forward. One hand easily slides under the table’s base, lifting it as if it weighs nothing. The action is almost effortless, making your smug grin falter slightly as you watch him handle the furniture with way too much ease.

His rings catch the bad fluorescent lighting in the store, glinting like they’re part of some mysterious charm he’s wearing for the day. Sol effortlessly shifts the weight to one arm and starts moving without even blinking.

“You know,” he mutters, voice dry, “you could just get a shopping cart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t need you.”

His lips twitch like he wants to say something sarcastic, but the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. He’s embarrassed, or at least he’s trying to hide it, but you can see right through him.

You take full advantage of the moment, your smirk widening, the kind of victorious grin that makes you feel just a little bit too smug. You know he hates it when you tease him like this. And yet, he always falls for it.

“Whatever,” Sol mutters, carrying the table toward the checkout area with a resigned look on his face. But you know, deep down, he doesn’t mind it. Not really. Because as much as he pretends like you’re a pain in the ass, it’s obvious he’s got a soft spot for you.

And that’s exactly why you keep him around.

It’s not just the heavy lifting—although, that’s definitely a perk. It’s the way he’s always there when you need him, even if you don’t need him. You like having him around, even if you refuse to admit it out loud.

At first, Sol's offers to pay for everything were just part of the routine, but then—he never stopped. Every. Single. Time. The way he’d shove his hand in his pocket, and pull out that crumpled bill with a look that said, ‘I’m paying and you can’t stop me’ was almost endearing. Almost.

But you can’t let him.

“I’ve got it,” you’d say, always with that perfect blend of aloofness and stubbornness.

But Sol? He wasn’t backing down. You’d seen him try, so many times. At first, you thought it was just politeness—he didn’t want to feel like the moody guy who makes everyone pay for their own stuff. But no, there was persistence behind those actions. He genuinely wanted to pay for things, especially when you were involved.

And, well... if he’s going to be so damn insistent about it, who are you to say no?

Lowkey, you knew it wasn’t right to use him like this. You didn’t need to feel bad, though. After all, he was a volunteer. Mostly. You couldn’t help the way your mind wandered to the fact that well… Sol was cute. Tall, with that broody vibe that somehow always made him look like he was plotting something dangerous. He was the kind of guy who probably made people think twice before messing with him, though you knew better than to make assumptions.

But more than that? The strength. The kind of strength that didn’t make sense for someone who seemed so out of place at times. He wasn’t one of the rich, perfect students walking around campus, acting like they owned the world. He wasn’t a golden boy who had everything handed to him. No, Sol had muscle.

You liked that.

That’s why, one day while sorting through cheap jackets in the thrift store, you asked him, “So, uh… ever been in a fight?”

He gave you that same annoyed look he always did, that eyebrow arching like you were the last person he expected to ask him that question. Then, slowly, a little smile formed. “Yeah. A few.”

Of course, he had. He was the kind of guy who could handle himself in any situation, no matter how chaotic.

“What about teaching me?” you asked casually, tossing another item into your pile.

That got his attention. He stopped, looking at you like you had just asked him to walk on water. “Teach you?” he repeated slowly, like you were joking.

“Yeah. You know, protect myself and stuff?” You shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve seen the way some of these rich assholes treat the first-gen and lower-income students around here. They think they can just push us around. Some of them even bully people or treat them like pets.”

He went quiet.

“I don’t want to end up like that,” you added, quieter now. You didn’t want to explain the deeper reasons behind your request—didn’t want him to see too much. But he must’ve gotten it.

After a moment, Sol nodded. “All right. I’ll teach you.”

You almost didn’t believe him at first. Sol teaching you how to defend yourself? You had assumed it was a joke, some offhand comment he made while trying to sound tough. But here you were, weeks later, in the middle of moving furniture around in your living room, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.

The truth was, campus life isn’t exactly a cakewalk. You’ve seen the way people look at you when they think you’re beneath them—like you don’t belong, like you're just another person to brush aside. You could keep pretending it’s all fine, playing it safe, and hoping it’ll never happen to you, but the truth? The truth was too obvious to ignore.

If you don’t start learning how to protect yourself now, you might risk becoming just another target. A victim of the system. Of people who think they’re untouchable like they own the world simply because they’ve got the privilege and the right connections.

So, here you were.

Your apartment is quiet, the only sound being the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the old hardwood floors beneath your feet. A soft light flickers from the lamp in the corner, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and the floor.

It’s not much—just a regular night. Except it isn’t.

You moved the coffee table aside, and now the center of the room is cleared, the space a little too open, a little too exposed for comfort.

Normally, this would be the part where you'd curl up on the couch, maybe grab a snack, or settle in with some comfortable TV show on your laptop. But tonight? Tonight, you're standing here in the middle of your living room, hands balled into fists at your sides, trying to ignore the slight discomfort crawling up your spine.

Sol stands a few feet away, leaning back casually against the wall. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes? They’re locked on you, sharp as ever. Red-orange irises gleam in the dim light, intense and calculating. You swear he’s looking right through you like he's already analyzing every tiny movement you make.

"All right, so, it’s all about balance first," Sol says, voice low and controlled. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, his expression hard to read. But then again, it’s always hard to read Sol.

You swallow, trying not to make it obvious that you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how awkward this all feels. You're not exactly a fighter. You never had to be. Back in high school, you had a few run-ins and a couple of moments where you needed to stand your ground, but those were more the exception than the rule.

Still, here you are, in the middle of your apartment, standing in a stance you’ve only ever seen in movies, bracing yourself not to look like a fool in front of the guy who, for whatever reason, agreed to teach you how to throw a punch.

You nod, straightening up, trying to mimic his calm, practiced demeanor. The last thing you want to do is look like you’ve never lifted a finger in your life. Your fists are tight at your sides, the feeling of them somehow grounding you, even though they don't feel natural. You flex your fingers for a second, then tighten them again.

Sol watches you for a moment, then his gaze softens, just for a second. You catch it—an almost imperceptible flicker of something in his eyes that makes you pause. It’s... amusement? You’re not sure. But before you can think too hard about it, he motions for you to step forward.

“Shift your weight,” he says, his voice steady. “Lead with your hips.”

You try, trying to remember what he said. Shift. Hips. Balance. It feels unnatural like you’re trying to bend in a way your body wasn’t built for. You step forward tentatively, unsure of where exactly your weight should go. It’s like every part of your body is working against you, your legs are unsteady, your torso stiff, and your movements jerky. You hate how awkward you feel. You feel ridiculous.

Sol, however, doesn’t flinch. He just watches, those sharp eyes following every shift you make.

“Better,” he mutters. “A little more fluid.” His voice is low, quiet, but still firm. “Don’t be stiff. Relax. You’re not trying to break something.”

You nod, trying again, focusing on letting your body flow more easily, trying to mimic the ease with which Sol stands. But every move feels like it’s taking more effort than it should. Your legs don’t want to cooperate, and your arms feel like they belong to someone else.

"Just focus on moving like you’re part of the room," he adds, voice softer this time. “Everything in here is in balance. You should be, too.”

His tone shifts, becoming less like a drill sergeant and more... encouraging? Weird. You didn’t expect that from him, but it helps, just a little. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself.

Sol’s still watching you, his stance casual but observant. There’s a subtle shift in his expression—a hint of satisfaction, maybe? It’s hard to tell. You try again, and this time, it feels a little more natural. Your weight shifts more fluidly; your posture loosens up. You’re not perfect yet, not by a long shot, but... it’s better. It’s not as awkward.

"Good," Sol says, giving a small nod. "One more time. But this time—" He steps closer, just a fraction. His eyes lock onto yours, almost expectant. "Just let go. Don't overthink it."

It’s hard not to. Hard not to get in your head about every movement. But somehow, with him so close, you feel a spark of determination, and before you can stop yourself, you let it all go. Your stance shifts, your weight flows, and your body moves more naturally. You feel it this time—your body, your balance, your control. It’s not perfect, but it’s... close enough.

Sol takes another step back, his gaze lingering for a moment before he lets out a low breath. “Not bad. You’ll get there.”

For a brief second, his tone is... softer. Like he's genuinely impressed. You can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment, even if it's only the first step.

You glance up at him, not entirely sure what to say. You're not used to this—being taught by Sol. Hell, you’re not used to feeling like you can stand up for yourself, physically or otherwise. But here you are, one step closer to something you didn’t think you needed.

Suddenly, your stomach dropped when you heard the rumble of Sol’s stomach. You both stopped mid-lesson, realizing you’d been at it for a while. He tilted his head toward you, his mouth pulling into a half-smirk.

“Want me to order dinner?” he asked casually like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m thinking Chinese food. Like, the good stuff. Rice, bourbon chicken, sweet orange chicken…”

Your eyes narrowed, half-worried he was trying to get out of finishing your lesson by offering food, but at the same time, the thought of not having to cook yourself was tempting. Your stomach growled in agreement.

“You’re paying, right?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Obviously,” he said with a smirk that almost made you roll your eyes.

“Fine. I’ll make room for your… generosity”

You helped him with the call, and after a few minutes of placing the order, you shuffled back to the center of the room to keep practicing. Sol leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, and you could tell he was silently judging your form—but there was something in his expression that told you he wasn’t *all* that serious about it. You weren’t the most graceful person in the world, but at least you were trying. And honestly, that was more than a lot of people ever bothered to do.

Soon, the smell of food started wafting in from the front door. The delivery guy had arrived. Sol made his way to the door, leaving you to do some last-minute stretching as you mentally prepared to eat your weight in takeout.

When he returned with the bags of food, you felt a sudden wave of relief wash over you. Sol’s presence had a way of making you feel oddly safe, even though you were still pretty sure half the world would probably see you as just a piece of trash to kick around. But right now, right here, you had something for yourself. A plan. A way to stand up for yourself.

And for once, maybe it wouldn’t feel like the world was just out to get you.

You started setting up the food on your kitchen counter, the familiar scent of takeout filling the small space, making everything feel just a little bit warmer. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the lesson you’d just gone through with Sol—his unspoken instructions that made you feel just a little bit more capable. Or maybe, just maybe, it was him. There was something comforting about having him around, even when he was gruff, his usual silence hanging heavy in the air. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

“All right, dinner’s here,” Sol said, rubbing his hands together with a playful glint in his eyes. “You ready to actually fight someone yet?”

You glanced at him sideways, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Maybe. But only if they start with the orange chicken.” You pointed your chopsticks at him for emphasis, “That’s non-negotiable.”

Sol’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he rolled his eyes, stepping past you to the counter. You moved to the cabinet to grab the plates, feeling oddly lighter. Everything just felt easier in this moment, even with Sol hovering around.

The dull hum of the refrigerator, the quiet flicker of the overhead light—it was all just normal*, for once. Not a single thing felt out of place.

You reached for the plates, your fingers brushing the cool ceramic. But then, as if by instinct, a sudden movement behind you made you freeze.

Before you could even process it, Sol’s large hand reached right next to yours, his fingers brushing against your skin as he grabbed the plates instead. His proximity was close enough that his shoulder grazed yours, and for a split second, you felt your heartbeat skip. You didn’t even realize how startled you were until the breath caught in your throat.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he muttered, a little too quickly, the words slipping out as if they were forced, like he didn’t quite expect his sudden action to unsettle you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, his next words caught you off guard. He was so close now that his voice seemed to vibrate against your ear.

“You know if you ever actually want to learn to fight... it’s not always about hitting first.”

His words, casual and low, sent an odd shiver down your spine. Not because of the content itself, but because of the way his voice sounded—soft, but with something else. Something deeper.

Unsettlingly familiar.

You blinked, your hand stiffening on the counter, unsure of what exactly had just happened. Was it just the way his voice was wrapped in that strange intensity? You'd always known Sol had a low, gravelly voice, but now that it was right against you, so unexpectedly close, it sounded different. Almost like—whispering to you. In a way that felt a little too personal.

For a brief, inexplicable moment, you wondered if he knew the effect his voice had on you. Maybe he did.

You shook your head and tried to shake off the odd feeling creeping up your spine. It was probably nothing. Just Sol being Sol—gruff, distant, and surprisingly close when you least expected it.

But still, something was definitely... off.

Or maybe just on—in a way you didn’t want to think too hard about.

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur. You and Sol settled on the couch, the two of you sharing the takeout containers, laughing over your less-than-adequate attempts at chopsticks. The usual tension between you seemed to melt away, replaced by something... easier.

Sol wasn’t exactly the warmest person, but you’d learned over time to appreciate the way he didn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself. Even when he was being annoyingly gruff, he somehow managed to make you feel... well, normal.

You leaned back into the couch, feeling the weight of your full stomach and the quiet warmth of the room. The soft hum of the fridge, the distant sound of traffic outside—it was oddly peaceful.

“So,” you said, glancing over at him. Sol had already pushed his food aside and was staring at the half-finished puzzle on the table—something you'd long since given up on. “Where do you even get your outfit ideas? You’re always looking so... put together. I need some tips.”

Sol gave you that side-eye like you were asking him about the meaning of life. "Outfits? What, you wanna dress like me or something?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Nah, not really. Just curious. You’ve got that... thing, you know? That whole alt vibe. It’s kinda cool."

He shrugged, his usual “I don’t care about anything” face back in place. "Doesn’t really fit with your... vibe. You're too, I don't know, whimsical for it."

"Whimsical?" You rolled your eyes. "Dude, I'm not a damn fairy."

Sol didn’t even blink, keeping his eyes on whatever he was staring at. "Not exactly emo like me either. You’re more like... whimsical goth, you know? Mixing those flowery, goth vibes with a little playfulness. All those lush florals, patterns, moody colors, layers, and random little celestial shit. Doesn’t match." He paused, then added with a dry smirk, "You can't exactly wear black leather and chains and still call it cute."

“Cute…?” You raised an eyebrow at him, suddenly getting the feeling he was messing with you. “And I don’t even smell like a hippie, okay? I’m not out here smelling like patchouli.”

Sol leaned back, smirking like he knew something you didn’t. “Nah, you’re all about that herb life, I can tell. It’s like rosemary and lavender. You’re probably one of those people with a whole stash of essential oils or some shit.”

You stopped mid-bite, fork still in your hand. “Rosemary? I don’t... use that stuff.”

He gave you a lazy look, clearly unfazed by your surprise. “Yeah? Well, you kinda do. It’s not overpowering or anything, but it’s there. Like, maybe it’s in your hair?”

You blinked, taken aback. Lavender you could explain—you used that stuff occasionally with your shower routine, especially when you were winding down for the night, but rosemary?

You hadn’t exactly been using it religiously. You had a bottle of rosemary oil you mixed into your hair care routine on occasion, but it was a once-in-a-while kind of thing. Something that you do only at night,

"Really?" You asked, feeling a slight heat rise in your cheeks. "Is it that strong? I barely even notice it."

Sol just shrugged. "It’s not like it’s overwhelming or anything. Just... normal. You know, like some people have a scent that’s, well, theirs. Yours is herbal. Rosemary, lavender. You just feel like... fresh air."

It was strange hearing him describe you like that—like something natural, even pleasant. You wanted to argue, to brush it off, but for some reason, his words stuck. You never really thought about your scent beyond the occasional self-care routine. You’d never imagined someone would notice it so specifically.

It felt oddly personal, but not in a bad way.

You leaned back, trying to shake off the weird, almost embarrassed feeling that was creeping up your spine. "I’m not a freaking herb garden, Sol," you muttered, more to yourself than anything, but of course, your voice carried.

Sol just let out a low chuckle, the kind that sent a little shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. "Sure, whatever you say. But hey, if you ever want outfit advice, I’ve got you. Just don’t expect me to foot the bill. No way I’m going shopping with you," he said, sounding way too smug for his own good.

You raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning. "Deal. But you’ll owe me one for not making you teach me your ‘grumpy badass with a whole wardrobe of black’ look.”

His smirk only grew wider. "Yeah, well... you'd probably look ridiculous in it anyway." His voice had that unmistakable tease to it, the same one that made you want to roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered under your breath, trying to keep the teasing tone going. You shot him a playful glance, your lips curling up just slightly.

Sol didn't immediately respond, which was a little weird. Usually, he'd fire back with something sarcastic or just give you that deadpan stare. But this time? He just shrugged it off and leaned back into the couch like it was no big deal.

Not wanting to let it go, you suddenly got an idea. With a mischievous smile, you crawled over to him on your knees, careful not to knock over the empty takeout containers still sitting on the coffee table. Sol glanced at you like you were out of your mind, but you didn’t care.

You tapped his nose gently, just enough to make him blink and look at you in surprise. "Cute," you said with a wink, leaning in closer, your breath a little shaky but definitely playful.

Sol raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed by your closeness, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t gonna back down now. As you hovered over him, your eyes naturally dropped to his neck, and that’s when you saw it—the green choker he was wearing, snug against his throat.

You couldn’t help it. A smirk slid across your face as you leaned back slightly, grinning. "Nice choker, emo boy. You trying to start a band or something?" you teased, your voice dripping with that sarcastic sweetness you knew would get under his skin.

His face went from mildly amused to instantly irritated. "Shut up," he muttered, leaning his head back just enough to avoid your gaze, clearly trying to act unaffected. But you could tell—he was annoyed, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"Aw, come on," you teased further, tapping the choker lightly with your finger, "I didn’t know you were such a dark soul." You joked

"You're really pushing it now," Sol grumbled, but you could see the corners of his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. He looked away again like he was pretending he wasn’t at least a little amused by your antics.

You laughed, enjoying the playful tension. "Okay, okay," you relented, leaning back slightly and giving him a little space. "I guess you do look kind of badass in that choker, but—" you paused, narrowing your eyes teasingly, "—just don’t start trying to summon demons in my living room, all right?"

Sol rolled his eyes, but there was a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his lips. "You’re a real pain, you know that?" he muttered under his breath.

"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back, grinning widely. "Or at least, you put up with it. Big difference."

You couldn’t help it. With a playful smirk, you leaned in a little closer, your finger sliding under the clasp of his choker. You gave it a subtle tug, just enough to create tension, just enough to make him shift in place, but not enough to hurt. The motion was lighthearted, almost teasing, as you kept your eyes locked on his reaction.

"Careful there, puppy," you teased, your voice sweet with mock innocence as you tugged on the choker once more. "You might wanna think twice about who you’re calling cute. Last time I checked, I’m a grown woman in college, and I can handle myself just fine."

Puppy?

You could see his reaction before it even hit his face. Sol froze for a split second, and you could feel the air around you shift. His breath came out a little sharper, a little more ragged. His chest puffed up like he was trying to keep it together, but the tension in his jaw gave it all away.

His usual, icy ‘don’t mess with me’ glare was nowhere to be found today. Instead, you got something darker—a mix of irritation and maybe a little something else that he was clearly fighting to suppress.

You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.

For all his tough guy persona, it was clear that ‘puppy’ had hit a nerve.

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a nervous little exhale. "Says the one who asked me to teach them how to fight," he shot back, trying to sound all tough and detached. But there was this subtle hitch in his voice that you caught.

You didn't break eye contact. Oh no, you were in full tease mode now, smirking like you’d just found a secret treasure. Slowly, you tugged on the choker again—just enough to make him squirm, watching him closely for any sign of cracking.

"Yeah, I did," you said, as casually as you could manage, even though your grin was practically stretched across your face. You leaned in a little closer, closing the space between you two. "But hey, it’s the least you could do for me, right?" you added, letting your words hang there like a little trap. "I mean, I’m just using you for your skills."

His chest gave a little hitch, and for a second, you thought he might drop the whole ‘I’m too cool for this’ act. His lips parted just slightly, like he was gonna say something, but couldn’t quite manage it. You could practically feel the internal struggle.

Oh yeah, you were definitely getting under his skin now.

Sol’s hand reached up toward your shoulder, and you followed his movements, almost mesmerized. It was like he was fighting with himself, trying to keep that icy composure. But you could see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his grip tightened, like he was trying to resist something.

A smug grin spread across your face. Oh, this was good. You gave the choker another playful tug, just enough to make his breath catch, and raised an eyebrow at him. "Like what?" you asked innocently, feigning confusion.

Sol let out a low, frustrated sigh, leaning in closer, his eyes narrowing in on you with something that was definitely not just irritation. No, there was something else there now—something darker, like he was starting to unravel. His voice dropped an octave, rough and raspy.

"You know exactly what you’re doing."

Oh, you heard it—the strain in his voice, the rough edge he was trying to mask. It wasn’t working. And you were loving every second of it. "Do I?" you asked, your voice dropping to a teasing whisper, just barely audible.

"Maybe I do… or maybe I don’t…”

Your eyes narrowed as you slid off the couch with a casual stretch, giving him just enough time to let it sink in. You stretched your arms over your head with an exaggerated yawn, finally deciding to show Sol a little mercy. “All right, all right, I’m done messing with you,” you said, pushing yourself up off the couch. “I need to clean up and crash early anyway.”

Sol blinked a few times like he was still trying to shake off whatever the hell just happened between you two. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah?” His voice sounded a little off—like he was still recovering from you messing with him.

You nodded, already gathering up the empty takeout containers. “Yeah, there’s an estate sale happening in the morning, and I want to be the first one there.” You shot him a grin over your shoulder. “They always have the best jewelry and vintage clothes—velvet, lace, the whole deal. I’m not risking some old rich lady snatching up everything before I get there.”

Sol snorted at that, standing up and grabbing some of the trash to help. “Yeah, sounds totally worth losing sleep over,” he said, rolling his eyes. But then, after a beat, he asked, “You going with someone?”

You paused, thinking for a second as you tossed a takeout box in the trash. You hadn’t really planned it out, but now that he asked…

“I haven’t hung out with Crowe in a minute,” you said, turning to look at Sol. “Might text him later, see if he wants to come with.”

It was subtle, but you caught it—the way Sol’s shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his fingers curled against the counter before he quickly shoved them into his pockets. His usual frown deepened, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“…Right,” he muttered, nodding a little too quickly like he was trying way too hard to seem unbothered. “Makes sense.”

You raised a brow, amused. “What? Jealous?”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Pfft. As if.” But his tone was just a little too defensive, and you didn’t miss the way he definitely wasn’t looking you in the eye.

You smirked but decided to let him off the hook this time.

For now, anyway.

As you started gathering the trash and stacking the empty containers, Sol—surprisingly—didn’t bolt like he usually did when chores were involved. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and started washing the dishes without a word. You side-eyed him but didn’t say anything, just smirked to yourself and kept cleaning.

The silence between you two wasn’t uncomfortable, just filled with the quiet clatter of plates and running water. Then, midway through scrubbing a pan, Sol spoke up. “I made you chamomile,” he said casually like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s on the counter.”

You blinked, looking over to see a mug of tea steaming gently next to a little bowl of freshly washed fruit. Your gaze flicked back to him, a little thrown off. “Uh… you made this?”

“Yeah?” Sol didn’t look at you, focusing way too hard on rinsing off a plate. “I mean, you always eat it before bed, right? Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms, a slow grin creeping up your face. “Huh. Didn’t know you paid that much attention to my nightly routine.”

He clicked his tongue, finally looking at you with a glare that didn’t quite reach his usual level of menace. “Don’t get weird about it.”

You chuckled but didn’t push it—he’d already looked about five seconds away from regretting saying anything at all.

Once the kitchen was spotless, Sol muttered something about heading to bed early and, true to form, made a swift exit—like he couldn’t leave fast enough. You watched him go, amused at how suddenly eager he was to disappear.

Finally.

You let out a deep sigh, rolling your shoulders before heading to the bathroom. A hot shower sounded perfect right now—just you, the steam, and no one hovering or throwing weird energy into the air.

The water was bliss, washing away the long day, and whatever lingering tension still clung to you. After drying off, you slipped into your favorite tank top and matching shorts, the soft lace trim brushing against your thighs as you moved. It was nice—cozy, comforting. Just what you needed.

You grabbed the small bowl of fruit and the still-warm chamomile tea from the counter before flopping onto your bed, letting out a content sigh as you scrolled through your phone. Mindlessly, you popped a blueberry into your mouth, the burst of sweetness barely registering as your thoughts started drifting back to earlier.

You squinted down at the cup of tea in your hand before sighing and setting it on your nightstand. Normally, you’d drink it, let the warmth settle in your chest, and let it lull you into sleep like it always did.

But tonight? You weren’t feeling it.

The night had settled into that eerie kind of silence—the kind that made everything feel heavier like the world had momentarily paused. No cars passing by, no distant hum of city life, just the quiet hum of your apartment and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Wrapped in the warmth of your blankets, you lay on your side, staring at the ceiling. Your room was dimly lit by the soft glow of your bedside lamp, casting long shadows along the walls. The scent of chamomile still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint traces of rosemary and lavender from your hair.

Sleep was creeping in, slow and heavy, but your mind had other plans. You had this weird way of thinking in the in-between—half-asleep but not quite dreaming, like your subconscious was having a conversation with itself. Thoughts came and went without effort, lingering just long enough to make you wonder if you were awake or not.

And right now, those thoughts were circling back to him.

Sol paid more attention than you ever gave him credit for. That much was obvious now. The fruit, the tea—hell, even the way he noticed your bedtime habits. It was weird. Not bad weird… just interesting.

You weren’t sure what to make of it yet.

But that moment—the way his voice wavered, how his whole demeanor shifted the second you mentioned Crowe?

Mhm.

That says everything.

You turned over, pulling the blankets tighter around you. At some point, exhaustion won, and you drifted off, the weight of your blankets making your body sink into the mattress, warmth cocooning you. Everything was still. Comfortable. And then… Something changed. A shift.

Subtle. Small. But enough to pull you from the depths of sleep, your subconscious whispering that something wasn’t quite right. The air around you felt heavier like something unseen had crept in, pressing down on the room itself. Your subconscious stirred before you did, that primal instinct kicking in, whispering that something was off.

You were not alone.

You didn’t move—not yet. Your breathing remained slow and steady, the perfect mimicry of deep sleep. But something was off. It was like something air felt different, charged with an unnatural stillness like the world was holding its breath.

And then, you felt the stare.

Not touching you, not yet, but hovering just above—too close, too present. A shadow pressed against the darkness, an unseen figure dressed in black standing at the very edge of your space, watching. Studying. The fine hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a slow, creeping chill sinking deep into your bones.

You didn’t need to open your eyes to know that whatever it was, it hadn’t moved. It was waiting.

Carefully, slowly, you shifted beneath the blankets, rolling just enough to press your face further into the pillow. The movement was subtle, natural—the kind of mindless stirring someone might make in the depths of sleep. But beneath the act, your mind aware, calculating.

Your fingers slid beneath the pillow, brushing against the cool metal tucked away underneath. The weight of it was grounding, a quiet reassurance against the uncertainty pressing down on you. Your breathing remained steady, even—controlled—but your pulse told a different story, hammering quietly against your ribs.

Still, the presence above you remained unmoving.

Whoever—or whatever—it was, they were patient.

If it were planning to kill you in your sleep, they'd have to get closer. You knew how this worked—hesitation was a killer. Worst comes to worst, the second they touched you—And then you felt it.

A subtle shift in the bed, a slow, deliberate movement that crept over your body, causing your heart to beat just a little faster.

“Fuck… you smell so good as always…” The words came out in a low, almost reverent murmur, sending a ripple of heat through your spine. So human after all unless the demon can speak…

Your breath caught in your throat as something—someone—shifted, climbing over you with ease. Their weight settled above your back, warm and steady, and the air around you thickened, pressing against your skin as if the very space you occupied had shrunk. It was suffocating, but not in the way you were used to.

“Let’s see…” the voice mumbled softly, each word vibrating against your skin as they gently moved your arm, lifting it with slow precision before letting it flop back down like a feather touching a surface. You barely moved, still lost in the haze of sleep, your senses tingling at the intimate gesture. “Like always, deep in sleep…”

A soft, almost teasing nibble landed on your neck, followed by a kiss, and then another, lingering longer this time, until the sensation made you involuntarily let out a soft whimper. The warmth of his lips left a trail of heat on your skin, and you could almost feel the ghost of his smile against your neck, something possessive in the touch.

He didn’t stop there, though.

The kisses kept coming, gentle at first but quickly growing more urgent, more insistent. A few more laps of his tongue, the wetness lingering on your skin as a mark slowly began to form—a visible reminder of his closeness. “I wish you were already mine,” he mumbled, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and desire.

You barely had time to react before you felt his hands—large, warm, and deliberate—sliding over your sides then through your tank top before cupping your bare breasts, and squeezing gently. His touch was slow as if savoring the warm sensation, his palms pressing against the soft body fat.

“We had such fun this week…” Sol murmured, his voice thick with something unreadable, his body flush against your back. Every inch of him was pressed into you, a heavy, unmoving weight that kept you caged beneath him.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead burying your face deeper into the pillow, hiding the deadpan look threatening to cross your face. Not that he would’ve noticed—he was far too preoccupied with you. He didn’t try to remove his hands, didn’t loosen his grip, just held you there, his fingers flexing slightly as he pulled you even closer as if that was physically possible.

His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck before he nuzzled into it, his hair tickling you just enough to make you squirm. He exhaled a shaky sigh, his lips brushing against your pulse. “So warm…” he muttered, voice low, almost dazed. His thumbs lazily circled your nipples through your tank top, drawing a sharp, involuntary shiver from you.

Then came the pressure—slow, deliberate, and completely overwhelming. His hips rolled against yours, a steady, unrelenting grind that had you sinking deeper into the mattress, trapped beneath his weight. Every shift, every movement, pressed you further down, his body practically molding to yours like he had no intention of letting go.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest, breath caught somewhere between shock and something dangerously close to pleasure. You couldn’t move, couldn’t even think straight. The realization of just how powerless you were in this moment sent a strange thrill up your spine, one you weren’t sure you wanted to acknowledge.

Then—his hands tightened. His fingers suddenly pinched down hard on your nipples from inside the thin fabric of your tank top, sending a sharp jolt through you. A muffled gasp escaped, but you bit down on the pillow, silencing yourself. The last thing you wanted to do was react—at least, not in a way that would give him more satisfaction.

But god, no matter how absurd, how insane this situation was… the way his breath hitched, the way he whined against your neck, it was impossible to ignore the way it made you feel.

“But you just had to bring him into everything, didn’t you?” His voice took on a sharper edge, and you felt the grip on the edge of the bed tighten, the sheets crumpling beneath his hand with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

His breath was heavier now, almost ragged. “Why…? You’re supposed to be mine. No one else.”

A sharp, metallic zip cut through the silence—too close to your ear, making you tense instantly, every nerve in your body screaming.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“You belong to me.”

Your stomach lurched.

Oh, hell no.

In another world, in another life where you were just a normal person, you would have screamed. You would have thrashed, kicked, fought with everything in you.

But here, now, at this moment, you were frozen—trapped in the paradox of something so inherently wrong yet laced with a twisted kind of exhilaration. It was sick, it was deranged, and yet, some primal part of you couldn’t deny the way your body reacted, betraying every rational thought screaming at you to move.

But enough was enough.

The suffocating weight of him, the heat of his breath against your skin, the way his hands roamed like he had some kind of right—it was pathetic. The creeping tension thickening the air, the sheer audacity of being cornered in your own bed by someone who had no business touching you—it had all gone too far.

Before he could whisper another possessive word, before he could dare push this delusion any further, you acted. Fast. Instinct took over, that survivalist part of you finally snapping out of its trance.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached beneath your pillow, your hand gripping the cold steel of the knife that had become a silent protector in your room. In a single fluid motion, you pulled it out and pointed the blade at the shadowed figure hovering over you, your knees digging into the bed as you spun to face them. Your breath came fast, adrenaline surging through your veins.

“What in the hell are you—!” You barely got the words out before a hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a vice-like grip. Your pulse raced as they overpowered your attempt to retaliate, their fingers digging into your skin like a vice.

You couldn’t believe it. Your mind scrambled to process what you were seeing, but your body reacted first—stiffening, every muscle tensing as your breath hitched. Your narrowed eyes locked onto the face hovering above you, the weight of the moment pressing down like a vice.

You blinked, once. Twice. The air in your lungs stalled.

…Sol?

Draped in all-black—shiny jeans catching the faintest glint of light, a hoodie pulled just loose enough to shadow his face, and that unmistakable green-and-black striped hair tumbling down around his sharp features.

Your stomach lurched.

“Fuck,” you exhaled, the word barely more than a whisper, but the weight behind it was heavy. Reality hit like a slap to the face, sinking deep into your gut as your heart pounded against your ribs.

The knife trembled in your grip, muscles taut as you fought against the force pressing down on you. Sol’s hands wrapped around yours, strong—might you add—moving back with enough urgency to make your arms strain.

But you weren’t weak—you could feel the resistance, the way your strength shocked even him as the blade hovered dangerously between you both, a sharp, gleaming threat trapped in the tension.

Then came the weight—his body bearing down on yours, shoving you back against the mattress. Your breath hitched as his legs straddled you, pinning you beneath him with an overbearing heat that had your skin prickling. His chest almost pressed against yours, the rapid thud of his heart hammering against your palm where you still clutched the handle of the knife. It was erratic, unsteady.

His face was so close now—red-orange eyes wide, pupils blown with something unreadable. Shock? Confusion? There was a flicker of something frantic beneath it all, something desperate, something almost wild.

For a moment, the chaos in the room dulled. The air hung thick and unmoving. Your breaths, his heartbeat, the overwhelming rush of emotions—you were drowning in it.

The knife was just inches beside your neck, the cold steel almost grazing your skin, but you couldn’t even move it, even as you tried to hold your ground. His eyes were locked onto yours, filled with something almost like guilt—but something darker, too.

A strange, terrifying silence followed as your free remained pressed against his chest, the other still gripping the knife, but completely helpless in his hold. His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pressing them hard.

And yet, despite his forceful position, despite everything that was happening, there was an unsettling calm in his eyes. He wasn't angry. He was shocked, thrown off balance. Caught in a moment of pure disbelief. The usual coldness of his gaze was gone, replaced with an unfamiliar, confused vulnerability that rattled you to your core.

It was as if he was seeing you for the first time—like he'd never expected this. Never wanted this.

His lips parted in something between a gasp and a murmur, but the words never came. There was nothing but that intense, breathless stare, his grip tightening just a little more on your wrists as if trying to make sense of the situation.

Your mind was a chaotic whirlpool of shock and confusion. You couldn’t quite process it all—the shock of seeing Sol's face so close, lips almost touching—so overwhelming, the knife still a hair's breadth from your skin. And then the words came, so casually, as if this entire situation was something he had been expecting.

"Shit, you scared me. You were awake this whole time?" Sol’s voice was rough, tinged with something between frustration and genuine surprise.

Your eyes—wide, almost bugged out—narrowed sharply at him.

Who the fuck asks that type of question?

You couldn’t help the incredulity that bubbled up in your chest. "You're the one who scared me, dumbass." you snapped, irritation lacing your tone as the reality of the situation set in. The breath that had been held in your chest finally exhaled in a short, sharp burst of air.

Sol seemed to snap out of whatever dazed state he had been in, his posture shifting as he let go of your wrists and lifted his body off yours. He cursed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Oh, sorry, that was kind of a reflex," he muttered, his hands still slightly trembling as he gently moved you, guiding you back onto your knees on the bed.

Your body, still wound tight with the fight or flight instinct, barely had time to process when he asked, almost too nonchalantly, "Seriously, sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?" The sheer absurdity of another question was enough to make your blood boil. Like this was all just some casual misunderstanding.

As if you hadn’t just almost killed him for scaring the living daylights out of you. You felt your grip on the knife loosen slightly, but then, without thinking, you grabbed a fistful of his hair with your free hand and yanked it back—hard. He grunted in pain, eyes widening as you forced him to look up at you, his expression shifting from confused to slightly pained.

"I'm gonna kill you," you growled through gritted teeth, aiming the knife close to his neck—your voice low, but dangerously calm. "How the fuck did you get in here?"

Sol stuttered for a second, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in power. He tried to collect his words, his lips moving but his voice barely rising above a murmur. "I, uh… I used aluminum foil to make a replica key and some string to take care of the chain door..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering to the side in embarrassment.

You blinked, dumbfounded for a moment. Aluminum foil? Your mind raced as the pieces slowly started to connect.

“You damn criminal…” you muttered, more out of disbelief than actual anger. You couldn't even figure out if you were mad or just genuinely shocked. You hadn't expected him to be that resourceful—or reckless.

Sol winced, letting his shoulders slump in a mix of guilt and embarrassment. "Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just… I just wanted to… see you."

Your breath came out in a slow exhale, still trying to process everything. The initial fear was starting to wear off, but the unease lingered in your chest. You'd thought you were dealing with a creepy stalker—and you kind of were—but this?

This was something else entirely.

You let go of his hair slowly, your fingers slipping from the strands as you watched him wince, his body stiffening before he straightened up. He seemed almost... unsettled, unsure of how to process everything that had just happened. His eyes were wide, his breath still heavy, but there was a strange, almost fragile tension about him that you couldn't ignore.

"Y'know what?" You said, your voice steady and cold, a stark contrast to the mess that had just unfolded. "Sit right there on the floor. You're getting a lecture."

You pointed firmly to the ground, watching as Sol blinked in confusion, his brow furrowed in that typical, defensive way. "The floor?" he asked, clearly thrown off by your calmness, by the way, you were handling this whole situation as if it were just another normal day.

"Sol," you said, a slight edge to your voice now. "I will call the police if you don’t get your damn outside clothes off my bed and sit."

The tone in your voice left no room for argument, and within seconds, he was quick to obey, taking a seat on the floor with an uneasy expression. His movements were jerky, almost like he wasn’t sure what kind of punishment he was in for.

"On your knees."

Your voice was steady, but the look you gave him? Pure judgment—like he was some guilty puppy who just got caught chewing up your favorite shoes. You sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching him with the kind of unimpressed stare that could make anyone squirm.

He hesitated, just for a second like he was debating whether he could still push his luck. But in the end, he obeyed, sinking down like some reluctant, defiant dog waiting for its scolding.

Your patience? Gone. Shattered.

There was no point in playing nice anymore.

"I'm done trying to use big concepts like 'crime' and 'common sense' with you," you deadpanned, your voice flat with irritation. "Clearly, that doesn’t sink in."

Sol looked up at you, something between guilt and stubbornness flashing in his eyes, but you weren’t interested in whatever weak excuse he was cooking up. Not tonight.

"For a stalker," you continued, tone sharp but eerily calm, "you really suck at this. First off, your voice. You talk too damn much. Every word practically screams ‘hey, it’s me, Sol.’" You tilted your head slightly, watching as his jaw clenched. "And your face? You flinched the second I mentioned Crowe, like you had something to prove."

Then, as if casually dropping the final nail in his coffin, you added, "Oh, and nice touch with the fruit. Real subtle. Using it to hide the fact you drugged the chamomile tea. Let me guess—sleeping pills?"

His reaction was everything. Just a flicker, just the smallest crack in his expression, but you caught it. His pupils dilated, his breath hitched—not enough for the average person to notice, but you weren’t average, and this wasn’t your first rodeo.

You let the silence hang for a moment, let him feel the weight of it pressing in. Then, you drove the knife in deeper.

"This whole time," you murmured, eyes narrowing, "you’ve been drugging me through my tea, haven’t you?"

His gaze flickered, darting to the side for just a second—just long enough to confirm what you already knew.

"Pathetic," you muttered, exhaling slowly as if you were genuinely disappointed in him. "You’re not good at this. And I’m done pretending I don’t know what’s going on."

Sol didn’t say anything at first, his lips pressed together as he took in your words. You could see his mind racing, trying to find the right thing to say, but for once, he was quiet. Completely still.

Your mind was still reeling from the chaos of everything that just happened—the weight of Sol on top of you, the knife almost glazed your neck, and the shock of realizing it was him who had been lurking in your space. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you kept your gaze locked on his—definitely not letting him off the hook.

“Now, next subject,” you said, keeping your voice steady and unyielding, though your mind was still racing. You had to know why, had to understand this twisted mess. “Why in the hell were you trying to do me?”

Sol went stiff like you just smacked him upside the head with reality. His whole body locked up, and for a second, the air between you both felt suffocating. His mouth opened, but no words came out—just a slow swallow, his throat bobbing as his eyes darted downward like he was hoping the floor would just swallow him whole.

“It started…” he finally muttered, voice strained like it physically hurt to admit. “How you’re always around Crowe whenever I see you.”

You blinked. What?

“And I thought…” he hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before finally meeting your gaze. “Leaving bruises across your skin would show that you’re taken.”

You stared. Just. Stared.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

There was no way you just heard that correctly.

Ain’t no damn way.

Sol's eyes flickered, guilt flashing across his face before he kept going—because apparently, things weren’t insane enough yet. “Which made me start… visiting. At night. While you were asleep.” His voice was quieter now, but not quiet enough to miss. “To leave those bruises.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And I—” He exhaled sharply, like even he knew how fucked this sounded. “I used those sleeping pills so you wouldn’t wake up during the process.” A beat. “Plus, that way, I could… look at you all I want.”

Oh.

Oh, hell no.

Your entire body locked up as the reality of his words crashed into you. “Sol…” Your voice came out shaky, but the disbelief was firm. “You do realize that, like… literally everything you just said is beyond illegal, right?”

A stalker.

Your stalker.

The one who had been making your life somewhat hell for weeks. The one who left those bruises, the one who drugged you, the one who had you spiraling, trying to figure out who the hell had been creeping around your home. Also, to mention that he’s been stealing your underwear—which is expensive may you add.

And it had been him.

Always him.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your pulse to settle as you leveled him with a look. “I could have you arrested for this,” you said flatly, letting the weight of your words sink in.

Sol flinched at the weight of your words as if he finally realized the severity of what he had done. His face twisted with something like regret, “Please wait, I... I didn’t think it through,” he mumbled, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I just... I couldn’t help it,”

You shook your head, still processing, still trying to make sense of it all.

"Couldn't help it?" you echoed, voice dripping with disbelief. "Couldn't help it?"

Your hands clenched into fists as the weight of everything crashed over you again—every bruise, every unsettling feeling of being watched, every sleepless night where you knew something was off but couldn’t prove it.

And now? The proof was sitting right in front of you, looking like a kicked dog, as if that was supposed to make any of this okay.

Sol’s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides. His usual cold, unreadable mask was crumbling, revealing something desperate underneath. “I know it was wrong,” he said, voice raw. “I know I shouldn’t have… but every time I saw you with him, I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his movements. “I wanted to make sure you were mine.”

Your stomach churned. “So your big-brain solution was drugging me? Marking me without my knowledge?” Your voice sharpened, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight!” His voice rose slightly, frantic before he caught himself and sucked in a breath. He looked down, hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I just—” He stopped, struggling for words.

“I just wanted you to see me.”

You couldn’t even look at him right now. The shock of it all, the violation of your trust, the utter betrayal—like a rush of cold water had splashed over you, freezing you in place. Your mind was still reeling, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

The man you’d trusted, the one you’d laughed with and joked around with, was now on top of you, his hands constricting around yours, pinning you down with a knife at your throat. The betrayal ran deeper than any wound he could have physically inflicted.

You couldn't understand it.

Your grip tightened around the knife’s handle as you fought to steady your breathing, but the weight of it felt alien now, placing it on your nightstand. What was once a tool for defense had become a useless object in your hand.

The rush of adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a creeping, suffocating clarity that made your stomach twist. The weight of everything that had just happened pressed down on you, but instead of fear, something sharp and cold settled in its place. You scoffed, shaking your head as a humorless smirk pulled at your lips.

“Oh, trust me, I see you now.” You flicked your fingers at him in a lazy, dismissive gesture. “And let me tell you, puppy, the view from down here? Not your best look.”

Before he could process that, your hand shot out, gripping the collar of his hoodie in a tight fist, yanking him down toward you. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened for just a second—just long enough for you to see the flicker of surprise before he masked it.

But he didn’t fight it. If anything, his weight sank further onto you, his chest rising and falling against yours, heart hammering like a drumline.

You lifted your chin, gaze locked onto his with a dangerous kind of calm. “Woof for me, Sol.”

Silence.

His pupils flickered, something unreadable swimming in that fiery gaze of his. Disbelief? Annoyance? Shame? You weren’t sure, and honestly, you didn’t care. What mattered was the way his body stiffened like you’d just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.

After all,

Punishment is needed for a bad puppy.

His pulse was wild beneath your grip, his breath warm and uneven against your face. But this wasn’t about fear or retaliation—it was about control. A reminder. A boundary carved into stone. You weren’t some weak little thing he could toy with. He had crossed a line, and now? He had to face the consequences.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly before he swallowed thickly. “I—what—”

You tugged his collar tighter part from his hoodie, bringing him so close your noses almost brushed. Your voice was even, unwavering, not a trace of amusement left. “Woof, Sol. Or I call the cops.”

That hit something. You saw it—the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the way his jaw clenched like he was biting back something ugly. The frustration flickered through his expression, tangled with something deeper, something messier.

His breathing came heavier, nostrils flaring, hands tightening at his sides like he was debating whether to push back or fold. And then—

A low, guttural growl rumbled in his throat, sharp and reluctant.

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “Didn’t catch that.”

Sol let out a slow, shaky breath, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to pull himself together. His muscles, once taut with tension, eased just a bit, and he averted his eyes, licking his lips before hesitantly murmuring, “W-Woof?”

You stared. Blank. Unmoving.

…Did he seriously just question-mark bark at you?

A deep sigh left your lips, exaggerated and dripping with disappointment. “Wow. That was sad.” You shook your head, crossing your arms. “Sounded more like you were asking for permission than actually committing. Maybe you’re not cut out for this after all. Maybe you’re not fit to be my dog—”

“No—wait!” He stiffened, desperation flaring in his eyes as a soft whine escaped his throat, almost involuntary. “I can do it! I swear.” His voice wavered, but the need in it was unmistakable. He looked up at you, wide-eyed and eager, like he’d just been threatened with abandonment.

And damn it, the whimper got to you.

Your smirk faltered just a little as you reached out, fingers tracing along his cheek. “Oh, Sol…” Your voice softened, just enough to make him lean into your touch, his head tilting slightly like he craved it. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

But then—because you couldn’t resist—you let your smirk return, amusement lacing your next words. “But… I gotta admit, seeing you like this is kinda cute.” Your fingers trailed down, ghosting over his jaw as he pressed into your palm like a touch-starved puppy.

His lips parted, breath hitching, but his eyes… oh, his eyes were full of determination now.

He needed to prove himself. Needed to show you he was worthy of this. Worthy of you.

And so, with far more confidence, he straightened up, held your gaze, and—

“Woof.”

You had to bite back a laugh at how fast he reacted—it was honestly too damn funny. Sol, all broody and distant most of the time, but the second you threw him a little attention? A whole different story.

And that tiny, earnest little woof he let out? Oh, so adorable.

"Good boy," you murmured, your voice coming out softer, maybe a little breathier than you intended.

The second the words left your lips, his whole body shuddered. Like the damn phrase physically did something to him. The satisfaction on his face was instant—like a puppy finally getting the praise it had been dying for. And god, that lovesick little smile of his? Paired with the way his red-orange eyes practically sparkled, pupils blown wide and pleading? Yeah, you were toast.

How the hell were you supposed to say no to that?

With a soft sigh, you ran your fingers through his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp.

That was all it took.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the way his whole body was trembling. “Please what, Sol?"

His breath hitched. He knew exactly what you were doing, but he still took the bait. He had to.

"Please," he rasped, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. "Please… praise me more… call me a good boy again… just—just touch me, please.”

You know what? Hell yeah.

Your eyes flicked down, taking a deliberate glance at the hard bulge straining against his black skinny jeans before looking back up at him. The pout on his lips? Adorable.

"Fine," you sighed, acting like you were doing him a favor.

That was all it took. A grin split across Sol’s face, his whole demeanor flipping in an instant. “R-Really?” His voice cracked slightly, full of disbelief and excitement.

You smirked. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he had a tail, and it was wagging at full speed. "Mhm," you hummed, dragging it out just enough to make him squirm. "But first, we start where you already touched."

With deliberate slowness, you peeled off your tank top, tossing it aside to reveal a lace bra that hugged your skin just right. Still sitting, you let your fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts, teasing just a little before sliding them down to reveal the matching underwear.

Sol stayed on his knees, watching you like the eager little puppy he was. His gaze was fixed, his lips slightly parted, and the pink on his cheeks deepened. He looked like he was about to start panting at any second.

You sighed dramatically, tilting your head. “You do realize this is my last good set, right?”

His eyes snapped up to yours, confused.

“Because, you know, somebody keeps stealing my underwear,” you accused, raising an eyebrow.

He swallowed thickly, nodding, looking almost guilty. “I… I understand.”

You grinned. “Oh, I know you do.” The tension crackled between you and him, thick and electric. You knew exactly how badly he wanted this—how much he wanted to touch, to feel, to worship you.

It didn’t take long before he was right where you wanted him—kneeling in front of you, completely bare, having shed every last piece of clothing just for you, braless. His boxers were the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you, but even that thin barrier wasn’t enough to stop the way his hips instinctively ground against the side of your bed. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

“Oh, Sol~” you murmur, your voice dripping with faux sweetness as you reach into your nightstand. His head snaps up, his dazed eyes following your movements, and then—oh, then—he sees it.

The collar and leash.

His breath hitches, his gaze locking onto the items like he’s both terrified and mesmerized.

“Oh dear,” you tease, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “You didn’t think you were getting off that easy, did you? After all that stalking? Oh no, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.”

"Time for you to make up for it."

And you meant every single word.

You sank back onto your bed, the softness of the pillow cradling your head as you let out a slow, deliberate breath. Your legs parted almost instinctively, knees bending as your hands slid down your body with a practiced ease. Your fingers are hooked into the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs and letting them fall to the floor in a careless heap.

The cool air kissed your skin, but it did little to temper the heat pooling between your legs. You spread yourself open with two fingers, exposing your glistening folds, and waited.

Sol’s gaze snapped to you, his eyes widening as if he’d been struck. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he seemed frozen—caught between awe and the overwhelming urge to close the distance. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his pupils dilating as he stared at your pretty, wet cunt.

“Come here,” you commanded, your voice low and firm. You gave the leash a sharp tug, pulling him forward with enough force to make him stumble. A faint whine escaped his lips, but he didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His body moved as if drawn by an invisible thread, his knees hitting the edge of the bed as he leaned in closer, his face now inches from your heat.

“Have you ever done this before?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, your tone teasing but not unkind.

He shook his head quickly, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. His hands fidgeted at his sides, unsure where to land, his entire body radiating a nervous energy that was almost endearing.

You smirked, reaching down to tap your clit lightly with a fingertip. “Sooo… You lick and suck here,” you instructed your voice steady but laced with a hint of amusement. Then, you dragged your finger down, circling your entrance before sliding back up in a slow, deliberate motion. “You can stick your tongue in here too, or use your fingers if you want. Got it?”

He nodded vigorously, his eagerness almost comical. Without hesitation, he hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer until your hips were flush against the edge of the bed. His breath fanned over your wetness, hot and uneven, as he leaned in, his nose brushing against your inner thigh.

For a moment, he hesitated, his inexperience showing in the way his hands trembled and his breath stuttered. But then, as if something primal had taken over, he dove in. His tongue swiped up your slit in one long, clumsy stroke, and the sensation made your back arch off the bed.

That first taste seemed to ignite something in him. His movements became frantic, almost desperate, as if he’d been starved for this. His tongue lapped at your clit with a messy, unrelenting fervor, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud to suck hard. Saliva dripped down his chin, his face a wet, glistening mess, but you didn’t mind. The sloppiness only added to the raw, unfiltered intensity of the moment.

He was relentless, his focus singular. His tongue flicked and circled your clit, alternating between broad, wet strokes and sharp, precise flicks. Every now and then, he’d plunge his tongue deeper, exploring your entrance with a curiosity that bordered on obsession. His hands gripped your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as if he were afraid you’d pull away.

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair as you guided him, encouraging him to keep going. “That’s it, oh my” you murmured, your voice thick with approval. “Just like that, such a good pup.”

The praise seemed to spur him on.

His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking with a rhythm that had your toes curling. His tongue worked in tandem, flicking and swirling until the room was filled with the sound of his messy, wet kisses and your soft, shuddering moans.

You loved watching him—the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked, the way his entire body seemed to vibrate with the effort of pleasing you. He was a quick study, his movements growing more confident with every passing second.

His arms tightened around your thighs, pulling you even closer as he buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound. His tongue dipped inside you, curling and probing, before retreating to lavish attention on your clit once more.

The alternating rhythm was driving you wild, and you could feel the tension building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every swipe of his tongue.

“Good boy,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

The words sent a shiver through him, his hips jerking involuntarily against the bed. He moaned against you, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. His hands slid up to grip your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you with an almost feral hunger.

You let your head fall back, your eyes fluttering shut as you gave yourself over to the sensation. His tongue was everywhere—flicking, sucking, probing—and you could feel the heat building, spreading through your body like wildfire.

Sol’s mind raced, his thoughts a jumble of heat and hunger as he remembered your earlier words about fingers. His arm shifted, sliding back as he pressed a single digit against your slick entrance. You were already so wet, and the way your body clenched around him as he pushed inside made his pulse spike.

He curled his finger experimentally, and the sharp twitch of your hips told him he’d found the right spot. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he repeated the motion, his finger hooking inside you while his tongue dragged messy, sloppy strokes over your clit.

The sounds were obscene—wet, hungry, and utterly unrestrained. His tongue flicked and sucked at your sensitive bud like he was starved for it, his lips sealing around you as if he could drink you in. Your legs shook, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and you let out a breathy moan as your head fell back against the pillows.

Your eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the sensation, but the noises kept you tethered to the moment: the slick slide of his finger, the filthy slurping of his mouth, the way he devoured you like he’d been parched for days and you were the only thing that could quench him.

Sol’s gaze flicked upward, his eyes locking onto your chest. Your bra clung to you, the fabric doing little to hide the hard peaks of your nipples. They seemed to taunt him, begging to be freed, and his free hand moved almost on instinct. His fingers trailed up your stomach, slow and deliberate, until you felt the warmth of his palm near your breast.

Your eyes snapped open, and you looked down just as his hand inched closer. With a sharp tug on the leash, you yanked him back, forcing his mouth to leave your clit with an audible pop. His lips were glistening, his expression a mix of frustration and guilt as he scowled up at you.

“Sorry, no tits for you,” you reminded him, your voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Remember? You already touched them earlier. No touching.”

Sol’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he watched as you reached behind yourself to unhook your bra, letting it fall away. Your breasts bounced free, and you couldn’t help but tease him, your hands moving to cup them, fingers rolling and pinching your nipples just enough to make him groan.

“Eyes down, pup,” you chided, though your tone was more playful than stern. Reluctantly, he obeyed, his mouth returning to your clit with renewed focus. His tongue swirled and pressed against you, and you moaned, your hips rocking forward to meet his face. The heat of his mouth, the way his slender tongue worked you over—it was too much and not enough all at once.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him as you moved against him, chasing the pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Sol’s hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as he devoured you, his every movement a silent plea for your approval.

And as your moans grew louder, your body trembling on the edge, you knew he’d do anything to keep you right there—teetering between control and chaos.

Sol’s brain was still playing catch-up. Like, seriously, was this real life? He, Sol, the guy who’d barely figured out how to flirt without tripping over his own words, was here—between your legs, giving you head as his life depended on it.

And holy hell, you were hot. Like, unfairly hot. If he could’ve paused time right then and there, he would’ve snapped a mental picture of the view: your legs spread wide, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath, and your breasts right there, practically begging for his attention. It was almost too much to process, but hey, he wasn’t about to complain.

Then you moaned his name, and his entire world tilted.

“A-ah… Right there, Sol.”

Your voice was like a jolt of electricity straight into his system. If he’d had a tail, it would’ve been wagging so hard it could’ve powered a small city. Instead, he’s humping your bed—to get off as much as he can.

He doubled down, his tongue working faster, more deliberately, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. One hand gripped your thigh, pushing it up to give him better access, while the other slipped a second finger inside you, curling just right to hit that spot that made your breath hitch. And his hips—god, his hips—are hammering against your bed like he’s trying to drill a hole through it.

All from the way you reacted—arching your back, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer—was enough to make his head spin. And when you started rocking your hips against his face, chasing your release, he felt like he was floating. Or maybe combusting…?

Honestly, it was hard to tell at this point.

“F-Fuck, good boy,” you gasped, and wow, if that didn’t just short-circuit his brain entirely.

You heard a low, guttural whine that vibrated against your clit. His eyes roll back, his body locks up, and then he’s cumming, just like that. It’s messy and raw and completely out of his control, his hips stuttering as he spills into his already ruined boxers.

His chest heaves, his face flushed a deep red, and for a moment, he looks like he’s not even sure where he is. Like he’s just been launched into some other dimension where the only thing that exists is the aftershocks of whatever the hell just happened to him.

Sol collapses against you his body completely spent. He’s trembling, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he lets out this shaky, broken groan that sounds like it’s been dragged out of the deepest part of him. His mind is a foggy mess, his limbs feel like jelly, and his cock?

There’s was intoxicating about knowing you’re the only one who’s ever reduced him to this—who’s ever made him fall apart so completely that he can’t even form a coherent thought.

It’s a power trip, really, and you’re not ashamed to admit how much you love it.

But of course, you’re not done with him. Not even close.

You tugged on the leash, pulling him up until his face was level with yours. His lips were a mess—glossy with your slick, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes wide with a mix of pride and desperation. And then you kissed him, deep and hungry, your tongue sliding against his like you were claiming him all over again.

When you finally pulled away, a thin string of saliva and your cream connected your lips, and Sol couldn’t help but stare, dazed and a little smug.

“Such a good job,” you murmured, your voice low and approving, and he felt like he could’ve run a marathon right then and there.

You slowly pinned Sol to the bed with a firm hand on his chest, your fingers splayed over his rapidly rising and falling ribcage. His breath hitched as you leaned down, your lips brushing against his collarbone before trailing lower, leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses down his torso. His skin was warm, slightly damp with sweat, and every touch made him shiver beneath you.

When your fingers hooked into the waistband of his soaked boxers, he let out a shaky groan, his hips lifting instinctively to help you slide them off.

His cock sprang free, already half-hard again despite the mess he’d made earlier. You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight—he was average in length, sure, but the girth of him was something else entirely.

Thick and heavy in your hand, it twitched as you leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. Sol’s entire body jerked, a strangled sound escaping his throat as his hands fisted the sheets.

“N-not fair,” he managed to choke out, his voice wrecked.

You chuckled darkly, your breath ghosting over his sensitive skin. “Oh, sweetheart,” you purred, your tone equal parts teasing and commanding. “You’ve already come once. Now it’s my turn. And here’s the rule: you don’t get to come again until I do. Got it, puppy?”

He nodded frantically, his eyes wide and pleading, but you could see the flicker of determination in them.

Good.

You wanted him desperate, but you also wanted him to try.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and took him in hand, guiding him to your entrance. The first press of his cock against you made you both gasp—him from the overwhelming heat, you from the sheer stretch of him.

Even though you’d prepared yourself, the girth of him was still a lot to take. You bit your lip, sinking down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully sheathed inside you.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your head tipping back as you adjusted to the feeling of him. He was stretching you so wide it almost hurt, but in the best way possible—like he was made just for you.

Sol’s hands flew to your hips, his grip tight but not controlling. He was holding on for dear life, his chest heaving as he fought to keep still. “Y-you’re so tight,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how long I can—”

“You’ll last,” you interrupted, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you regret it.”

You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, savoring the way he filled you so completely. Every drag of his cock against your walls sent sparks shooting up your spine, and the way he looked beneath you—eyes blown wide, lips parted, every muscle in his body taut with restraint—only fueled your own pleasure.

“That’s it,” you murmured, your voice low and sultry. “Such a good boy for me. Just hold on a little longer.”

Sol whimpered, his fingers digging into your hips as he fought to obey. But you could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his cock twitched inside you as he teetered on the edge. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and picked up the pace, your movements growing more urgent as your own climax began to build.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you moaned, your voice breaking as the pressure inside you reached its peak. “But don’t you dare come yet. Not until I—” Your words cut off with a sharp cry as your orgasm hit, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses.

Sol’s restraint shattered the second he felt it, his hips bucking up into you as he spilled himself inside you with a broken groan.

You yanked the leash still connected to his collar, forcing him to face you. Both of you were panting, trembling, but you couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that tugged at your lips.

“I said not to come yet,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous, though your eyes sparkled with mischief.

Sol let out a breathless laugh, his arms wrapping around you as he pressed a clumsy kiss to your shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “You’re just… impossible to resist.”

You shoved him back onto the pillow, your hand pressing firmly against his chest to keep him in place. “You’re lucky I’m on the pill,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Thank god I can do this now…”

Before he could respond, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself off him just enough to slide back down onto his cock in one smooth, punishing motion. He gasped, his hands flying to your hips, but you slapped them away.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to touch me. Not after disobeying me.”

Sol whined, his head falling back against the pillow as you began to ride him in earnest. Your movements were relentless, each bounce of your hips driving him deeper into you, the stretch of his girth still overwhelming even as your body adjusted. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep them off you.

“P-please,” he stammered, his voice breaking as his hips twitched upward, desperate for more friction.

“Please what?” you taunted, slowing your pace just enough to drive him mad. “Use your words, Sol.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a strangled moan as you clenched around him, your walls fluttering deliberately. You smirked, leaning forward to grab the discarded pair of your underwear from the side of the bed. Without warning, you shoved them into his mouth, muffling his whines and moans.

“We don’t need the neighbors hearing you,” you said, your tone light and teasing despite the intensity of your movements. “Wouldn’t want a noise complaint, would we?”

Sol’s eyes widened, a mix of humiliation and arousal flashing across his face as he nodded obediently. You could feel the way his body trembled beneath you, the way his cock twitched inside you as he fought to hold back another orgasm.

You picked up the pace again, your thighs burning with the effort as you rode him harder, faster, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His muffled cries grew more desperate, his hips bucking weakly beneath you, but you kept him pinned, your hands braced on his chest for leverage.

“You’re going to learn to listen to me,” you said, your voice steady despite the way your pleasure was building again. “Or I’ll stop.”

Tears welled in Sol’s eyes, “N-no, please don’t…” his body writhing beneath you as he struggled to hold on. The sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, tears streaming down his cheeks, his cock buried deep inside you—was almost enough to push you over the edge. But you held back, determined to make him suffer longer.

Finally, when you could feel him teetering on the brink, his muffled whines turning into broken sobs, you leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear.

Even as his body shuddered beneath you, his hips twitching weakly, you kept moving, riding him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting. His hands, which had been gripping the sheets for dear life, now lay limp at his sides, his strength completely spent. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared up at you with glassy, unfocused eyes.

“P-please,” he managed to choke out, his voice barely audible. “I—I can’t…”

“You can,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the way your own body trembled with exertion.

“And you will. Because you’re mine, Sol." You started, “My puppy. My guard dog. My pet. And you don’t get to stop until I say so.”

You shifted your weight, grinding down on him in slow, deliberate circles, the overstimulation drawing a broken whimper from his lips. His cock, still half-hard despite the exhaustion wracking his body, twitched inside you, and you smirked, leaning forward to trail your fingers along his jaw.

“Look at you,” you murmured, your tone equal parts teasing and adoring. “So desperate, so wrecked. And all for me.”

Sol’s eyes fluttered shut, a tear slipping down his cheek as he nodded weakly. “Y-yours,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Always yours.”

You kissed him then, deep and possessive, your tongue sliding against his as if to claim him all over again. When you pulled away, his lips were swollen, his face flushed, and his body trembling beneath you.

You might’ve come like three times? Four? Honestly, you lost count at some point, too lost in the haze of pleasure to keep track. But Sol? He hadn’t come at all. Not once. And the fact that he’d held himself back like that, with his cock buried deep inside you, was nothing short of impressive.

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, the way he trembled beneath you, his self-control hanging by a thread. It was intoxicating, the way he fought to keep himself in check, all because you hadn’t given him permission yet.

You leaned down, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead, your touch almost tender despite the relentless pace you’d set. Your fingers trailed down the side of his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before coming to rest on the collar that still sat snugly around his neck. The leather was warm from his skin, and you gave it a gentle tug, just enough to remind him—even as he teetered on the edge—of who he belonged to.

“Such a good boy,” you murmured, your voice low and sated, a purr of satisfaction that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. Your heart-shaped pupils dilated as you admired him, your gaze sweeping over his prone form. He was a masterpiece of submission, every inch of him marked by your control, your desire, your ownership. The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so utterly yours—sent a shiver of pride and possessiveness through you.

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You began to move again, your hips rolling in slow, deliberate motions, each one designed to drag another broken sound from his throat. His hands twitched at his sides as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare, and the sight of him like this—completely at your mercy, completely yours—was almost enough to push you over the edge again.

“Please,” he choked out, his voice ragged, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t—I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me—”

You shushed him gently, your fingers tightening around the leash as you leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear. “Not yet, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding. “You don’t get to come until I say so. And you’re going to take it, aren’t you? You’re going to be good for me.”

He nodded frantically, his eyes squeezed shut as another wave of pleasure—or maybe it was torture—rippled through him. His cock twitched inside you, and you could feel the way his body fought to hold back, the way he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. It was beautiful, the way he struggled, the way he gave himself over to you completely.

You kept going, your pace unrelenting, each movement calculated to push him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. His begging grew more desperate, his voice breaking as he pleaded with you to let him come, to give him release. But you just smiled, your heart-shaped pupils gleaming with satisfaction as you watched him unravel beneath you.

“Now you can come, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but commanding.

The second the words left your mouth, Sol’s body convulsed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came with a muffled cry. You followed him over the edge, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you clenched around him, milking every last drop from him.

It was with a force that left you breathless, your walls clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses. Sol’s body jerked beneath you, his cock twitching inside you as he came again, his release spilling into you with a broken groan.

You rode him through your high and his, your pace unrelenting even as his body went limp beneath you, his eyes fluttering shut as he passed out from the sheer intensity of it all.

When you finally stilled, both of you trembling and breathless, you looked down at him with a satisfied smile as the leash was still in your hand, the collar around his neck a stark reminder of his place.

You shifted slightly, feeling the slickness between your thighs, the evidence of his release still dripping from you. The sensation only deepened your satisfaction, a tangible reminder of the power you held over him.

You could still feel the faint twitch of his cock inside you, even as it softened, and you clenched around him once more, savoring the way his body instinctively responded, even in his unconscious state.

With a soft sigh, you finally pulled yourself off him, your movements slow and deliberate. Sol’s body twitched at the loss, a faint whimper escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You stood, stretching languidly, your own body humming with the afterglow of pleasure. Your gaze never left him as you reached for a nearby blanket, draping it over his prone form with a surprising gentleness.

Even in his submission, even in his wrecked state, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of affection for him. He was yours, after all, and you took care of what belonged to you.

You picked up the leash from where it had fallen beside him, running the soft leather through your fingers as you considered him. He looked so peaceful like this, so completely at ease, and you couldn’t help but smile. This was where he belonged, where he thrived—under your command, under your care.

Your guard dog, your loyal pup, your Sol.

As you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him one last time. “Rest now, pup,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm. “You’ve earned it.”

And with that, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to his dreams, knowing that when he woke, he would be just as eager to serve, just as desperate to please. Because he was yours, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Completely wrecked, completely yours.

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