#this is from me doing some thinking for a request

[formulaonecrumbs]

he’s so pretty

Lando Norris x gf!reader

summary: lando’s so beautiful and reader makes sure he knows it.

warnings: NONE.

A/N: (i’m getting to more requests bare with me, i’m not used to having this many) i got inspo for this cuz i was on pinterest and saw some pictures of lando looking BEAUTIFUL and i just sat there in awe of him. had to translate it into a fic 🙏🙏

୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ ୨ৎ

you never really remembered when it started, calling lando pretty.

maybe it was the first time he showed up to your house dripping rainwater, curls stuck wetly to his forehead, cheeks pink from the cold. or maybe it was the day you watched him laugh so hard at something you said that he couldn’t catch his breath, his whole face lighting up like the sun had made a home inside him. maybe it was even earlier than that, when you were just kids and you thought he looked like the boy version of a storybook character, the ones whose smiles made you believe in magic.

you didn’t know when it started. you just knew you loved it. and now, being able to say it whenever you wanted — being able to kiss his pretty face after — felt like the biggest kind of magic.

“you’re so pretty, lando,” you said once, casual as anything, as you both lounged on the couch, your feet kicked up on his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing shapes against your ankle. he didn’t react right away, only glanced over at you with this small, almost shy grin, like he still didn’t know what to do with the compliment even after months of being yours.

but you said it again the next day, and the day after that, and eventually it became a part of the air between you.

“pretty boy,” you’d hum as you adjusted his tie before some event he didn’t want to go to. “prettiest boy i know,” you’d tease as you ruffled his hair, ruining whatever careful styling his team had done, and he’d just shake his head and pull you into him, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help it.

you loved the way he reacted every time, like he couldn’t quite believe you meant it but wanted so badly to.

and lando, for all his confidence on track, was soft around you. soft in a way he wasn’t with anyone else. soft in a way you adored.

you’d say it after a race when he was sweaty and exhausted, pulling him close despite the mess. you’d say it in the mornings when his curls were wild and his voice was rough and he looked at you like you were the first good thing he’d ever seen. you said it because it was true, and because he deserved to know it every second of every day.

one lazy afternoon, you ended up at the lake near his place — your place, now, sort of, with how often you stayed over — where you always went when everything felt a little too loud.

he was stretched out on the grass, eyes closed, face turned toward the sun, and you sat beside him, knees pulled to your chest, just watching him breathe.

he looked… peaceful. and stupidly beautiful.

and before you could even think about it, the words slipped out again. “you’re so pretty, lando.”

this time, he opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at you with a lazy, fond smile. “you say that like it’s new information.”

you laughed, tossing a blade of grass at his chest. “it is. every day. new levels of pretty achieved.”

he caught the grass and twirled it between his fingers, the softest blush creeping up his neck. “you’re ridiculous.”

“you love it,” you said easily.

he sat up then, reaching out to tug you toward him until you were half sprawled across his lap, giggling as you went. he held you there, arms looping loosely around your waist, looking up at you with a kind of wonder that made your heart trip over itself.

“i really do,” he murmured, like it was a secret.

you leaned in, brushing your nose against his. “good. because i’m not planning to stop.”

he kissed you then, slow and lazy and full of sunshine, like he had all the time in the world just to love you.

and maybe he did.

later, as you lay tangled together on the grass, his fingers playing with your hair, he whispered, “you’re the only person who sees me like that.”

you blinked, tilting your head to look at him properly. “like what?”

“like… i’m something more than just a driver. like… i’m enough, just like this.”

your heart twisted, too full of everything you felt for him. you pressed your hand over his chest, right where his heart beat steady and sure. “lando… you’re enough. always have been. always will be.”

he pulled you in tighter at that, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

and you knew then — the way you always had — that you were going to spend the rest of your life telling him how pretty he was.

pretty when he won. pretty when he lost. pretty when he was laughing. pretty when he was hurting. pretty just for being himself.

because he was.

and because he was yours.

THE END :>

[bcksbarnes]

flowers in hand

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: unfortunately for bucky barnes, he is head over heels in love with you, and when you want something, it doesn't take much convincing.

word count: 3.6K cw: 🔞 some suggestive content (minors do not interact)

a/n: based off of this request! lots and lots of fluff.

bucky barnes was an ex-brain washed assassin who had been broken down and beaten time and time again. he had seen horrors that would leave most people catatonic, he had done things that most people wouldn’t even dream of. this was not a man that wore his heart on his sleeve.

stoic. brooding. an absolute brute, to put it mildly.

but there was something that bucky never wanted anyone to know. a secret he’d take to his grave and would deny if ever asked about it. 

what was this secret? simple. 

bucky was head over heels in love with you.

he knew it the second the two of you met. when you stretched out your hand and told him your name, he felt his knees buckle. when you asked him for his? a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. he was nervous. a reaction bucky had never had before.

it sent him into a spiral for several days after the two of you met. weeks, actually, if he was being honest. 

everything after that had fallen into place pretty quickly. you had liked bucky as soon as you met him and before you knew it months had passed, the two of you quickly found yourself in a budding romance that needed nothing but water and sunlight to grow. 

the hardest part of learning to fall in love again was that he was so taken aback by how his body and brain responded to you, it was a bit jarring. it was like his entire brain had awoken a part of himself that had been dormant for years. one yearning for love.

it showed in the way you would get home from work and your favorite flowers would be waiting on the kitchen table, powder blue hydrangeas, with a handwritten note alongside it. bucky’s handwriting was a little scratchy and hard to make out, but you didn’t need to read it to know what it said:

thinking of you always. - bb

or when he took you on a joy ride on the back of his motorcycle, never wearing a helmet himself but making sure the straps were just right when he helped you get yours on. his hands would carefully click the buckle together, biting down on his bottom lip in concentration as he made sure it fit you perfectly.

he didn’t want you getting hurt, not on his watch.

that was it - his big secret. you had him wrapped around your finger. something so mundane and, frankly, obvious.

though you never went out of your way to use this knowledge to your advantage. bucky always came running at the sound of your voice.

“buck?” you called out one afternoon.

the sun was high in the sky, it was a beautiful day - maybe a little warmer than you liked, but the cool breeze offered some relief. 

you were sitting on the balcony reading a book in your favorite spot, overlooking the city that bucky had loved so much, and that you’ve learned to love with him. it was different from the one he lived in all those decades ago, the apartment he had lived in as a child was small, cramped - to look out the window was to face a family he never knew, living their own lives.

now, in this decade, the apartment was spacious, overwhelming, the view encompassing the bridge and the east river separating the two boroughs. 

a different life, a different time.

“yeah?” he called back, the door to the balcony slightly ajar so you could both hear each other.

“can you bring me my sunglasses?”

bucky chuckled to himself at such a simple request. he was working on fixing some issues in the kitchen, a leaky faucet to be exact - the one that kept dripping. bucky had a hard time falling asleep as it was, hearing the pitter patter in the middle of the night made him feel like he was going insane.

“hold on, honey.” 

he was currently laying on his back under the sink, his shirt was discarded somewhere next to him and his black mesh shorts rode a bit lower on his hips than he had purposely intended. 

it only took him a few turns of his wrench to tighten the compression ring around the pipe in hopes that it would stop the leaking. 

“that should be it.”

a few moments passed as he placed the wrench down next to him. he held his breath, but bucky, unfortunately, a second later felt another water droplet land on his forehead: unsuccessful.

“shit,” he mumbles to himself before gripping the side of the counter and pulling himself out from under the cabinet. 

bucky hated that this wasn’t working - honestly, he wanted to run to the store and grab some new pvc pipes and just fix the entire thing from scratch. but, your request ran through his head and he quickly pivoted his priorities as he stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“where’d you put them?” he calls, trying to look in the usual spots before finally stumbling on them. “nevermind.”

you hear the door swing open, his footsteps alerting his presence but your attention stayed on the book in your lap, wanting to finish the page you were on.

“i couldn’t find them,” he says. 

when you finally finished the passage, you placed the bookmark in the between the pages, saving it for another time.

your head turned to look up at bucky, his metal arm glistening in the sun and your sunglasses sitting right on his face - that goofy smile of his plastered on his features as he waits for you to notice.

a loud chuckle passes your lips as you reach your hand out for them, shaking your head as he slides them off the bridge of his nose and into the palm of your hands. once you grab them from him, you put the glasses on, the world dimming a bit, but bucky still shines bright in front of you.

“thank you,” you say softly, tilting your head back to admire his half dressed physique. you whistle lowly, causing bucky to roll his eyes at you. “were you working on the sink? sorry, i didn’t even realize.”

“yeah,” he responds, taking a step closer. 

bucky gestures for you to move over and make room for him, groaning as he finally sits down. his arm rests on the back of the sectional while his fingers run through the hair on the back of your neck.

“i thought i’d be able to fix it by tightening it, but i think the pipe itself has a crack somewhere,” he huffs out, shaking his head. “i’ll have to go to the store later.”

you watch him carefully, your hand holding the book on your lap moving to rest on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. you could see the concentration in his face, the way his brows furrowed until there was a crease between them. he hated unfinished projects.

“you’re not going to rest until it’s fixed, are you?” you ask, though it’s a question you already know the answer to.

“absolutely not,” he shakes his head. “why? have something in mind for us today?”

“i thought maybe we could go to the park later” you hummed, your fingers tracing shapes into his skin. you tilt your head back to look at him, both of your eyes meeting. “they’re doing a movie night. raiders of the lost ark, if i remember correctly.”

bucky’s other leg bounced anxiously at the thought, it’s not that he didn’t want to go with you - it’s that he really wanted to fix this stupid sink. 

he peaked over at his watch, it was nearly 5:30pm. the store would be closing soon, he’d have to find the right parts then fix the sink, and shower at some point before he’d be ready to go. he didn’t know if he had time to do both the movie and finish this project.

his eyes trail back over towards you and he was greeted with the most beautiful pair he’d ever seen. were you batting your eyelashes too?

“you play dirty,” bucky mumbles.

he brings his metal hand up to your face, squeezing your cheeks softly as he leans in to press a few soft, chaste kisses to your lips. he mumbles something about how unfair it is, but you’re so wrapped up in the feeling of his lips you don’t even care what he says.

bucky begins to stand from his seat, though he doesn’t remove himself from your lips, hunched over to make sure he stays closely connected to you. your hands now resting on his abdomen as if to keep him in place.

“i have to shower,” he hums against your lips. “and if the movie sucks i’m coming home and ripping the sink apart.”

“you did not just say that raiders of the lost ark is going to suck.” 

bucky chuckles as he trails his lips down your jaw to your neck, giving it a few kisses and a quick bite before he pulls back completely, that same love stricken look on his face.

“i did. i mean it too,” he teases, backing up until he gets to the door of the balcony. 

“you’re going to be very upset when you’re wrong, barnes,” you call out after him.

he gives you a quick wink before dipping back inside the apartment. 

you take one last look over the balcony, the cars that were passing over the bridge and the people walking on the streets below. all of them had their own little story. it makes you smile to yourself, thinking of this little life you had built with bucky.

it kept you both going.

finally standing, you stretched your arms over your head and grabbed your book before heading back inside the apartment. the cover made a soft thud as you set it down on the coffee table on your way over to the kitchen.

the sound of the shower trickling had your thoughts distracted, even as you began packing the tote bag. you tried to keep your focus on all the goods you wanted to bring and not your very naked boyfriend some 50 feet away from you behind one, probably not locked, door.

how easy it would be to slip in.

you shake your head and focus on the task at hand, packing the bag with: a blanket to sit on, two lime sparkling waters that bucky had picked up a few days ago, and a mix of snacks to enjoy. the perfect picnic.

right as you finished, you hear the door open and bucky step out of the bathroom, the warm steam filling your apartment almost immediately. he looks striking with the towel draped around his hips, his almost freshly cut short hair now wet and combed back.

“you didn’t join me,” he teases, making his way past you and into the bedroom.

“i want to make the movie,” you say back, a smirk on your features. you knew well enough that if you took a step in that shower, bucky would never let you leave.

the sound of shuffling comes from the other room as you can hear him looking through drawers and the closet for his clothes. your feet walk you into the bedroom right as he slips his boxers on, a smile on his features as he catches your gaze.

he didn’t want to go out to the park and watch a movie. he didn’t even care about that stupid leak under the sink that he could still hear and was driving him up a wall. 

no, he wanted to stay here with you and show you all the ways he loved and adored you. he wanted to worship you with everything he’s got. 

his hand reaches out for you and he intertwines your fingers together before he pulls you towards him. you happily oblige.

“you’re still thinking about that damn leak aren’t you?” you whisper, your voice filled with jest.

“every fucking second.”

the smile on his face is wide as he brings his hands up to your face and kisses your cheeks once, twice, three times, causing a soft laugh to leave your lips. in one fluid motion his hands are under your thighs and lifts you up, placing you on the dresser behind you.

he slots himself between your legs and watches you closely, your hands moving to grip his wrists.

“let’s stay here,” bucky pleads softly. “let’s never leave this apartment ever again.”

“i’d love to never have to do that, but you know that’s impossible.”

“hmm,” he hums. “not with that attitude, sweetheart.”

he manages to get his hands free from your wrists, sliding them down to your hips and pulling you forward until your legs wrap around his waist, your heels resting on the back of his thighs. 

“bucky,” you groan.

your head falls back softly against the wall, in the same motion bucky rests his head on your shoulder.

“wishful thinking, huh?” he asks, a sigh leaving his lips afterwards. 

it’s not that he hated the power that you had over him, it was that he didn’t know how you managed to affect him so much. you didn’t even put up a fight with him and he folded, all because you said his name.

he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder before he untangled himself from you and moved to get dressed - a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt that was a little too tight around his muscles and a sweatshirt he knows you’re going to steal at some point. 

finally ready to go.

it only took a few minutes to get to the park. you’re greeted by a sea of people, most of whom have already laid out their lounge chairs or blankets. the sun hadn’t set yet, casting a warm glow as you two found a spot a little bit away from the rest of the crowd. more secluded, but you two would still be able to see and hear the movie just fine.

bucky helped set up the blanket, a long red gingham pattern one that he may have muttered a sarcastic comment about how cliche it was. you may have, lovingly, given him the finger in response. 

the movie started only a few minutes after you and bucky set up the snacks and drinks. both of you were laying on your sides, elbows planted on the blanket while hands kept your head off the ground. 

bucky was very into the movie, barely sneaking glances over at you like he normally did whenever. it captured his attention almost immediately. you watched as he popped a grape into his mouth, his tired eyes trained on the screen in front of him as he absentmindedly chewed. 

it was calming to see him in this environment. you knew that deep down he would never 100% be present, that he always kept one part of his brain active to scan for any potential threats. but seeing bucky in a state of, mostly, ease felt like finding a diamond in the rough. rare, but valuable.

halfway through the movie bucky moves to sit up, stretching his arms over his head before holding his hand out to you. he always seemed to be reaching for you. once your hand is in his, one swift motion is all it takes for him to pull you into his lap, nestling you between his legs, your back now resting against his chest. 

his hands move to run down your arm and he can feel the goosebumps rising against your skin.

“you’re cold,” he mumbles in your ear.

you want to protest that it’s just from his touch, but the words die in the back of your throat as soon as you feel him sit back from you. he pulls off his sweatshirt and hands it over, watching as you carefully slip on the oversized material. bucky wraps his arms around your torso once you’re settled, pulling you back as close as he can before resting his chin on the top of your head.

“much better.”

your heart flutters, as it seems it always does when he acts this way. 

cuddly. soft. in love.

bucky feels like his heart is bleeding out right through his shirt at this moment, you could tell him to do anything in front of this crowd of people and he would comply without hesitation. he didn’t even care.

maybe that was the thing that kept him going in this life. the little pieces of calm he can get when you are around. when the tides don’t feel as strong.

he didn’t want to think about it, he wanted to enjoy himself: your presence, and the movie.

it’s a little while later when the movie finally finished, you craned your head back to look up at him, a smirk on your lips. he was staring ahead at the now blank screen, jaw slightly dropped. 

“i thought you said the movie was going to suck,” you teased.”

“i didn’t know i was coming to see a cinematic masterpiece.” 

you let out a laugh, and then another one as bucky squeezes your sides as his response, falling back over his thigh as you wriggle to try and get away from his wandering, playful hans. 

god, he wished you weren’t in public right now.

“and here you wanted to stay at home to fix that stupid sink.”

“no, i wanted to stay home so i could –”

“bucky,” you cut him off before he can finish that thought, watching as a family walks past.

he lets out a scoff that sounds more like a laugh and pinches your side again as you start to stand up from his lap. bucky admires you from this angle, the way that you towered over him was so jarring compared to how small you normally were when he stood next to you.

“i was going to say so i could take care of you, but if you were worried i was going to say something more vulgar than you need to get your mind out of the gutter, sweetheart.”

“you’re so full of shit.”

bucky’s smile reaches his eyes this time as he throws his head back and lets out a laugh. you were so right and he loved being called out on it, because he loved how well you knew him.

he stands to help you pack the tote bag again, throwing it over his shoulder when it’s done. you grab his metal hand and intertwine your fingers together as you make your way back to the apartment. 

the city was dark now, only illuminated by street lamps and a few fluorescent signs. surprisingly the neighborhood was mostly empty, you and bucky seeming to take up most of the sidewalk and filling the silence with your chit chat about the movie.

bucky was blown away by the story, the action … well the whole thing. 

you were biting back your tongue to not say i told you so.

“you always get your way, you know that?” he says once you're in the lobby waiting for the elevator. “i don’t think i’m capable of saying no to you if i really tried.”

“that’s not true,” you respond.

though if you take a second to think about it, he’s probably right.

the elevator dings its arrival and dips slightly from the weight of the two of you as you step on. you press the button for your floor a few times before turning your attention back to bucky. he’s standing right next to you, his hand slipping out of yours to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. your head leans to rest against him, it always fits perfectly.

“it’s a little true,” he says with a shrug. “i’m not complaining.”

there’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“i’ve never had anyone to care about. not in this way at least.”

“you cared about steve.”

“that’s different,” he sighs. “i made sure steve stayed alive. i didn’t dote over him. i look at you and i’d drop everything just to see that damn smile on your face.”

the blush developed on your cheeks at record speed, a smile accompanying it that was hard to hold back. sometimes bucky had a way with words that took your breath away. he could be deeply poetic. it made you wonder what he thought of in that brain of his. 

“there it is,” he whispers, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

the ding of the elevator snaps the moment back into reality, but that doesn’t deter bucky in the slightest. 

no, instead he follows you down the hall and into the apartment, waiting for the door to shut before he picks you up from behind and walks you to the bedroom to toss you on the bed - the sound of your giggles filling the air.

the second you hit the mattress, and he crawls on top of you, your hands grab his face bringing him down to kiss him feverishly. it’s rushed and messy, tongues sweeping across lips, teeth biting and pulling. 

you don’t need to tell him you need him for bucky to know it, he can read you like an open book. 

as he kisses down your jaw – his stubble scratching your soft skin, hands moving to slide your shirt up, ready to spend the night devouring you – all he can think about is how his love for you is the worst kept secret in the world. and not about the stupid leaky faucet.

[burgojo]

DISTURBIA. MAHITO / M!READER

summary. in the golden age of jujutsu, mahito had you, and lost you. a thousand years later, he seeks to bring you back.

wc. 9.1k

tags. smut | sub bottom mahito, top reader, heian era!mahito & cursed spirit!reader (manifestation of fear of night/absence of light), reader had a cult/worshippers. mention of blood & gore. mahito with a pussy, size difference, breeding kink, mention of babytrapping. fingering + oral (mahito receiving), doggystyle, exhibitionism (mention of others overhearing), jealousy, praise, multiple orgasms (mahito receiving), creampie, ahegao (?), god kink (reader), temp play (reader is naturally cold)

notes. obligatory ooc warning. also, i made up a lot of lore for the reader('s abilities), so scroll down about halfway to skip it and get to the good part :)

[ requested ]

Deep in the beech forests of Northeast Japan, Geto Suguru stands delicately amongst the verdant green undergrowth. He glances around, petting his large winged cursed spirit absently, and gathers his long dark robes in a hand. He glances over his shoulder.

"Despite your insistence on coming here, you've been awfully quiet. Is it not what you imagined?"

Bent at the waist to inspect massive green leaves as large as his face, Mahito looks up. "Huh? Oh, I was just curious about how they went about their plan. This place is maaassive. How are we supposed to find him? Maybe they cut him up? Sprinkled him from the highest mountain?" He sighs. "Whatever they did – they chose a green place to do it. Hanami would probably like it."

Dismissing his cursed spirit with a wave of his hand, Suguru chooses a direction and begins to move. He doesn't so much as walk as glide, his long skirts and the heavy undergrowth obscuring his steps. The tall, slim beeches are set just far enough apart for one person to slip between their trunks, and Mahito is forced to fall into step behind Suguru.

He flexes his fingers; stretches his arms; kicks ferns. Twigs tug at his hair and he huffs, glaring at the tree that dared touch him. He clasps the section of hair to his chest, dragging his slim fingers through it obsessively.

"You're twitchy," Suguru says without turning around. "You never did say how you heard of this curse. Seeing as you're not busy running your mouth, why don't you tell me now?"

Mahito sighs, skipping over a fallen log overrun with moss. He gazes up at the trees and notices the way the thick emerald canopy filters the sunlight until all that's left is an even, misty glow. Shadows are soft and deep around here.

"Not much to say," he hums thoughtfully, knocking a branch out of his way. "Lotta curses back in the day. Just makes sense to have some hidden around the place."

"Yes, but how did you come across such old records? Surely sorcerers would've kept something like that far, far away from prying eyes."

"Humans get tired. They get clumsy. They misplace things."

Suguru raises a brow. "And you kept it? For a thousand years, without purpose?"

Airily, he says, "So what if I did? You really expect me to act like one of you, doin' things with reason and purpose? C'mon. I liked the pictures on it."

He may think Suguru falls for it, but Suguru is nothing if not perceptive. Mahito flings his arms out too wide. Each stride is too long, each twirl around a slender beech too motivated – no, he sees it all. He's playing at carelessness when it couldn't be further from the truth.

Absurdly human of him, really.

Suguru hums, halting in his tracks. Mahito almost bumps into him. Again – too eager. Suguru lifts a hand, palm down and fingers splayed, and closes his eyes. Thrums of warm sorcery crackle through his veins – weak, barely trace amounts. Expected for thousand-year-old jujutsu. To be able to feel it still was a feat all in itself. Just how intense was the battle that raged here?

"We should be right in front of it," Suguru claims, dropping his hand and opening his eyes. They stand before a slight ridge of the earth, exposed tree roots weaving in and out of rich brown soil. A heavy blanket of moss hangs over the ridge and ivy grows beneath their feet. "Yet... I don't sense any spirits nearby."

"Hey," says Mahito suddenly. "The scroll mentioned a 'tomb'. You said in front of ya, yeah?"

Nodding, Suguru folds his hands within his robes. He watches as Mahito's arm lengthens into a massive cleaver, and he steps back at the wicked smile that spreads across his lips.

Mahito lifts his arm, pale eyes glinting dangerously. "Man, I so hope I'm right!"

With a slam that rumbles the ground beneath their feet and strips the nearby trees of their leaves, Mahito splits the earthen mound before him clean in two, leaving a shallow ravine that extends into the horizon. The soft earth parts like melted butter, soil and chipped wood exploding forth with such strength that Suguru narrowly avoids a pointed root that embeds itself into the trunk behind him.

When the dirt and leaves settle, they reveal the chiselled stone set into the earth. Split not quite perfectly in half – for Mahito loves chaos, and halves are better off-kilter – is a room carved into stone, hollowed out with a single podium erupting from the centre.

Upon the roughly-carved podium is a mid-sized box plastered with ancient seals and talismans. Peeking inside reveals that the inside of the 'room' is covered in the stuff, too – old, yellow, and faded, they flutter from wind they haven't felt in aeons. One peels off and comes to rest gently at Mahito's feet.

"Huh," he says eventually, staring at the cuttingly-familiar brushstrokes. He reaches for the wooden box, soft and rotted with age. The moment his fingers brush the surface, he pulls back with a jerk and makes a face. "Ouch! Spicy."

"Strong seals," Suguru comments, making no move to help. Mahito huffs and blasts the talismans away with a burst of cursed energy, testing the now-bare box with the tips of his fingers like one might with a freshly-microwaved plate.

He cracks the box open. Inside, innocent as a fresh lamb, lays a shallow, red-lacquered suzuri-bako.

"A... writing box?" Mahito murmurs to himself. He reaches in and takes the smooth box into his hands. It feels much heavier than it should, and an oppressive weight shudders through him, dark and cold and familiar. "Geto-san? It's a cage. I don't have the key."

"Let me take a look." Suguru stretches out a hand.

For a fleeting moment, Mahito hesitates – the slightest tilt of the box towards his chest. And Suguru knows.

With a growing smile, Suguru folds his hand back into his long sleeves. "Ah... I see. You know this spirit."

"I—" He pauses. "Maybe. Once upon a time."

"Interesting," says Suguru, "that something as old as this still has an effect on you."

"Nah – boring, actually. I'm old and sentimental." He pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. He chuckles and tosses his hair over his shoulder, tracing the edges of the box. Power tingles against his skin. "Pretty thing, for a cage. Maybe I could just – ease it open—"

Suguru raises his long sleeve to shield his face as the box pulses with a sudden, growling shockwave, forcing him to step back to keep his balance. The ferns sway around his knees.

Mahito clicks his tongue, a pout forming on his lips. "Damn it! This should be simple!"

The second attempt has the birds squawking and flying into the skies as the surrounding trees shudder violently. For the third, Suguru winces slightly as Mahito slams his fist – a giant mallet – against the box, resulting in another shockwave of barbed cursed energy. He lifts a hand, placating.

"Ah, Mahito... Perhaps I can give it a go?" he suggests. "It may need a... sorcerer's touch."

Mahito's eyes widen. Of course! Those ancient douche-canoes probably knew he would come for what was his. It only made sense to weave his name into the seals.

"By all means," he replies, stepping aside. "Take a gander."

Stepping forward, Suguru tugs his sleeve to his elbow and scoops up the box from the floor. He dusts off the cover. "Lovely craftsmanship," he muses and hovers his palm over it despite every nerve in his body writhing and begging to pull away. Some instinctual, ancient force warns him off it. He lets energy seep into the age-made cracks in the seals, and from within, gently burns away the net holding its prisoner still – like taking a lighter to the end of a frayed rope, creating spaces big enough to squeeze through.

The lid cracks open.

Like a floodgate opening, freezing shadows and smoke pour out of the gap, forcing the lid to clatter uselessly to the ground. Darkness bleeds down the walls. Suguru's eyes widen as his pale fingers, deep within the thick black smoke continuing to billow forth, begin to turn blue at the tips, visible frost surging over his skin. Smoke fills the air around them, fading out the sun until it could be a misty grey night. Rivers of shadow pool thickly around his knees until he can't see his feet, and he hurries to set the box on the podium.

As he lets go, a shadowy tendril curls around his exposed hand and arm, burning white frost into his skin. His breath hitches.

A freezing hand seizes his wrist. Inch-long black nails dig rivulets of blood – his red, all-too-human blood – out of him, and his heart plummets at the sight of the hand, wrapped completely around his forearm as if it's a thin piece of rope. On instinct, he yanks back, and the hand comes with.

Then, a flood of smoky shadow spews from the open box – and a cowled figure claws its way out, formed from the very shadows that plunged them into a sudden night. It rises and straightens, towering over them both.

Suguru's arm hurts. He clutches his wrist, his blood coagulating over the delicately-patterned frost, and chances a glance back at Mahito.

Arms spread wide and palms open, an unnervingly breathless smile plastered on his lips, Mahito gazes up at the wispy figure unblinkingly. Wide-eyed and panting softly, he laughs – bright and jubilant, victorious.

"Yes! Yes! There you are!"

He skips past Suguru, giggling madly as he takes one large, clawed hand in both his own. He presses the palm to his cheek as he hops in place, stretching up to reach for the round silver brooch pinning the cloak of shadows together over the shoulder. He hasn't seen his eyes in so long, and this stupid hood is in the way!

Mahito?

The voice comes from within Suguru's head. But, unlike Hanami's, this voice slithers among his own thoughts, slipping between them as light as a ghost. It could've been his own, for all he knew, except for the fact it carries a sorrow so profound it eclipses every other thought – he can focus on nothing else.

—

Everything is on fire. Everything is on fire and it is all because of you.

Of course, the fire was the easy part. One day, perhaps your beloved will forgive you for using such an overzealous amount of cursed energy to make your grand entrance. It completely overshadowed his own.

Everything would change here. It would be your end, or your beginning. Before you stand the most powerful sorcerers in the land, all gathered to rise against you one final time – or die trying.

All so tense. A sigh flutters through your lips as you brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. Mahito has influenced you too much – you are bare from shoulder-to-waist, oil-slick blood coating your arms up to the elbows, and facing the strongest adversaries you have ever met. Yet, all you can fret about is your poor hakama, now no more than a shred of memory. You donned your best silks for this, and the first thing the cruel little bugs did was burn it off you.

At the very least, your sashinuki may be salvageable.

"You are strong," a white-haired sorcerer calls above the roar of the flames towering into the sky. "Some call you divine and pray to you for aid, but you do not listen."

"I listen," you reply coolly, and slick back your hair with a blood-soaked palm. "I help them to lose the burden of their regrets and relieve their physical pains. I daresay I help more than you."

"They call you a healer, but what you do is not healing. Once, you numbed a man to his wounds until he fell to exhaustion fighting in your name. You are a spiteful creature. Desperation is your lure."

"If I hear it, I answer. If they think I am their saviour, who am I to disagree? It's a rather pretty title – though, it is amusing to be lord of maggots. I like to watch them squirm."

How did a curse of night, of the endless dark, grow so powerful? Every secret done in the dark, every lie and gnawing shame, was yours. There had always been something different about you, and they were fools to ignore it, even upon your first meeting:

You, tall and regal, kimono the darkest shade of navy blue damask, had been nothing like their other curses. You looked quite human. Perhaps there was something godly in your stride, something primordial in your voice, that cowed them all like children. You spoke to them, soft and paternal, and suddenly, each and every one of them was afraid of the dark and you were their only solace against the monsters beyond the window.

Enchantment, they'd called it, upon blinking awake and finding you gone. Perhaps it was your domain, to cull their thoughts until all that remained was the ancient instinct to fear the black night. Had you heard them discussing you, hands shaking and faces drained of blood, you would have laughed.

—

Suguru's eyes flicker, and the scene flips to a forest clearing.

—

"Mahito!"

The cry of his name is guttural, a thousand voices coalescing into a roar and a shriek. Across the battlefield, he falls, and you catch the flames reflecting in the shine of his widened eyes as he grasps the unfamiliar black blade piercing his chest. His soul writhes around it, pierced by it, unable to slip away unscathed as he has so many times before.

In that split second, your attention lapses, and black chains lash your body, slamming you to your knees. You snarl, straining against them.

"Surrender," the sorcerer before you orders, white hair stained red with blood. Despite his injuries and the loss of an entire arm, he stands tall and steady above you. "We will let him go if you choose to die."

"If I choose to die?" You run your thumb over your knuckles, regenerating three lost fingers. A rather good trade, you think, for taking off his arm in the process. "You'd allow a spirit, able to shape the soul into something inhuman and unrecognisable, to walk free in exchange for my life? My, my. I must be particularly disruptive to your little society."

"You're beaten." His voice is sharp despite his clear exhaustion. He struggles to restore his arm. "No matter how many of us you kill, you will lose first. Give up."

"Such misplaced confidence. 'Choose to die'..." You sneer and the black iron chains wrapped around you tighten, far colder than you are. You have warmed, somewhat, in Mahito's presence. You cannot be bitter about it when it is he who marks your soul. "Hah! Nothing stops you from killing him anyway – so, politely, I decline. There are only so many of you. You will run out of bodies before I do."

As you speak, your image flickers in an attempt to split your consciousness into the deep shadows around you. The chains chew into your skin and you hiss as your control dissipates like a candle blown out.

"Interesting," the sorcerer murmurs, gazing down at you pensively. The red flames swirl behind him. "Interesting that your bond with that curse truly did win us this fight. I admit – I was sceptical it would work. You're... not what I expected."

You turn your gaze to Mahito, crumpled on the ground with his long, straight hair creating a curtain over his features. He grasps the handle of the blade, trembling slightly, and his breaths are shallow and rapid as he attempts to pull it out. He can only whimper in pain – too quiet for anyone to hear. But this battle is a secret under darkness and belongs to you. You close your eyes to his furious cry and panicked breaths as the blade refuses to budge and saps more of his strength with every second.

Run, you implore, and his head shoots up, pale eyes meeting yours. Cursed energy surges beneath your skin, rippling and bubbling with bloodthirst. Run and don't look back. Mahito, you must survive at all costs. Do you understand?

The chains quiver and the links bend out of shape, their strange unearthly metal creaking. Your body strains against it, fingers elongating into claws and mouth growing jagged fangs. Your skin rips and flickers, bleeding dead galaxies. The chains bite into your shadowy flesh, but you grow larger despite it.

The sorcerer takes a step back.

Go, your voice rasps in his head, syllables rough and struggling in the monstrosity of your own body. Mahito's eyes widen as the chains groan, shuddering with effort – and snap.

He pulls himself to his feet, pale grey kimono tattered and stained. He grips the blade lodged in his chest and stumbles away, chasing the safety of the tree line.

You roar, twice as tall as the sorcerers around you, cutting them down with rapid, decisive blows. In his state, he doesn't notice the sorcerer turning in his direction.

But you do. With a shriek, you launch yourself at him, breaking through the ranks of sorcerers trying to stop you in a burst of viscera and bone. You seize the man giving chase after Mahito, and his whip-like technique is nothing against the overwhelming strength of your new form. One slash of your razor-sharp claws and his technique putters out in his limp hands.

Mahito spares you one last, desperate look, before turning and running into the darkness. You pull the shadows closed after him, deepening the shadows around him until you have him in your grasp.

Live, you say wistfully, releasing him from your shadows as far away as you can by a riverbank. He collapses and attempts to slip the blade out from between his ribs. He quivers with effort, and you don't turn back to the sorcerers picking themselves up for one last push. As long as none of them find Mahito, you will accept the consequences of your hedonistic actions. Live for me. Please.

You languish in your prison for one thousand years.

—

Mahito beams, nodding so hard his head threatens to fall off. "You remember me! I knew you would!"

Slowly, as if learning how to move one muscle at a time, the hand cupping his face brushes its knuckles down the edge of his cheek. When it reaches his chin, long fingers wrap around his throat as if to choke – then, they release. Using the first three fingers, the shadowy spirit grasps Mahito's face, turning it further up towards him. The top of Mahito's head only reaches the spirit's ribs – or where they would be on a human.

Mahito, the spirit calls joyfully, lifting its other hand to cup his face with a flourish of a long, wispy sleeve. Draped over him, the spirit's shadowy robes engulf him almost entirely. Oh, Mahito, my darling pale bone-shard...

He laughs, accepting everything with a smile that seems too ancient for someone like him. It's the smile of one who's known loss – not his usual grin of frivolous naivete.

"You look awful," Mahito says, with a little pout and a frown. "Come! I'll get you back to full strength. But I suppose that guy behind me will want introductions. No number of old scrolls or tomes would get him your name."

That name was never mine, the curse declares. Humans could never know me as you do. My strength is not theirs to invoke.

"Alrighty," Mahito says. He spins on his heel, hair bouncing, and points above him, where the spirit stands – floats – behind his shoulder. "Geto-san! This is YN! I knew him back in the day. He had a bit of a cult, too, so I think you'll get along splendidly."

That piques his interest. That white-haired sorcerer – probably a member of the Gojo clan, Suguru thinks with an achy little throb, if his paleness was a family trait – had mentioned something about your perceived divinity. He wonders why you'd pay attention to any of those ignorant monkeys.

"You're probably thinking about the whole cult thing, right?" Mahito comments offhandedly, tossing and catching the silver brooch he stole from you. Despite this, you haven't pulled down your hood. The straggly ends of the cloak hang by your arms.

"I won't say I didn't wonder."

"Don't worry, it's not a long story." He clears his throat importantly. "Back in the day, we didn't have curtains or anything to hide the results of our actions, so what we did must've seemed like magic or something paranormal to humans. My YN was often seen before and after destruction like plagues and floods, so word began to spread of a beautiful man who would save those he appeared to. Of course, this was survivorship bias. If he killed 'em, not like they could say that to anyone, right? So that's how people began to worship him."

"How fascinating," Suguru murmurs, eyeing you up. "Before, I saw your... memories. Was worship how you grew so much stronger than a normal curse?"

You finally look up, having been concentrating very hard on Mahito and his new appearance. His clothes are strange, but you're beginning to come around to them. Apologies. My body is not quite... complete. Some portion of me may have passed through you as I formed. You touch Mahito's hair, rubbing the strands between your fingers, and he giggles up at you. Perhaps you are right. Evolution was always within Mahito's portfolio, not mine. I should have been constant, unchanging, like the night. Odd, isn't it?

"The form you gained right before you were sealed away – do you still have it? Or was it a result of their belief?" If he could sway you to his side – gain your abilities – it might be enough. Just enough.

You consider his question. Human emotion is potent. I may no longer have shrines made with my image or prayers whispered in my name, but there are infinitely more humans now to draw from. I may gain it back – in time.

"Fascinating," Suguru repeats. He extends his uninjured hand with a kind smile. "Then please – allow me to be your host in this new era. I own a temple with a not-insignificant number of human visitors. It may help you recover."

You glance down at Mahito. He nods encouragingly. "He's not a bad guy to be around, I promise! A little uppity, but with the strength to back it up. You'd be with me. We'd be together again."

You pause, your large hand halting on top of Mahito's head, where you'd been petting him. He blinks up at your featureless face, and shadows waft from your shoulders –  a sigh, or what passes for one with your inhuman anatomy. Very well, you relent, taking one of his ponytails and tugging lightly, I will follow. Be grateful that I bow to you.

"Oh, yes," Mahito giggles pleasantly, leaning into your stomach. He props his chin on your ribs, staring up at you with a grin. "Verily, my lord. When we arrive, I'll even show you how grateful I am."

You cup his face gently, squishing his cheeks. You run a thumb over the stitches below his eye. Dubious little creature... Lead on – we have much to talk about.

—

Recovery, you find, requires mostly time. The first thing you do when you regain sufficient strength is create a new body – one Mahito is familiar with, and which looks almost entirely human. For all your distaste, their physical anatomy is simple and useful, and you can spend less effort holding it together than most other shapes. Geto Suguru, as you come to know him, is incredibly interested in you and your capabilities, almost invasively so, and hates humanity quite a lot. You avoid him where you can.

You enter the room you were given by ducking under the lintel, one which Mahito now shares with you. Once you heard where he used to reside and what it was had been explained to you, you had been firmly insistent he come with you rather than you with him. Sewers, you claimed, were no place for the beloved of a god.

He is at the dresser in a grey kimono, which grabs your attention. He runs a brush through the pale blue-grey hair swept over his shoulder. He opens his eyes at the sound of the door sliding open, a smile automatically tugging at his lips.

"You're back," he says warmly. "What did Geto-san want this time?"

"He has trouble sleeping," you reply, taking a seat on the bed. It is odd, you thought once, that a traditional temple like this would incorporate such modern furniture, but Mahito seemed to like it, so you kept your mouth shut. "I drew him to slumber."

Mahito hums knowingly. "Humans, right? So messy. Him especially. Man, emotionally, that guy is a wreck – gets so worked up over nothing."

Politely, you ignore the invitation to complain. You may be a curse, but you have some dignity. "He freed me from a thousand years of imprisonment, Mahito. It's the least I can do to repay him."

He frowns. "I freed you."

"The seals prevented you from doing very much, Mahito," you say, amused. "If he wasn't there, you'd still be banging away at it. However, you did figure out where they kept me and kept me alive in your memories when no other did. I am grateful for that."

"If you were less judgemental of the other curses, I'm sure they woulda remembered you fondly," he rebuts. "You were too much of a lone wolf. 'Ooh, Sukuna's eating my worshippers 'cause I told him he's not cool! Kenjaku badgers me way too often about his dumb plans!' If you didn't complain about them to their faces, I'm sure they would've been happier to remember you."

You scoff. "Why should I care? I have you."

The tone of your voice warms what passes as his heart. He turns on the stool to face you, setting down the brush and picking up his hair ties. He begins to section his hair into three parts.

"I mean that much to you, do I? Little old me, more important than the favour of the great King of Curses," he coos, rising to his feet. He offers you a hair-tie with a soft smile, and you accept it. He crawls into your lap, sitting with his back to your chest. He hums as you comb your fingers through his hair, fumbling only slightly with the intricacies of a braid. It's been a long time since you've had hands.

"What does the King of Curses have that I care for? He is strong, but has many enemies. He is an arrogant, fickle creature and desires no equal, only slaves and followers." You adjust the thick locks of hair you've left loose to frame his face. He seems to like threes, so you'll keep it similar. "I like to do as I please. He is feared – I am fear."

You consider your next words. "He is also very rude."

Mahito barks out a laugh. "Careful. If he hears that, you'd be sliced up quicker than you can say 'oops'."

"You say he is now little more than a set of relicts. I wonder – if I kicked him around, would he know it and come later to kill me?"

Mahito presses a finger to his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so. They don't seem to hold any sentience by themselves. Even curses empowered by the fingers don't look like they contain any part of 'him'."

"Interesting."

"Remind me to never let you carry his fingers."

"Of course." You tie off the end of the braid, sitting back to admire your handiwork. A human had come in with something similar, and you'd been too preoccupied with how it might look on Mahito to really care for what Geto was doing.

(You didn't care much for what any of them were doing, truthfully. Their idea for a world of curses was not quite uninhabited enough for you, as the god of the endless night and the perfect, empty void. It was only because of Mahito's unique technique that you let him live beyond your initial meeting, after all.)

"You kept your hair long," you say, voice a low murmur.

Mahito glances over his shoulder, gazing up at you through his messy bangs. A sly smile curls at his lips. "Oh, you know," he waves a hand carelessly, "you liked it better this way."

You prop your chin on top of Mahito's head. He grins. "You always wore it like this?"

"Well, I sat like a rock at the bottom of a river for a couple hundred years, so no, not always. But when I did like to have hair – yes, it was long."

You rest your hand around his throat, like a collar. Mahito smirks, dancing his fingers over your knuckles. "Hey, now... What's this doin', big guy? Careful – I'm half your size."

"You do not have to look like you do. I would adore you regardless."

"How cute! But it's no fun when we're both too big for the bed." He turns in your lap, straddling your thighs, and playfully plucks a thread loose from your haori. He cocks his head to meet your eyes with a smile when a brief scowl crosses your face. "C'mon, lighten up! You're out of the slammer! What better way to celebrate than with me? If you want, we don't have to do it on the bed. Maybe on the floor... Out in the forest... Drenched in human blood..."

"Mahito, Geto is across the hall. You are loud."

"He can plug his ears. I'm sure he's got a curse somewhere in him for that." His grin broadens freakishly. "I also want a curse inside me."

"Mahito," you growl, your grip tightening on his hips.

"Oh, say that again." He shows the whites of his eyes briefly with a teasing moan. He drapes his arms over your shoulders, wiggling around and settling comfortably in your lap. Your shoulders tense. "Such a bore. Hey – I'm better with my technique nowadays. Y'know how much fun we could have?" He leans in with a giggle, lips brushing your earlobe. "Gimme ideas. I'll make you feel so good."

Concentration was always the common denominator. He was once easily overwhelmed – he'd like to think he improved.

"I still tire quickly," you say, and not even you can obscure the annoyance in your voice. "Belief is so hard-won these days. I fear you'll have to be gentle with me."

He giggles, though his expression softens – or as much as it can for him; perhaps 'less-crazed' is a fairer term –and he drags his tongue hotly against your jaw. It's a kiss – his version of one.

"Okay," he sighs dramatically, kicking his legs childishly. "Hm... How about this? Tonight, shall I be your prince, princess, or," he winks, "your master?"

Your lips purse. "Gods do not have princes or princesses. 'Divine right'." You scoff. "Don't make me laugh."

"You'll always gimme your 'divine right', though, yeah?" He wiggles his brows cheekily. "Your sacred sceptre. Your god rod—"

"Mahito."

He sulks for only a moment before perking up again, tugging at your sashes and collar to open you up for his eyes only. He traces the marks on your skin with a hum.

"You and Sukuna have a lot in common, you know."

"He's a fool. I hope that's not what you mean."

He snorts. "Relax. I didn't mean it like that. I like you more, anyway."

"I'd certainly hope so." You flex your fingers, lifting one hand to measure against his waist. "I endured a thousand years of imprisonment for you."

"You're gonna bring that up constantly, aren't you?"

"Only when important. Do you know how small it was on the inside?"

He sighs. "I'm never winning an argument again."

"You've already won my heart."

"Your heart!" He laughs. "What a human thing to call it."

You lean back, allowing him to push your kimono off your shoulders. "Call it what you like. Be what you like. I've spent too long away from you to care for names and titles." You trace the stitches running across his hips. You lift your eyes, and Mahito's breath hitches at the hunger in them. They swirl with empty galaxies and dead stars, and he finds himself subconsciously leaning in, longing for that cold, dark and very gentle place. One day, at the end of all things, you will bring him there, lord of nothing and lord of everything. Perhaps he'll learn how to touch his soul to yours, like bubbles, and you'll never have to leave him again.

"Is this what you want?" he whispers as you strip him bare, his grey silk kimono pooling on the floor. "Me? Just me?"

"I have no need for anything else. Power, armies, what have you... Sukuna, Kenjaku, even this Geto – their plans are so short-sighted. Everything will come under my hand eventually. Until that day arrives, I am content with you."

"So romantic," Mahito murmurs, a coy smile pulling at his lips. "Can I also come under your hand? Pretty please?"

"Must you ruin everything I say with a filthy joke?"

He pushes you backwards onto the bed, hovering over you with a grin. He grinds down on your lap under the pretence of getting comfy and he relishes in your groan. "You just set them up so perfectly for me! How could I not?"

You click your tongue. "I indulge you too much."

"Not enough, I'd say. Took me way too long to get into your pants. Do you know how desperate I was at times? You expected me to see you doused in human viscera and not want you all up in my guts, too... Ridiculous, in my humble opinion."

"Sex is such a human notion."

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he whines. "I have to say, it's pretty fun. You like it, too, don't you?"

"Hm."

"C'mon, we're both here because of humans. We aren't, like, appropriating anything." He reaches down, palming the bulge below your kimono. His grin widens. "If you don't like it, why did you give yourself the parts for it? Ha! Checkmate."

He yelps as you grab him and toss him down onto the bed, pinning him under your weight. He stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes, his loosened kimono gaping at the chest and stomach.

You rake your eyes down his lithe, pale body, humming when his breath hitches at your touch. You glide your hand down his side, tracing the smooth curve of his waist and hip.

You reach down by his hips and part his kimono further. When the silk falls open, you are greeted by a neat patch of grey hair – and glistening pink folds.

He giggles at your expression. He twirls his hair around a finger and bats his lashes, which might be thicker and longer than usual. "Now we match."

Clicking your tongue, you curl your fingers around his slender thigh and part his legs, eyeing him unblinkingly. He's not sure if he should be aroused or offended – you're hard to read and he's never sure what you like. Perhaps that's part of why he stayed – you were like a game – but now, a thousand years later, he can't help but feel... unsure? Nervous?

Afraid?

He wants to laugh at the concept. Him? Afraid of your opinion of him? How disgustingly fragile.

You're talking now, and the sound of it snaps him out of his spiralling thoughts. You've always had that effect on him.

"I'm not sure how we match at all, Mahito," you're saying. "As spirits, we are incapable of siring spawn. I would say we match less."

He whines. "Hey...! I put all this work into looking nice for you, and you're telling me now that you don't like it? Besides, who're you to say we can't have some little curse babies, asshole? There's never been another me – maybe I'm the exception. Maybe I'm better than the rest of 'em."

At last, you lift your eyes. Mahito wants to curl up beneath your gaze – you are terrifying and comforting all at once. "No," you say softly. "You are one of a kind."

A smile splits his face, cocky, and he sits up, leaning back on his palms. His kimono slips teasingly from his shoulder. "Mmhm, that's right... Boy, you sure know how to make a guy feel special."

You tilt your head, considering something. You stroke his thigh, absent-minded, and he presses into your touch. "You don't know for certain – about spawn."

"Obviously not. I was sitting among the rocks of the Shinano River for, like, eight hundred years. You want me to fuck a fish?"

"Why?" You lift a hand as he opens his mouth to snark at you. "About the river, Mahito. Not the fish."

He frowns, his lower lip jutting out slightly. "You told me to survive! I did just that. I'm not sure why you sound so disappointed."

"You, resting in the same place for hundreds of years? Wouldn't you have grown bored? I'm sure it did not take that long to heal from your wounds."

He huffs, crossing his arms. He tugs his leg out of your grasp. His hair falls over his features. "You were dead, for all I knew! When I didn't know much about anything, you were there to teach me. For the first time ever, you were gone, and if they'd managed to kill you, what would they do to me?" He flicks a wrist, sleeve whipping your side. "You told me to live. To survive. So I did, okay? After all, it was the last thing you ever said to me. I had nothing else left of you."

The air is heavy. Neither of you moves a muscle.

"Mahito," you say softly.

He throws himself backwards onto the bed with a bounce and a soft thump, hands over his eyes. He tries to kick you, but you catch his ankle. He scowls. "Stupid. Asshole. Jerkface. Don't say my name like that."

"Mahito."

He gulps as you close the distance between you, your palm pressed to the mattress beside his head. His breath hitches as your hand glides from his ankle to his calf, holding it over your shoulder. You don't quite pin it there, but you leave your palm open, steady against the outside of his knee as it presses against you.

"You've grown soft," you observe.

He crosses his arms and tries to glare. It's a little hard when you're kneeling between his legs, your lips six inches from his own. Do you still taste the same? "No, I haven't. You just knew me before I lost everything."

"Let me return this to you, then." You part his kimono fully, the silk pooling on the bed. You reach for your own clothes, though your eyes remain trained on his. They remind him of a fox, quick and clever and sly. "Can I make it up to you, Mahito?"

He sniffs, glancing aside. His arms uncross. "Fine."

"Thank you."

You're so stupid. And polite. Ugh.

Your fingers travel down between his thighs. His throat bobs as you slide your middle finger between his wet folds, coating it in his slick. He shifts as you thrust it in gently, exploring him. Your warm palm cups him, something possessive in your touch, and as he relaxes around you, you slip a second finger in.

He gasps sharply, his hands shooting up to wrap around your biceps. You halt, buried in to the knuckle. It's hard not to be – his walls pulse around you, sucking you in.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head. He offers a brief, breathless grin. "Nah. Just feels different. Good different. Keep going."

You nod, sitting back on your heels to watch the way his cunt flutters around you. You stroke the leg thrown over your shoulder, kissing the ankle, and Mahito lets out a muffled mewl as your thumb presses against his clit.

"Sensitive," you murmur to yourself. You glance up. "Have you done this before?"

He licks his lips, steadying his voice. "What, changing myself like this?"

"Yes. For your own pleasure, rather than for battle."

"No," he admits, legs tightening around you. "This is the first time."

Humming, you glance up at him, allowing a smile to grace your features. "Then we can explore it together."

You pull your fingers from him – and with a thoughtful look, you place them in your mouth. Mahito's breath hitches as you swirl your tongue around your fingers, relishing in the taste.

"Sweet," you declare, and place his leg gently down on the bed. You settle at the base of the bed and tug him down by the thighs, staring up at him with playful eyes. "You wouldn't mind if I had a taste from the source, would you?"

He shakes his head, and it tips back with a moan as you bury your head between his thighs. You lap at his soft pink folds, and as you push your tongue inside, he slickens up, walls hot and pulsing around you. He squelches as you push in deeper, slick dripping from his eager hole. He grips your hair with both hands, moaning in delight as you fuck your long tongue in and out of him, curling roughly against the spot inside him that makes his head spin.

"Awh, fuck," he whines, laughing breathily as his spine arches and hot pleasure laps at the base of his spine. "F-Feels even better than I thought it would—! Ah, hah, gimme more!"

You draw your tongue out of him, making him whine and pull your face further into his fluttering cunt. You suck at his clit, lifting a hand to raise the hood of it as your tongue circles and your teeth graze it – he jolts in surprise, hands tightening in your hair. 

"Patience," you purr, tongue laving over his reddened clit. You push it inside him, wriggling about experimentally as his throbbing walls stroke the length of it, hungry and devouring.

"I already waited a thousand years!" he says, almost angrily. His heels dig into your shoulders as he lifts his hips, chasing a high. Your tongue is so long – it massages that rough patch of nerves at the back of his cunt and he seizes, crying your name as you grip his hips and lift him to your lips.

He takes what he wants rather inconsiderately, slick dripping down your chin as you kiss his hot folds. He's practically humping your face, grinding against your mouth and the tongue sinfully deep inside of him. You groan as his moans pitch higher, whorish, and he begins to tremble around you.

So quickly? You're amused. He's missed you more than he's willing to let on.

You fuck him with your tongue, saliva and slick mixing on his fair skin, and he's positively dripping, every thrust squelching and pushing out a sweet gush of pleasure into your waiting mouth. You swallow it blissfully, your thumb circling the wet nub of his clit.

With a wobbly, high-pitched cry, he shoves your face into his gummy cunt and comes on your waiting, writhing tongue, thighs seizing around your head and locking you in place as he coats your chin in his hot, sticky slick.

With your tongue buried deep inside him, flicking about and pressing curiously against his soft walls, he lets out a shaky whine, grinding against you with rough rolls of his hips. It's not an unfamiliar motion. He takes you so prettily, soft smooth folds now dark with lust.

Shakily, Mahito releases you, body sagging into the mattress. He pants and gasps, the tense heat between his legs unbearably achy and needy. He wants to melt.

"S-So… good," he sighs, a broad grin crossing his face. You lap at him lazily, and he twitches. "Mm… Now gimme your cock, 'kay? Nice 'n' deep. Promise me."

"Promise what?" you ask, licking your lips and wiping away his come. Your eyes glint with satisfaction as you set down his unsteady legs and crawl between them, the bulge in your trousers straining in its confines.

"That you'll fuck me up," he whines, turning onto his stomach and lifting his perky ass. He gazes over his shoulder at you, wiggling his hips and spreading his knees further to show off his tight holes. "You can have either one – jus' want you in me, okay? I miss having a big cock in my belly, miss being fucked and filled up until 'm all swollen and can't move." He pouts, his eyes half-lidded, and presses his ass against your bulge, grinding lazily. "C'mon, big guy. Don't you wanna put your baby in me?"

His eyes shoot wide open and his jaw drops as a thick, throbbing intrusion splits his pussy apart. He can't help his eager moans as you set a steady pace, his loosened pussy sucking you in with ease. He scrabbles at the sheets as your grip tightens on his waist and drags him down to match every thrust – he grabs the headboard as your cock kisses his cervix, making his eyes roll back.

"Oh! Y-You're cold – big – so muh – much," he cries brokenly, pressing his palm against his stomach. He shudders at the icy temperature of you inside him, making his hot walls ache and throb with such need that it borders on pain.

On every harsh thrust, he feels you glide against his palm, filling him up so completely that he can barely breathe – that feeling, of every breath physically restricted, makes his eyelids flutter and his pussy clench and flutter. His wet warmth surges down your thighs with his high, and you groan as he jolts and whines.

"You can handle it, Mahito," you note with a soft hum. Your touch grazes his clit and his breath stutters. "You have before, haven't you?"

"I-I'm rusty," he tries to joke, but it comes out flimsy as you shift and he clamps down punishingly around your cock with a moan. "Oh, fuck!"

Your hips snap into him and he fumbles slightly, grabbing one of your hands on his hip. He slumps into the mattress, lifting his hips as you fuck into his swollen heat, slick and soft around you. Little chained moans fall from his lips as he twists the sheets in his fist; his body jolts back and forth with your thrusts, his long blue-grey braid bouncing over his shoulder.

"Feels so g-good," he slurs, legs shaking like leaves. He spreads them, reaching down to split his sticky pussy lips with the V of his fingers. His lower lip quivers as he gazes at you over his shoulder. His bangs are a mess over his lust-blown eyes. "More – more, more, I want more—! Make me yours again, ah, right there—"

"Quiet now," you murmur amongst his choppy moans. "Geto will hear you."

"Wh-Whose fault is that?" he whines, the expression on his face fucked out and deeply flushed. "H-Hah – bet he'd be jealous, anyway! He wants you but you're all mine! Mh—"

You chuckle softly, leaning over him with a palm braced by his head. He feels small like this – protected. He whines into the bedsheets, his pussy dripping down his inner thighs.

"Mahito," you say, almost admonishingly. "Are you jealous?"

"Of that – ah – human? No!"

You trail your lips up his shoulder and neck, nipping at his ear. "Mm, of course. But I do think it would be prudent to watch him carefully. That technique of his may prove... troublesome."

Mahito sniffles, come-slick walls clamping around you and making you grunt. "S-Stop talking about him."

"So you are jealous."

"I just don't like it when you talk about other people when you're inside me." He attempts a glare, but his ruined expression quivers when your cock kisses his womb, tears welling up along his lashes and sticking them together. "Th-That's a normal, hn, r-reaction."

"Would you like me to talk about you, then?"

He averts his eyes and nods, tiny, into the sheets. You press your lips to the stitches trailing over his shoulders, admiring the contrast between the dark lines and Mahito's pale skin. You pick up the pace, thighs clapping against his ass, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as his pussy flutters dangerously around you.

"My Mahito is so sweet to me, greeting me with this little piece of heaven here," you purr with a particularly teasing thrust into his cunt, nuzzling into his hair as he grips your forearms for stability. He nods reverently, lips parting and eyes rolling as you shift your hips and fuck him quick and hard into the mattress. His toes curl as he cries out, every thrust knocking a whiny moan from his throat. "My Mahito did so well, listening to me all that time ago... You're so good at obeying me, aren't you?"

"M-Mmhm," he whimpers. "Yes! Yes, I did, I always listen to you, oh, god—"

"Ah-ah-ah... You've been spending far too much time around humans, Mahito." You kiss his neck, and he shudders, your cock filling his belly until he can think of nothing else. He whines as you stroke his side, fingers fluttering over his stomach.

"I am your god," you murmur. "I taught you. I saved you. Perhaps I can even..." You press the smooth bump in his stomach and he lets out a ruined noise, muscles tensing. "Gods create, don't they?"

A choked, whorish wail rips past his lips. The glide comes easy – hotter, wetter. Waves of heat pulse through his core. His hole squelches as a thick ring of white forms around your base.

"Mahito." You tug his braid sharply and he whimpers as his head jerks back. "If you cry out to a god, it will be my name on your lips. You are mine. I won't tolerate anything less than your total loyalty. Do you understand?"

He babbles, whimpered half-words slipping from his lips. He nods to the best of his ability with your grip on his braid, arousal curling hot and powerful in his gut at the growl in your voice. "Yes!" he cries, his ass ricocheting off your hips. The rough pace makes his knees knock together. "Yes, yes, I'm your bitch, 'm sorry – you're my god – hnn, f-fuck, don't stop—!"

"Good, Mahito. Always so obedient for me."

Perhaps he reshapes himself because suddenly he's vice-tight, throbbing around you with a gooey slickness that tugs pink around your shaft when you try to draw your hips back. You suck in a sharp breath.

"Mahito," you coo, stroking his stitched cheek, and he whimpers, tears clouding his vision. "Let me go, dear. I can't give you what you want if I can't move."

"I don't want you to leave again," he sobs, curling his fingers through yours.  He can't think straight.

If – if he gave you a child, an heir... you wouldn't leave him, right? You couldn't. You liked him for his uniqueness – he wasn't like any other curse you'd ever met. You told him so. With the return of the Six Eyes, each day brings forth more powerful spirits, and you are like Ryomen Sukuna, whatever you say. You, too, are fickle, and you are cold as the night over which you reign. If some other curse – or, fuck him, a human – catches your attention, it's not impossible you might drop him for them.

After all, you're so much older than him. What is he but an indulgent curiosity?

As his thoughts spiral away from him, his body reacts to you – his glossy, silken pussy hugs your twitching cock, and the smell of sex lingers heavy in the air. "Oh god, oh god," he whimpers sweetly, brainless and drooling and pierced on thick cock, "oh, god—"

"Yes," you hiss. "You belong to me." You bury your nose in his hair, skin slapping rhythmically and rocking the bed. You bury yourself in his sloppy cunt over and over again, wrapped so perfectly around you. With a low growl that has Mahito's pussy throbbing, ropes of thick come paint his insides, filling him up and dripping from his hot, slippery folds.

He arches into your cold, firm embrace with a frenzied wail of your name, a sound wrecked with pleasure and pent-up desire. He trembles as he creams around you, milking your cock with a hungry desperation, and the pale curls over his pussy are damp with a filthy mixture of slick and come. He throws his head back. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his eyes roll back at the feeling of your seed spurting deep within him, his insides so much more sensitive.

Or maybe he's just missed you. Either way, his throat feels raw, and the shattered whimpers that crumble from his lips as he collapses into the bedsheets are all he can manage, his pale eyes half-lidded and fluttering as you continue to pump him full. You stroke his stomach as if he's something sacred and murmur sweet nothings into his ear as he twitches in your arms.

He mewls, panting, as you eventually pull out, his gaping pussy clenching around nothing as your seed dribbles down his thigh. Without your grip on his hips to keep him up, he crumples to the bed in a dazed, soiled heap. His cunt squelches when he moves and he licks his lips, trembling slightly as he raises his head to look at you.

You're beside him now, gazing back with those beautiful eyes of yours. If he stares into them long enough, deep enough, he might catch a glimpse of clashing black holes and dying stars.

That battle an age ago left you with something inescapable. Things used to be easier – you were of the night, and the night was simple with the whisper of something shadowy within the dark. Now you have sparks of something hotter within you. Evolution, change, all of it – Mahito had more of an effect on you than anyone could've guessed.

He presses himself into your side and you wrap his lean body in your embrace. You stroke his hair with a soft hum, combing your fingers through his bangs and tucking them behind his ear.

At last, he speaks up, head resting upon your chest. "I got all dolled up for you," he says quietly. "You made a mess of me. Ruined my hard work."

You kiss his forehead. "Is that not what you wanted?"

"Hey... Don't twist my words."

"I'm sorry."

Silently, he leans up and nips at your jawline, soothing the spot with a kitten lick. He settles back down and you trace the stitches crossing his body, making him hum as you reach the ones following the V of his hips.

"I won't leave you, Mahito. Not again."

He glances up, a fist curling gently on your chest. "Really?"

You nod, staring at the ceiling. He fits perfectly into your side and you clutch him there, protective and possessive in the way he adores. "Yes."

He stares up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Okay," he says, and closes his eyes with a secret little smile.

[questions-about-blorbos]

This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any fandom / Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote.

[masorciereviolette]

Could I request an Agatha Harkness x Reader Fic? One where Agatha is Reader’s Mom’s best friend but Reader has a huge crush on Agatha. Reader is in her last year of college and has too much to drink one night and calls Agatha to tell her she has feelings for her. Agatha picks her up and takes her back to her house but tells her nothing can happen between them. However, some time later they do sleep together but Agatha tells reader it can’t happen again as she’s her mom’s best friend. Reader gets upset and avoids Agatha when she goes round her mom’s house. But Agatha realises she also has feelings for reader so they talk it out and decide to have a secret relationship. Maybe there could be a mommy kink in there 🙈 thank you in advance.

Confessions In The Dark

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Feelings, Hurt, Pining, Comfort, Legal Age Gap Relationships, Minors DNI 18+, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 16.3k

A/N: Thank you for this absolutely fucking phenomenal request. The older woman, forbidden relationship tropes are always a favorite of mine!!!!! I hope I did your request justice:))))))) if anyone would like to be added to my tag list please feel free to let me know!!!

Taglist: @harknessshi @atlasimagines

Masterlist Link

It starts with one too many drinks and a number you know, deep down, you shouldn’t have dialed. You’re slumped in the shadowed corner of a half-crowded bar not far from campus, the stale scent of beer and cheap cologne thick in the air.

The worn leather of the booth creaks beneath you as you fumble with your phone, your fingers clumsy, your vision a little too blurry. You stare at her name—Agatha—glowing back at you like some forbidden temptation. You shouldn’t call her , you know you shouldn’t.

It’s reckless.

It’s selfish.

It’s dangerous.

But she’s always been your comfort zone. Your mom’s best friend—the one who used to sneak you extra food at parties when you were a kid, the one who looked at you like you were seen when no one else seemed to bother. The woman who, at some point over the years, shifted in your mind from safe to utterly, devastatingly irresistible. And tonight, when your heart feels too heavy and your body too weightless from bad decisions, something inside you just—snaps.

You press the call button without giving yourself another second to think. The phone rings twice. Each second drags too long and not long enough. You almost hang up, panic flaring, when her voice comes through—low, tired, edged with sleep, but still that same velvety rasp that always makes your stomach flutter “Hello?”

Your breath leaves you in a shuddery rush “Aggie—” you slurred , her name falling from your lips far louder than you intended. You wince, glancing around at the other patrons, but no one’s paying you much mind.

“Hi,” you continue, blinking hard, struggling to corral your swirling thoughts into anything coherent. “I just—listen. I’m drunk. Like… bad. And I shouldn’t be calling you, but I did, and—I think you should come get me.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

A long one. You can almost feel the wheels turning in her head, the tension humming through the phone line. She’s weighing a hundred things you can’t see. When she finally speaks again, her voice has shifted—no longer groggy, no longer casual. It’s sharp. Focused. Worried “…Where are you?” she asks, tight but calm.

You glance blearily at the neon-smeared window beside you, trying to focus on the bar’s name painted in backwards cursive. You mangle it the first time you try to say it, dissolving into a breathy, embarrassed giggle before correcting yourself.

She sighs on the other end, soft and almost fond in a way that makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs “Don’t leave,” she says. “I’m coming.”

You clutch the phone a little tighter, pressing it against your cheek like it could somehow hold you together “okay—,” you whisper.

And even as you end the call, letting the screen go black, your hands still tremble—not from the alcohol. But from what you just did. By the time she pulls up in her sleek black car, headlights cutting through the misty spring night, you’re already outside the bar, teetering slightly on the curb.

The pavement feels uneven beneath your shoes, and the damp chill in the air is just sharp enough to start dragging some of the drunken fog from your mind. When the driver’s side door clicks open and Agatha steps out, you blink up at her, heart thudding stupidly against your ribs.

She’s still in what must have been her evening clothes—dark jeans, black boots, a fitted jacket—but her hair is slightly mussed, and there’s a sharpness to her movements. Like she dressed fast. Like she came for you without hesitation. You see it immediately—the look on her face when her eyes land on you. Exasperation, yes. A familiar thread of it. But layered thickly with something else. Concern most likely.

She exhales through her nose as she strides over, slipping her coat from her shoulders in one smooth motion. Without a word, she swings it around you, tugging it snug across your frame before her hand finds the small of your back “You shouldn’t be calling me when you’re like this,” she mutters, steering you gently toward the car, her voice low and tight.

You catch the way her fingers linger at your side, more careful than irritated “You could’ve called your mom,” she adds, unlocking the passenger door.

You slump into the seat with a graceless thud, the coat swallowing you whole. The interior smells like leather and the faint trace of her perfume—amber and something sharp underneath. Comforting. Dangerous.

You turn your head to the window, forehead bumping the cool glass, and mumble without thinking “Didn’t want Mom.” Your eyes flutter shut for a second before you add, softer but no less true “I want you.”

She’s halfway around the car when you say it. You hear the stumble in her steps. When she slides behind the wheel, she’s stiff, too controlled. Her hands grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her steady “You don’t mean that,” she says carefully, finally starting the engine.

But you catch the way her voice wavers at the end, the crack she can’t quite hide. You lift your head enough to glance sideways at her, your vision swimming just slightly. Your body feels heavy, pliant, but your heart is a live wire inside you “I do,” you whisper, blinking slowly. “I’ve wanted you forever.”

The words hang between you—thick, electric. Agatha doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look at you. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes stay locked on the road. The drive to her house is silent except for the low popping of the tires against the wet pavement, the occasional sigh from the heater.

You don’t remember much of how you get inside. You just remember her arm tight around your waist, steadying you as you stumble up the steps. The warmth of her hand between your shoulder blades as she guided you inside. The familiar creak of her front door swinging shut.

The guest room—your room—feels exactly the same as always. Safe. Familiar. Infinitely more dangerous now. She disappears briefly down the hall and returns with a pair of soft pajamas “Bathroom’s the second door on the left,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes.

You nod clumsily, managing to shuffle away, the pajamas clutched to your chest. She waits in the hallway as you change, giving you privacy but hovering close enough that you feel her presence like gravity. When you emerge—cleaner but still woozy—she just smiles tight and leads you back to the bed, pulling back the covers for you.

You collapse into them without protest, sinking into the familiar, worn sheets. It’s only when you’re curled up beneath the quilt, your cheek pressed to the pillow, that you notice her still standing there.

She lingers at the side of the mattress, her hand gripping the bedpost so tightly you’re amazed it doesn’t splinter. You blink up at her, vision swimming, throat raw with the words you barely have the strength to say.

“This can’t happen sweetheart….I- I’m sorry” Agatha says softly, it sounds like she’s ripping the words from her own heart. “You’re drunk. And you’re—” She falters, her jaw clicking “It’s not okay,” she finishes, voice breaking.

You watch her through heavy, hurting eyes “Is that the only reason?” you whisper, your words slurring, your consciousness slipping fast. Agatha’s mouth opens—but no sound comes out. You don’t hear an answer.

Sleep drags you under like a tide, pulling you into the dark. But if you’d stayed awake just a moment longer, you might have seen it The way Agatha’s hand twitched toward you— Then froze. The way her whole body leaned forward, like she was about to fall to her knees beside you.

The way her mouth formed your name on a breathless exhale she didn’t have the right to speak. And the way she finally tore herself away from the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving you alone in the bed… because if she stayed another second, she would’ve given in. And she knows once she has you—She’ll never be able to let you go.

It’s been almost two days since that night. Two days since you embarrassed yourself. Two days since you cracked your heart open and exposed the messy, desperate feelings you’d tried so hard to bury.

You woke up before dawn, the room still cloaked in a soft gray darkness. Your head was pounding, your mouth dry, but it wasn’t the hangover that made you want to sink into the mattress and disappear. It was her. The memory of falling into her arms. The ache of the things you said.

The unbearable kindness in the way she tucked you into bed instead of pushing you away. You slipped out of her house as quietly as you could, barely breathing as you eased the door shut behind you. You couldn’t face her.

Not then. You should’ve just left the pajamas on her porch. Dropped them like an apology you didn’t have the courage to say. But something in you—something stubborn and wounded and aching—needed to see her. Needed to really know. So here you are, standing on her front step, the weight of the folded clothes like a stone in your arms.

When the door finally swings open, it feels like the air is sucked from your lungs. Agatha stands there, framed by the soft light spilling from inside, and she looks—wrecked. There’s no polished mask today.

No carefully curated smile. Just raw exhaustion stamped into every line of her beautiful face. Her hair is pulled back hastily, loose strands falling into her tired eyes. She’s wearing a soft sweater that hangs off one shoulder, rumpled like she’s been dragging herself through the hours without really noticing.

Her gaze sweeps over you—sharp, conflicted, hungry. You swallow hard and force a sheepish smile, holding out the bundle of clothes between you like a peace offering “Thought I should return these,” you say, your voice soft, almost apologetic.

For a beat, she doesn’t move. Then her hand reaches out, slow and tentative, fingertips brushing against yours as she takes the pajamas from you. The touch is feather-light, barely anything at all. But that all it takes to shatter the fragile thread of restraint between you like a snapped cable.

You barely register the soft thud of the clothes hitting the floor before she’s pulling you inside, her hands fisting in your jacket, slamming the door shut behind you with a shaky breath. Your back hits the wall and then—then—her mouth is on yours.

There’s nothing tentative about it. Nothing careful. It’s brutal, needy, a crash of teeth and lips and desperate hands. She kisses you like she’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world. You moaned into her mouth, your fingers scrambling for purchase in her sweater as her body presses flush against yours.

She tastes like desperation. Like regret. Like everything you’ve ever wanted but were too afraid to ask for. Her hands roam your body with a feverish intensity—tugging, squeezing, memorizing. She touches you like she knows she shouldn’t. Like every second of it is killing her and saving her all at once.

Heat floods you, dizzying and wild, the kind you’ve only ever dreamed about in the quietest corners of your mind. You barely remember how you make it to her bedroom. Clothes trailing behind you like discarded promises, your hands frantic and greedy as you pull her down to the bed with you “Fuck please—“

Agatha's eyes darken with a hunger you've never seen before as she propped herself up above you, taking in your naked form laid out beneath her like an offering. She licks her lips, a slow, deliberate motion that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

"Please what, baby?" Agatha purrs, her voice a low, seductive rasp. "Gotta tell me what you need, sweetheart. Tell me how to make this feel good for you..."

Her hand trails up your thigh, fingers dancing along your skin with a feather-light touch that has you arching into her, craving more. She leans down, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collar bone stopping at your chest taking a nipple into her mouth, rolling the bud between her lips.

"Is this what you need, baby girl?" Agatha murmurs against your skin, her breath teasing, tormenting, making your core throb with anticipation. She nips at your nipple, not hard enough to mark, but enough to make you gasp, to feel the sharp sting morph into a dark thrill of knowing she wants you, desires you with a savage intensity.

"Or do you want my fingers baby?" Agatha continues, proving her words by trailing a finger down your stomach, pushing teasingly along your folds, not dipping inside, but tracing your slit like a map, committing every inch to memory.

"Want me to fuck this pretty pussy until you can't remember your own fuckin' name, sweetheart?" Agatha growls in between nips to your skin, the crude words falling from her lips like salvation, each syllable one step closer to the edge of the abyss. Your back arched in pleasure at her assault of your chest, each bite sending a bolt of lightning through your spine. your fingers slipped up into her hair tugging softly. Hips rocking forward, chasing her teasing strokes just shy of where you wanted her most “please mommy I want you—“

Agatha grins wickedly at your breathless plea, the desperation in your voice igniting a feral hunger within her. She can feel your body trembling with need as you arch into her touch, your fingers tangling in her hair, silently begging her for more "Listen to you, baby girl," Agatha purrs, her voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Begging so sweetly for mommy's touch..."

She rewards your plea by abruptly thrusting two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, burying them to the knuckle. Your slick walls clench greedily around the sudden intrusion, trying to suck her in deeper "Fuck, you're absolutely soaked," Agatha groans, pumping her fingers slowly, teasingly, watching your face for every reaction. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you sweetheart?"

Her thumb finds your swollen clit, circling it with a maddeningly slow rhythm, applying just the right amount of pressure to have you seeing stars. The stimulation makes you clench tighter around her fingers, aching for more.

"Want me to make this sweet cunt all mine?" Agatha growls, punctuating her words with a particularly hard thrust of her fingers, curling them just right against that spongey spot that makes your toes curl "You gotta show me, sweetheart..." she demands, scissoring her fingers inside you, stretching your walls exquisitely. "Show mommy exactly just how you need it..."

Agatha's other hand skims up your side, cupping the soft swell of your breast. She squeezes, kneading the tender flesh as her fingers plunge harder, faster, fucking into your desperate sex with a renewed vigor "Louder, baby..." she coaxes, thumb flicking quickly over your clit, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Let me hear those pretty moans, please"

Your curled your fingers deeper into her hair, a pathetic mewl clawing up the back of your throat. Agatha hissed in pleasure as your nails sunk into her scalp, your hips bucking wildly against her hand as you chase your pleasure. She can feel your slick walls clenching rhythmically around her fingers, your body trembling on the edge of ecstasy.

"Fuck yes, just like that sweetheart. Take what you need from mommy's fingers," Agatha growls, pistoning them harder, faster, the obscene sound of your juices filling the room. "Ride them baby, paint my fingers with your fuckin' cum..."

She leans down and captures your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your shameless moans and whimpers as her free hand roams greedily over your curves. Agatha pinches and rolls your nipple between her fingers, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.

Breaking the kiss, Agatha trails her lips down the column of your throat, biting and sucking as she goes. She's determined to mark you here as well, to claim every inch of your skin as her own as her fingers plunge mercilessly into your dripping heat "C'mon baby. Wanna feel you," Agatha demands, twisting her fingers inside you, rubbing your g-spot dead-on. "Let go, sweetheart"

“Fuck mommy—" you keened desperately, the words ripped from the depths of your lungs as your body seizes with pleasure. Your cries only spur Agatha on, spurring her fingers to plunge even harder, even deeper. Your cunt grips them like a vice as your climax crashes through you, wave after wave of electric bliss radiating from where you two are joined.

"Fuck just look at you—dripping all over me." Agatha snarls in unbridled lust as your release gushes out around her pumping fingers, soaking her hand. She punctuates each word with a savage thrust, drawing out your high until you're utterly spent and shaking. Finally she pulls her fingers from your fluttering channel.

You’re both lying there tangled in sweaty sheets, your heartbeat thundering against hers—you think, for a moment, she might finally stay. Might finally stop pretending. Might finally stop running from this.

The room is thick with the scent of skin and salt and something far too deep to name. Your bodies are still touching, limbs tangled loosely, breaths slowly evening out.

Agatha rolled to lie beside you, now utterly still. Her chest rises and falls steadily, but her eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling as if she can’t quite believe what she’s just done. As if the weight of it is crashing down on her all at once.

You shift slightly, reaching for her without thinking—but her body tenses at the movement, a subtle flinch so quick you almost miss it. She drags in a shaky breath. And then, like something in her breaks wide open, she moves.

She peels herself farther away from you with a gentleness that somehow hurts more than cruelty ever could. Her bare skin brushes yours as she sits up slowly on the edge of the bed, her back to you.

Her shoulders are stiff, her spine rigid—every line of her body radiating guilt, conflict, regret. You watch, helpless, as she buries her face in her hands, her fingers threading into her hair like she’s trying to disappear and you know. You know what’s coming before she even says it “This shouldn’t have happened—,” she says, her voice hoarse, broken.

“What?” you croak, even though you heard her perfectly. She scrubs her hands over her face like she can wipe the moment away.

“I shouldn’t have done that, fuck—” she says bitterly, the self-loathing clear in every syllable. “I’m supposed to protect you, not—” She cuts herself off with a frustrated growl, shaking her head like she can’t even say the rest aloud “This was a mistake.”

You sit there, frozen, the weight of her words pinning you in place. The ache in your chest flares sharp and ugly. You don’t argue. You don’t beg. You just gather your clothes in silence, hands shaking slightly as you dress. Ignoring the way her shoulders tense when you turn away.

Ignoring the way your heart feels like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces. You walk out of her house without another word, leaving her there—In a room that still smells like you. In a bed that still remembers us. And the worst part is? You already know.

You’ll never stop wanting her. Even if she keeps breaking your heart one shattered goodbye at a time. The door clicks shut behind you. And for a long moment, Agatha just sits there. Frozen. Numb, just listening to the hollow echo of your absence rattle through the house.

The scent of you still lingers in the air—sweet, familiar, devastating. It clings to the sheets twisted around her waist, to the pillow where your head had rested, to her own skin where your hands had touched her like she was something precious.

Slowly, she leans forward, her elbows digging into her thighs, her hands burying into her hair with a quiet, shuddering breath. She can feel it—all of it—settling heavy in her chest like a second heartbeat. The want. The guilt. The bone-deep ache of something she’s tried for so long to pretend wasn’t there.

Agatha squeezes her eyes shut. But it’s too late. The imprint of you is everywhere. She presses her palms against her face, her body trembling under the weight of it, and lets herself break—silent, small, unseen. No sobs. No dramatic collapse. Just the quiet, relentless pain of a woman who let herself taste happiness for a moment—only to shove it away with bloody hands.

She doesn’t know how long she stays there, anchored to the edge of the bed where your warmth is already fading. All she knows is she’s never hated herself more. And she’s never wanted you more.

The following weeks after—what was possibly the best and utterly worst afternoon of your life—are a special kind of torture. You avoided her Completely. At first, it’s easy enough. You’re buried under the weight of finals, endless papers, and late nights spent hunched over textbooks, your brain numb from exhaustion. It’s a ready-made excuse, one no one questions. Not even your mom. But the truth is darker, heavier. You’re hiding.

Because facing Agatha now—facing what you did, what you almost had—feels unbearable. You slip into a rhythm of evasion. You skip family dinners with vague apologies about needing to study. You dodge casual invites and gatherings with muttered excuses and sudden headaches. You stop lingering in places where you know she might be. You stop asking if she’ll be there. You stop saying her name.

You carve her out of your life like she’s a wound you’re trying to stitch closed—but every movement aches. Your mom notices the change before you realize you’re being obvious. The way your shoulders tense when her name comes up. The way you offer tight, hollow smiles instead of real ones. The way your patience shrinks, your presence in the house becoming something thin and ghostlike.

She doesn’t press—not yet—but you see the worry etched deeper into her eyes every time you brush her off and retreat to the isolation of your room. When you do see Agatha—on accident, through cruel twists of timing—you pretend you’re fine.

You school your face into something blank and pleasant. You speak to her like you’re making polite conversation with a stranger in a checkout line. Nothing more. You don’t let your gaze linger on the way her fingers twitch at her sides. You don’t acknowledge the way her jaw tightens when your eyes slide right past her.

You don’t dare notice the sadness leaking from the edges of her carefully composed smile. Every meeting becomes an exercise in survival. Smile. Nod. Look away. Smile. Nod. Look away. You have to, if you stop pretending, even for a second, you’ll crack wide open. And Agatha—She sees it.

Every calculated glance you avoid. Every breath you hold when you pass her in the hallway. Every word you don’t say. She sees it all. And she feels it like a blade twisting in her gut but she says nothing. Not yet, But it kills her.

One night, it all comes crashing down. You barely have time to brace yourself. You’re in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, helping your mom prep dessert for what’s supposed to be a “small family dinner.”

You’re distracted, half-listening, until she mentions it too casually “Agatha’s coming too. She just got promoted! Can you believe it? I thought we could celebrate her with a nice homemade dinner.”

You freeze where you stand, the bowl of batter wobbling slightly in your hands. Before you can protest—before you can find an excuse to vanish—your mom turns and flashes you that look. The one that means no arguments “She’ll be so happy you’re here. So you’re coming.”

And just like that, you’re trapped. Now you stand in the kitchen, helping lay out plates and folding napkins with mechanical movements as the evening drags on. You haven’t even looked at Agatha once. Not properly. You feel her though.

Her presence presses at the edge of your awareness like a tide you can’t hold back. Every brush of her voice in the room. Every shift of her body when she thinks you’re not watching. It’s unbearable. And worse, it still hurts.

It throbs dully under your ribs with every laugh your mom shares, every glass clink, every casual conversation you’re expected to smile through. Then your mom suddenly claps her hands and chirps, “Shoot—I forgot the wine!”

You glanced up sharply “I’ll be right back,” she says brightly, already grabbing her keys. And before you can even suggest going yourself, she’s looking back over her shoulder key in hand “Y/N, keep Agatha company for me, will you? I won’t be long!”

The door swings shut. Silence falls over the kitchen. The weight of it is suffocating. You lower your head, pretending to fuss with the dessert, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You hear the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

You can feel her getting closer. The air shifts. Charged. Electric. Unforgiving. Then— “Why are you avoiding me?” Her voice is quiet. Low. But it cuts through you like a blade. You stiffen. For a second, you consider ignoring her. Pretending you didn’t hear. But something inside you is too tired to keep pretending anymore.

You turn.

Slowly.

Meeting her gaze for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. “Why do you think?” you ask, your voice rough and breaking around the edges. The hurt is written all over your face. You know it. You don’t even try to hide it, she didn’t deserve the curtesy.

Agatha flinches, just barely—but enough. She starts toward you, her movements cautious, deliberate. You stand abandoning your dessert on the table, taking an instinctive step back—But the wall behind you limited your space. You’ve got nowhere to go now.

“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice cracking a little around the edges now too. “Don’t push me away.” You laugh bitterly, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.

“You told me i was a mistake,” you breathe. Your hands fist at your sides “You said you didn’t want me. And I—I believed you.”

Agatha closes her eyes like the words physically hurt her. She presses her palms flat against the wall on either side of you, not trapping you—but steadying herself. She leans in just enough that you can feel the warmth of her body, the trembling in her breath.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” she says, her voice raw. “I thought it would protect you. Protect us. But it didn’t.” She swallows hard, and you see it—the regret carved into every line of her face “It felt like I was lying to both of us,” she finishes, her voice so soft you almost miss it.

You stare at her, your chest burning, every inch of you aching “So now what then?” you whisper.

Agatha’s eyes flicker—relief, sadness, longing—so many things crashing into each other at once. She leans closer, bracing her palms completely against the wall behind you. Not trapping. Just there. A barrier between herself and the urge to shatter all the rules again.

Her body cages yours in—but her voice is the softest thing you’ve ever heard when she finally speaks “Now we stop pretending this isn’t real,” she breathes. “I want you. I care about you. Im tired of pretending that I don’t.”

Her words sink into you like sunlight on frozen skin. Your heart slams against your ribs, aching so sharply you almost gasp. You breathe her name, a broken prayer “Aggie…” And she moves.

She kisses you—not with hunger. Not with desperation. But with something truer. Like it’s the only truth she knows anymore. Like she’s sorry for every second she made you doubt it. It’s meant to be a kiss. Just one. But the second Agatha’s mouth finds yours again, it’s over.

The tension between you doesn’t just crack—it shatters, spilling into every desperate movement, every hungry breath. Her fingers tangle in your shirt like she can’t bear to let you go again.

Your hands slide up her sides, pulling her closer, closer, until her body is flush against yours “I missed you—” you whisper between kisses, the words raw and broken against her lips.

Agatha groans quietly, her forehead falling against yours. “Fuck—don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you ask, lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You started this.” She doesn’t answer. Instead, she kisses you harder, like it’s a confession. Her hands dip under your shirt, trailing warmth over your skin. The air feels charged, like it’s about to combust—and maybe that’s exactly what’s happening.

Because for all her rules and restraint, she wants this. Wants you. You let her push you back , gasping when her mouth finds that sensitive spot beneath your jaw. Your fingers dive into her dark hair, tugging lightly, and that earns you a low, dizzying sound from deep in her throat “We can’t do this here,” she mutters, but she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop—,” you breathe, tilting your head back to give her more. She groans, frustrated, and kisses you again—slower this time. More deliberate. Her tongue slips past your lips, and your knees nearly give out.

You barely hear the gravel crunching outside. Barely see the familiar glow of headlights through the front window—until Agatha stiffens, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale. Your head whips toward the window. Shit. Your mom’s car pulls into the driveway, headlights sweeping across the kitchen like a spotlight on two criminals caught red-handed.

Agatha stumbles back like she’s been burned, hair mussed and lips swollen, breathing hard “Okay—okay,” she says, more to herself than you. “This is fine. I can fix this.”

You blink at her, still breathless. “Fix what? We didn’t—”

“You’re flushed, your shirt’s wrinkled, and I look like I just rolled out of your bed,” she hisses, smoothing her blouse with shaky hands. You look down. Yep. Your shirt’s halfway untucked, your mouth still tingles from her kiss, and you’re 100% not emotionally ready to see your mom right now. Her lipstick is smudged telling you the evidence was most likely adorning your face as well.

“Go sit at the table,” Agatha orders, voice tight but composed. “Nothing out of the ordinary happened.”You nod wiping the back of your hand across your mouth wiping away any remaining proof, heart racing, you stumbled toward your chair just as the front door opens and your mom calls out cheerily, “I’m back!”

Agatha’s already plating dessert, her back turned to the door, somehow radiating the picture of calm. You’re not sure how she does it. But as your mom walks into the dining room and says, “You two behave while I was gone?”—Agatha doesn’t even flinch.

You swallow and nod. “Totally.” Agatha hands your mom her plate. Then, with a perfectly practiced smile, she meets your gaze and in that look—quiet, smoldering, unspoken—you know this is far from over.

Later that night, after dessert and wine and what should’ve been a perfectly innocent conversation that had you squirming in your seat, your mom finally leans back with a satisfied sigh.

The kitchen is warm, the soft clink of dishes being cleared mixing with the faint hum of music playing from the living room. Everything feels easy, relaxed. At least, it should. You can barely focus on your glass of wine, not with the way you can feel Agatha’s gaze brush against you every few minutes — casual, careful, but enough to turn your skin electric under your clothes.

Every laugh from her lips, every subtle glance in your direction, coils tighter in your stomach until you’re dizzy from pretending not to notice. You’re almost relieved when your mom claps her hands together and says brightly “Sweetheart, would you mind helping Agatha carry a few boxes over to her place before you head to bed? Just some books I’m giving her. They’re on the hall table.”

You pause, blinking as the words register. Your gaze flickers instinctively toward Agatha. She sits back in her chair, utterly calm, swirling her wine lazily in the glass.

Her expression is the picture of innocence — if innocence looked just the slightest bit smug. Suspiciously unbothered. Your stomach twists “Uh… yeah,” you say, forcing your voice to sound casual. “Sure.”

Your mom smiles, already pushing up from her chair “Thanks, honey. I’m gonna go get ready for bed,” she calls lightly as she disappears down the hall. She pauses just long enough to add, teasingly, “But if you end up staying awake a little longer when you come home, just be quite okay? I could hear your music playing last night.”

You swallow hard. From the corner of your eye, you catch it—the subtle curve of Agatha’s mouth as she hides a smirk behind the rim of her wine glass. You narrow your eyes slightly at her. You don’t trust it for a second.

Your heart beats faster as you gather the dishes, your mind already racing ahead even though you don’t dare admit to yourself what you’re hoping for. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Agatha Harkness—It’s that she never plays fair.

Especially when it comes to you. The walk to her house is short. Too short. Each step feels weighted, heavy with everything left unsaid between you. You each carry a box—something light, unimportant—but it feels like you’re hauling the entire weight of the last few hours in your arms.

The night air is crisp, a gentle breeze lifting the edge of Agatha’s jacket, stirring your hair. It should cool you. It doesn’t. Your body’s still humming. Still thrumming with the memory of her hands brushing against you earlier.

Of her voice dropping low and wicked during dinner, making your heart stutter. Of her mouth—God, her mouth—haunting every single breath you take. Neither of you speaks. The silence stretches taut between you, straining with every step closer to her door, until it feels like a single word might snap it wide open.

When she finally unlocks the door and swings it open, the tension follows you inside, thickening the air. The familiar scent of her home wraps around you—clean linen, aged wood, something darker and headier that you recognize immediately as her.

She steps in first, setting her box down with an exaggerated stretch, arms reaching up lazily as if this is just another ordinary night. It’s not. You watch the way the hem of her sweater rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above her waistband. Your hands itch. Your mouth goes dry.

She turns back to you with an easy shrug “Put yours down anywhere,” she says lightly, almost teasing. You do—more by instinct than conscious decision—but your eyes never leave her. Not for a second.

The moment your box touches the table, you straighten and square your shoulders, something reckless burning low in your stomach “So,” you say, your voice rougher, lower than it had been minutes ago “Are you gonna act like earlier didn’t happen this time?”

The words hover between you—bold, daring. Agatha’s brow lifts in an elegant arch, the corner of her mouth twitching into something wicked. Slowly, she starts to step toward you, hips swaying just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Which part?” she murmurs, her voice a velvet drag over your skin “The part where you kissed me like you’d die if I stopped you…” she teased softly taking another step closer. “Or the part where headlights saved us both from making a terrible decision right there on the dining table?”

The memory flashes hot behind your eyes—her body pinning yours against the counter, her hands wandering, her mouth bruising yours like she owned you. You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. She stops just in front of you, arms folding slowly across her chest, head tilting as if daring you to deny it.

You meet her gaze, the words scraping your throat raw as you force them out “It wasn’t a terrible decision.” Your voice is steady. But your whole body is trembling. Agatha smiles then—slow and dangerous, like a fuse sparking to life. And before you can think, before you can second-guess, she closes the last inch of space between you and kisses you. This time, there’s no hesitation. No cautious pause. No careful pulling away. Only heat.

Only hunger. Only her. Her hands find your waist first—firm, greedy, trembling just enough to betray how long she’s been holding herself back. She drags you into her body, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips that she swallows hungrily as your mouth opens beneath hers, soft and desperate. You melt into her without thinking.

Without fear. Like you’ve always been hers, and every second spent apart was a mistake you’re finally correcting. Agatha pulls you even closer, her hands sliding around to your back, splaying across your spine possessively. Her mouth never leaves yours—not even for breath. She devours you slowly, deliberately, savoring you like she’s trying to memorize the taste.

And when you slide your hands under the hem of her sweater, your fingers skimming the burning-hot skin of her waist, she makes a sound— a low, wrecked noise in the back of her throat—that almost undoes you completely.

It’s raw.

Unrestrained.

Hungry.

She breaks the kiss only barely, her forehead resting against yours, her breath coming in fast, shallow bursts “I said this couldn’t happen again…” she pants against your mouth, her voice shaking, her fingers flexing at your waist like she’s already well and lost that battle with herself.

“You lied…” you breathe, your nose brushing hers.

A bitter, broken laugh escapes her lips “I did.”

You don’t hesitate—you tug her closer again, your grip fierce, your nails catching lightly in the fabric of her clothes. You need her pressed against you, you need her everywhere “What now?” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

Agatha runs the tip of her nose along the line of your jaw, her mouth ghosting over your skin in a way that makes your whole body tremble. Her breath is hot and uneven, her chest heaving against yours.

“Now,” she murmurs, rough and ragged, “I remind myself what I’ve been trying to forget every night since I touched you.” Her words shatter something inside you. You barely register the way she laces her fingers with yours before she’s moving—guiding you, pulling you with her like a force of nature. Dragging you to her bedroom like she owns you. Like she always has.

Clothes fall away in a reckless trail behind you, careless and frantic—pieces of armor discarded in favor of something real. The door closes with a soft click that feels final. Inevitable. The moment is urgent—yes—your hearts beating loud and wild in your chests. But it isn’t rushed.

It’s slow.

It’s deeper.

Every kiss feels deliberate, each press of her mouth against your skin heavier than the last, like she’s trying to brand you into her memory. Every soft gasp and whimper you make is gathered up in her hands and tucked into the hollow of her chest like a secret she can’t let go of. When she touches you now—

it’s not reckless or proving. It’s reverent almost careful. Her fingers tremble against your hips, her palms smoothing down your thighs as if mapping every inch of you to memory. She touches you like you’re fragile. Like you’re precious. And every time she pulls you closer, every time she lets her mouth trail fire down your neck, it feels like she’s trying to say all the things she’s too scared to speak aloud.

You feel everything. Every shake in her breath. Every tremor in her hands. Every heartbeat slamming against yours. And when she finally whispers your name—quiet, reverent, devastated—like it’s sacred, like it’s hers, you forget the world entirely. There’s only her. There’s only this.

And you never want it to end. After, when you’re tangled together in her bed spent but satisfied, the room dim except for the faint golden glow of the bedside lamp. The sheets are a mess, twisted around your legs, the air still heavy with the scent of skin and sweat and something deeper—something dangerously close to love.

You lie there, blinking slowly up at the ceiling, your body still buzzing from her touch, your heart pounding a beat you don’t want to analyze too closely.

Her bare legs are intertwined with yours beneath the covers, warm and firm against your skin. One of her hands rests on your stomach, fingers splayed wide, grounding you there with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest ache.

She strokes absentminded patterns over your ribs with her thumb, lazy and slow, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Like she can’t not touch you. You think she might say something this time.

You can feel the words perched on the edge of the moment, heavy and trembling between you. Something about your mom. About how wrong this is. About how much she regrets letting this happen.

You brace yourself for it. You wait. But she doesn’t. The silence stretches on, thick and strange but not uncomfortable. Not painful. It’s just—there. Instead of words, there’s only the steady sound of her breathing. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against your side.

For once, she lets the moment stay. No running. No apologies. No breaking the fragile peace with things you’re not ready to hear. You stay there longer than you should, letting yourself memorize the feeling of her—her weight, her scent, the way her body curls slightly toward yours even in sleepiness, as if drawn to you by gravity itself. But you don’t stay the night. You can’t.

You know the risks. You know how reckless it would be. And if you don’t go now, you might never want to leave. So eventually, reluctantly, you slide out from beneath the covers, careful not to wake her fully.

You pull your shirt back on in the low light, the soft cotton catching awkwardly against your flushed, still-sensitive skin. You cross the room quietly, reaching for the door handle, heart clenching with every step away from her. And then—“Hey.” Her voice is soft, scratchy with exhaustion, but it stops you like a hand closing around your wrist. You turn, heart in your throat.

Agatha’s sitting up now, the sheet slipping down to her waist, baring the smooth expanse of her shoulders and collarbone. Her hair is a tousled mess, wild and beautiful, her cheeks still flushed with leftover heat. She looks unfairly beautiful like this. Raw. Unmade. A little unguarded, like she forgot for once to build her walls back up.

Her eyes find yours across the darkened room. “Be careful,” she says quietly, voice fragile around the edges “Someone might notice if you keep looking at me like that.”

Your throat tightens. You manage a small, wry smile, even though your chest feels like it might break open “Then stop looking at me like you want me just as bad,” you murmur back. Agatha doesn’t respond.

She just stares at you—long and slow and full of something you’re too scared to name. Something she’s too scared to say. She doesn’t stop looking at you. Not even as you slip through the door and into the night, carrying the ghost of her touch on your skin and the weight of her silence in your heart.

The Easter barbecue is your mom’s favorite kind of event—an excuse to decorate the entire house in pastels, make too much food, and gather everyone she loves under one roof. Family, old friends, your college buddies… and Agatha.

Of course, Agatha. She arrives a little late—draped in a soft lavender blouse tucked into high-waisted black slacks, sunglasses pushed into her waves, mouth painted a criminally tempting shade of plum. You nearly drop the deviled eggs when you see her “Don’t stare,” your neighbor teases, nudging you with her elbow. “She’s always been that hot.” You choke “What? I’m not blind.”

You laugh, but your face is burning—and it only gets worse when you check your phone and see a text waiting for you, Agatha: The violet you’re wearing is very pretty color. Very wholesome. A shame what lies under it isn’t.

You suck in a breath. You reply, half-defiant, You: Bold of you to say that when you’re the one who couldn’t keep her hands off me.

Her answer comes seconds later, Agatha: True. I could make it worse? Tell everyone here how our hosts precious daughter, moans my name like a filthy prayer.

You nearly fumble your drink. The next hour is pure torture. Agatha’s across the yard, sipping a lemonade and chatting casually with your mom’s coworkers like she hasn’t been whispering filth into your phone for days.

She’s teasing, calculated, throwing you little glances over the rim of her glass that make your stomach flip and your thighs clench. Your phone buzzes again while you’re helping serve food Agatha: Come say hi, sweetheart. Or are you worried I’ll behave badly?

You reply through gritted teeth You: If you keep this up I’m not gonna be able to restrain myself much longer

Agatha: Promise? You snapped. Not with anger—but with a plan. You wait until she’s leaning against the back patio door, her empty bottle in hand, half-listening to one of your cousins. Then, with innocent precision, you walk up beside her—offering her a new beer.

She smiles eyebrow raised suspiciously “How sweet—” And that’s when you “trip.” The drink slips forward, splashing cold and golden across her blouse and all down her chest. Gasps. A few laughs. A chorus of “Oh no!” from the group nearby. Agatha freezes. You gasp and lunge forward with a napkin, patting her front with theatrical guilt. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Let me help—I’ll grab you a towel.”

You grab her arm and guiding her inside before she can say a word. The second the bathroom door shuts behind you, everything shifts. She locks it “Accident, huh?” she says, voice low, amused, blouse clinging to her curves. You press her back against the door, your hand already sliding up her soaked shirt popping open each button at a time. “You’ve been torturing me all week,” you growl. “I warned you what would happen.”

Agatha smirks, eyes dark. “I was counting on it.” You kiss her hard, hungrily, your body flushed with adrenaline. Her hands are under your shirt instantly, nails dragging down your back as you grind against her with a soft whimper “Someone’s going to notice,” she breathes.

“Then shut up and be quiet,” you whispered kissing her again. Your hands slipped down around her waist unzipping her pants. You shoved them down around her hips, fingers slipping further, pressing against her soaked panties.

Agatha groans lowly as your fingers press against her, feeling the damp fabric cling to her aching sex. "Fuck, sweetheart, you've got mommy so fucking wet," she whispers breathlessly against your lips, rocking her hips to grind herself against your hand. "I've been thinking about this all fucking day, about bending you over that counter and fucking that pretty cunt until you scream my name—"

To emphasize her point, Agatha hikes your top up further, her hands splaying across your bare back, nails raking down possessively. You hissed softly nipping at her jaw teasingly “feeling territorial mommy?” You hummed trailing a line of kisses down her neck, across her collar bone and down her torso. You softly dropped down to your knees, curling your fingers into the waistband of her pants and panties.

You guided them, swiftly down her legs, lifting each leg up individually to remove them from under her. Tossing them aside you gripped one of her calves tightly, resting her leg over your shoulder before borrowing your face between her thighs. Agatha inhales sharply, the cool air hitting her dripping sex making her shiver with anticipation. She tangles her fingers in your hair as you guide her leg over your shoulder, opening her up completely to your hungry gaze.

"Fuck, baby, look at you," Agatha breathes, voice thick with desire. "On your fuckin' knees for me already, so eager for a taste..." She rocks her hips forward, painting her slick arousal across your parted lips, a filthy tease. "Go on then, sweetheart. Memorize just how wet mommy is for this greedy little mouth of yours."

Agatha tangles her fingers tighter in your hair, guiding your face closer to her aching cunt. Your nose brushes against her clit, and she can't help but gasp at the contact, hips bucking forward, trying to grind herself against your face.

You licked a broad strip up her dripping slit, lips wrapping around her clit, suckling the swollen bud as you groan your pleasure into her sex. The vibrations shoot straight through her core, making her legs tremble and her abdomen clench. You slipped both hands around her hips pinning them back against the door, Agatha lets out a strangled moan, fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair as your tongue delves between her folds to lap at her aching sex. Her hips buck against the tight grip of your hands, seeking more delicious friction.

"Oh fuck baby," Agatha gasps, head falling back against the door with a soft thud. "Your tongue feels...fuck, just like that..." She grinds herself harder against you, smearing your chin and cheeks with her slick arousal as you work her sensitive flesh. She can feel her climax approaching fast, spurred on by your dedicated focus.

You feel her thigh start to tremble and quiver around your head as you suckle her clit more greedily, your tongue flickering against the sensitive bud. Her grip in your hair tightens as she grinds herself shamelessly against your hungry mouth, desperate for release. "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." she chants breathlessly, the obscene wet sounds of your feasting filling the small bathroom.

"Don't stop baby, please don't fucking stop..." Agatha head thuds back softly against the door, letting out a strangled whimper as her orgasm crashes over her like a tidal wave.

Her sex clenches rhythmically, gushing arousal into your eager mouth as she rides out her high, holds you flush against her throbbing core, shuddering helplessly from the force of her climax. You released her pulsing bud, tongue stroking deeper between her folds, lapping at her clenching hole. Groaning at the taste, you speared your tongue inside.

"Oh god, fuck!" Agatha mewls, her orgasm still coursing through her as your tongue plunges deep into her fluttering channel, lapping up every drop of her release. Her grip on your hair becomes almost painful as she grinds herself shamelessly against your face, riding out the aftershocks.

"Fuck, I need... I need..." Her words dissolve into incoherent moans and whimpers as her pleasure builds again frighteningly quickly, her body still so sensitive from her first climax.

She hooks her other leg over your shoulder, balancing herself against the door to open herself completely to your hungry mouth and probing tongue as it fucks into her, curling and stroking her innermost depths. The sounds spilling from her lips turn higher, more urgent, her hips starting to jerk and shudder with a second impending release already.

"Please baby, please, god never stop—" Her begging dissolves into whimpers of ecstasy as a second explosive climax hits her like a freight train, she bit her lip attempting to quiet herself. Her second climax gushing out, flooding your mouth with her sweet nectar as she thrashes against you and the door wildly, completely lost to the intense pleasure consuming her.

She's not sure how long she stays like that, trembling and shaking apart in your grasp, her lip bloody from how hard she bit down. But as the waves of rapture finally begin to ebb, she collapses back against the door, panting and spent, thighs still trembling and squeezing around your head. Her fingers stroke almost gently through your hair as she slowly returns to herself, basking in the afterglow.

"God, sweetheart..." she manages to rasp out, voice wrecked. "That was...fuck, that was incredible. You're incredible." She smiles down at you dreamily, eyes hazy and unfocused. She stroked her hand through you hair affectionately "Such a good girl, making mommy come so hard. I'm so fucking proud of you right now." You guided each of her shaky legs down, one at a time, pressing soft kisses along the top of her thighs.

When finally you slipped back outside fifteen minutes later, a wicked smirk is painted on your lips. Agatha’s wearing your oversized denim jacket and a fresh white T-shirt, face flushed and slightly breathless. Trying very hard not to look like someone who just defiled the guest bathroom.

Your mom glances up from the grill and squints “Everything okay?”

Agatha smiles sweetly beside you. “Your daughter was a perfect hostess. Even offered me something dry to change into, are started a fresh load so the silk wouldn’t stain.”

You blink. Onec the attention was no longer on the both of you. Agatha leans in from behind you, lips brushing your ear “You’ll get your reward later—” she whispers, “Mommy promises.” The tempting words sent a shiver down your spine and suddenly you couldn’t care less about the parties proceedings.

It’s just dinner. That’s what your mom said, standing in the kitchen with a grin while she stirred something in a pot and adjusted the napkins for the third time “I invited Carol and her son Mikey. You remember her—from the office party last year?”

You nod distractedly, helping set the table. You vaguely remember Carol. Couldn’t pick Mikey out of a lineup. You’re not even really paying attention. Because Agatha’s coming, too. That’s all you really care about.

It’s been a week since the barbecue. Since the bathroom. Since you dragged her against the door, your mouth on her like you owned her. And she let you. You’ve seen each other twice since then—both under innocent circumstances. Family lunch. Errands. Nothing touching. Nothing obvious.

But the texts haven’t stopped. And the tension? It’s only gotten worse. By the time everyone arrives, the house smells like rosemary, garlic, and warm wine. The kitchen glows under soft golden lights, pots clattering gently in the background, and your mom is practically radiating happiness as she flits around, fussing over every tiny detail.

You hover near the dining room archway, offering a polite smile when Carol steps inside—elegantly dressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears, already chatting brightly with your mom like old friends. Behind her is Mikey. You straighten slightly on instinct.

He’s tall. Neatly put together in a way that practically screams med school or future suburban husband material—slacks, a button-up, a too-bright smile that feels just a little too polished “Hi,” Mikey says, stepping toward you with a confident grin, extending his hand.

You take it automatically, trying not to wince at the firm, eager shake “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he adds, chuckling lightly as he scratches the back of his neck.

You blink, caught slightly off-guard. “Oh?”

He laughs, a little sheepishly, as if realizing how forward he sounds “Yeah—your mom’s been kind of… hyping you up.” You force a polite smile, nodding once, even as your stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Cool,” you say simply, your voice a touch too flat to be enthusiastic. You’re saved from further small talk by the sharp creak of the front door swinging open again. You turn—and time stutters in your chest.

Agatha steps inside with the kind of casual grace that makes it feel like the entire room rearranges itself around her. She’s wearing black slacks that hug the lean lines of her legs and an ivory sweater—soft, slouchy in all the right places, clinging unfairly to her curves. She looks effortless. Polished.

Dangerous. Your pulse kicks instantly, heat creeping up your neck before you can stop it. Agatha’s gaze scans the room—and then lands on you. Her lips curve into a polite smile, but you see it—the stiffness in it. The way it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her eyes flick quickly to Mikey, then back to you. A flash of something dark passes through them before it’s tucked neatly away “Evening,” she says smoothly, her voice low and rich like poured velvet. She crosses the room to set a bottle of wine and a pie dish down on the table with a soft clink.

Carol lights up beside your mother “Not at all!” she chirps. “We were just about to sit.” Agatha’s eyes linger on you a beat too long. And then she moves. As she passes by you on her way toward the kitchen, her hand grazes your lower back.

It’s barely anything—a ghost of a touch, featherlight and practiced enough to seem platonic to anyone watching. But to you? It feels like she set fire to your skin. The spot she touched burns, and every nerve in your body strains toward her without permission.

You stand there for a moment too long, rattled, your heart thundering in your ears, desperately trying to pretend like you’re breathing normally. Like you didn’t just feel her claim you in front of the whole room—in a way no one else would notice. No one but you.

Dinner starts off pleasant enough. The table is set beautifully, candles flickering gently, the scent of roasted rosemary and butter still hanging thick in the air. Your mom is absolutely glowing, chatting animatedly with Carol across the table, her wine glass already half-full. The clink of silverware and the low murmur of polite conversation fills the room.

It should feel warm.

Comfortable.

Easy.

And it does—on the surface. Mikey, to his credit, is quite nice. Polite. Smart in the well-practiced way that checks every box your mother would ever dream of. His posture is perfect. His smile a little too polished. His answers to every question rehearsed like he’s been coached for this moment his whole life.

He should be perfect. But he’s not. Because no matter how nice he is—no matter how neatly he fits into the space your mom is trying to carve out—you barely hear a word he says. Not with Agatha sitting directly across from you.

She stirs her wine slowly, the stem of the glass turning between her fingertips with idle, calculated grace. Her head is tilted slightly, lashes lowered just enough to seem disinterested. But you feel it. You feel her watching you. Measuring. Seething.

Every laugh you force for Mikey’s sake goes unanswered by her. Every smile you offer dies a little more quickly under the weight of her silent stare. It’s suffocating. It’s thrilling. It’s Agatha.

“Do you like hiking?” Mikey asks suddenly, shifting just a little closer to you—subtle, but noticeable. You force your eyes away from Agatha and blink at him.

“Uh…” you hedge, stabbing at your plate with your fork. “Not really.”

Mikey grins, undeterred “Well, maybe I could change your mind sometime.” You open your mouth to respond—something neutral, something noncommittal—But you don’t get the chance.

Across the table, Agatha clears her throat. It’s a soft sound.Barely polite. But it slices through the conversation like a knife “Please,” she says, her tone all sugar and steel, “she once pretended to sprain her ankle just to get out of a two-mile loop.”

Heat floods your face immediately. You duck your head, cheeks burning. Mikey laughs it off like it’s adorable “Maybe she just needed a better hiking partner,” he says easily, flashing you a wink.

You risk a glance across the table. Agatha’s smile sharpens like broken glass “Doubtful,” she purrs. Your fork stills halfway to your mouth. The tension is sharp enough to taste.

You glance at her properly this time—really look—and your chest tightens. Her jaw is rigid. Her wine sits untouched by her hand, forgotten. She’s leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, looking casual—disengaged—but you know her better than that. You know every crack in her armor. And right now? She’s raging beneath it.

Your mom, of course, is oblivious to the slow-brewing storm. She beams across the table at you, radiating approval “Isn’t Mikey wonderful?” she says, practically bouncing in her seat. “He just got accepted into a law fellowship—”

“That’s great,” Agatha cuts in smoothly, her voice bright and pleasant in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up “But,” she adds, smiling thinly, “I bet you’re very busy. No time for distractions.”

There’s a barb there. You hear it. You feel it. Mikey, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the dagger buried beneath her words. He just shrugs good-naturedly, flashing another easy grin “You make time for the right people.”

Agatha’s brows lift elegantly. For a moment, she says nothing. Then her gaze slides to you—lingers just a second too long “And how,” she drawls, “do you know who’s right?”

Mikey chuckles, lifting his wine glass in a casual shrug “I guess you just feel it.” The room dips into a moment of tight, uncomfortable silence. You barely breathe.

Agatha smiles again—but this one is different. Tight. Dangerous. A flash of teeth behind velvet “Hm,” she hums, swirling her untouched wine lazily. “Dangerous logic.”

You can feel it building—the sharp edge beneath every word, the tightening in her shoulders, the bitter bite waiting just under the surface. You can’t let it go on. Before anyone else can speak, you scrape your chair back with a soft squeak, forcing a smile onto your face “I’m gonna… clear some of these,” you say, voice too bright.

You stand smoothly, grabbing your plate. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Agatha’s chair shift instantly “I’ll help you,” she says, already standing.

Of course she does. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You can feel the heat of her body already moving toward you, can feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter in the small space between you—And you know. You know this isn’t over. Not even close.

The moment the door swings closed behind you, the noise of the dining room muffled into a distant hum, you exhale sharply—like you’ve been holding your breath all night. The kitchen is dimmer, quieter, the warm overhead lights catching the shine of polished countertops and clean dishes stacked neatly by the sink. The air feels heavier here.

You set the stack of plates down on the counter a little harder than necessary and glance over your shoulder “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice low, tentative.

Agatha leans casually—too casually—against the counter, her arms folding across her chest in a loose, practiced motion. She tilts her head slightly, arching a brow “Peachy,” she says flatly.

You narrow your eyes at her “Peachy,” you repeat skeptically. There’s a sharpness in the way she holds herself, tension bleeding into every line of her body no matter how hard she tries to look detached.

“You sure?” you press, stepping closer, your voice softening just slightly. “Because you’ve been glaring at Mikey like he kicked your dog.” A muscle ticks in her jaw, almost imperceptible. She shrugs, nonchalant on the surface, but you see the way her shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” she says simply. There’s no humor in her voice. No teasing. Just that low, quiet simmer you’re starting to recognize too well—the slow burn of something darker underneath.

“Why?” you ask, searching her face, your heart pounding a little faster.

Agatha shrugs again, a roll of her shoulders that’s too sharp to be casual “He’s not subtle.”

You frown, stepping closer still “And you are?” The corner of her mouth twitches—but not in amusement. It’s a humorless, bitter thing. A crack in the armor she’s struggling to hold together all evening.

You stare at her. You stare until she looks like she might break. And then you whisper it—soft, but certain “You’re jealous.” Agatha scoffs under her breath, turning her head away like she can hide from it. But you see it. The way her throat works around the words she won’t say. The way her fingers tighten where they grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening.

“You are,” you murmur, taking a step closer, your voice coaxing, almost tender. “You’re jealous, and you won’t even admit why.” She closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s praying for patience she doesn’t have.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—she says “I don’t like watching someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The words punch the air from your lungs. Your breath catches audibly, your heart stuttering against your ribs. She still won’t look at you. Still won’t move. As if staying perfectly still might protect her from the enormity of what she’s just confessed.

You hesitate, your hand curling loosely at your side. Then, voice trembling despite yourself, you ask “…Am I?” A beat “Yours?”

At that, Agatha finally turns her head. And when she meets your gaze—for a moment—she looks utterly wrecked. Like the admission costs her something she doesn’t know how to give. Her eyes flicker, shining with something raw, something broken and desperate, and she whispers “Yes.”

A simple word. A shattering truth “But I shouldn’t say that,” she adds, her voice a rasp, breaking apart on the edges. “I shouldn’t let it mean anything.”

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of everything hanging between you. You step closer anyway, closing the final breath of space between your bodies, your hand brushing lightly against hers in a barely-there touch “But it does,” you say, so quietly you’re not sure if you even breathe the words aloud. Agatha doesn’t respond. Not with words.

But the way she closes her eyes—like she’s fighting something inside herself—and the way her fingers flex against the counter says more than anything else ever could. You don’t push her. You don’t force her. You just stay close, breathing the same air, feeling the ache of what almost could be, if only the world outside didn’t exist.

Before either of you can say more, your mom’s voice cuts cheerfully into the heavy air, oblivious. “Dessert’s ready To be plated! Don’t stay gone too long—you’ll make Mikey think you’re not interested!”

You snap your head toward her voice, blinking hard to pull yourself out of the moment. Agatha straightens instantly, pasting a smile on her lips so quickly and flawlessly you might’ve believed it—if you hadn’t just seen her stripped bare. But her eyes—Her eyes don’t smile at all.

You say nothing, simply nodding, grabbing a fresh stack of plates with fingers that tremble almost imperceptibly. When you follow your mom back into the dining room, you feel it.

Agatha’s gaze, heavy and searing, pinned to your back the entire way “Would anyone like some dessert?” your mom beams, her energy undimmed by the undercurrents threading through the room.

She’s already halfway out of her chair and to the serving table, moving with that unstoppable hostess instinct that no one ever dared challenge—smoothing her hands over her apron, practically glowing with pride over the spread she’s laid out.

Carol and Mikey both nod politely, chiming in with soft “Sure”s and “Sounds wonderful”s. You muster a tight smile, your fingers clenching slightly around your fork beneath the table, willing yourself to stay composed.

Across the room, you notice Agatha hasn’t moved. She stands instead, lingering by the kitchen door—her purse gripped loosely in one hand, her body tense in a way only you would recognize.

Something twists low in your stomach. You look up, locking onto her just as she clears her throat lightly “I should get going,” she says, voice smooth but a little too rehearsed. She slings the strap of her purse over her shoulder in one fluid movement, her smile strained at the edges. “Something came up for work—I need to handle it tonight.”

You blink, heart stumbling “Now?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the word escaping softer than you mean it to. For a second—barely a second—her eyes meet yours across the space between you. It’s fleeting. But it’s enough.

You see it there. The flash of guilt. The sadness. The way her mouth almost moves like she wants to say something else—but clamps it shut instead. It’s a lie. You know it instantly. And it sinks into your chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Still—you nod. What else can you do?

You don’t argue, Not with your mom fussing at the dessert table, humming to herself. Not with Mikey sitting across from you, still smiling like he has a prayer in hell. You force yourself to nod again, sharper this time, biting the inside of your cheek to keep everything else contained.

“Thanks for dinner,” Agatha says sweetly, turning her attention to your mother, who blinks in mild surprise but recovers quickly, flashing a concerned smile.

“Of course, honey. Everything okay?” your mom asks, setting down a dish of pie with a little frown. “You brought the dessert it only fair you say and enjoy it a little—“

“Just one of those last-minute emergencies,” Agatha replies smoothly, breezing past the question with practiced ease. But then—Then she looks at you again. Just for a moment. And it’s different this time. Softer.

Heavy with things she can’t say aloud “I’ll see you soon,” she murmurs, the words almost an apology. You force yourself to meet her gaze but offer her nothing but a slight nod in return, your throat too tight to risk speaking.

You watch her turn away, her heels clicking faintly against the floor as she crosses to the front door. Every step she takes feels like it’s dragging something vital out of you. Tearing something unseen between you that you don’t know how to fix.

Your chest aches—deep and hollow—the entire time she walks away. And even after the door swings shut behind her, sealing her absence into the night, the space she leaves behind feels impossibly large. Empty in a way no one else seems to notice. Except you.

One painful hour and a half later, Carol and Mikey are finally gone. You breathe a small, almost imperceptible sigh of relief the moment the front door closes behind them. The house feels instantly lighter, though the polite hum of leftover conversation still seems to echo against the walls.

Mikey had been perfectly nice—charming, even—offering another too-bright smile as he pressed a folded napkin into your hand before he left. You didn’t even glance at it. You dropped it near the sink without a second thought, the scrawl of his number already blurring in your mind like it was never meant to matter.

Because it didn’t. Not when every thought you had still clung stubbornly to the woman who ran from dessert—and from you. Now, you’re elbows-deep in soapy water, scrubbing plates with mechanical movements, the heat of the water doing little to thaw the cold knot still twisted deep in your chest.

The kitchen is mostly quiet except for the low gurgle of the faucet and the occasional clink of glass against porcelain. You’re so lost in your own swirling thoughts that you barely notice your mom step up beside you. She moves casually, almost breezily, placing a glass pie dish down on the counter with a soft clatter “Hey,” she says lightly, like she’s asking you to pass the salt “Can you return this to Agatha tomorrow? She left in such a hurry, I doubt she even realized it was mine.”

You wipe your dripping hands on the towel at your hip before she even finishes speaking “I’ll take it tonight,” you say quickly, a little too quickly. Your mom blinks, taken slightly aback by the eagerness threading your voice. She squints at you—sharp, suspicious in that way only a mother can be—but you refuse to meet her eyes, busying yourself with folding the towel, setting it neatly aside.

“You don’t have to go now, sweetheart,” she says, slow and careful, watching you more closely now.

“I don’t mind,” you reply, your voice tighter, more clipped than you intend. For a second, she hesitates, like she might push. You brace yourself. But then she just smiles softly, stepping forward to kiss your temple.

“Tell her thanks again for the wine,” she says, her tone returning to easy warmth. You nod, grabbing the pie dish with hands that aren’t quite steady. You shrug on your coat, feeling the weight of the glass in your hands like an anchor tethering you to something you can’t walk away from. And with every step you take toward Agatha’s door—through the crisp night air, across the dark stretch between your houses—your heart beats faster.

You knock softly, barely more than a tap. For a heartbeat, you wonder if she’ll pretend not to hear. But then the door swings open—and Agatha stands there, framed in the warm, low light spilling out behind her.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you. If anything, she looks like she’s been waiting. Gone are the polished slacks and fitted sweater she wore to dinner. Instead, she’s in a loose, worn T-shirt and a pair of soft joggers that hang low on her hips. Barefoot.

Her hair is tied back messily, a few dark strands falling loose around her face. And for a woman who supposedly had an “emergency” urgent enough to skip dessert, she looks… eerily calm. Relaxed in a way that only makes your chest tighten painfully. You lift the pie dish in your hands, your voice small “Emergency handled?”

Agatha exhales slowly, a sound heavy with defeat, and steps aside, motioning you in “Come in,” she murmurs.

You cross the threshold without hesitation, your pulse hammering a little harder with every step into her space—the space that feels too much like home and too dangerous all at once.

You set the pie dish down on the entryway table, the faint clink of ceramic against granite sounding loud in the otherwise still house. When you turn to face her, she’s already watching you. There’s a beat of silence. Long. Heavy.

Only the soft tick of the clock on the far wall and the low hum of the heater break the quiet “You left early,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, too weighted with everything you don’t know how to say. Agatha’s mouth tightens “I did,” she answers simply.

“You lied about it.”

“I did,” she echoes again, her voice softer this time, almost like she hates how true it is. You stare at her.

At the woman you’ve loved in quiet, impossible ways for longer than you want to admit “Why?” you ask, your heart beating harder, the word raw in your throat.

Agatha crosses her arms over her chest, holding herself tightly, like she needs the pressure to stay upright “Because I couldn’t stand it,” she says, her voice rough around the edges.

Your stomach flips violently, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your coat at your sides. She keeps going, her words picking up momentum, tripping over themselves “I couldn’t sit there and pretend it didn’t bother me. Him, sitting next to you. Your mom beaming like it was meant to be.”

She laughs bitterly, the sound brittle and self-mocking “Watching him talk to you like he had any right to know you—”

She cuts herself off abruptly, dragging a hand down her face in frustration “It’s stupid,” she mutters. “I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t—” You take a step closer. Not fast.

Not demanding.

Just there.

Present.

You wait until her eyes lift to meet yours. And then you ask, soft and steady “To what?” For a second, you’re sure she won’t answer. But then— Her gaze shatters. Tired. Vulnerable. Frighteningly, achingly possessive.

“I wanted to drag you upstairs,” she whispers, voice like steel, “make you whine my name so loud they’d all know exactly who you belonged to. Instead of trying to peddle you off like a damn dowery maid—”

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath catches painfully, your whole body going still. Agatha flinches at the silence, stepping back half a pace, her hands fisting at her sides “But I can’t,” she says quickly, brokenly. “I won’t. Because no matter how I feel, I’m still your mother’s best friend. I watched you grow up.”

Her voice cracks, and she presses her mouth shut hard for a second before continuing “I shouldn’t—” she chokes on the words, “—I shouldn’t want you the way I do.” You don’t realize you’re crying until her hand lifts hesitantly between you, fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, catching a tear.

The touch is unbearably gentle. You close your eyes briefly, feeling the tremble in her fingers “So you do,” you whisper when you can finally breathe again. “You do want me.”

Agatha exhales shakily, the sound like something crumbling inside her “Yes,” she admits, her voice breaking apart completely. “So much it hurts.”

Your heart splinters open. You step in, slow and certain, pressing your forehead to hers, feeling the unsteady rhythm of her breath against your skin. Your hand slides up her arm, anchoring you both to this moment, to this choice you are both making even if the world outside demands you don’t.

“Then stop running from me, I’m capable of making my own decisions….” you whisper. She lets out a strangled sound—a soft, broken thing that makes your chest ache

“I’m not good for you,” she murmurs, and you feel the fear in her words, the way she believes them like a prayer.

“You’re everything Ive ever wanted, don’t say that—” you say simply. Agatha trembles under your touch. So close. So desperate. So fragile.

“I’m scared,” she confesses, her voice barely audible. “I’m scared of what this means. Of how much I already care about you. Of what happens when it stops being easy to hide.”

You nod gently, your hand smoothing up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw “Me too,” you breathe.

You don’t kiss her. Not this time. Instead, you just hold her face in your hands, cradling her like something precious and breakable. You lean in and press your forehead firmly against hers. Letting her feel it, All of it. Not lust. Not just aching want.

Devotion.

Care.

Something painfully real.

Something terrifying and beautiful that neither of you can outrun anymore. Agatha’s eyes flutter shut as you stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breathing the same fragile air. Neither of you speaks.

You just exist—suspended in the heavy quiet, in the aching hum of something too vast, too dangerous, too real to name out loud yet. It feels like the whole world narrows to the inch of space between your bodies. The place where her breath mingles with yours. Where her skin brushes yours, featherlight but unignorable. You feel it when she moves—slowly, tentatively.

Her hands settle at your waist, trembling just slightly as she spreads her fingers wide, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you under her palms “Come here,” she murmurs.

The words barely reach your ears, so soft they might be imagined. You barely have time to react before she’s guiding you backward, her hand finding the small of your back, pressing there gently—grounding you, anchoring you to her as if you might float away if she didn’t tether you down.

Her other hand brushes your wrist, fingers skimming lightly over the place where your pulse thrums madly under your skin. Like she’s trying to steady herself with the proof of your heartbeat.

She sinks down onto the couch in one smooth movement, pulling you down with her—into her—like a tide drawing you helplessly toward the shore. You end up straddling her lap, your knees braced on either side of her hips, feeling the steady, burning heat of her body pressed close against yours.

Agatha exhales, a long, trembling breath that shudders out of her like she’s been holding it trapped in her lungs for days. You start to shift, unsure if you’re too heavy, if you’re asking too much—But her arms tighten instantly around your waist, tugging you flush against her.

“No,” she whispers against your shoulder, a desperate thread lacing her voice. “Don’t move. Just—just stay.” You do. You let your weight sink into her. You wrap your arms loosely around her neck, your fingers finding the ends of her hair, twisting them idly between trembling fingertips.

And in turn, she wraps herself around you—arms strong, certain, almost possessive—holding you like you’re something rare she doesn’t know how to trust but can’t bear to lose. Her face finds the curve of your shoulder, nuzzling there lightly, her nose brushing the warm skin of your neck.

Her breath is soft, steady, but you can still feel the faint shiver beneath it “I’m sorry I left earlier,” she says, her voice muffled against you. You smooth your fingers through her hair, combing them gently through the silky strands at the nape of her neck.

“I know why you did,” you whisper back. Agatha shifts a little, enough that you can feel the tension rolling off her shoulders, sharp and restless.

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of someone else touching you,” she murmurs, her voice cracking around the edges, raw and honest in a way she never lets herself be “Not when you feel like…”

She trails off, the confession breaking halfway free but too dangerous to finish. You lift your hand, cupping the back of her head, guiding her gently to look at you “Like what?” you whisper.

Agatha pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. And what you find there steals the air from your lungs. Desire, yes—an ache written deep into the stormy blue of her gaze. But also longing. Fear. Love—or something that feels terrifyingly close to it.

“Like home—safety.” she says hoarsely, each word pulled from her like it hurts to admit. “And I don’t even know when that started. Or how it got so deep so fast. But it’s there. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Your throat tightens painfully. Your whole body feels full of something too huge to hold “You hold me,” you whisper, your forehead tipping forward to brush hers again. “You stop pretending we’re just a mistake waiting to happen.”

Agatha stares at you, her lips parted slightly, her breathing uneven. And then, slowly—so gently it feels like a promise—she presses her lips to your temple. She lingers there, warm and trembling, letting the touch speak all the things her voice is too broken to say.

“Okay,” she breathes against your skin. You don’t argue. You don’t push for more. You don’t need more—not right now. Instead, you shift closer, curling yourself fully into her lap, resting your head against the strong line of her shoulder. You breathe her in—clean linen, worn cotton, something uniquely Agatha that fills your lungs and steadies the wild beat of your heart.

Her hand traces slow, absent patterns down your spine—over and over, soothing, worshipping. The other hand comes up, threading gently into your hair, cradling the back of your head with careful fingers, like she’s afraid you might break if she’s not careful.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing. The soft hum of the heater. The low, steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. You both just exist there—tangled together, holding each other together. Until, after what feels like hours, Agatha speaks again—so quietly you almost think you imagined it “I wish I met you in another life,” she murmurs into your hai “Somewhere where I didn’t have to pretend I don’t need you to breath.”

Your fingers tighten in the hem of her shirt instinctively, as if anchoring yourself even closer to her “You don’t have to pretend with me,” you whisper.

She exhales shakily, her mouth brushing the crown of your head in a featherlight kiss that feels like it costs her everything to give. That night, you don’t ask for more. You don’t kiss. You don’t undress. You just stay—wrapped around each other like a lifeline—letting the weight of everything unspoken settle between you. Because somehow, impossibly, this—This is the closest either of you has ever felt to home.

You feel yourself melt deeper into her lap, your body sinking against hers like you were made to fit there. The warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it lulls you into something softer, something quieter.

Your fingers trace lazy patterns on the sleeve of her shirt, your head tucked against the curve of her neck. You’re so tired. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not the kind of tired that comes from running or pretending.

It’s peaceful. Agatha shifts a little beneath you, pulling the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch around your shoulders, tucking you closer like she can’t stand even a few inches of air between you. Your voice is small when it comes—barely a breath against her collarbone, so soft you wonder if she even hears it “Can I stay tonight?”

Agatha goes utterly still beneath you. You feel it—the way her entire body freezes for a heartbeat, as if the world itself has tilted and she’s trying to find her footing again.

You lift your head slightly, blinking up at her through heavy, sleep-laden eyes, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs “I’ll leave before anyone could see me,” you add quickly, voice picking up with quiet desperation. “Early. I swear.”

You pause, the weight of vulnerability crashing over you, and then, in a voice even smaller than before, you whisper “I just really want you to hold me tonight.”

For a moment, Agatha doesn’t speak. She just stares at you—really sees you—like you’ve peeled yourself open in front of her and handed her the fragile, beating thing inside your chest. Something inside her broke. You see it happen. Right there in her eyes. The cool mask she always wears—the teasing smirks, the sardonic shields—all of it drops away like it was never real to begin with.

All that’s left is raw emotion. Bare. Open. Unguarded. Her arms tighten around you without hesitation, an instinctive, protective gesture like she couldn’t say no even if she tried. Like the thought of turning you away is physically impossible.

“You can stay,” she murmurs, her voice rough, thick with emotion she doesn’t bother trying to hide. Her fingers comb tenderly through your hair, slow and soothing, as if trying to memorize every strand “Stay as long as you want.” Your throat burns. Your eyes sting with the pressure of unshed tears—but you don’t cry.

You just let yourself melt against her again, surrendering to the comfort, the safety, the overwhelming rightness of being in her arms. You pressed your cheek back to her chest, feeling the strong, steady thud of her heart beneath your ear. A rhythm you could memorize in your sleep.

Agatha presses absentminded kisses to the crown of your head—one, then another, then another—like she can’t help herself. Each brush of her lips is featherlight, reverent, anchoring you to her.

The world beyond the walls of her house fades into a muted hum, meaningless compared to the soft sounds of her breathing, the gentle glide of her fingers down your spine. You drift, caught in that hazy, blissful space between wakefulness and sleep, cocooned in her warmth and the steady cradle of her arms.

At some point, you feel her shift beneath you—so carefully, so gently it barely registers. She slips her arms under your legs and back, lifting you with surprising ease, cradling you close against her chest as she stands. You stir slightly, a quiet, content sound escaping your lips, but you don’t resist. You trust her implicitly.Her heartbeat thunders against your cheek as she carries you through the dim hallway, the soft creak of floorboards underfoot the only sound.

She reaches her bedroom and lowers you onto the mattress with painstaking care, like you’re something precious she’s terrified of breaking. She tugs the covers up around you, brushing your hair back from your forehead with trembling fingers. The touch is so tender it steals the air from your lungs.

Then she slides in beside you, slipping under the covers, letting you curl into her side, her arms coming around you fiercely—as if daring the world to try and take you from her. You cling to her without shame, your hand finding hers under the blanket, fingers tangling together tightly.

Her thumb strokes slow, soothing circles against your wrist, each movement like a promise she’s too scared to say aloud. The room is silent but alive—charged with everything you’re both too exhausted, too overwhelmed to speak.

And just as the last threads of consciousness begin to unravel, just as sleep pulls you deeper into the quiet safety of her arms, you hear her whisper—So faint you could almost believe it was a dream “I’m already yours.”

[just-a-sweet-girl]

Hii omg THANK U for opening requests for DMC just finished the Netflix show and I am now a fan lmao anyways ! Can I get Dantexreader who are in a beginning of a relationship but dante has yet to show his demon form to reader? Reader could be catching glimpses of his red eyes. Could eventually ask to see etc but ya! Just an idea that scratched my brain. Thanks in advance!! <3

Thank you for the request <3

Demons existing wasn't exactly a secret to you. As a kid, you're elementary school had been attacked and to this day, you had no idea if it had been planned or random. To be fair, you didn't want to know, surviving it had been more than enough.

So, it wasn't all that hard to believe your boyfriend of 3 months explained that he was half-human, half-demon. He's never harmed you, or even tried to, Dante was a great boyfriend. So you stayed.

Lately, however, you've begun to notice some new things happening. Like last night during a heated make out session. Things had been going as usual until you caught a glimpse of red in his eyes. The sight made a small, surprised sound escape you while pulling back.

"Dante, your e-" His large hand covers your own eyes. Brows furrowing, you reach out for him, hands gripping his shirt. "...Dante?"

"It's nothing, just..." He heaves a sigh. Still not removing his hand until he knew his eyes were back to normal. "I'm tired, that job earlier took a lot outta me!"

You didn't really believe him, yet you still nod. Hands cupping his face gently to gaze at his eyes. His now, very blue eyes. You smile. "Let's go to bed then... I'll even cook breakfast in the morning."

Dante grins, feeling better now that the subject has changed. Placing a noisy kiss on her forehead. "You're the best, babe!"

It happens a few more times after that. And each time, Dante came up with some excuse to run away or cover your eyes. He even went as far as throwing his coat over your head one time during a demon attack. Even though you had already see his eyes red, his form beginning to change. It was starting to bother you how secretive he was being about this.

Did he not trust you?

"Hey, hey, pretty. What's wrong?" His voice called out, cupping her face in his large hands.

you blink a few times and his face comes into focus. You didn't realize that Dante came home already. His expression filled with worry as he tried to look you over. You didn't think the thought of him not trusting you would have made you cry, but it did.

"You're eyes go red." you sniffle, getting straight to the point. "I accepted you being half-demon, so, i understand you would have some characteristics."

He called your name.

"Why do you hide it from me?" you whisper, hands holding his. "It doesn't matter to me if you have blue or red eyes. Or any other appearance besides the one i see now. You will always be Dante."

You finally see that vulnerability in him. "I don't want to scare you away." His forehead rests upon your own. eyes closing for a moment as he debates within himself.

"You won't." Then, you say, "Show me."

Dante close his eyes. Brows scrunched together as he hesitates. Even though you're asking to see, he was scared. What if you screamed and ran away from him? It hurt to think, but that might be the better outcome for you...

But you don't do any of that.

Smiling softly at the sight you only caught glimpses of. Nose brushing against his. "You're still my handsome Dante." The words are enough to have his smile return. "Red does suit you, after all."

[qivrae]

static - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: 😲😲😲😲 phone sex with reid (inbox open, please request)

You’re just about to fall asleep when your phone buzzes softly against the pillow. The screen lights up with a contact photo you didn’t realize you’d memorized—Spencer, blurry and smiling, probably mid-laugh from the day you took it. You answer without hesitation. “Hey,” you murmur, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a pause, like maybe he didn’t expect you to pick up so quickly. When he speaks, his voice is low and hoarse but gentle in the way only he can manage.

“Did I wake you?”

You turn onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a sleepy smile. “Kind of. But it’s okay.” He exhales into the line and something about the sound makes your stomach flutter. It’s not relief, exactly. More like… release. Like hearing your voice made something inside him loosen.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Too much noise in my head. I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

You tug the blanket up to your chest. “Rough case?”

“Yeah,” he says. And that one word carries so much: long hours, too many victims, the weight of responsibility he always takes on alone. “We’re just in the waiting phase now. Interviews are done. Morgan and Hotch are going over timelines. It’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait.”

“And you’re in a motel?” you ask, already picturing it: a dimly lit room, stiff sheets, the hum of a bad AC unit in the background.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Small town. Two-star situation. The mattress feels like cardboard.”

You smile softly. “Poor baby.”

“I’m not fishing for sympathy,” he says, a little defensively.

“No,” you tease, “but you’re definitely hoping I’ll say something to make you forget it.” He’s quiet again.

Then a little rougher, “Maybe.” There’s a shift in his breathing. Something you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well but you do. It’s subtle, barely there but it makes your heart thump. You recognize that sound. That shallow inhale like he’s trying not to let it show.

Your voice drops. “Spence. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly. Then, quieter, “Just… thinking.”

You smirk against the phone. “Thinking about me?” You swear you can hear him swallow.

“Yes.” Another pause. This one longer. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft but not shy. Not embarrassed. Just real. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I didn’t call to— I wasn’t trying to make it weird.”

“You didn’t,” you say, sitting up slightly, your pulse starting to pick up. “It’s not weird. I like knowing you think about me like that.” He doesn’t say anything at first. But the sound of him breathing shifts again, deeper now. More purposeful. “Tell me what you’re doing,” you murmur.

A beat. Then slowly, carefully: “I’m just… lying on the bed. Still dressed. But I—” he pauses like he’s deciding how much to give away. “I have my hand over myself.”

Your breath catches. “Are you hard?”

“Yes.” You press your thighs together under the sheets, already warm from just imagining it. Spencer in some creaky motel bed, trying not to get too into it because his team is down the hall.

“Touch yourself,” you whisper. “I want to hear what it sounds like when you do.” There’s a hitch in the line—movement, maybe fabric shifting or his hand adjusting.

“I—okay,” he says breathlessly. “I’m… pressing against the shaft. Through my pants right now. Applying slight pressure—uh—engorgement of the corpora cavernosa has already occurred, so stimulation is…” He trails off, like he just realized what he’s doing.

You laugh softly. “You’re giving me a lecture, Doctor Reid.”

“I know,” he groans, embarrassed. “I can’t help it. I—It’s just how I process. When I get nervous or—aroused—my brain defaults to clinical terminology. I—fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” you breathe. “It’s hot.”

He lets out a choked laugh. “You’re the only person on Earth who would say that.”

“Maybe,” you tease, “but I’m the only one who gets to hear it, so I’d say that works out.”

He’s breathing harder now, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m unzipping my pants. It’s… a little awkward lying like this. But I can feel the friction through my boxers. It’s—god, it’s warm. I’m leaking already.”

Your stomach flips. “I haven’t even touched myself tonight,” you whisper, running a hand slowly down your body beneath the sheets. “I was waiting for you to call.” You hear a low sound from him—almost like a whimper but he catches it before it escapes fully.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” he says, voice thick. “But now I can’t stop picturing your hands. Your mouth.”

“Mmm. You like when I use my mouth, don’t you?” You ask and his breath stutters.

“I think about it too much. Sometimes during briefings. During flights. I’ll remember the way you looked up at me from between my legs and I— I can’t focus.”

You moan quietly. “Tell me more.”

“I—I can’t get enough of the way you hum when you’re doing it. Or how your fingers dig into my thighs. You’re so soft and warm and—fuck—I’m touching myself now.”

You squeeze your legs together, slick already pooling in your panties as his voice drips into your ear like molasses. “How?” you ask breathlessly.

“My fingers,” he pants. “Wrapped around the base. I’m stroking slow, not too tight yet. The pressure is increasing blood flow but—fuck—there’s already too much. It’s… overstimulating.”

“Do you want me to slow you down?”

“No,” he whispers. “Don’t stop. Don’t let me stop.” There’s a tension in your chest now, rising with every breath he takes.

You slide your own hand lower, easing the ache that’s been building since the second he said your name.“Spencer…”

“I keep picturing you with your hand between your thighs,” he gasps.

“It is,” you breathe. “I’m touching myself, Spence. I’m so wet just listening to you.”

He groans, a low sound that rips through the speaker. “I’m close,” he chokes out. “Already. But I don’t want to come yet. I want to listen to you. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m pulsing,” you murmur. “My fingers are soaked. I wish it were yours. I wish I could slide you inside me right now, slow and deep.”

“Fuck.” You hear the bed creak beneath him, hear his sharp inhale as he tries to keep control. He’s falling apart but he’s not there yet—not quite. And neither are you. So you both breathe into the silence. Desperate. Flushed. Teetering on the edge. Spencer’s breath is heavy in your ear. It’s the kind of sound that tightens your stomach and makes you ache, like he’s caught between wanting to speak and not wanting to break the fragile control he’s still holding onto. You can’t help the rush of heat that spreads through you at his small curses. He’s fighting his body, fighting the need to come, all while trying to be considerate of you. It’s so damn Spencer.

You whisper, running your hand over your body, mimicking the movements you know he’s making. “You need to let go a little, don’t you?” He gasps, the sound cutting off abruptly. You hear the shift of his body as his hand speeds up, the friction becoming more intense.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. You wonder if he’s going to try to hold back, but when he finally speaks, his voice is raw, needy. “I—I don’t want to come yet,” he confesses, so quietly that you almost miss it. “I don’t want to rush it.”

“Then slow down,” you tell him, your hand slowly moving beneath your sheets in tandem with the rhythm of his voice.

He breathes a shaky laugh escaping him. “It’s hard. It’s really hard.”

“I know, baby,” you murmur, the word slipping out without thought. “It’s hard for me too.” There’s a slight catch in his breath, a slight trembling and you know he’s fighting with everything he has to keep himself in check.

“I… I can’t explain it. It’s not just the physical… it’s the mental stimulation. The proprioceptive feedback is off the charts. I’m—fuck, I’m getting lightheaded just talking about it.”

You can’t help but laugh at his attempt to keep things academic, even now. “You’re so hot when you do that,” you tell him, voice thick with desire. “I think I might get off just listening to you try to sound all scientific while you’re on the edge of losing it.”

He groans at that, and you can almost see his face, flushed with embarrassment, as he shifts around in his bed. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to—”

You cut him off gently. “You don’t have to apologize, Spence. I love hearing you like this. You can let go. You can talk to me, tell me exactly what you need.” He takes a shaky breath and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue or retreat back into his overly-analytical shell but then he says your name, low and desperate. The desperation in his voice makes your heart race. You’ve never heard him like this—raw and open, breaking away from his usual restraint. You’re so close to pushing him past that edge. You don’t let him finish his sentence. Instead, you keep him on the brink. “Tell me what you need, Spencer,” you whisper, your voice thick with anticipation. “You’ve got me right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I need you to…” he starts, but his words get stuck in his throat. “I need you to make me feel good. I don’t want to—fuck, I need to feel you.” Your pulse quickens as you hear the vulnerability in his voice.

“You can feel me, Spence. I’m right here. You just have to focus. Focus on how good you feel right now.”

“I’m trying,” he whispers and there’s that catch in his voice again. “I just—fuck, I don’t think I can hold back much longer.”

Your body aches at his words as you whisper back, “Let go for me. Let me hear you.” Spencer’s breath hitches again, faster. Like he’s teetering on the edge. You’re both so close. So close. But he’s still holding back, still refusing to let go completely. You feel the tension, the urgency in his voice. You’re both quiet for a moment now. Just breathing. And even through the static of the phone, you can hear every soft puff of air he exhales. Every subtle shift of movement on that scratchy motel bedsheet. He’s being so good. He speaks up through the groans. Just your name. It’s broken but like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. You press the phone tighter to your ear and close your eyes, your free hand sliding between your legs as your voice softens. “Still with me, baby?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, hoarse. “I’m just—my hand’s shaking.”

“How long have you been like this?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

There’s a beat before he says, “Since before I called you.”

Your heart flutters. You shift in bed, biting back a moan. “That long?”

He hums a pitiful little yes. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I tried to, but everything felt… empty. Like my skin was too tight. I—I kept getting hard every time I thought about your voice. About your hands. About the last time we—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. You know he’s fighting, hard. Harder than he should be.

“Spencer,” you murmur, “you’ve been so good for me. So patient. But I don’t want you to hold back anymore.” He exhales like he’s just been told he can finally breathe. “Come,” you whisper. The word is barely out of your mouth before you hear him fall apart on the other end of the line. The soft, slick sounds of his hand meeting skin. The choked gasp that gets caught in his throat. The deep, trembling groan like it’s been trapped in his chest for hours.

“F-fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking. “It’s—it’s too much, God.” You can hear the rhythm. He’s fast. Desperate. Probably fucking into his own hand with nowhere near the control he had earlier. You let your fingers glide through your own slick heat and sigh into the phone.

“Does it feel good, baby?” His breath hitches again.

“Yes, it’s—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” you coo, “Feels so good, hmm?” A strained whine escapes him.

“It’s—it’s throbbing. It’s pre-cum. My whole body feels like—like I’m on fire. My hand is wet, I don’t—I don’t even know how much came out, it’s so fucking sensitive and I’m—I’m gonna lose it.”

“You’re doing so well,” you breathe. “I’m touching myself too, Spence. You’ve got me so wet.”

He whimpers. “Please,” You feel your own orgasm building, slow and steady like a wave about to crash. You want to finish with him. You want to feel it in his voice when it finally hits him. You don’t even get another word out before he gasps so loud it cuts through the speaker, his breath catching in his throat as he falls over the edge. It’s not even a groan—it’s a sound you’ve never heard before. Desperate, stunned, overwhelmed. You hear the wet slap of his hand faltering, the breathless moans as he rides it out.

“ah— please.” he keeps saying your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to reality. And that’s what sends you over. You press the phone harder to your ear, hips stuttering against your hand as your orgasm hits you like a tremor. Your whole body arches as you cry out, biting your lip to keep quiet but knowing he hears it—feels it—because you can hear him panting through his own aftershocks. It’s messy. Loud. Intimate in a way that phone sex usually isn’t. Neither of you talk for a while. Just the sounds of two people on opposite sides of a phone line, breathing like they’ve just been pulled from underwater.

Eventually, Spencer breaks the silence with a soft laugh. “That was… wow.” You smile, sinking back into your bed.

“Yeah. Wow.” He’s still breathless but there’s a note of wonder in his voice, like he’s not entirely sure that just happened. “I’ve never… I mean— that was…”

“Good?” you offer. He laughs again, quieter this time.

“Yeah. Very.” You imagine him lying there, hand limp on his chest, flushed and dazed and probably trying to mentally calculate how many calories he just burned. It makes you ache with affection.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

“More than okay,” he says and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I just… wish I could hold you right now.”

You let out a breath, soft and sincere. “Me too.”There’s a pause before you sheepishly ask, “Think you can sleep now?”

He hums. “Eventually. I’ll probably fall asleep picturing you.”

You laugh softly. “Pervert.”

“Your fault,” he says, voice already thick with sleep. And it is. And you’re okay with that.

[lazysoulwriter]

only you. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, lots of love!

---

You knew this part of Pedro's job. You really did.

Late nights on set. Red carpets. Press tours where he had to smile and laugh with people he barely knew outside of the screen. You never thought you’d be the jealous type — not with Pedro. He was warm, and loyal, and yours in every way that mattered.

But lately... lately it was harder to ignore.

You sat curled up on the couch, the TV playing some mindless sitcom you weren’t even watching. Your phone buzzed constantly on the cushion next to you — notifications, articles, tweets. PEDRO PASCAL SPOTTED GETTING CLOSE TO CO-STAR! A NEW ROMANCE BLOSSOMING ON SET? WHERE'S HIS GIRLFRIEND IN ALL THIS?

You hated how easily the words cut through you.

There were even photos — staged or not, it didn't matter. His arm slung loosely around her shoulders, both of them laughing like they shared some secret world you weren't a part of. It was for the cameras, for the movie, for publicity, you reminded yourself. They needed to sell the chemistry. You knew that.

And yet... you couldn’t shake the feeling. That tiny, ugly voice whispering in the back of your mind: What if he realizes he could have someone easier? Someone just as charming, just as magnetic, who understands this life better than you ever could?

By the time Pedro got home, your heart was a tight knot in your chest.

The door clicked open, and you quickly wiped at your eyes, pretending to be engrossed in the TV. Pedro’s voice floated down the hall, soft and tired.

"Baby? I'm home."

You answered with a weak, "Hey."

He appeared in the doorway, still wearing the casual outfit he'd thrown on after interviews — jeans, a soft, worn t-shirt that clung to him unfairly well. His hair was messy, his eyes a little puffy with exhaustion.

And yet, the moment he saw your face, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head quickly. "Nothing. Just tired."

Pedro didn’t buy it for a second. He crossed the room, crouching in front of you so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. His hand found yours — warm, calloused, grounding.

"Talk to me, cariño."

You tried to keep it together. You really did. But it tumbled out of you anyway, raw and broken:

"I just... I know it's stupid. I know you’re just doing your job but—" Your voice cracked. "Everyone is saying things, Pedro. About you and her. About us. And I know you love me, but hearing it over and over... seeing it... it just messes with my head. It feels like maybe... maybe you deserve someone better."

Pedro’s face shifted, from confusion to heartbreak to something almost like anger — but not at you. Never at you. He squeezed your hand tightly.

"Baby. No. No. Don’t even—" He shook his head, looking almost panicked. "You’re the only person I want. The only one."

You sniffled, feeling stupid and small. "It’s just so loud, Pedro. It’s everywhere."

He took your face in his hands, gently, like you were something fragile he couldn’t afford to break.

"Then let me be louder."

You blinked at him. "What?"

Pedro stood, tugging you up with him into a tight embrace. His heart pounded against your ear where you pressed into his chest.

"I should've seen it coming," he murmured into your hair. "Should’ve realized how this would feel for you. I’m so sorry, amor. I didn’t think— I didn’t think it would hurt you."

You clutched the back of his shirt, feeling the tension bleed out of you the longer he held you.

"I don’t care about the movie, about the press," Pedro said fiercely. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes. "I care about you. I want everyone to know that. Everyone."

You didn’t even have time to ask what he meant before he was pulling out his phone. With one arm still around you, he opened Instagram, switched to his camera, and took a quick selfie — the two of you together, your puffy eyes and his tender smile.

He didn’t even hesitate before posting it with a caption that read:

"Coming home to my favorite person. Every day, every time. Always. ❤️"

Your mouth dropped open. "Pedro— you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he cut you off, setting the phone aside to kiss your forehead. "No more rumors. No more doubts. You're it for me, baby. Always have been."

You buried your face in his chest again, overwhelmed by the way he didn’t just comfort you — he chose you. Loudly. Proudly. Without hesitation.

Later, as you curled up together under the blankets, Pedro whispered against your temple:

"I don’t care what the world says. I only care about you knowing, deep down, that you’re my home. Always."

And somehow, finally, the noise faded away — leaving only the steady, unwavering beat of his love.

-----

[bakug0uzb1thc]

omg after reading your last request it made me think of my own. Katsuki x reader who is the older sister in her household. basically on top of the readers hero studies, she has to still be a second mother for her many siblings and is burnt out.

hope this isn’t too much or anything :)

Agh I enjoyed writing this sm :3 feel free to change any sibling names !!

Solutions

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Fem! Reader

Summary: ruined plans by having to watch your siblings take a cute turn !!

Warnings: none, mainly fluff, bkg might be ooc

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

You were supposed to have a nice date with Katsuki, you had been stressed and he said he’d take you out to help you both take a break from hero work and your studies.

you told him to stay outside so you could change real quick but you said that unaware of what was gonna meet you on the other side.

As you walked in and took off your shoes you were greeted by your younger twin brothers Kyo and Tsuyoi wrestling, your little sister Hiyori crying and your angelic baby brother yuro hugging his blanket on the sidelines just watching.

You wanted to cry, the one day you thought you could share with your boyfriend was now ruined. “Hey break it up you two.” You deadplanted grabbing both ten-year-olds by the back of their shirts but that didn’t stop them from trying to throw themselves at each-other.

“He started it y/n!” Kyo yelled pointing to the other boy that looked like a copy. “No it wasn’t!” Tsuyoi defended but you shut them up before they had any other words to throw.

“I don’t care who did what where’s mom?” Looking between the two waiting for an answer. “Shes asleep, she said she needed to take a nap.” Kyo sighed trying to squeeze out of your hold.

You were at a defeat, she worked another night shift at the hospital and you couldn’t just wake her up, but you were gonna have to tell Katsuki you had to cancel.

Walking out the door and shutting it behind you, he raised his gaze confused. “Thought you were gonna change?” He tilted his head, “I can’t suki, I need to watch my siblings. My mom worked the night shift and is taking a nap.” You fidgeted with your fingers trying your best to avoid his look.

“That’s fine? Your siblings love me.” He gave a smug smile. The disappointment you were expecting never came, you were only met by him giving you another solution.

“Are you su-“ the door you were leaning on opened to all your siblings peaking out to see who their sister was talking to.

“Hey it’s Bakugou!” Tsuyoi shouted flinging the door open. “Hey squirt.” He said ruffing the kids hair as he waved to all the rest of your siblings who thought foundly of him.

“See they love me.” He said even smugger than before with a matching smirk. “Hey I wanna show you the new video game I got!” Kyo said grabbing onto his hand dragging him into the house giving him just barely enough time to take off his shoes.

The rest of the night was surprisingly the most relaxed you’d been in a while, all of your hero studies you pushed yourself through no longer crowding your mind and to your shock Katsuki was weirdly good with your siblings.

Despite you having more brothers Katsuki never failed to include your little sister into whatever the boys were doing.

“You surprise me kat.” You whispered trying to not wake the 4 sleeping bodies that were against and on both you and Katsuki. All of you had sat down for a movie and boom they were all fast asleep.

“What do you mean?” He said still managing to have at least an arm wrapped around you.

“You’re so good with them, they don’t even like me that much.” You rolled your eyes with dramatic jealousy. “Dunno, I just want them to think I’m cool I guess.” He shrugged at the confession he thought was obvious.

“That so.. sweet.” You gave him a soft smile and laid your head on his shoulder, doing your best not to wake the sleeping yudo on your lap.

“Thank you, for helping me.” you rub your cheek on him trying to show some affection. “I can’t kiss you so I’m resorting to this don’t think I’m weird.” You tried to defend. “You’re still weird.” He laid his head on top of yours. “Shut up.”

[sweetyellowhoney]

Leo the matchmaker

A/N: Branching out into F1 territory too now, why not. This was very rushed, not sure how I am feeling about it. ANYWAYS my inbox is open for any and all requests :) P.S. Images from pinterest xx

Summary: A little lost Leo finds his way to your apartment and ends up doing a little matchmaking.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader

Tags/Warnings: Fluff

yourusername added to their story

[Caption 1: I know they say not to let strangers inside your house... but I think I can make an exception for this little guy 🥰 ]

[Caption 2: My baby is surprisingly unfazed by our visitor 💤]

story replies

yourbff OMG that is the cutest puppy.

yourusername I know 🥺 he is so sweet and well trained too. I am currently trying to find his owner, but I am not having much luck :( yourbff you should totally just keep him 😝

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

yourusername just posted

yourusername We had a visitor here at the new house 🐶 Tiger was only a little bit grumpy about it AND I got flowers for my efforts as well as puppy cuddles.

liked by yourbff, maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc, and others 

21 comments

yourbff wtf I want flowers??

yourusername I'll send you some soon lovely xx

charles_leclerc Merci again for looking after Leo!!

yourusername you're more than welcome, he was a wonderful guest 🥰 He's welcome whenever he likes!

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

yourusername added to their story

[Caption 2: Catching up with my favourite handsome guy 🥰 (I guess Leo's dad is okay too...)]

story replies

yourbff YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THE DOG'S OWNER WAS HOT.

maxverstappen1 Interesting.

charles_leclerc wow, you wound me.

yourusername 😘😘😘

⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆🍯⋅♡ 🐝༘⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°

charles_leclerc just posted

charles_leclerc Merci Leo for running away and finding me a pretty coffee date ☕️😘

liked by yourbff, maxverstappen1, yourusername and others 

3201 comments

yourbff @.yourusername yOU DIDN'T TELL ME THIS WAS HIM

user1 oh to be called pretty by Charles Leclerc

maxverstappen1 I take some credit for this

yourusername I'd you're valid in doing so. Leo is glad you got him home safely.

yourusername pretty??? 🙈🙈🙈 (Leo is the best boy)

charles_leclerc Oui. Pretty 💛 (He is very good).

[slytherinshua]

☆　EYES FULL OF STARS　( 박후민 )

genre hurt/comfort , baku x fem!reader   cw spoilers for weak hero class 2 (fic takes place sometime during ep 6) , injuries (cuts and bruises) , not proofread   wc 800   request yes   note there's no one more obsessed w ryeoun's big beautiful eyes than me i could post a gifset of baku later (i did make this gif just for the fic tho ejkfjkd)   net @kstrucknet

You don’t remember much before you blacked out. Union guys threatening you, some with weapons, some just with words. Na Baekjin asked you where Baku was. You wouldn’t tell him. Maybe you should have risked his safety to protect yours. He was physically stronger, a skill fighter, and smart in these kinds of situations. He would’ve handled it, like he always did. But he was pushed between a rock and a hard place, and you just wanted to give him a break for even one day.

After he had refused to continue doing Baekjin’s little tasks, he came to stay with you. No one knew about you. At least, Baku thought no one knew about you. It wasn’t hard for the Union to track you down, figure out the connection between you two, and use you as leverage to get to Baku. Baekjin freely used your boyfriend’s friends and father, and now you.

You attended a completely different school; only saw Baku on some days of the week. You kept yourself out of the trouble the guys were facing. Baku didn’t want you to get involved in any way, and only told you the least concerning parts of what was happening. It shouldn’t have to concern you what mess Eunjang High was facing. It was his job to deal with it. He never thought Baekjin would somehow get his hands on you.

When Baku got the impudent call from Baekjin asking if he would still refuse to do what he wanted when they had you hostage, he saw red. More than a few faces left bloodstained that night. Baku left with you in his arms. 

You stirred in his arms halfway back to your apartment, groaning in pain and blinking your eyes open. He walked a little slower and held you a little tighter. 

“Baku… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I should’ve made sure they never got to you. It’s on me for thinking they wouldn’t find you,” he sighed, gulping down the guilt and trying to find the means to smile. For you. 

“Hey… I’m okay. You got me now,” you closed your eyes again, smiling through the exhaustion and pain. Being in your boyfriend’s arms always gave you a sense of comfort. Even when you had bruises all over your body and multiple cuts. Even when you could still picture it all fresh in your mind. 

Baku had the basic first aid kits in his room, along with plenty of bandages he was used to applying by himself. He made sure you were comfortable on his bed before starting to inspect where all your injuries were.

“Tell me honestly. How badly did you beat them up?” you asked, nervous for the answer. Baku knew not to cross the line, but there was no one he was more protective over than you. As soon as you got hurt, all sense went out the window. You could imagine the levels he could reach to get back at them. 

“They’re all still alive,” he said carefully, flashing you a reassuring smile that did nothing to curb your worries.

“Park Humin.”

He frowned, hands pausing their unwrapping of a large bandage. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Baku,” you corrected, your voice softer this time. “Violence isn’t the answer for violence.”

“It’s the only language they understand,” he said simply. “I don’t like it either. You know I’d never fight someone unnecessarily,” he reached for your hand, the gentle squeeze he gave you enough to relax your tense muscles. 

“I know. I just don’t want you to get hurt too.”

He nodded, “I’ll make sure I don’t then, okay?” He smiled; the kind of big grin that you could always count on to make you feel better. 

“Okay,” you smiled as well. More tentative and held back than Baku, like you knew that the situation was much more complicated than promises to not get hurt could suffice for. But you chose to let his words silence your anxiety for a while. For the current moment, you were both safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Let’s get you bandaged up,” Baku got back to work, disinfecting any scrape or cut and covering them with carefully placed bandages. Each time you winced from the pain, he would kiss you gently, and by the end of it, the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. 

Some people only saw your boyfriend as loud and overbearing, while others feared his physical strength. Most students at Eunjang High respected him, but rarely did they ever get to know him. Few knew the challenges he faced, and even fewer knew how caring he truly was. 

But you knew him inside out, and if there was ever anyone who you would stick by for the rest of your life, Baku was just that. 

k-drama taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @cha3w0n-hearts,, @candewlsy,, @cosmicwintr,, @blossominghunnie,, @parkjennykim,, @seunghancore,, @emmylksblog,, @bananabubble,, @hrtsvivis,, @hursheys,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows

[moonstruckme]

hi darling mae <33 I had a request for u if u don't mind today i woke up while having a panic attack i mean i don't know if it was a part of a dream but it was one of the scariest things ive ever experienced. and i was really hoping u could writing something with a reader going through the same thing with some hurt/ comfort as she wakes up ? any fandom, ship of character is fine by me,, if not that's ok lm just really spoked sorry :<

Hi angel! That sounds awful, I hope that was a once-in-a-lifetime event for you and you're feeling much better by now <3

cw: panic attack

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 785 words

You wake choking on your heart. 

It’s in your throat, and it’s galloping, the quick beat too much for your half-conscious mind to process. What you know is that you are terrified. 

At first you think you’re being smothered by your pillow. You turn your face to the side, gasping in the best breath you can, but it’s no use. It’s not the pillow, it’s you, there’s something wrong with you and you’re helpless to stop it. It feels like you’re collapsing from the inside out. 

Spencer mumbles your name, slow and confused. Then again, waking.

“Spence,” you say back, strangled. You reach for him, fisting your hand in his shirt with an unthinking neediness you’d never allow in full consciousness.

“Are you…?” His hand covers yours, brows coming together as he sits up blearily. You can tell by his face that the half-formed question is rhetorical. “Okay. You’re okay. Wait here.” 

You’re desperate to have him stay, your grip tightening on his shirt. “Spence—” 

“I know, I know, it’s just for a second.” Spencer disentangles your fingers gently, slipping from your grasp. “I’ll be right back.” 

You don’t know how much time passes before he is. You’re curled up on your side, covers kicked down beneath you, wondering if you should drag yourself to the toilet in case you get sick. 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Spencer’s hand slips underneath your shoulder, lifting you off your side. “Let’s sit up. Okay? I’ve got something that’s going to help.” 

You let him maneuver you however he likes. You wind up slouched over with your knees to your chest, Spencer twisting your hair up in his hand to lay a wet washcloth over the back of your neck. It’s so cold that you gasp. 

“I know.” He pulls you closer, settling you against his side. The smell of his deodorant is grounding; it cures your nausea like a tonic. “Hold this for me?” 

Spencer puts his hand over yours. You cup your palm instinctively, shocked when he drops three cubes of ice into it. They’re already melting, cold water making rivulets of the lines of your palm. Some drops fall onto the sheets. 

“Cold exposure stimulates the vagus nerve,” Spencer explains, “which is here—” he taps the flat of your chest lightly with his middle finger, just over that deafening heartbeat “—and here.” He touches just underneath the cloth on your nape. “It controls the parasympathetic nervous system. Stimulating it causes that system to shift, which regulates your heart rate. Among other things.” 

You push your head into Spencer’s shoulder, your breaths skittering down his arm. He touches his lips to your head. 

“You’re okay,” he says into your hair. “I know it feels like you’re dying, but you’re not. It’s just a panic attack. It’ll pass.” 

You think that he might be wrong, but Spencer’s never actually wrong about anything. And even if you had the energy to argue, you could never really have enough energy to argue with him. It’s a losing battle. So instead, you close your eyes and feel the drip-drip-drip of ice water slipping from your palm. 

You spend a while like that. Spencer holds you securely against his side, once flipping your washcloth over when the part on your neck starts to warm. He tells you more about your nervous system, about studies and blood vessels and things you have to imagine he knows you won’t retain but doesn’t mind relaying to you anyway. The ice in your palm melts away completely. 

“You’re doing better,” Spencer murmurs, his fingers touching gently the pulse point of your neck. “Your heart’s slowing down. Can you feel that?” 

“I can feel.” You exhale, trying to release the tension from your muscles. 

“That came on kind of fast.” He sounds concerned. You nod, using your hand that held the ice to smear cold water on your face. “Were you asleep?” 

“I think so.” 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. 

Spencer lifts part of the washcloth, feeling underneath before folding it over again and settling it back in place. “That must not have been a very nice way to wake up.” 

You don’t have the energy for levity or belittlement. You can only shake your head again. 

Spencer rests his lips on your head. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” You let your head rest against his shoulder again, feeling bone-weary. “Thanks for helping. It wasn’t a fun way for you to wake up, either.” 

Your boyfriend makes a soft, demurring sound. “I’m sure that was tiring. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“No.” 

“Okay.” He takes the washcloth away, running his knuckles over your damp skin. “We’ll wait until you feel ready.” 

[moesthoughts]

gonna sound a littleeee crazy but i can't stop thinking about s3 nat coming back to your shared hut after a frustrating day and just wanting to use you to let off some steam, but she uses her knife handle because she doesn't have a strap 🙈

Nat using a knife as a strap on

pairing ⛧ natalie scatorccio x fem! reader

warnings ⛧ knife as a strap on, degradation into praise, spanking but not that much

summary . . Nat has a hard day of being the antler queen, and she can’t wait to take her anger out on you.

➛ Thinking about how Nat bottling up her anger for the whole day, everyone was so aggravating. People yelling at her, grudges still held against her. She’s tired of taking shit from people, yelling at them.

➛ It would be the end of the day, her hands balled into fists, fingers gripping at the fabric of her clothes. She had an important job of leading, her role weighing heavy on her mind. She’s been busy all day, stressed, frustrated, she needs something to take her anger out on.

➛ She’s all riled up, all that’s on her mind is you. It’s you moaning her name, fucking you till your legs are weak. She shook her head, dragging her hand down her face as it turns a soft red at her persistent thoughts.

➛ You would be in your shared hut already, sharpening her knife like she requested you to do earlier. The leather you use to cover the blade of the knife lays next to you, trying your best to sharpen her weapon with a rock.

➛ The second she entered the hut you knew something was up, her eyebrows are knitted and her breath was heavy. She quickly grabbed the blade from your hands, putting the cover back on it.

“What’s the matter?” Of course you were confused, that only fueled her desire.

➛ Before you could react she was on top of you, her lips crashing onto yours with hunger. You could practically feel the anger through your lips, and you liked it.

➛ Her hands worked off your clothes, while swatting away yours when you tried to touch her. You whined, gripping at the dirt under you, not having her hips to grip like you always do. This was new, this was hot.

➛ Nat’s lips kissed your neck roughly, biting down on your sensitive spots, definitely leaving marks. All you could do was tilt your head to give her more access, just wishing you were able to tangle your fingers in her brunette roots.

➛ Once she was able to unbutton your shorts, she flipped you over. A gasp left your lips, your eyes focus on the dirt underneath you, while you desperately try to catch your breath.

➛ You bit your lip as she slid down your panties, Nat scoffed at how soaked you were already.

“So fucking wet for me already, is this really turning you on?” She sounded mean, using the tone she uses when directing the group.

➛ Your breath hitched once you felt something teasing your entrance, though it wasn’t her fingers. You glanced over your shoulder curiously, she was using her knife handle as a strap on. You quickly averted your gaze, excitement filling you.

“C’mon.. beg” You could hear the smirk on Nat’s face, you whimpered while she teased your slit. Were you really about to get fucked with a knife?

“Please, Nat.” You start, arching your back into the knife. A groan came from Nat, her eyes staring at your bare body.

“Please, what?” Nat smacked your ass, causing you to gasp. You were feeling so many emotions, this was all so new to you. Usually she was so gentle. Though, here she was, tapping your clit trying to force the answer out of you. But you can’t deny how much this turned you on.

“Fuck me with your knife, Nat. Please. Oh my god.” You didn’t mean to sound so needy, but it worked in your favor. You moan a little too loudly as the knife handle entered you, you quickly slapped your hand over your mouth. Nat whined behind you, watching you take it so well.

➛ Her pace would be extremely slow at first, wanting to pull any sound out of you, to hear you plea for her to go faster. Her free hand caresses your thigh, whispering degradation which you swear made you more wet.

“You’re so dirty, wanting to be fucked by a knife. Do you know how insane that is?” You could tell she was bluffing, after all it was her idea in the first place. Your fingers dug deep in the dirt, your eyes welling up with tears of pleasure.

➛ Once she was satisfied with being mean, she’d focus on actually giving you the pleasure you seek. Her thumb rubbing your bundle of nerves, her knife pumping in and out of you with a pace you couldn’t keep up with.

➛ Once that knot in your stomach unraveled, she rode out your high. Nat pulled out the knife, watching you roll over to look her in the eye. Her fingers smoothed across your stomach, before she leaned down and gave you a sweet kiss.

“You did so well for me, pretty girl.” All she could muster were praises, that same old Nat you’re used to finally coming back. She helped you clean yourself up and get dressed.

➛ From that night on, you purposefully tried ticking her off during the day. Or you watched the others do it for you.

➛ You would tease her by fidgeting with her knife while she was speaking, noticing how her sentences would break up ever so slightly, a stutter interrupting her words.

➛ You would do anything to see that side of her again.

Natalie scatorccio save me… save me.. I’ve been seeing this with so many other characters, with Nat it hits different

req me!

masterlist

[wbbobsesser]

ᯓ sweet spot — chapter three

pairing: paige bueckers & azzi fudd

notes: honestly, i fucking hate this chapter but i didn’t have it in me to redo it all. it’s all over the place and for that i apologize. i’ll try to make the next one better. but regardless, i really hope you all enjoy! and thank you guys so much for all the nice comments, they truly make my day. i’ve already started chapter four so it should be out tomorrow, monday at the latest. love you.

wc: 2.7k

paige laid on her stomach, face half-buried in her pillow, phone in hand. the screenshot of azzi’s private profile stared back at her like it was daring her to do something.

she wasn’t doing anything, though. she had decided that.

until nika texted again.

n: i bet she’d accept it

p: i bet i’d implode

n: stop being so dramatic. it’s not that deep

paige groaned dramatically, flipping onto her back. she tapped her screen off, then on again. back to azzi’s account. still private. still untouched.

she wondered what kind of stuff azzi posted on there. stories? rants? screenshots of text convos with her boyfriend? paige tried her best not to flinch at that last one.

azzi had mentioned him so casually.

“my boyfriend.”

like it wasn’t a knife to her goddamn chest.

it naturally got brought up again the following day, when paige was shooting around early, headphones in, trying to look chill. emphasis on trying. she caught herself glancing toward the doors every five seconds like some romcom loser.

then she saw azzi walk in, hoodie on, hair pulled back, yawning like she hadn’t slept. paige’s heartbeat tripled.

azzi waved when she noticed her— just a small one. paige waved back. cool. normal.

totally not weird.

then nika appeared, completely ruining the illusion of calm.

“so,” she whispered, bumping shoulders with paige mid-dribble, “you follow her yet?”

“jesus, nika.”

“she posts the funniest shit. like crying selfies, bad song lyrics,” she laughed. “it’s like a whole different side of her.”

paige blinked once. “you followed her?”

“duh. we’re friends.”

paige hated how jealous that made her.

“she hasn’t posted about noah in a while, though,” nika added, almost too casually. “that’s all i’m saying.”

paige said nothing. just stared at the rim and tried not to read into that.

the blonde laid in bed, lights off, hoodie on, thumb hovering over her screen again. she couldn’t stop thinking about azzi yawning that morning. or the way she’d smiled yesterday. or nika’s dumb snarky comment.

without giving it another thought, she hit the follow button.

instant regret.

she tossed her phone across the bed like it caught on fire. then crawled under her blanket and pulled it over her head.

her phone buzzed twenty seconds later.

follow accepted.

paige peeked out from the blanket.

her heartbeat might’ve actually stopped.

azzi had accepted her request.

paige unlocked her phone with trembling fingers and opened the profile.

the first post was a close-up of azzi’s face, clearly crying but also clearly laughing. the caption read: “i swear this was about a group project and not a man. probably.”

paige nearly dropped her phone all over again.

she scrolled, curiosity growing.

more chaos. rants. song lyrics. selfies of her and with some friends. a mirror pic with the caption: “am i cute or do i just have anxiety?”

and then, finally, a pretty sunset over some beach in california. captioned: “miss this sometimes.”

the post was from one week ago.

paige didn’t like anything. didn’t comment. didn’t breathe.

she just stared.

and she knew— knew— that she was so, so royally fucked. because azzi was so impossibly beautiful that there was no other way to be.

paige scrolled back to the sunset post. the caption hit harder than she wanted to admit. she knew what that kind of homesickness felt like— how it crept in during the quiet moments, curling into her ribs like smoke.

she stared at the photo for a long time, thumb tapping the edge of her phone like a metronome. the caption was simple— miss this sometimes— but paige felt it in her chest.

the picture wasn’t even anything dramatic. just a hazy sunset over rooftops and a caption typed too fast. no filters, no nothing. just a soft sort of sadness, and something unspoken.

before she could talk herself out of it, she opened azzi’s dms. clicked her name.

typed. deleted. typed again.

p: just saw ur post about missing california. i get that. sometimes it hits out of nowhere, and then it’s all u can think about. if u ever wanna chill or smth, i’m here

she sent it. then quickly added:

p: just thought id say that

immediate regret flooded her. not because she didn’t mean it— god, she meant it— but because it felt personal, a little vulnerable.

she turned off her phone and tossed it to the foot of the bed like it burned her. a few minutes later, she turned it back on.

no response.

then suddenly— three dots.

a: that’s actually really nice to hear right now. it’s been a weird week. sometimes it feels like i’m walking around in someone else’s life. thank u for saying that

paige exhaled. her heartbeat sped.

p: no problem. really. i mean it

another pause.

a: honestly? i wouldn’t mind hanging out

p: i got u. wanna come over?

p: i’ve got snacks and a bunch of shitty netflix recs from nika that i’ve been putting off

a: deal. i’ll be over soon

around thirty minutes later, azzi— in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie—knocked on paige’s door like they’d done this a hundred times before.

paige flung it open, trying not to look like she’d been pacing for the past ten minutes.

“hey,” azzi said quietly. “thanks for inviting me over.”

paige smiled. “yeah, sure.”

they sat on the floor with a shared blanket between them and a bowl of popcorn that neither of them touched much. the movie played in the background, but neither of them watched it.

instead, they talked.

not about basketball. not about school. just… stuff. small stuff. azzi mentioned a diner she used to go to back home, how they served pancakes all day. paige talked about her favorite childhood memories from when she lived in minnesota.

at some point, azzi leaned her head against the wall, eyes half-lidded.

“i don’t miss california,” she said. “not really. it’s more like i miss who i was there. before everything got so complicated.”

paige didn’t answer right away. she just nodded in understanding, watching the soft flicker of light play across azzi’s face.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “i know what you mean.”

the popcorn went cold. the movie ended. but neither of them moved.

it wasn’t a date. it wasn’t anything like that.

but it mattered.

and paige knew she wasn’t going to forget it anytime soon.

after that night, azzi started hanging out in paige’s room a lot.

it wasn’t like they planned it. it just sort of happened. a post-practice cooldown turned into ice cream. then it became watching film together. then music. then nothing at all. just existing. together.

paige definitely wasn’t complaining.

except… she was, internally. constantly. because being near azzi and not being able to kiss her was basically slow, romantic torture.

azzi would curl up on paige’s bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, brown curls framing her face in a way paige adored, legs tucked under her. paige would sit at her desk pretending to do homework while her entire brain short-circuited from the proximity.

tonight, azzi had her head on paige’s shoulder while they watched love & basketball on her laptop.

“this movie’s so dramatic,” azzi mumbled, half-asleep, “but i love it.”

“same,” paige whispered, very aware of how azzi’s cheek was resting against her collarbone. “you’re the q to my monica.”

azzi laughed gently. “that makes you the love interest.”

i’d like to be. paige didn’t say it. but the words pressed up against her throat. instead, she said, “you doing okay?”

azzi was quiet for a second.

then: “honestly, i don’t know.”

paige looked down. azzi was staring straight ahead, lashes long, voice soft.

“i talked to noah yesterday,” she said. “he got mad i couldn’t facetime right after class. it’s just… hard, lately. the distance. everything.”

paige felt something clench in her chest. she hated that he made azzi feel like this. that he could.

“you don’t deserve that,” she said, firm and direct.

azzi shrugged. “he’s just stressed. i get it.”

paige didn’t. but she kept that to herself.

there was a pause. then azzi nudged paige’s side gently.

“you’re so sweet, you know that?”

paige scoffed, blushing hard. “me? no. you’re literally… like, the kindest person i’ve ever met.”

azzi smiled, eyes soft. “that’s not true. you’re not like how everyone thinks you are.”

paige shook her head, was silent for a moment. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

azzi tilted her head. “what do i do to you?”

paige blinked. shit.

“uh— nothing,” she said too fast. “i mean— like— not nothing, but not—”

azzi was smiling now. “are you nervous?”

paige buried her face in her hands. “you cannot just ask that.”

azzi laughed and bumped her shoulder. “you’re adorable.”

she’s going to kill me, paige thought. this is how i die. at the hands of sweetness.

later that night, paige was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. she hadn’t stopped replaying every word since azzi left.

fuck it. she gave up trying to sleep and texted her.

p: u make it back to ur dorm okay?

azzi replied instantly.

a: yup. thank u again for letting me hang in ur room. i swear its cozier than mine

p: that’s bc its been blessed by ur presence

p: scientifically proven

a: lol ur too much

a: fr tho ur such a good friend. its been nice having u around lately

paige’s fingers hovered.

fucking friend. paige tried her best not to roll her eyes.

p: always here for u. friend or otherwise

azzi didn’t reply for a minute.

then—

a: goodnight paige

a: sleep well <3

paige turned off her phone and curled deeper into the covers.

she wasn’t going to sleep. not with that stupid little heart pounding in her head.

it was a rare night off, and coach had ordered team dinner at this little family-owned italian place downtown. long tables, red-checkered tablecloths, warm lighting. the whole team packed in tight, plates of pasta being passed around, laughter echoing off the walls.

paige sat at the end of the table, half-listening to nika’s story about a tinder date gone rogue, when she felt it— azzi sliding into the empty chair beside her.

her breath caught. she hoped nobody noticed.

“you look nice,” azzi said quietly, nudging paige’s knee under the table.

paige blinked. “sorry— what?”

azzi grinned. “didn’t think the team dinner dress code included looking like a low-key goddess, but here we are.”

paige laughed a little too loud and immediately looked down at her outfit. she was in jeans and a black zip-up. casual. nothing special.

but azzi was looking at her like she was wearing dior.

“you’re one to talk,” paige mumbled, hoping the restaurant lighting masked how pink her ears had gone. “you could wear a trash bag and still look perfect.”

azzi’s grin widened as she sipped her lemonade. “so dramatic.”

“you started it.”

they smiled at each other for a beat too long.

that’s when kennedy— one of paige’s flings she’d forgotten all about until this moment— walked up out of nowhere, and immediately leaned in.

“so, paige,” she said, twirling her straw in the drink she was holding. “you dating anyone?”

azzi blinked.

paige flinched like she’d been slapped. “uh… no. not really.”

kennedy smirked. “crazy. someone like you? i just assumed.”

across the table, azzi was quiet. still smiling, but not quite the same.

paige tried to steer the conversation away, suddenly hyperaware of azzi’s leg brushing against hers under the table. she didn’t dare to move.

halfway through dinner, paige reached for the bread basket, and so did azzi. their fingers touched.

azzi didn’t pull away. neither did she.

“you’re warm,” she whispered.

paige looked at her, heart in her throat. “so are you.”

they froze like that for a second, hands still barely touching.

azzi opened her mouth to say something, but—

nika’s voice cut in from the other side of the table. “hey azzi, what’s your dog’s name again? the one in your story?”

azzi blinked, pulling her hand back. “oh— stewie. she’s tiny and thinks she owns my parent’s house.”

paige stared at the empty space between them like it had just betrayed her.

only a few hours later, however, paige— comfortably positioned on her bed— typed out a message.

p: u were gonna say something earlier. what was it?

she stared at the text.

deleted it.

she tried again.

p: i like when u sit next to me

fuck no. she’d never send that. not in a million years.

she deleted that too.

in the end, she sent nothing. just stared at the ceiling and thought about how good azzi looked tonight— pearl earrings, soft smile, words lingering behind her teeth.

almost.

the gym was nearly empty.

most of the team had left after practice, but paige lingered, shooting free throws in silence. her earbuds were in, but no music played— just a shield, something to make it feel like the world was further away than it was.

she didn't hear the door open.

but she did feel the presence.

“didn’t think anyone else would still be here,” came a voice she knew like the back of her hand.

azzi.

paige turned, saw her in gray joggers and a uconn hoodie, hair pulled back, cheeks still flushed from practice. paige pulled out one earbud and tried to act casual, even though her heart was now sprinting.

“you caught me trying to live out my late-night kobe fantasy,” paige said, grinning.

azzi smiled, walking toward her. “mind if i join?”

paige tossed her the ball. “only if you promise not to show me up.”

azzi smirked and drained a three like she wasn’t casually pulling on the strings of paige’s heart.

they played for a while— just light shooting, taking turns. no talking. just the sound of bouncing rubber and squeaking sneakers. paige was too busy watching the way azzi moved, like everything she did was effortless. beautiful, even when sweaty.

at one point, azzi missed a shot and groaned. “ugh. that one was for pride.”

paige grabbed the rebound and passed it back. “guess your pride’s mine now.”

azzi raised an eyebrow. “is that how it works?”

“yeah,” paige said, stepping closer. “you lose a shot, you owe me something.”

azzi’s lips curled. “what do i owe you, then?”

paige paused. she hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“dinner,” she said before she could stop herself. “like, i dunno. team dinner. or— if you want— just us.”

azzi’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “paige…”

paige knew that tone. that soft, sad, hesitant tone. her stomach twisted.

“it doesn’t have to be a thing,” she said quickly. “i just like being around you.”

azzi dribbled once, staring down at the ball.

then: “i like being around you too.”

paige took a breath, let it out slowly.

azzi looked up again, something unreadable in her eyes. “noah called me earlier. said he might fly out next month.”

“oh,” paige said. her voice came out flat. she hated that it did.

azzi stepped forward. “i don’t know what i’m doing. with him. with any of it.”

paige didn’t move.

“you don’t have to figure it out right now,” she said, softer this time. “i’m not asking for anything.”

azzi nodded. “i know.”

a beat passed.

then, quietly: “but sometimes i wish i met you first.”

the world felt like it tilted on its axis. her heartbeat was definitely thudding at an abnormal, mildly concerning rate.

paige opened her mouth. closed it, unsure what to say.

azzi looked at her like she regretted saying it, but didn’t take it back. she simply said, “let’s get out of here, yeah?”

paige nodded.

she didn’t say it out loud, but in her head, she screamed:

fuck noah. i’m right here. i’m all you need. you’re all i need. i would never treat you like he does.

those words stayed put in paige’s brain, never leaving once. because god, did she mean them. every single word, every letter.

© wbbobsesser

[ama3003]

A Pawn Once More (3)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Again Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting and had to continue. Plus I love this story.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: The final moments leading up the 75th Hunger Games.

Part 1: Here

Part 2: Here

I'm not going to lie, this was the most fun I had writing, and I'm lowkey very proud of this. Let me know if you wanna read her her being in the games.

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

***************

Your nerves hit like a wave the second you stepped into the waiting room.

The air was tense—heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when everyone is pretending not to be afraid. The tributes were scattered around the room, each lost in their own thoughts, their own strategies, their own quiet dread.

You felt your stomach twist.

Last time you were in this position, you scored a seven. Clean, precise knife throws. It wasn’t spectacular, but it got the job done—just enough to earn some sponsors without making you a threat. It kept you safe.

But this wasn’t like last time.

This time, you were older. Sharper. Tired in a way you didn’t know how to explain. And despite all of it, you had no idea what you were going to do in there. No plan, no performance. You hadn’t let yourself think too hard about it, because thinking meant caring—and caring meant fear. And you were so tired of being afraid.

The Capitol had already taken everything. Your home. Your peace. Your sense of self. And now they were back for what little was left.

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the District 12 pair, sitting quietly in the far corner. They weren’t speaking, just watching. Watching you. Their expressions were unreadable—somewhere between wary and curious. You offered them a small nod and the faintest smile. They didn’t return it, but they didn’t look away either. That felt like enough.

Then, you saw him—Mason, cutting through the room with that quiet steadiness he always carried.

He slid into the seat beside you without a word, his presence warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said gently, his voice low. “You ready?”

You nodded automatically, but your fingers betrayed you—tapping anxiously on your leg, tense and restless. Mason noticed. He always noticed.

Without saying anything more, he reached over and placed his hand on top of yours. It was steady. Grounding. You immediately stilled.

“You’re going to be alright,” he said, soft but certain. “We both are.”

You looked at him—and just like that, something inside you loosened.

Those eyes. You remembered them. The same ones you met when you were sixteen, standing awkwardly at your Victor’s party, trying not to be seen. He hadn’t mentored your Games, but he found you anyway. Quiet, lost, and not ready for any of it. He’d seen you for what you were—another broken kid trying to survive something you weren’t built for.

He knew that look. He’d worn it once, too.

And from that night on, Mason became something steady in your life. Maybe even something safe. He couldn’t stop the Capitol from throwing you into another nightmare, but if you had to go back in, you were glad it was with him.

“It’s going to be fine,” you murmured, offering a small, tired smile. And for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Mason would follow you anywhere. You didn’t have to question it. His loyalty wasn’t loud or showy—it was just there. Unshakable.

“Y/N. Mason.”

You turned at the sound of your names and saw Cashmere and Gloss approaching, their movements smooth and practiced like they were walking a red carpet instead of waiting to face death again. Behind them, Enobaria and Brutus stood from their seats, joining the group.

Cashmere slipped her arm around your shoulders like it was second nature. “You ready to make some jaws drop?” she asked with that signature smirk. Confident. Stunning. But under it, you could see the flicker of something else. That same tension that lived in all of you now.

“Always,” you said, letting the corners of your mouth lift. “I think I’m just gonna wing it. Do whatever feels right.”

Cashmere raised an eyebrow. “That’s either brilliant or reckless.”

“Maybe both,” you replied.

“As long as you scare them a little, you’ll land at least a nine,” Enobaria said, cracking her knuckles and flashing her sharpened teeth. “I’m thinking of stabbing a dummy and barring my teeth at the Gamemakers.”

Brutus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and they’ll send you straight to the Capitol psych ward.”

Enobaria grinned wider. “Sounds like a vacation compared to what’s coming.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh before turning to the siblings.

“What about you two?”

Gloss shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. “Spear work. Something fast and clean—show them I haven’t slowed down. I’m not there to impress them. Just remind them what I can do.”

Cashmere spun a knife lazily between her fingers. “Knives, obviously. Hit the vitals, maybe throw in a flip or two if I feel like showing off. Nothing too wild—we’re aiming for tens, not twelves.”

She looked at Mason, nudging his leg with her foot. “What about you?”

Mason tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not much I can do solo. Might ask to use the moving targets—simulate a real fight. Or…” he glanced sideways at you, smiling faintly, “maybe someone here’s brave enough to volunteer.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Keep dreaming.”

But before anyone could say anything else, a sharp voice echoed through the room:

“District One, Gloss Tanner. Report for individual assessment.”

Silence fell instantly. All eyes shifted to Gloss.

He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders once, then turned to his sister. Cashmere reached out and touched his arm, her expression softening.

Gloss gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at the rest of you, smiled like it was nothing, and said, “See you on the other side.”

And then he was gone.

No hesitation. No second glance.

The moment lingered in the air. Thick. Heavy. Real.

Enobaria was the first to break the silence. “We’ll head back to our seats,” she said, giving each of you a quick hug like she didn’t want to think too hard about it. Brutus did the same—no words, just a quiet presence—and then they were gone.

“We should, too,” Mason murmured, giving Cashmere’s shoulder a squeeze.

You turned to her and wrapped your arms around her tightly.

“He’s going to do great,” you whispered. “And so will you. Okay?”

Cashmere gave you a watery smile, blinking fast. “Good luck, Y/N.”

“You too.”

She held you for a second longer, then let go and sat down, folding her hands in her lap, eyes fixed on the door Gloss had disappeared through.

Before heading back to your seat, you squat down in front of Finnick and Mags. Grinning, you greet them with a playful, “Hello, my fishies.”

Finnick rolls his eyes dramatically, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Mags, ever the nurturing figure, pats you on the head as if you were a child, her touch gentle and warm.

“I swear, before I die, I’m going to need a new nickname,” Finnick jokes, sounding far more serious than he probably intends. “I can’t die with ‘Fishy’ on my tombstone.”

You nudge his knee playfully. “Oh, don’t worry, Finnick. I wouldn’t do that to you. But I would say, ‘Best Swimmer in the Mighty Seas,’” you add with a wink, your tone light.

Mags laughs softly, her eyes crinkling with kindness. You turn toward her. “Ready to blow them away with your rope-tying skills?” You can’t help but tease, excited for the elderly woman you admire so much.

Mags gives you a thumbs up, her smile all the answer you need. Then she points to Finnick, mimicking the movement of a trident with her hands.

“Oh, yes. Finnick and his big fork,” you tease, ruffling his hair affectionately. You and Finnick had always been close—almost like siblings, really. You won your Games right after him, and to say you leaned on each other would be an understatement. There was an unspoken understanding between you two, born from the shared experience of surviving this hell.

You hear Cashmere’s name being called, and as she rises, she shoots you a reassuring smile before heading toward the door.

Turning back to Finnick and Mags, you see the stress hanging heavy on their shoulders. Without thinking, you rise to your feet and give them both tight hugs. “It’s going to be fine,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “I’ve never seen anyone handle a trident as well as you, Finnick. And no one—no one—can tie a knot as tight as you, Mags.”

Both of them smile up at you, their faces softening. They know exactly what you’re doing—trying to ease their tension, give them a little comfort. That’s why they love having you around.

“I’ll catch up with you two after, okay?” You give them both a final squeeze. “Good luck out there.”

They nod, their smiles a little more relaxed now. You return to your seat next to Mason, feeling a brief moment of relief as you settle beside him.

“You’re being a great motivator. I’m feeling inspired,” Mason says with a half-smile, his tone teasing as he nudges you lightly.

You can’t help but scoff, shaking your head. “These are our friends. And we’re supposed to kill them like it’s nothing?” You laugh softly, but it’s a bitter sound.

Mason’s smirk fades, and he turns to face you more seriously. “We all know how this is going to play out,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a mix of resignation and practicality. “And we promised we weren’t going to take it to heart. Quick and painless, remember?”

You exhale slowly, your chest heavy. “Doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. And let’s say… in the off chance that we both make it to the end. Then what?” You meet his gaze, both of you silently acknowledging the truth between you. Neither of you would be able to kill the other. Not after everything.

Mason’s eyes soften, but his voice is firm as he shakes his head. “That’s never going to happen. You know that,” he says, his tone heavy with certainty. “It’ll be someone else, or… it’ll be me.”

You can’t argue with that. It’s the cruel reality you’re both facing, one that feels too dark to even consider. You drop your head into your hands, the weight of it all pushing down on you.

Mason doesn’t have any comforting words—he knows they won’t help. He just reaches over, ruffling your hair lightly before pulling you into his side. His presence, solid and steady, is the only thing that’s keeping you from shattering in that moment.

You watch the District Three pair go, followed by Finnick, and then Mags. Each one of them stepping into their fate, and each one leaving a piece of their heart in the room.

Time passes slowly. Your own thoughts are heavy, weighed down by the same unspoken question everyone in this room is carrying.

And then, you hear it.

“District Five, Mason Cover. Report for individual assessment.”

Your body freezes. Your heart skips a beat.

Mason feels it, too. The weight of the arena, the uncertainty of what’s to come, the fear—it’s all there, hanging between you two.

“Darling, it’s going to be fine,” he whispers in your ear, his voice calm, steady. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, the warmth of his lips a small comfort in the sea of tension.

You try to return the reassurance, offering him a soft smile. “Good luck,” you murmur, even though you’re not sure if either of you believe it.

He meets your gaze, his smile small but sincere. “You too,” he says, his voice softer now. He ruffles your hair one more time before standing up. “See you on the other side.” His words are light, basically mimicking Gloss. But you still teared up.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him leave. He glances back once, offering you a final wave, and then he’s gone, heading toward the door with that same quiet confidence he always carries.

Now, the fear was real. The anxiety had a tight grip on you, and no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing, it was a struggle. Your chest felt heavy, each breath an effort.

You closed your eyes, trying to center yourself. Ten minutes. That’s all you had. Ten minutes to somehow find a way to push past the panic, to focus, to prepare yourself.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice someone sitting down next to you until you heard a soft voice.

“Are you ready for your assessment?”

You jumped, startled, and turned to see Peeta sitting where Mason had just been. He gave you a small, sheepish smile. “Stupid question, I know. I’m sure you’ve been asked by everyone else. Should’ve said something else.”

It wasn’t what you expected—Peeta of all people sitting next to you. You glanced over at Katniss. She was watching you closely from a distance, eyes trained on both you and Peeta, her protective instincts sharp.

You turned back to Peeta, trying to shake off the unease. “I’m ready enough to just get it over with,” you replied, your voice steady, but you could feel the tension coiled deep inside you. “Are you?”

He nodded, though his smile was a little strained. “Yeah, it’s kind of crazy, you know? I was doing this exact thing a year ago. Not much has changed.”

You shook your head slightly. “Everything’s changed, Peeta. You’re a Victor now. That means something.”

Peeta met your eyes, his gaze serious. “We both know I wasn’t supposed to be one.”

“I could say that about all of us,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “None of us were supposed to be Victors, but here we are. And it’s important, Peeta, that you start believing that. It’s the only way you’re going to make it out of the arena.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looking at you like he was weighing your words. Finally, he broke the silence, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Haymitch says we should team up. I know enough to sense how important you are to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re trying to recruit me?” you asked, teasing but also a little touched by his honesty. You could tell he wasn’t exactly sure where this conversation was heading, but he was trying to find his footing.

He looked uncomfortable but pushed on, “I’m not saying we should be best friends or anything, but you’re important to Haymitch. I think you’re important to Katniss, too, even if she doesn’t show it.” His voice softened. “I’m just doing what I can. You know, trying to look out for her… and for us.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t think your fiancée would agree,” you said, your tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Peeta let out a small, dry chuckle. “And I don’t think your partner would be thrilled, either, but here we are.”

That made you smirk. He had a way with words, even when he was hesitant. “I’ve always been on your team, Peeta. I just need you to accept that you’re on mine, too.” Your voice was quieter now, more earnest. You met his gaze, not backing down. “I’m behind you a hundred percent. And I know Mason will be, too. But you have to trust us. Just like you want to protect Katniss, I do too. I’ll do whatever it takes to see her come out of this alive.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “If you don’t trust my words, trust Haymitch’s. I’m on your side.”

Before Peeta could respond, the loudspeaker crackled, cutting through the tension.

“District Five, Y/N L/N. Report for individual assessment.”

You tensed, your heart skipping a beat, but you tried to keep your breathing steady. This was it. You stood up slowly, then turned to Peeta. With a light touch, you patted his leg.

“I’ll see you later, Peeta. Good luck to you both,” you said, your voice more confident than you felt.

Peeta watched you as you turned to leave, his eyes following you until you reached the door.

Once you were out of sight, Peeta made his way back to Katniss, who was still watching him closely, waiting for him to speak. He sat down beside her, his expression thoughtful.

“I think we should team up with District Five,” he said, his voice low but sure.

Katniss looked at him, skepticism written across her face. “Are you sure about this?”

Peeta met her gaze, his eyes steady. “Trust me.”

After a long moment of silence, Katniss finally nodded, her resolve firming. “Okay,” she said quietly.

************

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection a ghost of someone you used to be. The makeup was heavy, transforming your features, and for a moment, you looked like you did nine years ago—before the Games, before all of this.

Tomorrow, you would be thrown back into the arena. Tomorrow, you’d have to fight your friends, leave your husband behind, and maybe die. And the weight of it made everything seem so much heavier.

You were scared during your first Games, but this fear—it was different. It was paralyzing. It settled deep in your chest, like something solid and cold, and you couldn’t breathe.

The sound of cheers rang out as Caesar Flickerman strutted onto the stage, his perfect, rehearsed smile beaming across the crowd. Your pulse quickened.

"There, absolutely perfection," your stylist said, patting her face to dry the tears you hadn't realized had begun to fall.

"Thank you," you whispered, blinking the haze from your eyes. You stepped onto the line between Mags and Mason, trying to steady your breath, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

"Breathe," Mason whispered, his voice low but steady. "You look beautiful."

A small, trembling smile pulled at your lips. "Thanks," you murmured, looking at Mags. "You look pretty," you added, hoping it would ease the tension in the air. Mags smiled, a soft, knowing look on her face. She pointed to your dress. "Thank you," you said. "It’s supposed to mimic my first Games."

You swallowed, looking around at the others, trying to block out the tightness in your chest. Nervous energy swirled around you. The others could feel it, too, but everyone was doing their best to keep it together.

You saw Gloss take his turn, then Cash, and then Brutus. One after another, they walked past you, their faces filled with the same mix of dread and determination.

"I can’t believe tomorrow is the day," Mason said, jumping up slightly, the nerves evident in his voice.

"You're telling me," Finnick said, giving a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m about to perform my best acting yet—pretend I’m not already dead inside—and then I’m gonna die. Sounds like a real blast."

Mags shot him a disapproving look, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"We just have to get through tonight. Tomorrow’s a whole other day," you said, trying to sound reassuring, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them. "We’ll figure it out then."

The others fell silent at your words, each one lost in their own thoughts, the realization of what was coming settling in.

Finnick went next, followed by Mags. Then Mason.

"Wish me luck," Mason said, winking at you before stepping onto the stage, the Capitol audience erupting in applause.

"Good luck," you said, smirking, watching him stride out with the swagger only Mason could pull off.

"It’s annoying how charming that guy is," you muttered, half to yourself.

Johanna let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think, before I die, he’ll grant me a death-wish kiss?" she joked, her usual biting humor still intact.

You nudged her with a grin. "Hey, I think the probability of that is extremely high."

Mason’s interview went off without a hitch. He played the ‘I’m about to die, and I never loved anyone’ card, and the Capitol ate it up. The single women in the crowd swooned as he strutted off the stage, bowing to his fellow tributes.

"And now, for one of the Capitol’s favorite girls, let’s hear it for Y/N L/N!" The announcement was loud, and the crowd roared in excitement.

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you walked onto the stage, the eyes of Panem on you. You knew how to work a crowd, how to present yourself as the confident, charming Victor everyone adored. But tonight, it felt like more of a mask than ever before.

Caesar Flickerman’s smile was as dazzling as always, his voice smooth as silk. "Oh, my dear girl, how are you?" He leaned in for air kisses, his theatrics just a little too perfect.

"Well, I’ve had better days," you said, a soft smile curling at the corner of your lips.

"Today is so emotional and hard for all of us, isn’t it?" Caesar continued, his tone dripping with faux sympathy. "But you—good news for you—you scored an eleven! Absolutely amazing!"

"Thank you," you replied, trying to keep the flatness from your voice. "Since I’m probably going to die tomorrow, I wanted to go out with a bang, I guess."

You saw Caesar’s smile falter for a moment, unsure how to handle your bluntness. But he recovered quickly, ever the professional.

"Well, a bang you did," he said, voice still upbeat. "Now, my dear, we’ve heard so much about those waiting for you back at home. Who’s there for you? Anyone special?"

You forced your gaze to drift across the audience, your eyes scanning the sea of faces before finding the one that anchored you—Haymitch. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unwavering, like a lifeline in the chaos.

"I have my parents back at home, taking care of my younger brother," you said, your voice a little softer now. "It was definitely a surprise when these Games were announced."

"I’m sure they’re watching you now and cheering for you back in District 5," Caesar smiled warmly, his eyes glistening with false compassion.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening. "I doubt they will. They promised me they won’t watch. Who would want to see their child get slaughtered?" The words left your lips, cold and harsh, but they were the truth. The crowd grew silent, and Caesar struggled to regain his composure.

"Uh…" He coughed awkwardly, glancing toward the camera. "Well, that’s unfortunate, I’m sure they’ll be missing a good game. Is there anyone else waiting for you? Maybe a man? A little boy toy?"

You didn’t even need to think. The words felt right, even as they left your lips. Your fingers moved instinctively to the necklace around your neck, slipping it off with a deliberate motion, and you looked back at Haymitch. His eyes widened as your fingers found the ring you’d been wearing around your neck. The same one you’d both always kept secret.

"I do, actually," you whispered, barely above the noise of the crowd. A ripple of surprise ran through the room. "I have someone waiting for me."

You slowly slid the ring onto your finger, letting it shine under the Capitol lights. For a moment, the crowd was dead silent. The world seemed to hold its breath. And then, the cheers exploded.

You could see Haymitch in the crowd, his expression unreadable at first. But then, something in his eyes softened. He didn’t hide his emotions, even if you couldn’t hear his voice. It was in the way his hand shook as he reached for his flask, eyes never leaving you.

"You’re married?" Caesar’s voice was full of excitement now, a gleam in his eyes. "What a surprise! Tell us, who is this lucky man?"

You met his gaze again, locking your eyes with Haymitch's. "I’m afraid I’m keeping that information to myself," you replied, your voice calm but firm. "Just in case I die tomorrow, I want him to move on, to find happiness. Obviously, without all the cameras and media .That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him."

You glanced down at the ring, your fingers brushing over it gently as you spoke. "My death will not be the end of him. He will mourn, but he will live. Live for me. Live for us. Live for the world. My death won’t erase our love. Our love will live on. These Games may take everything from me, but our love? That’s something that will last forever." You blinked rapidly, tears beginning to blur your vision. "I’ve loved and been loved in these few years more than some do in a lifetime," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. "I’m one of the lucky ones."

The audience was silent for a moment before an overwhelming wave of applause broke through the air. You could see the tears welling in Caesar's eyes, his voice shaking with emotion. "That… that was beautiful," he said, his tone sincere. "I’m sure he knows how deeply you love him. And he’s lucky to have someone like you."

"Thank you," you said softly, your heart pounding.

The audience cheered again, but you only had eyes for Haymitch now. You blew him a kiss, a simple gesture, but one that felt like it carried everything you couldn’t say aloud.

"That was amazing," Mason said, wrapping you in a tight hug the second you stepped off the stage.

You cried in his arms, the weight of everything threatening to swallow you whole. "It’s going to be okay, darling girl," Mason whispered, his voice warm and comforting. "He knows you love him, and you know he loves you."

Johanna was next to you, rubbing your back. "You really did a good job. I think all of Panem’s crying right now."

You stopped crying, and only the sound of the following interview filled the room until Johanna spoke again, her voice annoyed.

"Really? A wedding dress?" She raised an eyebrow at Katniss’s dress, which looked suspiciously like a wedding gown.

"Snow made me wear it," Katniss said, her tone flat, not caring much for Johanna, but glanced at you. Haymitch trusted you, and so did Peeta.

"Make him pay for it," Johanna smirked, causing Katniss to smile faintly.

"Come on, let’s get you cleaned up," Mason said, wrapping an arm around you, guiding you away. But then Katniss reached for your wrist, stopping you.

Mason tensed but you turned towards her.

"You did good," Katniss said quietly, nodding at your ring. "I know he appreciates it."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, though it was strained.

"Plus, I’m sure you made Peeta cry," Katniss added with a rare smile.

You laughed softly, your heart lighter despite everything. "Good luck," you said, offering her a smile before following Mason out.

"So, we’re really teaming up with District 12, huh?" Mason said, rolling his eyes.

You nudged him, a small smile playing at your lips. "Yup."

*********

You found yourself staring out the window of the living area in your suite, the stars twinkling distantly in the night sky. Mason was sitting across from you, nose buried in a book, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the vast darkness outside.

After the interviews, you all held hands, the gesture simple but filled with power, as if, for a brief moment, the Games could be stopped. But an hour ago, Abigail had come in and crushed that fragile hope, informing you that the Games would go on as planned.

You sighed, the weight of the news heavy in your chest.

"I know you're not reading," you said, breaking the silence as you turned to Mason. "You've been on the same page for the last six minutes. It usually takes you three."

He looked up at you, a sly smirk tugging at his lips before he closed the book, setting it down on the table with a soft thud. "True," he said, the humor gone from his eyes. "But it's hard to focus on anything when death is looming over us."

You didn’t respond. Instead, you stood and moved to the window, resting your hands on the cool glass. He followed you, his footsteps soft on the carpet.

"Did Cash seem fine when you told her we weren't joining the pack?" he asked, trying to shift the conversation.

Your shoulders tensed slightly, "She wasn’t happy, but she knew," You said with a nod. "They all knew we were going with District 12. Expected it, even." Then you turned to him, your heart pounding slightly. "Are you mad at me?"

Mason shook his head instantly, his expression softening. "No. Never." He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I just hope we're not making a mistake. That’s all."

You hesitated, then spoke the words that had been in your head. "You could always go with the Careers, you know."

The words barely left your mouth when Mason shot you a glare, his eyes darkening. "Shut up," he said, his voice sharp but filled with the raw edge of care. "I've been saying the whole time—it's you and me, always. If you want to team up with the newbies, we do it. If you want to team up with the Careers, we do it. Hell, if you want us to be on our own, we’ll do that too. I’m with you, partner, okay? You can't get rid of me that easily." He paused, a small, teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "I’ve been taking care of your ass for almost a decade. I’m not about to stop now."

A lump formed in your throat at his words, and you smiled, fighting back the emotions. "You're my best friend," you whispered, and he chuckled.

"Don’t let Cash hear that or she’ll make it her mission to have my head tomorrow." His voice was light, but there was something deeply affectionate in it.

"I’m serious, Mase," you nudged him, a little more forceful now, your voice cracking. "You’re my best friend. And this… this fucking sucks."

Without another word, Mason wrapped his arms around you tightly, his grip firm and warm. "Darling," he murmured into your hair, "no matter what happens tomorrow, know that you're my best friend. You’ve always been. And, I can’t really be mad at you. They're an alright team. The girl is good with those damn arrows. Plus, we get Finnick and Beetee. It could be worse."

You stayed like that for a long while, holding onto each other, the silent comfort of a friendship that had weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to. Then you heard a soft cough from the doorway, and you reluctantly pulled away.

You turned to see Haymitch standing there, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mason rolled his eyes dramatically, his tone mockingly offended. "Dude," he said with a grin, "I just got told I’m her best friend, and you couldn’t wait five minutes to swoop in? That’s crazy."

Haymitch raised his hands in surrender, still grinning. "Ouch, I thought that was me." He turned to you with a feigned look of hurt on his face. "Sweetheart, you wound me."

You shot them both a tired, amused look. "Quiet, both of you." You turned to Mason, giving him a small, pleading glance. "Mase, can you leave us, please?"

He groaned, but there was affection in the sound. "Fiiiiiinnnneeeee." He dragged out the word in a mock pout, but then he wrapped his arms around you one more time, pulling you close. "I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll find you." He kissed your forehead softly, the gesture comforting despite the weight of everything.

He pulled back, moving toward Haymitch. Before he left, Haymitch stopped and whispered, "Take care of her in there, and I’ll take care of you both out here."

Mason nodded, just slightly, so you wouldn’t notice, before giving Haymitch a firm hug. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he turned to leave. "Good luck, Mason," Haymitch said softly, patting his shoulder as he went.

Mason gave a small nod, trying to keep the tension from showing, and then he left the room.

The door closed behind him, and for a brief moment, the room was silent.

Haymitch walked toward you, his steps slower than usual, more weighted. You didn’t need him to say anything. You already knew.

This was goodbye.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly like he was trying to memorize the way you fit against him. You buried your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of him—whiskey, pine, and something softer, something that always felt like home.

You wouldn’t see him tomorrow. As soon as you woke, the Peacekeepers would be there—no time for goodbyes, no time for holding each other like this. They’d tear you away from your bed, from this room, from him.

So this… this was it.

The two of you settled onto the couch in silence, your body curled into his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around you like armor. His hand moved up and down your back in a slow rhythm, steady and calming, though his heart beat loud and uneven against your cheek.

You could die like this, you thought.

God, you wished you would die like this.

"You know what I was thinking?" you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haymitch hummed in response, low and thoughtful, his fingers gently threading through your hair.

"I think we were meant to be with each other. In every universe. It's always you and I,” you breathed. “And I know... I know in another universe, we got to have a beautiful, long life together."

His lips twitched into a smile, pained but sincere. "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. “We have three kids. Two girls and one boy. They're perfect—just like we always dreamed. We live in this beautiful home with a white picket fence, big porch swing. You finally grow tomatoes that don’t taste like dirt. We grow old together. We see our kids have kids. We'd be cool grandparents."

"The best grandparents," he said quietly, still stroking your hair, his voice strained and cracked with longing. “Is it weird that I'm jealous of that us?”

"No... because so am I." You closed your eyes, the fantasy a cruel comfort. It felt so real. It should have been real.

Your voice broke as the grief crashed over you like a wave. “This isn’t fair.” The words came out as a sob, and you shoved your face deeper into his neck, clinging to him like he was the last safe thing in the world.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," he murmured, holding you tighter. His hand moved slowly over your back, as if he could rub the pain away, ease the break in your heart. "But I'm going to help you. You and Mase. It's going to be alright.”

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own gaze sharp and urgent. “I just need you to stay with Katniss. No matter what—stay with her.”

You blinked, confused for a moment, but nodded. There was something in his tone, something just beneath the surface. You didn't know the full story, but you trusted him. You always had.

"I promise, Haymitch. I’ll try to protect them... for as long as I breathe."

He stilled. Completely.

His jaw clenched, and his grip on you tightened again.

He hadn’t meant for it to come across like that. God, no. He never wanted you to think you owed him that—your life for theirs. That wasn’t what this was.

"I just need you to breathe," he said, his voice rough and trembling. “That’s all I need, okay? Just breathe. Protect yourself. I’ll take care of the kids. I promise. But you—you look after you. No playing hero. No playing mama bear.”

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, your heart thudding. “You care for those kids, Haymitch Abernathy,” you said, voice firm. “I’m going to protect them as much as I can. Nothing’s happening to those kids if I’m there.”

He stared at you, the pain behind his eyes shining like glass ready to crack.

"And I care about you, Y/N Abernathy." His voice hitched. “So you're going to make sure you survive.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You looked at him—at the man you loved more than anything—and whispered, “Only one comes out alive, Mitch.”

Your voice cracked like a brittle bone.

“I’m not even in the top five of who should win.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, hot and burning, and his face crumpled just slightly as he pulled you back into him, his breath stuttering.

You could see it. The way he was unraveling. The storm brewing behind his eyes. He had been holding something in, and it was clawing its way out of him, ripping him apart from the inside.

You’d been accepting your fate quietly, trying not to make it harder for him. But he needed more from you now.

He needed you to fight.

He needed you to live.

He needed to say the thing that had been killing him since the moment he knew. There was this plan. A plan to get Katniss and all the other victors out of there. A plan that could save your life. And he wishes he could tell you scream it out.

But Plutarch didn’t want you to involved because of your close relationship with the careers. He said it could compromise the whole mission. But he needed to tell you. He needed to guarantee your safety. Plutarch be dammed. You’re his wife. You’re the only thing that matters.

"I—" he started, voice hoarse, his hands twitching at his sides. Just spit it out he thought to himself.

You turned to face him fully, one brow raised. He was spinning in his own mind, fighting every instinct. You could tell he wanted to say it, to scream it but there was something holding him back.

"There's thi—well, there's this... this plan... Plutarch—" Why couldn’t he just say it? His heart was screaming at him to spit it out.

You stepped in before he could finish, your heart stalling. You knew that look, the flickering indecision, the desperation caught behind his teeth.

"You're not supposed to tell me, right?" you asked gently, already knowing the answer.

He faltered, looking at you like you’d read the last page of a book he hadn’t finished. He wanted to tell you. So badly. And that’s what terrified you.

"There's this plan—"

"Stop." You raised your hand, voice quiet but firm. A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Don’t tell me."

He stared at you in disbelief, his brows furrowed like you’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand. "What...?"

"There's a reason why you can’t tell me, right?"

He hesitated… and nodded.

"Then it’s probably a good reason.”

"It can save your life," he whispered, and that was when the first tear slipped from his eye. He was screaming at himself to tell you to save you. Why the hell isn’t he saying anything?

Your chest tightened, but you held your voice steady. "But it jeopardizes Katniss, doesn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough.

"Then don’t tell me."

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't tell me, Haymitch." You stepped closer, looking up at him with as much reassurance as you could muster. "I’m telling you not to tell me. You were going to—and now I’m saying no. So if anything happens, it’s on me. Not you. Never you."

You could already see it in his eyes—the guilt building like floodwater behind a dam. You couldn’t let it break him.

"You need to protect Katniss," you said softly.

His expression cracked as tears finally spilled freely, his voice breaking under the weight of his helplessness. "I need to protect you."

And that nearly broke you.

You had to look away, just for a second. "You’re putting her first," you said, your voice catching. "And that’s okay. You need to put her first. Always. You and I both know that. It’s for the greater cause—something bigger than just you and me."

He clenched his jaw. You both knew it was true. If the rebellion was going to work, it had to be Katniss. It had to be the Mockingjay.

"I need you safe," he said again, like if he repeated it enough, the universe would listen.

"And we need her alive." You were already shifting, already planning. Your voice quickened, desperate to be useful, to give him something to hold on to. "Both of them. Without Peeta, Katniss won’t want to do anything for the rebellion. Okay, I’ll look after Katniss and Mase can look after Peeta. Well of course I’ll also look after Peeta, but—"

You rambled, words spilling from you as your mind raced, building walls to keep the fear from crashing in. And he just looked at you.

God, he looked at you—like you were made of light and heartbreak and everything he could never deserve.

Then suddenly his hands were on your face, steadying you, grounding you. He needed to tell you. It was eating him alive.

You froze under his touch, your voice softening to a murmur. "Don’t tell me, Haymitch. I’m not mad. I won’t be mad. I’ll never make you choose between them or me. I care about them too."

He pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours, his breath trembling.

"It’s always been you," he choked, tears falling freely now. "It’s always going to be you."

You closed your eyes. If you could bottle this moment—this closeness, this certainty—you would have. You’d carry it into the arena like armor.

"This is more than just us, Mitch," you whispered. "If she survives… the districts' hope still lives."

He let out a bitter, shaking breath. "Damn it, woman, I want to tell you. I need to tell you."

You touched his cheek gently, tears stinging your eyes. "But you're holding back for her. And I'm telling you it’s okay."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and straightened your shoulders. "I told you since the beginning—I’m getting her out of that arena. Now you need to promise me you will too. Over Mags. Over Beetee. Over me."

Your voice didn’t shake this time. Not when it mattered most.

You looked into his eyes and saw the war in them—saw him silently screaming I can’t lose you.

But he knew you were right.

"I promise," he whispered, barely getting it out.

"It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears as you pulled back, giving him a smile that trembled with hope and heartbreak. "And then one morning, you’ll wake up back in District 12… and you’re going to look out at the sky and feel it. Feel the peace. The Games will be gone. The children will be able to be children again. It’s what we’ve always wanted."

You smiled as you spoke, but he could see it—you weren’t just comforting him.

You were saying goodbye.

And Haymitch felt it. In the hollowness in his chest. In the way your voice cracked just slightly when you talked about a future you didn’t believe you’d see. You were accepting your death. Quietly. Gracefully. Willingly.

Even when the cause didn’t trust you enough to let you in.

And yet, here you were, dreaming about a life beyond the war—knowing you wouldn’t be part of it.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“I feel like I’m making a mistake,” he said, voice raw, like it scraped his throat on the way out. Damn the cause. Damn Plutarch. Damn those District 12 kids. Damn this plan.

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a mentor. We give our lives for those children. If I could’ve saved my tributes, I would’ve.”

You smiled through your tears, and it wrecked him.

“You’re the best mentor known to man. And an even better husband.”

That was the final blow.

“I love you,” he whispered like a confession, like a prayer. “So, so much. More than the moon loves the stars. More than the sun loves the ocean. I love you, Y/N.”

You cupped his face like he was fragile, precious. Like he wasn’t the broken man the world always thought him to be.

“And I love you, Haymitch,” you murmured. You nestled yourself back into his chest, fitting there like you were made for him. And maybe you were.

You both stared out the window as silence wrapped around you. Not a single word for an hour—just hearts beating in sync, like this moment could stretch forever.

But it couldn’t.

Eventually, you sat up slowly, blinking back the heaviness in your eyes. “You have to go check on the kids. The elevator locks soon… and I doubt you want to walk up seven flights of stairs.”

He clung to you a little tighter. “I’ll be fine. Come back here.”

You gave him that look. The one that always shut down every argument. Soft, patient, immovable.

He sighed. He knew. You were doing it for the kids. For him. If the Peacekeepers found you both here, alone, asleep—it would be over for him. You’d never let that happen.

“Fine. Fine.”

You walked him toward the elevator slowly, each step a thousand pounds heavier than the last.

Then you paused.

“Tell Effie I say that I love her… and that she needs to take care of you. No more than three whiskey bottles a week.”

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

He just pulled you into his arms like he was afraid you’d disappear the second he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he meant it for everything—for the plan, for the Capitol, for the years wasted, for the future he couldn’t give you.

“I’m not,” you said softly, holding his face like a lifeline. “I lived a beautiful life… with amazing friends and a perfect husband. I meant what I said. I felt more love in the years with you than most people ever feel in a lifetime. You made me happy. You make me proud. After everything you’ve been through, we’re finally going to be at peace.”

He was breaking. He didn’t care how pathetic it looked.

“I need you,” he choked, like the words themselves were ripping something loose in his chest.

“And you have me,” you whispered, “forever.”

You kissed his cheek, pulled him close again, memorized the shape of his body, the weight of him in your arms.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied. “Remember your promise.”

You stepped back, slowly pushing him toward the elevator. Your hands were shaking, but your face was steady. Because if you faltered—if you gave in—he would stay. And that was too dangerous.

The doors slid open.

And he didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

But you gave him a little push.

Because you had to.

He stepped inside. And as the doors started to close, you saw the panic take over his features.

"I love you," he said, the words tearing from his chest like a final breath. His heart physically ached. Like it was collapsing in on itself. Like maybe, just maybe, a person could die from a broken heart.

"And I love you too," you replied, the softest smile breaking through your tears. How could you smile when you were walking into your death?

Haymitch didn’t know.

But you always found light, even at the end of the world.

“I’ll see you in the next lifetime,” you said, and your voice cracked on the final word.

The doors slid shut.

And as the elevator descended, the last thing he heard was the sound of you sobbing.

And that was it.

That was the sound that shattered him.

This felt extremely long lol anyways thank y'all for reading! I also live for your comments they actually make my day.

Let me know what you want to see!!!!

Previous Chapter

Taglist (If I'm missing you I'm sorry still new at this)

@nikki-is-a-nerd @quantumorquanta @starvedhoe @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @andthevillainshallrises @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @honeybunnyboobear @dedicatedfangirl2001 @godwhyamionhere @yoursrosie @darylmysavior @crossfandomslut @passionkillerphil @fallout-girl219 @ramennudel @onlyrealjoy @rosieleej @narliesstuff @flornegrastuff @aylinbsx @briiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzza @starkleila @fanboilingwriter @heidiland05 @escaping-reality8 @teenwolfbitches28 @notplutos @daisydark @velyssaraptor @fangirlbitch02 @needz1nk @mawwddu @chelseyyouraverageluigi

[prettydaisygirl]

after reading your fratjames potter x reader work it did something for me! And it made me think of angsty idea

May I request a modern au where the reader and James are already in an established relationship ship

And because of a bad friend of James they have misunderstanding and some incident happen and reader happens to be present at the wrong time and because of that the bad friend spread misinfo and James believe that friend ....so it kinda leads to James hurting readers feelings

Pls feel free to ignore if i couldn't get my idea across ❤️

Hi, lovely! Thank you so much for your request! It also spawned another idea in my brain so there's another James fic coming soon also inspired by you! I hope this is what you were looking for, I appreciate you taking the time to send me a request. Much love <3

boyfriend!James Potter x fem!reader who disagree about Peter ✿ 927 words

cw: fem reader, Peter is the worst, misunderstanding, angst, open ended.

james potter masterlist

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part 2

You really, really try to like Peter. He’s the only member of James’ group that you don’t consider a good friend. 

It’s not that you think Peter is a bad person. But sometimes he says things about people that you think are… harsh. Sometimes even cruel. And usually these things are said behind the targeted person’s back. You don’t like that.

Every time you bring it up to James, voice whispered and hesitant so you don’t rock the boat, he tells you that he and the other boys have just learned not to listen to Peter’s cruel words. 

“But how can you just… let him sit there and say things like that?” You’ll argue, though your tone is soft and your fingers will brush over his chest like they belong there. Because they do.

James will take a heavy breath and meet your eyes, barely able to see the glint of your pupils in the darkness of the bedroom. “After a while… you start to realize that the things that Peter says are true.” Silence will fill the air for just a moment and then, “He usually just says a meaner version of what everyone else is already thinking.”

So you put on a smile, and you tolerate Peter. 

You sip your glass of wine, eyes moving over the restaurant’s fancy decor. The tall ceilings and shimmering chandeliers do nothing to aid the awkward silence at the dinner table. 

For whatever reason, James had agreed for the two of you to go on a double date with Peter and his new girlfriend. She sits across from you, typing away on her phone without a care in the world. James had just stood up to go to the bathroom, leaving you and Peter in awkward, tense silence. 

Your eyes land on Peter when he clears his throat, a smirk appearing on his lips. You hate the way it makes your skin crawl. 

“Don’t you think James is a bit obnoxious?” He asks, and you’re sure anyone else would laugh out loud at the face you make. 

“What?” You ask, disbelief and offense dripping in your tone, “Of course, I don’t!”

Peter’s eyebrows raise and the corner of his lip turns up even more like you said exactly what he wanted to hear. His girlfriend’s eyes raise up from her phone long enough to look between the two of you before lowering again. 

“Oh, come on,” Peter encourages cruelly, “You don’t really buy that whole teddy bear, lover-boy act, do you?” His eyes roll, “I’ve known James for years, and it’s always the same. He finds a girl he really likes, absolutely fawns over her until he gets bored, and then he finds another one. Simple as that.”

Your stomach churns, your ears ring and you’re sure if looks could kill Peter would already be six feet under. “That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it.” Peter tilts his head condescendingly and you wish you’d pretended to be sick instead of coming to this stupid dinner. “He’s going to find someone new and leave you in the dust. Like clockwork.”

“Stop.” You try not to let his words get to you but he seems to know every single soft spot in your armor. Your worst fears that you’ve never even spoken out loud to James himself. 

“It’s only a matter of time,” Peter continues, swirling his own glass of wine before taking a long sip. “It could be tonight. Maybe one of the wait staff will catch his eye.”

“Listen, Peter,” You break, eyes dialed in on the man sitting across from you. If you can call him a man. More like a rat. “I have always thought you were cruel and disgusting. You invited us to dinner, and I came because James asked me to. But I won’t do this anymore. You’re an absolute weasel of a man and I hate you.”

But Peter doesn’t look upset by your words. In fact, he looks delighted, almost like a happy schoolboy. You realize why when you hear James’ voice behind you, your name stated in a cracking tone full of disbelief and hurt.  

You turn in your chair to look at him, guilt taking over your features. 

“James-” You try to say, the hurt look on his face making your chest physically ache.

“How can you speak to one of my friends like that?” He asks, eyes dark and voice low. He doesn’t sit back down at your table. “I know you don’t like Peter, but calling him names and saying you hate him? That’s cruel.”

You can feel your world crumbling around you, and Peter doesn’t even bother hiding his glee. In fact, it radiates off of him. His girlfriend looks like she’s enjoying the show now, phone in her lap. 

“I don’t know what has gotten into you lately, why you are so hateful and full of anger.” James grabs for his jacket and you reach for it too. He shoots you a look and you pull your hand away, feeling utterly shamed and scolded. You want to tell him that this is all a misunderstanding, that if he heard the things Peter said about him, he would agree with you. 

But you can’t. Because Peter is standing then, too, and so is his girlfriend. James sends you a look, and when he leans down to kiss you he only presses a chaste one to your hair, not one to your lips like usual.

“I’ll call you.” He says. 

And you wonder if he ever will. 

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© prettydaisygirl