#this is not quiet scent no matter the brand

[thetarttfuldickhead]

Plz tell us what you think Jamie smells like when he's not training (I'm sure he doesn't smell like lynx outside of work)

To be honest, nonny, I’m not fully convinced Jamie doesn’t smell of Lynx outside of work – and I do remain rather fond of the notion that Lynx was something he thought of as fancy when he was a poor kid and as soon as he could afford it he began to indulge, and now it’s just habit and positive connotations. (And I mean, not all Lynx scents are bad! Some are quite nice! It’s just not the luxury brand you’d expect someone constantly walking around in expensive brand clothes to pick.)

That said, I think we can count on our fashion-forward boy to have some other and actually nice scents stowed away for special occasions and such! For instance, Boss Bottled Pacific by Hugo Boss might be something he picked up this summer – it’s a warm, fairly sweet scent, with aromatic notes from the coconut and cypress layered over fresh citrus and wood. It’s playful, fun, modern and a little unusual, without getting too silly – and I think Jamie would prefer that over a very clean or masculine or classic scent. There’s some salt in there as well, mingling with the sweetness, and making it a nice match symbolically for our darling prick!

[sasheemo]

Long day, huh?

Pairing: Detective!Agatha (Agnes O'Connor) x Reader

Summary: Your girlfriend Agnes Agatha, lost to the Scarlet Witch’s spell, has no memory of you or the life you shared. But tonight, you have a daring plan to bring her back.

Tags: Smut, Established Relationship, Strap-ons (Rr), Car Sex

Word count: 6.9k

A/N: So, first Agatha smut! Hope it doesn't suck that bad - would love to hear your thoughts if you’re up for it 💜

MASTERLIST

Read on AO3

It’s torture, seeing her like this. Agatha, your Agatha, right there yet completely out of reach, trapped under the Scarlet Witch’s spell.

You’ve been together for centuries, standing side by side through battles and blood, through the kind of love that’s spanned lifetimes. 

You were there when she first sensed something off in Westview, when she decided to investigate what was happening, and you offered to come along. But everything went south, and now she’s here, roaming around the streets of Westview every day as a ghost of herself, believing she’s someone else entirely. Every moment you see her as this rough, almost bitter stranger, this ‘Detective Agnes’, it drives a wedge through your heart. But tonight, desperation gives birth to a reckless idea: if she can’t remember who she is maybe you can make her remember.

It’a a Friday night, and the most popular bar in Westview is pretty packed, humming with a low murmur and the occasional clink of glass. 

You step inside, searching, and your gaze falls on her almost immediately. She’s right there, Detective Agnes, a rougher, possibly even quirkier version of the woman you’ve loved for centuries, sitting alone at the bar, absently nursing her drink. In the dim light, she looks as alluring as ever, though that familiar playfulness you knew is buried under layers of frustration and some sort of hard-earned dominance. And yet, you have to admit, part of you doesn’t mind it. In fact, you find yourself… intrigued. 

There’s something thrilling about this version of Agatha. Agnes is rough, unapologetically bossy, carrying that particular brand of perpetual irritation that somehow only makes her more magnetic. Not that your Agatha didn’t have these traits, but this… adaptation of her takes them to a whole new level.

You’ve always loved the way she embodied both her feminine and masculine sides so seamlessly, owning every part of herself with that perfect blend of charm, ambiguity, and raw sensuality that defies any simple definition. Agnes though, leans heavily into her masculine side, and you’re definitely not complaining. Not one bit.

You smooth down the short black dress hugging your figure, fingers adjusting the purple gemstone at your collarbone. With slow, intentional steps, you close the distance, sliding onto the stool beside her. The heavy air around her feels electric, an unspoken charge palpable even through her indifference. She’s flipping idly through a small notebook, likely filled with dead ends from whatever “case” has been haunting her lately.

You lean in, letting the bar’s low light and smoky scent curl around you both. “Long day, huh?”

She doesn’t look up right away. She lets out a sigh, flipping another page in her notebook before her gaze shifts in your direction, mildly annoyed. The moment her eyes meet yours, you feel a spark, realizing those mesmerizing blue eyes will always have the same effect on you, no matter what. 

“Would’ve liked to have a quiet drink.” she mutters, lifting her glass as if to punctuate her point. “Not exactly in the mood for small talk.”

“Good thing I’m not here for small talk, then.” You smile, tipping your head slightly, and you see her interest flicker, even if her eyes narrow.

There’s a beat of silence, her gaze lingering a little longer than necessary. She radiates that annoyed, no-nonsense attitude, but there’s something in the way she holds herself tonight that makes you wonder if there isn’t some part of her that still recognizes you, that feels the pull between you. You watch her expression, the rough angles of her face, the way she leans back, sizing you up with all the caution of a predator who’s just discovered someone bold enough to trespass.

“I don’t think I know you.” she says finally, a challenge in her voice.

Your smile doesn’t falter and you lean in just a little closer, enough to catch a whiff of her. Agnes carries this scent of cold air and something darkly earthy, stark and distant. It’s a sharp contrast to Agatha’s usual rich, heady fragrance, the kind that clings to your clothes and fills the room long after she’s gone. But somehow, this raw, unfamiliar scent only adds to her allure, drawing you in deeper. 

“Guess that depends on what you think you know.” your voice drops to a low, almost mocking purr, a faint smirk playing at the corner of your mouth. You hold her gaze, letting the challenge hang in the air between you, your eyes glinting with just enough mystery to keep her guessing.

She lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, but something in her eyes shifts, something curious, as if you’ve stirred something in her she can’t quite place. She looks at you a beat too long before shaking her head and turning back to her drink, as if trying to ignore that spark.

You watch her for a moment, her fingers curling around the glass, her body language guarded, closed off. But there’s that trace of interest, the smallest crack in her armor. She’s intrigued, even if she won’t admit it.

She might be Agnes right now, but you still know how to push her buttons “Looks like you could use a distraction, Detective. I’ve heard it’s been nothing but dead ends for you lately.” you murmur with a sly smile.

Her hand pauses on the glass. The annoyed look is back, but this time it’s different, that reluctant curiosity now obvious on her face. She sets her glass down with a thud, meeting your gaze head-on. “Careful, doll. I don’t do well with strangers thinking they know more than they should.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You raise your hand, as if in surrender. “I just happen to know that sometimes the best way to clear a clouded mind is a little… fun.”

At that last word you can see her tense up, her shoulders straightening, gaze sharpening. A hint of a smirk crosses her face, but she quickly tamps it down. Agnes may be all business, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that’s raw, hungry.

“Dance with me.” you say softly, your fingers reaching out to brush the cool glass of her drink. “Who knows, might be exactly what need…”

She lets out a soft snort, like she’s about to dismiss you, but then she pushes back from the bar. Standing, she adjusts her flannel shirt, slipping the small notebook into the inner pocket with a quick, practiced motion as her dark eyes stay trained on you with an intensity that makes the air thicken. She’s a predator through and through, and for a moment, you feel the weight of her gaze like a physical thing, binding you in place.

She holds out a hand, and you take it, feeling her strong fingers and the roughness of her skin against your own. She pulls you toward a crowded corner of the bar where people are already moving to the low, steady beat thrumming through the room. Dim lights cast a warm, hazy glow, bodies swaying close around you, amplifying the charged atmosphere.

Agnes holds you with a firmness that’s almost possessive, both hands at your waist. Her gaze locks onto yours, and in this moment, she’s both a stranger and achingly recognizable, the rough edge of Agnes mingling with the soul of Agatha beneath. Every inch of her exudes assertiveness, her energy powerful and magnetic as her hands rest on your body with unbreakable certainty.

The dance starts slow, a sway more than anything else, but as the tension grows, she pulls you a little closer. Her gaze flickers down to the necklace at your collarbone, the deep violet stone a stark contrast against your skin. You catch the faintest twitch in her expression, her eyes darkening as she lifts her gaze to meet yours again. There’s a hunger there, a dangerous, simmering intensity that speaks of possession and intrigue.

“You’ve got a strange way of introducing yourself.” she murmurs, her voice low, carrying an edge of danger. “Most people don’t… walk up to me like this.”

You lean in, your voice a whisper against her ear “I’m not ‘most people’, Detective.”. You let that last word linger, savoring the irony of it, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you think of the illusion she’s wrapped up in.

She chuckles, a rough sound that vibrates through you, and her hold on your waist tightens, fingers pressing into your skin through the thin fabric. “Maybe you’re just a little too bold for your own good.”

You don’t bother to reply, feeling the intensity between you coil tighter as her hand slips around to the small of your back, pulling you firmly against her. Her gaze holds yours, dark and fierce, that rough, predatory edge simmering into something more primal. The dance transforms, becoming less about the music and entirely about the electrifying connection between you, every look and touch stoking the fire higher.

You press closer, letting your hips grind against hers in slow, deliberate circles, matching the pulsing rhythm that fills the room. Each movement is calculated, provocative, testing the limits of her restraint. You can feel the tension radiate through her hands as they grip your waist, and her breath seems to hitch every time your body sways against hers.

In the dim light, shadows fall across her face, but her eyes glint with a deepening hunger. You reach up, one arm slipping around her neck as your fingers trace along her skin before threading into her hair. The contact is intimate, possessive, and she leans into it, visibly captivated by the press of your body and the brush of your fingers. With a mischievous smile, you let your other hand glide up her face, fingertips trailing along the line of her jaw as you bite your lip, savoring the spark of control you have over her. 

In an instant, something snaps. Agnes moves with a swift, unrestrained urgency, her hands locking onto your hips as she spins you around, pulling your back against her with a possessive force that steals your breath. Her body presses flush against yours, fitting perfectly, her grip on you strong and unyielding.

The rhythm of the music seems to fade as she matches your movements from behind, grinding into you in time with your slow, rolling pace. The friction between you is scorching, each press of her hips intensifying the heat building between you. Her hands slide along your waist, her fingers digging in as if anchoring herself to you, claiming every inch of space between you.

With Agnes pressed firmly against your back, one of your hands finds its way behind her neck once again, fingers weaving into her hair as your bodies move together, grinding in sync to the steady beat. The desire simmering between you is overwhelming, each movement intensifying the tension coiling in your core.

But as her grip stays firm on your hips, you become aware of something else, something hard pressing insistently against you. The firm, unmistakable pressure against your ass makes your breath catch in your throat, the perfect trigger for a molten rush to spread through your veins.

You glance over your shoulder with a smirk, voice low and teasing. “Is that what I think it is, Detective?”

The smug grin spread across her face makes it clear she was waiting for your reaction, every inch of her expression dripping with satisfaction. The look only fueling the heat pooling between your thighs. Her fingers travel up your sides, leaving a trail of sparks across your skin. She grazes just beneath your breasts, her touch light but deliberate, the fabric of your dress doing little to dull the fire she ignites. 

“Behave.” she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. There’s an edge to her voice, rough and commanding. “And maybe I’ll reward you.” she continues, a low purr full of promise.

But you’re here on a mission, not to behave. Definitely not to behave.

Letting the music and her warmth embolden you, you reach back with your free hand, fingers slipping between your bodies to trace a slow, tantalizing path downward. She doesn’t stop you, if anything, she presses in closer, her breath hot against your neck.

Your movements halt for a split second as your fingertips brush the cool metal of her belt buckle, a shiver running through you at the sensation. Biting your lip, you continue your descent, fingers tracing slowly along the rigid line of her zipper, feeling the unyielding heat straining against it. When your palm finally presses against her, you can feel the hard, thick bulge beneath the fabric, and the sensation sends a surge of desire straight to your core. A low, breathless moan threatens to escape, and you barely hold it back, relishing the sensation as the need builds, leaving you aching for more.

Your fingers trail along her length teasingly, taking your time, and you feel her body tense behind you, hear the soft, low growl in her throat. She drops her forehead to your shoulder, her breath rough as you continue your movements.

You tilt your head back, allowing her see the satisfaction in your eyes, a look you know will get to her. Her breath catches as your fingers continue to tease her mercilessly. “Mmm” you hum with deliberate appreciation. “I knew you’d be… impressive.” you murmur, voice low and dripping with praise.

The effect is immediate, and exactly what you’d hoped for. Her nails dig into your waist, her restraint slipping further as a husky sigh escapes her. She presses into you and raises her head to meet your gaze, the challenge in her eyes flaring, daring you to push her further. 

You’ve always loved how, deep down, Agatha is so desperate for praise. She always had that little spark of pride that flares with each admiring touch, each appreciative word. But with Agnes, that need seems to linger closer to the surface, raw and unapologetic. In this form, she practically soaks up every word, every look of admiration you give her, like she’s reveling in the attention.

She’s holding herself back, barely, and you can feel the restraint beginning to crack, the thrill of it washing over you as she takes one grounding breath. “Keep that up…” she mutters, her tone both a warning and an invitation, “and you’ll see just how impressive I can be.”

With her words still in the air, she thrusts her hips forward, grinding firmly against your hand so you feel the full, hard length of her strap straining through the fabric of her pants. Simultaneously, one of her hands moves to your throat, fingers curling possessively around it in a strong, yet gentle, grip. Instinctively, you arch into her touch, pressing closer, wanting to feel every inch of her as she is pushing against you. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and you can’t hold back the moan that slips from your lips. 

Her body freezes at the sound, and for a heartbeat, everything is still. Then, without a word, she grabs your hand, her grip firm and unyielding as she pulls you toward the exit. You can barely keep up with her long strides as she navigates through the bar, her silence and focus only heightening the anticipation that’s been building between you. The moment you step outside, the cool night air hits you, sharp and bracing, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through your veins.

Agnes doesn’t pause as she leads you across the dimly lit parking lot, her hold on your wrist commanding, purposeful. But just as you near the shadowy corner where her car is parked, she suddenly turns, and with a fierce intensity, she presses you against the rough brick wall of the bar. The shock of the cold surface behind you only fuels the fire inside, and before you can catch your breath, her mouth is on yours.

The kiss is raw, unrestrained, her lips claiming yours with an urgency that’s nothing short of devastating. Her tongue parts your lips, exploring with a fierce hunger that’s both intoxicating and overwhelming, each movement igniting something hotter, deeper. She moves against you with a possessive need, her hand tangling in your hair as she tilts your head back, deepening the kiss even further.

“Is this what you wanted, huh?” she mutters against your lips, voice thick and dripping with need. Her other hand moves down to grab your ass, pulling you against her, her grip rough and unapologetic. You can’t hold back the gasp that escapes you, the thrill of it leaving you breathless.

Your hands find their way to her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt as you pull her closer, every inch of her body pressed firmly against yours. She tastes like whiskey and something darker, something that only fuels your desire, making you want more, need more. 

“Teasing me like that all night… you knew exactly what you were doing.” her voice is almost a growl against your lips, her frustration and need laid bare, her words punctuated with another possessive press of her hips.

Your heart races, and you find yourself grinning through the haze of desire. “Maybe I did.” you whisper, a daring edge to your tone.

Her smirk deepens as she leans in, mouth brushing against your ear. “Good.” she breathes “Because now… you’re mine.”

The intensity of her words leaves you dizzy, every nerve lit up, aching, ready for more. She slides a leg between yours, pressing firmly against you in a way that makes your instantly whimper. The sudden pressure tugging at your last restraints, making it impossible to hold back. You pull her into a fierce, consuming kiss, your mouths crashing together, hot and unrestrained, her taste filling all of your senses.

With a deliberate move, you catch her bottom lip between your teeth, biting down just hard enough to pull a throaty moan from her. The sound makes something inside you snap, a fire igniting that feels like it’s burning you from the inside out. You let your tongue glide over the spot you just bit, slow and teasing, savoring the slight tremor that runs through her in response.

Your eyes meet hers, hooded and dark with lust, each breath mingling as you hold her gaze, refusing to look away. “I want you to ruin me.” your voice is barely a whisper against her lips, but every word is thick with hunger. You let the desire in your eyes say the rest, the intensity of your gaze leaves no room for doubt, a challenge and surrender all at once.

You watch the way her pupils dilate, her eyes flashing with something feral and ravenous. Without another word, she grabs your hand again, leading you the last few steps to her car, parked in the shadowed corner with only a few other cars nearby.

As you near the car, you instinctively move toward the passenger side, expecting her to get in and drive you to her place at speed light. But Agnes doesn’t head for the driver’s side. Instead, she stops just behind you, her presence looming as you reach for the passenger’s door handle.

“Other door, doll.” she murmurs, her voice dripping with intent. A shiver runs down your spine as the implication sinks in. You glance over your shoulder, finding her gaze steady, intense, and unmistakably clear. She’s not planning on taking you anywhere.

You release the handle, heart racing as you step to the rear door, her gaze burning into you with every move. Inside of the car, the familiar scent of leather mixed with something distinctly “her” fills the small, darkened space. Agnes follows, sliding in close beside you, shutting the door to enclose you both in a cocoon of shadows and anticipation.

The air is charged with an unspoken understanding as her hand finds your bare thigh, fingers pressing possessively as she leans close, breath warm against your cheek. There’s a pause, enough to let you savor what’s about to unfold, before she brings her mouth to yours, claiming you with the raw hunger that’s been simmering all night.

Her hand starts to move in a slow, tantalizing journey upward, fingers tracing your skin and slipping beneath the hem of your dress, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. A soft moan escapes you, muffled against her mouth as her touch becomes bolder.

As her fingers graze your inner thigh, both firm and unbearably light, a whimper slips out of your lips. She pulls back just enough, gaze momentarily dropping to where her hand is inching closer to where you need her most, her breathing heavy as she watches you unravel beneath her touch.

Each slow, deliberate movement seems meant to drive you wild, her smirk making it clear she’s relishing each shaky breath you take. Without breaking eye contact, her hand ventures further, until her fingertips reach your clothed core, brushing against the patch of wetness that is seeping through the fabric. Her touch sends a surge of pleasure through you, hips arching as you crave more. She lets out a low, pleased hum, leaning close as her mouth grazes your ear.

“You’ve been waiting for this all night, haven’t you?” she whispers, her voice dripping with mockery and satisfaction, every word laced with a condescending edge that leaves you trembling. One of your hands grips the leather seat beneath you, nails digging in as you brace yourself, as the other slips between your legs, pushing aside your panties in a bold, undeniable signal. Agnes’s gaze flickers with mischief, her lips curving in a smirk at your willingness, at the silent plea in your eyes.

“Look at you…” she murmurs in that low, almost scolding tone that makes you clench around nothing. “Such a needy pet.” Her fingers finally dip down to graze your drenched folds, now exposed to her touch. Her fingers glide up and down with ease, a deliberate slowness that leaves you panting, every movement igniting raw need within you.

“Mm, so wet for me.” she whispers to herself, pressing her fingers a little firmer, coaxing a soft moan from you. Your grip tightens on the seat as your breathing grows ragged, her touch leaving you helplessly craving more, every nerve under her control.

Her movements are teasingly, atrociously, slow. An impatient thrill rushes through you, impossible to ignore, and without a second thought you straddle her lap in one swift motion. As you settle onto her, your dress rides up around your hips, baring more skin as your legs fall on either side of hers, bracketing her firmly on the back seat. Agnes’s eyes widen in surprise, excitement unmistakable as her hands find your exposed thighs, fingers pressing into your skin as you begin to grind against her.

The angle presses her strap perfectly against your core, each movement sending a pulse of pleasure as you rock in her lap, the coil in your lower abdomen growing tighter and tighter with every roll of your hips. A low growl escapes her as she watches you take what you need, movements relentless and hungry.

Lost in the moment, you wrap your arms around her neck, pulling her into a kiss that’s messy, unrestrained, moans spilling shamelessly between your mouths. “Fuck… I need you.” you murmur, hips rolling harder in her lap, grinding with a desperate rhythm that has your heartbeat racing. You feel her cock press on your clit through her pants, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if you might come just from this.

But Agnes has other plans.

Her hands slip from your waist, leaving you whining at the loss of contact as her fingers find the buckle of her belt. She undoes it with slow precision, followed by the button and zipper of her pants, her gaze locked with yours for the whole time, challenge flickering in her eyes as she smirks.

Her hand slips between your legs once more, sliding over your sensitive core, fingers teasing your hole as if to confirm just how ready you are for her. You bite your lip, completely unable to contain yourself. “Please.” you beg, voice low and trembling.

The smirk that crosses her face is dark, satisfied, as though she’s savoring every word, reveling in how desperate you are to have her inside of you. Desperation starts to kick in as your hand moves over hers, guiding her fingers between your folds, desperate for the friction she’s barely giving you. You grind against her hand, each movement sending sparks through your body as you cling to the delicious, aching need building inside you. Your breathing is ragged, and you can barely focus, until you catch sight of her other hand moving down to her waist.

With a fluid motion, Agnes reaches into her boxers, freeing her strap. The anticipation and the sheer intensity of the moment making your breath catch in your throat. As she draws it out, you take in every inch, noticing how it’s bigger than what Agatha would normally choose, yet not the biggest she’s ever ruined you with. But there’s something about the way she holds it, about the way it fills her hand, that has a rush of arousal pooling low in your stomach.

You swallow hard, desire flaring in your eyes as you let yourself imagine how it will feel inside of you, stretching you, abusing your needy hole. Agnes doesn’t miss your reaction, her smirk deepens, that predatory, knowing look in her eyes as she catches you staring. She shifts her hips, letting the strap press against your inner thigh, teasing you with what’s coming.

Her voice drops to a murmur, gravelly and low. “Think that pretty pussy of yours is ready to take it, doll?” she asks, tone both a tease and a command, daring you to say otherwise.

Without hesitation, you meet her gaze, biting your lip, eyes blazing with need. “Yes.” you whisper, breathless. “Fuck yes.”

A shiver runs through you as Agnes aligns herself, the tip of her cock pressing teasingly at your entrance, one of her hand resting firmly on your hip, grounding you. Slowly and deliberately, she begins to sink into you, stretching you inch by inch. A soft, breathy moan escapes you as the fullness sets in. Your fingers dig into her shoulders, clinging to her, every nerve ending lighting up with raw pleasure.

Agnes watches every reaction with a possessive gaze, clearly enjoying the way your body responds to her. She pauses, just for a second, letting you adjust. “Just like that. Mm, I wish I could feel that tight cunt wrapping around me. I bet it would feel so good.” she murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction.

And then, with an agonizing slowness, she presses further, filling you completely until there’s nowhere left to go and she’s buried deep inside. The feeling of fullness settles within you, every inch of her stretching you in a way that leaves you teetering on the edge of overwhelming pleasure. Your gaze drops instinctively to where your bodies connect, where her strap disappears into you, a sight that sends a deep, pulsing ache through your core.

But as you look down, your eyes catch on something else. The purple gemstone of your necklace, nestled against your skin, begins to glow, casting a soft, pulsing light in sync with the pounding rhythm of your heart. A slow smirk spreads across your lips, it’s almost time.

You teasingly wiggle your hips, signaling that you’re ready, craving the friction only she can provide. Agnes tightens her grip on your hips, nails digging into your skin. She meets your challenge, leaning forward just enough to capture your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss. In the heated clash of tongues and teeth, her hips begin to move, pulling back slowly before thrusting forward, filling you again.

Her pace is torturously unhurried, letting you feel every second, watching the way your face reflects each wave of pleasure. After a few measured thrusts, her hands slide down to grip your ass, fingers kneading your skin before delivering a sharp, satisfying spank that sends a shock of pleasure through you. A gasp slips from your lips but, before you know it, her hips have stilled and she’s watching you with a provocative glint in her eyes.

It dawns on you that she wants you to move, to put on a show just for her. You hesitate, breath catching, and her voice drops to a low, rough murmur as she smirks. “Come on doll, you gotta work for it. Let’s see how you bounce for me.”

Her words ignite a fresh wave of arousal and, taking a steadying breath, you start rolling your hips. You move slowly at first, savoring the stretch but it doesn’t take long before you start lifting and sinking your full weight down onto her, each movement drawing a low hum of approval from her lips.

Lost in the rhythm, you quicken your pace, each bounce bringing you down harder, making the base of the strap pressing firmly against her clit. Her hands guide you, watching you arch and take her deeper and deeper, her gaze full of admiration and raw desire. 

The car fills with the wet, needy sounds of your arousal as she fills you completely. Your breaths turn to soft, broken moans, mingling with curses spilling from your lips. “F-fuck… Aggie…” you stammer, the familiar nickname slipping out before you can catch it. “Feels so… so good.” you murmur, half-lost in the haze, voice thick with need as you ride her harder, body pressing into her with abandon.

Agnes’s eyes flash, and for a split second, you wonder if she’s even noticed the slip or if she’s choosing to ignore it, letting it pass without breaking the intensity of the moment. Her grip tightens, voice dropping to a rough whisper that sends a shiver down your spine “Good girl… you’re taking me so well.” One of her hand slides up your back, nails scratching your skin and leaving red marks under your dress. “This is exactly what you were made for, isn’t it?”

Her words ignite something deep inside of you, urging you on as pleasure builds with each movement, your head tipping forward as you release a shameless moan. Your steady, rhythmic bouncing sends waves of pleasure radiating through you, each one stronger than the last, the friction inside you maddeningly perfect. You can feel your own wetness slickening each movement and dripping down your thighs, the glide of her strap effortless as she pushes deeper, unrelenting.

Agnes is utterly captivated, her gaze darting between the raw expressions of pleasure on your face and the sight of her strap disappearing into you. She drinks in every movement, every tremble, barely able to restrain herself.

As if sensing her focus, you open your eyes. You catch her gaze and stare right into her as you bite your lip, slowly and purposefully sinking down onto her cock, daring her. And that’s all she needs.

One hand wraps firmly around your throat, grip strong and commanding, while the other moves to your hip, pressing you down on her lap. For a moment, everything is suspended, you’re pinned under her gaze as the intensity of both the pressure at your throat and the deep ache within makes you shudder, caught between pleasure and anticipation.

Then, without warning, her hips snap up, driving into you with a devastating shove that forces every ounce of breath out of your lungs. She thrusts hard and deep, filling you completely, each movement unrelenting and precise, striking that spot that has you gasping and moaning uncontrollably.

Your hands clutch at her shoulders, desperate for some anchor as she pound into you without mercy, driving you relentlessly toward the edge. Your eyes flutter shut in overwhelming pleasure, but her grip tightens on your throat, pulling you back. “Eyes on me, pet.” she growls, voice low and commanding. “You begged me to ruin you. Now, look at me while I give you exactly what you asked for.”.

You force your eyes open, and the instant they lock onto hers, her pace quickens. The smirk on her face is a mix of dominance and admiration as she keeps pushing you further with every movement. The feeling is all-consuming and, as she continues, you feel yourself surrender completely, helpless under her control, barely holding on as pleasure engulfs you.

Her hips are snapping forward with an intensity bordering on devastating, her feet planted firmly on the car floor, adding force to each thrust. Her hand finds its way between your legs once more, fingers moving in practiced circles over your sensitive clit, coaxing you to the brink.

The purple stone around your neck pulses brighter as your orgasm builds, filling the car with an otherworldly glow that syncs with the rhythm of Agnes’s relentless movements. 

“Mmm, I missed this… I missed you.” the confession slips out you in a raw whisper. For a second, Agnes’ expression falters, something flickering in her eyes that seems to recognize the truth. Before she can react, the light from the stone intensifies, flooding the space between you with a bright, shimmering glow. Her gaze drops to the gemstone blazing against your skin, entranced as though the light itself is unraveling something within her.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, you seize the moment and murmur the spell.

Ancient Latin words leave your lips like a quiet chant, each syllable carrying the force of longing and magic, woven with the raw passion building between you. The words wrap around you both, charging the moment, and as the final word slips from your mouth, she gasps like someone just knocked all the air out of her lungs. Agnes’s eyes meet yours, and in that instant, you know the veil has been lifted.

Agnes is gone and Agatha, your Agatha, is back. The full force of who she is, and who you are to her, rushes back all at once. For a moment, Agatha simply stares at you, the love of her life who broke her from that maddening spell… on her lap, strap buried deep inside you. The sight renders her speechless, her expression a mix of wonder and fierce devotion as she processes what’s happened.

Finally, her voice returns, smug and rough yet laden with emotion. “So, this is your idea of a rescue mission? Can’t say I mind, sweetheart.” She leans in, breath ghosting over your lips as her fingers trace your cheek, gaze softening though hunger remains.

You suppress a moan as her hips shift involuntarily, pushing deeper, and she gasps, realizing the full impact of the spell being lifted. She can feel you now, all of you. Every slick, heated movement as she fills you, every pulse of pleasure passing through you both in sync. The raw feeling of you, tight and warm, clenching around her cock, sends sudden jolts of pleasure through her. The boundary between you dissolved completely.

“Fuck… I can feel you again.” she murmurs, voice thick with awe and desire. Her voice drops, thick with satisfaction and yearning. “I’ve waited too long for this, and now… now you’re all mine again.”

Her breath catches, and her hands tighten on your hips, guiding you as she thrusts up with renewed purpose, as if proving to herself that this moment is real, savoring every second of this reconnection. Her eyes glint with pleasure as her nails dig into your skin, pulling you down harder with each thrust, her control slipping as she begins to feel herself approaching her own edge.

A ragged growl escapes her as she whispers against your ear, “You’re still so damn tight, sweetheart. Do you know what you’re doing to me?” Her breath shudders, and a smile plays on her lips as she admits, “I’m already close too… After all this time, I don’t think I can hold back.”

The rhythm between you intensifies as her hands roam over your body, holding you close as she loses herself in the feeling of being truly connected again. You’re nothing short of a moaning mess as her voice guides you closer to the edge with her, whispered praise and promises mingling with the tension building in both of you, pushing you both to the brink.

Agatha is fucking you at an unforgiving rhythm, the intensity blurring everything else. Her gaze never leaves you, watching you come undone as you both reach the edge, every sensation building to a breathtaking crescendo.

Soon, her rhythm turns erratic, her restraint fully unraveled. Her eyes bore into yours, dark and fierce, filled with desire and something deeper—a yearning that transcends this moment alone.

“Mm fuck baby… yes, just like that…” she murmurs, breathless, almost reverent.

Your thighs start to shake, each movement pushing you closer, and you can barely form words as the pleasure tightens, an unbearable ache. “Ah fuck Agatha… d-don’t stop.” you gasp, voice trembling. “Fuck fuck fuck…” you stammer with each of her relentless thrusts until your voice breaks, overcome by waves of sensation crashing through you.

The car is filled by the sound of your low, breathy moans, mixing with Agatha’s rough, primal groans, all blending together as her hands slide up your back, possessive, grounding, bracing you for what’s to come.

You’re so close, and you know she is right there with you, her body tensing as she growls, “Come with me, now.” Her voice thick, dripping with desire, her words pushing you over the edge.

Your body arches instinctively as you shudder, every nerve aflame as waves of pleasure wash over you. Your head tips back, unable to hold back the cries escaping your lips. Your thighs twitch uncontrollably, your hips moving wildly on Agatha’s lap as your walls clench around her cock, releasing all that built-up tension in one of the most powerful orgasms you’ve ever experienced.

Agatha’s hips snap up one last time, her breath catching as she reaches her own release, her hands pressing you close as she gasps. “Mine… all mine…” her words, raw and filled with emotion, resonate through you, pulling you even deeper into the moment.

Your bodies tremble together, chests heaving, hearts racing as you slowly come down from your high. She holds you there, her hand sliding up to cradle your face, her eyes softer but still burning as she meets your gaze. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, savoring the afterglow, feeling completely and utterly entwined.

Slowly, she leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss, one that holds all the love and longing she’s felt, buried beneath the spell, and everything you’ve both been waiting to express. Her mouth moves over yours with fervor, a silent promise in every brush of her lips. 

A tear rolls down your cheek as emotions overwhelm you, but Agatha notices, her thumb gently wiping it away as she smiles against your lips. Her expression is soft and filled with gratitude as she holds you close, her hands tracing over your skin as if trying to commit every inch of you to her memory.

“Thank you, my love.” she whispers, voice thick with feelings. Her hand cradles the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as she finally, reluctantly, begins to pull out. The sudden emptiness leaves you gasping softly, a shiver running through you at the loss, but before you can fully react you’re wrapping your arms around her, holding her close, grounding yourself in her warmth and presence.

Agatha’s hand slides down your back, comforting, reassuring. She presses a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring “It’s okay. I’m here now.” She pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, her features gentle yet fiercely protective. “Let’s go home.” she says, her tone pure tenderness “I won’t ever let anything take me away from you again, I promise.”.

She holds you close for one last intimate moment, while her words linger, solid and true. With a soft smile, she shifts and tucks away her strap before buttoning up her pants and fastening her belt, her eyes never leaving yours, filled with affection and satisfaction.

Once she’s ready she turns toward you, her hands moving to adjust your dress, her touch both careful and intimate as she smooths the fabric sliding it back into place around your waist and hips. Her hands linger, brushing along your sides in a way that makes your heart flutter.

Agatha opens the car door, stepping out first, leaning back to help you out of the car. She guides you with a steady hand as she opens the passenger door and, once you’re settled in the seat, she closes the door gently, making her way around the car and slipping into the driver’s seat beside you.

Agatha reaches over, her hand resting on your thigh as she leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. With a final squeeze of your thigh, she starts the car, guiding you both into the night. In the quiet space between you, there’s a shared understanding that this is the beginning of a new chapter, together, with nothing left to keep you apart.

[reiding-writing]

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

[ervotica]

Ik this isn’t part of the prompt but can u plz do a eclipse Jasper x human reader whenever she can feel her anxiety worsen or even a panic attack about to start Jasper uses his ability to calm her down (since he can manipulate emotions/moods) and he usually does it by talking to her and kissing her gently🥹😭

summary; jasper eases your anxiety and kisses away all your worries.

warnings; fem!reader, reader w anxiety, soft, soft!jasper, jasper uses his gift on reader but it’s sweet, pure fluff! no use of y/n

Jasper's rasping Southern lilt pulls you out of your haze; he can feel the rushing thrum of your pulse beneath your skin, the way you tense and burrow further into the comfort of the blanket that’s loosely draped over your shoulders. You're vacant, eyes glassy and unfocused despite the lively chatter of the Cullen house, the raucous booming of Emmett’s voice and Rosalie’s quiet scolding that follows as the rest of the family talk animatedly. This upcoming fight has everyone on edge and it’s evident in your stance, the way you curl up small on the couch and wring your fingers until they flush ruby.

"Hey, sugar," Jasper murmurs, a finger hooking over your cheek to draw your gaze to his own. It's a miracle he can stand to be so close to you now, almost desensitised to your scent, the warmth of your touch, the ravenous hunger that claws at his throat when you're close. Your eyes crinkle at the corners, carving lines into the soft skin when your eyes meet his.

"Hey, Jas."

His icy lips are on your cheek and you soak up his touch, resisting the urge to lean into it as you really want to, still cautious of overwhelming him. The sense of calm that washes over you feels artificial, the only indicator that the feeling isn’t quite your own, but rather the emotion that Jasper is weaving into your frazzled nerves as the anxiety untangles like yarn and dissipates. The crushing thunderstorm is reduced to small, sweeping waves that lap at the corners of your mind but no longer engulf it.

You accept the feeling regardless of its origin, your muscles uncoiling as Jasper strokes slow lines over your cheekbone. Your eyes track the swish of his blond tresses when his head dips further, the bridge of his nose pressed to your cheek, and one golden eye that watches you right back.

His mouth ventures to the corner of your lips and you feel the imprint of his smile as you giggle and your features scrunch with unbridled adoration. It’s a rare display of such emboldened affection from him and you’ll be damned if you don’t wring him for every ounce whilst he’s willing to offer it.

All background noise melts away when he catches your lips between his own. You gasp a sweet little noise into his mouth and he swallows it greedily; the feel of his cold fingers on your cheek brands you, leaving a lasting tingle that reminds you that you’re his and his only. He nips at your bottom lip, the ghost of a laugh echoing against your mouth when you whine and cant your body towards his, wanting, needing, to be close. His forehead stays anchored to your own when he draws himself away.

"You’re beautiful," he murmurs. "My beautiful girl."

The cadence of his voice alone is enough to have you going soft and pliant in his grasp, tired eyes watching his every move as he nudges your chin upwards and presses another gentle peck to your mouth.

"Everything’s gonna be jus’ fine, okay?" he coos, gathering you up and into his arms in a way that has you biting your lip to suppress a whimper. "And then we’ll have forever, my darlin’."

"You promise?" He almost laughs at your question, but he hears the warble in your voice, feels the tightening of your fingers against the sleeve of his shirt, and he knows you need the reassurance. Something white-hot lights in his chest, fondness and something deep and primal all mixed into one— the urge to protect you always, no matter the cost, even if the world burns to ashes. He’ll protect you always.

"I promise." He sits back until you’re tucked beneath his arm, pushing stray curls out of your face as you nestle into the crook of his armpit. "Why don’t you sleep for a little while? You need it."

Suddenly the ruckus of the Cullen house dulls in your ears, your only focus on the blond you’re tucked against, his fingers curling around the blanket to pull it flush to your frame. The last thing you register is his arms tightening around you as you doze, and an arm hiking you into his lap when you go limp against him.

[juliewillruinu]

Do you think you could write Sukuna spoiling his concubine?

Your wish is my command, but let me add a bit of spice 👐

18 +MDNI

☆ Toxic/Possessive Sukuna, fingering, oral (fem receiving), cunnilingus, mentions of double p, and mentions of childbearing. ☆

The night air in the palace is thick with tension. The queen and other concubines whisper bitterly amongst themselves, their eyes often narrowing with jealousy when you pass by. Yet, none of that matters. Not when you feel Sukuna’s gaze, sharp as a blade, following your every move. It’s a gaze that sends shivers down your spine, a gaze that makes you feel both vulnerable and utterly desired.

Sukuna Ryomen has had countless concubines, each more beautiful than the last, but there’s something about you that’s different. Something he can’t quite place but knows he can’t resist. You’ve become his favorite, a position that comes with both perks and perils. He admires the way you carry yourself—graceful yet strong, submissive yet possessing a quiet defiance that intrigues him. The softness of your skin, the curve of your lips, the way you react to his every touch—all of it drives him mad with desire. He likes that you aren’t like the others, who cower and bend to his will without question. You challenge him in your subtle way, and that only makes him want you more.

You’ve seen how the others envy you, their eyes dark with jealousy whenever Sukuna pulls you close or lavishes his attention on you. They hate how he spoils you, how he indulges your every whim. But what they don’t understand is that Sukuna’s affection is as dangerous as it is intoxicating. He doesn’t love you in the conventional sense—he doesn’t know how to. But in his twisted way, he is utterly and possessively yours.

Sukuna shows his affection through acts that blur the line between dominance and devotion. When you’re alone with him, away from the prying eyes of the court, he’s different. He’s still the cruel, unpredictable King of Curses, but with you, there’s a softness in his touch, an almost tender care in the way he handles you. He likes to watch you to see how you react to his presence, and it’s during these moments that he’ll reach out, pulling you to him with an unbreakable strength.

One night, after a particularly heated day of courtly duties, Sukuna summons you to his private chambers. The air is thick with the scent of incense, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. As you enter, you find him seated on his throne, a wicked smile playing on his lips as he beckons you closer. Without a word, you approach, and he pulls you onto his lap, his arms wrapping around you in a way that’s both protective and possessive.

His chest is solid against your back, his breath warm on your neck as he leans in, inhaling the scent of your hair. “You know you drive them mad,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “All of them wish they could take your place.”

You can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch. He likes that they’re jealous. He likes that it only solidifies your place by his side. His hand moves to your chin, tilting your head back so that your eyes meet his. There’s a darkness in his gaze, a hunger that never seems to be fully sated, no matter how often he has you.

Slowly, Sukuna lowers his head, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s both demanding and possessive. His mouth is hot against yours, his kiss searing, as if he’s trying to brand you as his own. His other hand slides to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him, as if he can’t get enough of you. The kiss deepens, and for a moment, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you in this moment of heated passion.

When he finally pulls away, you’re left breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. Sukuna’s eyes are half-lidded, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. “You belong to me,” he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. “Don’t ever forget that.”

In the days that follow, Sukuna continues to spoil you, giving you everything you could ever want or need. Whether it’s the finest silks, rare jewels, or simply his time, he gives it all to you without hesitation. He enjoys seeing the others fume, their jealousy only fueling his desire to spoil you even more. But he also knows when to give in to you, when to let you have your way. It's a dangerous game you play with him, one that both excites and terrifies you.

A joyous day it was when your birthday came along. Not only did you have the king all to yourself, but the servants and the men of his court found it to be a day they didn't have to worry about losing their heads. Sukuna had you sitting on top of your desk where you read and wrote on. His lower hands came to rest on either side of your hips, gripping them with intimidating strength that anchored you in place. His upper hands cupped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle given the power that lurked beneath his skin. His thumbs brushed along your jawline, tilting your head slightly upward, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His lips hovered just above yours for a moment, the anticipation thick in the air. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the scent of him intoxicating. And then, without warning, he closed the gap, his mouth crashing onto yours with a hunger that left no room for hesitation.

The kiss was anything but soft—it was demanding, all-consuming, as if Sukuna was intent on claiming every part of you with just his lips. His tongue slid past your parted lips, exploring your mouth with a fierce possessiveness that made your heart race. He tasted of something dark and forbidden, a flavor that was uniquely his, and it sent a jolt of pleasure through you.

As his upper hands held your face in place, his lower hands tightened their grip on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk until there was no space left between you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, seeking to bring him even closer, though the solid weight of his body had already pressed you firmly against the desk.

Sukuna’s kiss deepened, growing more intense with every passing second. His tongue moved with a skill that left you breathless, a mix of rough and smooth alternating between coaxing and commanding. The sheer power of his kiss made it feel like he was drawing the very breath from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded and completely at his mercy.

His upper hands slid from your face, one tangling in your hair, gripping it just tight enough to send a delicious thrill of pain down your spine, while the other trailed down the side of your neck, his fingers tracing the pulse that raced beneath your skin. His touch was a reminder of the control he held over you, a control that you both knew you could never escape. The moment you pulled away to breathe in the air was the time he took to ask you,

"Tell me what you desire. It shall be yours."

"I'm not sure I know what more I could want?"

"Perhaps more jewels, dresses, a pet to keep you company when I'm away from court, or maybe," he leaned towards your ear, his hot breath grazing your skin as he whispered, "You need me to pound my cock in those spoiled holes of yours for the rest of the day as a gift, hmm?"

"Those do sound like great gifts, but something crossed my mind this afternoon. I wonder..." her eyes shifted to him, "what would it be like to have a king on his knees and in between my legs?"

He’d smirk respond with a smirk, his crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer, his voice dripping with a mix of arrogance and desire.

“Oh? Is that what you want, my little temptress?” he’d purr, one of his hands trailing along your thigh. You sheepishly grin as you turn your head. You knew he would end up doing it. Not because he felt like he had to. Oh, no — he was doing it because he found your boldness amusing as always.

When Sukuna Ryomen decided to indulge his favorite concubine, he did so with the same intensity and dominance that defined everything else he did.

Sukuna wasn’t one to rush, especially not when it came to you. He would begin by having you stripped bare before him, taking his time to admire your body with an appreciative gaze. His eyes would linger on every curve, every mark that he had left on you in moments of passion. It was ecstasy to his eyes.

With you sitting before him, Sukuna would lower himself, his breath ghosting over your skin, teasing and taunting you with the anticipation of what was to come. His hands, large and powerful, would grip your thighs, spreading them wide, ensuring that you were completely exposed to him.

"Look at this beauty." You shivered at his fingers that grazed over your exposed cunt.

"Don't tease me, my king."

"So impatient. We'll have to work on that one of these days."

When his mouth finally descended, he would start slowly, dragging his tongue languidly along your most sensitive bud, testing your reactions, savoring every shiver, and gasp that escaped your lips. Sukuna was a master at knowing exactly how to drive you wild, alternating between feather-light touches and deeper, more insistent strokes that sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. One hand brushed through his hair as you slowly felt a knot in your stomach tie itself up.

He would pull you closer, his grip tightening as he buried his face deeper between your legs, his tongue flicking and swirling with an almost torturous precision. The sensation of his mouth on you, combined with the raw, primal hunger he exuded, would be overwhelming. His teeth would graze against your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to send a jolt of sensation through your body, a reminder that he could be both your pleasure and your pain.

Sukuna’s lips sucking with a deliberate slowness that built the tension within you to unbearable heights. He’d revel in the way your body responded to him, your back arching off the bed, your hands grasping desperately at anything within reach. He’d chuckle darkly at your helplessness, his voice vibrating against you, adding another layer of stimulation that pushed you closer to the edge.

As he continued, Sukuna’s fingers found their way inside of you, pumping in and out. They would delve deeper, exploring every inch of you with a fervor that spoke of his insatiable desire to consume you entirely. The rhythm would shift between slow, torturous strokes to quick, relentless flicks that had you teetering on the brink of release. He chuckled as he admired your heat. Your flesh was gripping down on him tightly, not wanting to let him go for even a moment.

"Haa...I can never forget how tight you get when I tease you. Look at these juices you're producing. I wonder if you'll make even more if I reach deeper."

"My...king, you, ahh—shouldn't say such lewd words."

"My words can't compare to your shameless moans. It's almost like you want everyone in the palace to hear you."

And when he sensed you were close, Sukuna would pull back, just enough to leave you aching for more, to remind you who was in control. “Do you want to come?” he’d ask, his voice husky, his breath hot against your soaked skin.

"Y-yes, please, my king. May-I?."

"Don't hold back then. Be a good girl and come for your king."

The climax he would wrench from you would be nothing short of earth-shattering. Your body would arch and quiver beneath the relentless onslaught of Sukuna’s expert touch, his mouth working you over with a ferocity that left you utterly undone. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth, would push you closer to the brink until all coherent thought dissolved into a pure, raw sensation. Your hands would clutch desperately at his head, fingers curling as you tried to ground yourself, but it would be futile against the overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing through you. Sukuna would take his time, savoring each tremor that coursed through your body, his dark, satisfied chuckle the only sound that cut through your final moan as your cunt finally caved, leaving your legs shaking and you whimpering.

You laid your back against the wood of the table, grazing your hand over your neck just to make sure you were still alive. Your eyes flickered to Sukuna when you found your legs being forced to open wider than before. You could feel something hard, something angry and desperate rubbing against your abused clit. His cock was staring straight at you, pent up from being ignored till now.

"I think I can offer you a gift far more precious than the last." His nails lightly grazed your stomach, a predatory smirk tugging at his lips. "I’ll let you bear my seed—carry the heir of a king. Consider it the highest honor you’ll ever receive on this glorious day."

[paperclip-skz]

Love 2 Walk

Chan x reader 

Warning: fingering, kissing, the mention of nicknames (babygirl), praising, teasing, squirting, fingering, overstimulation,cream pie (wrap it up), rough sex, over clothes stimulation, I’m sure I missed smt let me know in the comments!

WC: 6.5k.... I know..

Also note: This story is HEAVLY influenced by the Webtoon series Love 4 Walk. This is just "my" version of it, you could say. I am writing to write and I recommend you read the series. *** This is not an original idea, this IS INSPIRED BY AN ANIME**

Credits to: Nuria Sanguino for the ORIGINAL webtoon story!!

Synopsis: how does one fall hopelessly in love with their neighbor? Oh, no biggy, just by walking their dog 😉.

******

Beep beep beep. 

The sun streams through the cracks in my bedroom curtains, casting warm beams of light that punctuate the shadows of the room. I squint against the brightness, feeling the dull thrum of morning settling around me. “Ugh,” I groan, reluctantly peeling my eyelids apart to greet the day. But just as I begin to indulge in a few more moments of drowsy tranquility, a sudden, playful jab from a hard little foot strikes me squarely in the side. “Ow, Bruno! Just five more minutes,” I croak out, my voice thick with sleep.

Yet, my protest is short-lived. In mere moments, Bruno, my exuberant Doberman, has taken matters into his own paws. He’s showering my face with enthusiastic kisses, the warm, wet sensations breaking through my lingering sleepiness. “Ew,” I manage to squeak out, half-heartedly stretching my arms above my head and swiping at the slobber glistening on my cheek. 

As my senses awaken fully, I finally focus on the source of my morning disturbance. There’s Bruno, sitting next to my bed with his tail wagging vigorously; the unmistakable joy radiating from him is infectious. His glossy coat shines in the sunlight, and his big, brown eyes are practically pleading with me. Any lingering frustration I had evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming wave of affection. How could I possibly stay mad at that adorable, eager face?

“Awe, who’s my baby boy?” I coo in a sing-song voice, unable to resist the allure of his charm. “Are you just bursting with excitement to go for a walk?” 

With a playful bark and a little tap dance of his paws, Bruno seems to agree emphatically. 

Thirty minutes later, after a whirlwind of getting ready, I stand by the door of my apartment, dressed in my work clothes—an elegant blouse paired with tailored trousers and my favorite heels. I take a moment to adjust my outfit, making sure everything is in place, when Bruno bounces in anticipation, ready for our quick thirty-minute adventure before my workday begins. With a final glance in the mirror and a quick pat on Bruno’s head, I open the door, stepping out into the brisk morning air, ready for whatever the day may hold….

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 

Bruno is an exceptional dog and undeniably the best companion I could ever have. His floppy ears and wagging tail always bring a smile to my face, even when he defies my commands with his playful mischief. We have a special bond, one forged through countless adventures and quiet moments together—always Bruno and I against the world.

Yet, our daily walks have become increasingly challenging. The moment we step outside, his excitement takes over; he pulls on the leash with fervor, eager to explore every scent and sound. It feels like I’m trying to hold back a small locomotive, making it more and more difficult to keep him by my side. And then there are my shoes. Oh, my poor shoes! They’ve transformed into his favorite chew toys, often left in a state of disarray, bits of fabric hanging from his mischievous mouth. Despite his less-than-stellar listening skills, I remind myself daily of the joy he brings into my life.

Today is a special day. As I prepare to leave for work, I’m excitedly installing my brand new doggie cam—a small but powerful device that promises to give me a window into his world while I’m away. “Now, Bruno,” I tell him, crouching down so we’re eye to eye. “With this camera, I’ll be able to see everything you do, so I hope you behave yourself!” His ears perk up, flicking back and forth in what seems like focused attention, and for a moment, I almost believe he comprehends the weight of my words.

Standing at the threshold, I hesitate, reluctant to close the door fully. I peek through the small crack, watching him as he sniffs around the room, his tail wagging like a little flag of excitement. “Be good, buddy,” I say softly, my voice laced with affection and a hint of concern. With that, I finally muster the courage to shut the door, leaving him in the safety of our home—hoping he’ll have some fun but also checking in on him from afar.

**** at work

“Gooood morning” I announce. 

“Good morning Y/N” Annie greets me behind her little cubicle desk. “So when can I tell you about last night's new hottie” he exclaims, clapping her hands. 

“In one sec, just let me check my new cam.” I eagerly open my phone to check my camera…

“Oh good heavens.” my face drops in horror as I watch my Baby Bruno shred the cushions of my couch to pieces!

“What??” Annie looks at me worried, and I turn my phone to show the scary scene unfolding in my living room.

“Oh, honey.” Her face mimics mine, hurt with a mix of fright. " You need to get that dog a trainer,” she admits. 

I sigh in defeat….”I think it's time.” 

***** back at home

After the day is done and my head is pounding, I finally make it up the stairs to my apartment. I steady my hand on the door handle, unprepared to see the damage. The door creeks open and my jaw drops. 

“BRUNO WHAT DID YOU DO!” the pillows are torn, the cushions are ripped, somehow the paintings on the wall are tilled at an angle and the carpet is folded over!

“BRUNO HOW COULD YOU! BAD DOG! BAD BAD BAD!”

~~~~

“There she goes again,” Chan grobbles, lifting himself off of his bed. He slings his arm into one of his shirts and slips his socked feet into some nearby crocs. “Wait here girl, I’ll be right back”.

The familiar sound of his neighbor's high-pitched screams fills the air, a jarring reminder of her vibrant personality. She often yells about movies, her passionately animated rants echoing through the thin walls whenever she's on a call. He can almost picture her pacing back and forth, waving her arms in excitement or frustration over the latest plot twist. And then there’s her dog, a big, overly energetic creature who seems to be the target of her shouts on most days. Whether it’s scolding him for stealing a shoe, begging him to stop barking, or even adoring him for the smallest things, her voice carries down the hallway, a constant backdrop to his weary journey home.

He slams his fits against her front door, “hello!” he calls. 

The sound of her heels clicking rhythmically against the wooden floor echoed through the hallway, growing louder with each step until the door swung open. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his irritation evident in the sharpness of his voice. “Can you keep it down? Your yelling woke me up.” 

She paused at the threshold, her wide eyes filled with a mixture of apology and concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice soft and sincere. “I pro-” But her attempt to explain was abruptly interrupted as Bruno seized the moment, darting past her and out the door in a sudden, frantic escape.

“BRUNO” 

“Sit!” Chan commands firmly, his voice cutting through the air and surprising Bruno, who hadn't been anticipating the order. The suddenness of it makes Bruno halt immediately, his posture shifting as he straightens up. He glances back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Chan, seeking reassurance or perhaps understanding. 

“Sit!” Chan repeats, his tone unyielding yet encouraging. Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruno plops down right in front of Chan, a look of bewilderment etched across his face. His large, expressive eyes convey a mixture of confusion and eagerness to please.

“Good boy, come,” Chan praises, his smile widening as he encourages Bruno to follow the next command. With an enthusiastic wag of his tail, Bruno leaps to his feet, ready to obey, his previous uncertainty dissolving as he tracks Chan's movements closely. He follows each instruction effortlessly.

“Go on,” Chan says, guiding Bruno back inside. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just keep it down, will ya?” Once he looks back at his neighbor, her jaw slacks, and her eyes are blown. 

“How…how did you do that?” 

“You just have to be stern. Now I’m going back to sleep.” Chan turns back to his door, but Y/N leaps in front of him. 

“Will you train my dog?!”

~~~~~~~

“I’ll pay you!” I exclaim. This has to be a sign. A gorgeous man that just happens to live right next door to me, AND Bruno listens to me, my prayers have been answered. 

“What” he furrows his brow. 

“Just watch him while I’m away at work, train him a little so he dosn’t ruin my apartment, and….don’t steal anything” I shrug. 

“Ruin your apartment?”.....

>>>> back in the apartment

“So this is ‘ruin your apartment’” he air quotes gesturing to the mess that is my living room.

“Is it not” I question, while Bruno makes himself comfortable on my torn couch. He wags his tail happily as he chew on one of his favorite toys. 

“Fair enough” Chan walks around the living room scanning all the little details of the room. He spins on the ball of his heel, “that’ll be…$20 an hour” he says bluntly.

WHAT! I scream in my head. “$20 an hour! I work a full 8-hour shift, thats too much!”

“Yup, take it or leave it” he shrugs. 

I took a deep breath, knowing full well that adopting Bruno wasn’t merely a casual commitment; it was a full-time job that came with a mountain of responsibilities. The thought of him sitting at home alone, wanting companionship and care, tugged at my heart. To me, Bruno wasn’t just a pet; he was family, and like any family, he deserved nothing but the best. 

After contemplating, I straightened my shoulders and decided, “Fine. I’ll do it.” My voice rang with determination, surprising Chan, who blinked at me in astonishment. It seemed my willingness to accept the terms had caught him off guard.

 I couldn’t help but add, “My Bruno deserves the best.” This was more than just a job offer; it was my promise to ensure he received the love and attention he warranted.

A moment passed and I could a hint of a smile on his lips…. His rosey plump lips that I am not just noticing how beautiful they are. And how his eyes shine in the light so perfectly, or how his hair falls just above his eyes, or how broad his chest is….Y/N snap out of it!

“Okay, well then you’ll need to pay me by the end of the week, and I’ll need a spare key to your apartment.”

“Right,” my voice wavers. It suddenly hits me at once: I just invited a complete stranger into my apartment, offered to pay him, and spend time with the most important person in my life. What the hell am I doing? 

My nerves are on edge, causing me to scrutinize each and every move he makes. I observe him intently, my gaze fixed like that of a hawk, as he gently strokes the soft fur of my beloved Baby Bruno. I can’t help but notice how his fingers delicately glide over Bruno’s back, and I feel a surge of protectiveness wash over me. Every interaction seems to unravel layers of my anxiety, making me hyper-aware of the atmosphere around us.

“I can hear your nerves from here, you know” Bruno spins a s circle around Chan; his little happy dance always eases my anxiety. “Look, I was kidding about the 20-an-hour thing. 20 a week is perfectly fine.” 

My jaw shuts like a cartoon. “But- why-” 

“Becuase I know how much you love your dog” 

“But we only just met” I counter. 

“I told you I can hear everything through the walls” 

I scratch my brain trying to think what he could possibly mean…until it hits me. 

<<<<<<<<<< the past

Four months ago, I was dating this guy. We thought that before moving on to the next steps—getting married, having kids, the whole shebang—it would be best to practice responsibility together by getting a dog.

But I guess we all show our true colors under pressure.

“LET'S JUST GET RID OF THE DAMN THING!” Noah shouted at the top of his lungs.

“NO, WE ADOPTED HIM! WE TOOK ON THE RESPONSIBILITY! WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF THIS WERE OUR CHILD AND THEY WERE ACTING OUT?” I screamed back at him, tears streaking down my cheeks as I held on tightly to Bruno's body. The shattered lamp lay broken into pieces around us.

“BUT THIS ISN’T OUR KID, THIS IS JUST A DAMN DOG. THAT’S IT, Y/N, YOU HAVE TO CHOOSE, ME OR THE DAMN DOG”

After that night, I told myself I would never let anyone come between me and Bruno. If someone couldn’t understand our bond, then no one could understand me. 

>>>>>>>>>> the present 

“You heard the fight that night.” 

Chan just hums as he continues petting Bruno’s fur. “I was so pissed off that night, but once I heard you yell at him to leave, I knew you and I were the same is some ways” 

“Oh?” I question crossing my hands over my chest. 

“You and I share the same belief: people can hurt, lie, and abandon you, but dogs simply do not have it in their hearts to do the same.” He says, his eyes bleeding with truth. Even though I’ve been a dog owner for only a short time, I love Bruno more than I could ever imagine. I see his innocence, and I know he would never hurt me or anyone else without a valid reason. He’s not like everyone else in the world; he simply can’t hurt anyone.

“Wait…the same belief?” 

Chan chuckles to himself, “Yeah, I have a dog. Her name is Berry, she’s a King Charles” 

>>>>> time jump!

And so the morning training walks began. 

Chan would come over during the week and stay with Bruno until you returned home from work. He’d train Bruno to listen and obey while you worked the day away. 

Chan would also accompany you on your daily morning walk, thats when you met Berry. She was clearly Chan’s princess, feeding her only the best treats and dressing her up in tiny bows to compliment her wavy fur. 

The weeks rolled by and you and Chan became pretty good friends, quickly finding a perfect medium in your relationship….so why did your heart race every time he got a little too close? Or why did you immediately recognize his vanilla smell every time he left your apartment, and why did it make your head dizzy with need? 

>>> another time jump!

“Ahhh, Saturdays. How I adore Saturdays,” I exclaimed softly, sighing contentedly as I cradle a warm mug of coffee in my hands. The rich aroma envelops me, and I take a small, savoring sip, letting the smooth brew awaken my senses. “No work, late mornings,” I murmur, my gaze drifting out the window. The horizon glows with the gentle hues of dawn, while the sun begins to rise, casting golden rays through the leaves of the trees that sway gracefully in the soft breeze.

“Woof!” Bruno barks enthusiastically, abruptly pulling me from my serene reverie.

“Ah, Bruno,” I say, chuckling lightly. Can’t you wait just five more seconds? You just have to have your walk, don’t you?” I lean my body weight on the counter, my fingers tracing the surface as I look down at him. His head tilts to the side, a curious expression illuminating his face, and those big, expressive eyes radiate eagerness.

“I can’t lie…I’m excited too,” I admit with a grin, bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet. My excitement feels palpable as if it's sparking an electric current in the air around me. 

I can't wait to see those captivating coffee-stained eyes, filled with warmth and kindness, and that broad chest—strong and dependable—it makes my mind race with ideas of how strong his arms truly are. 

Moments later, I find myself stepping out of my apartment in my bright sunshine yellow sundress. The fabric dances lightly around my knees as I clip the leash onto Bruno’s collar, ready for our afternoon adventure. Just as I’m about to close the door behind me, I hear Chan’s voice call out from a short distance away.

“Oh hey, Y/N!” Chan exclaims, his friendly tone breaking the afternoon stillness.

I turn my head over my shoulder, securing my clutch with one hand as I turn the key in the lock. There, walking out of his apartment is Chan, accompanied by his delightful little dog, Berry. A smile spreads across my face as I catch sight of them. “Hey, Chan!” I reply, my excitement bubbling up as I get down on my knees to greet Berry. 

“Hey there, pretty princess!” I say, reaching out to pet Berry’s soft fur. The small brown dog wiggles with delight, her tiny tail wagging furiously as she happily responds to my touch.

Chan walks a bit closer, observing the playful antics of our dogs. “You guys going on a walk, too?” he asks, a knowing smile on his face. He watches Bruno and Berry bounce around each other like they’ve been friends for ages. Despite the stark contrast in their sizes—Bruno is a towering fluffy creature and Berry a petite little ball of energy—their friendship is evident. It’s as if Berry doesn’t even notice the size difference; her joy is contagious. 

“Yea,” I answer, lifting from my knees. 

“Can we tag along?”

>>> Saturday walk

“Why are you still at that job?!” Chan exclaims, his laughter bubbling from his chest. 

“Because it pays well,” I laugh with him. I just told him about my last boss, who got fired for accidentally showing some… sensitive material during a meeting a few months ago. “I really enjoy my job. Even though it can be a bit boring sometimes, I love being in a business that brings joy to people,” I explain.

Chan listens and nods, watching our dogs as they walk closely together. “You know, you’ve never really told me in detail what you do for work,” I say, nudging his shoulder.

“Well,” he scratches the back of his neck. I’m a producer, as you know.” I nod. " People send me voice tracks, and I make other tracks to make a song.” He shrugs, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

“Yes yes, you’ve told me all that before, but who have you worked for” I raise my brow intending to tease him. 

“Haha, I can’t tell you that” he mimics my earlier shrug. 

“Uugh” I groan. “Fine, if you can’t tell me who you work with, then can you at least tell me what kind of music you work on?” I ask, pleading with my eyes. 

He just smirks and thinks about it for a second, making a dramatic attempt to stall, “okay…I work on a lot of hip hop music and rap music. I also dabble in rock” he sighs out, his smile spreading across his cheeks. He so obviously proud of his work it's cute. 

“Can I hear it?” I ask biting my lip. I know I’m asking for too much, he’s already so careful around me, especially talking about his work. 

He brings us to a halt looking down at me. I can tell he’s thinking hard about this, he’s staring so intently at me, but his face softens, and he relaxes, like a weight has lifted off of his chest. 

~~~~~

This is his chance, he finally has an excuse to ask you over to his place. Its the perfect timing, the perfect reason, and the perfect way. So why can’t the words fall off his lips? 

Why can’t he take his eyes off of you and why can’t his body move?!

From the moment you entrusted him with the responsibility of looking after Bruno while you were busy at work, a subtle shift began to take place in the dynamic between you two. As days turned into weeks, he found himself increasingly drawn to you in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Initially, he brushed off his feelings, attributing them to mere loneliness - He thought he was just infatuated with the first beautiful girl who caught his attention.

However, everything changed the day he heard your laughter for the first time. It rang out like music, bright and infectious, enveloping him in a warmth that made his heart race. It was like fireworks shooting out of his chest, and his whole body felt like it was lifting off the ground. And your smile, god how he could never get used to that smile. He loved the way your eyes squeezed tight when your smile met your ears, he knew you couldn’t fake a smile, your real smile was just too genuine.

At that moment, he felt an undeniable spark, a realization that his feelings ran far deeper than he had ever imagined. He would catch himself stealing glances at you, captivated not just by your appearance but also by your kindness, your passion—everything that made you uniquely you. It dawned on him that what he thought was a passing fancy had transformed into something much more.

“Have dinner at my place” it tumbles out like a wall crashing down. 

“What?”

Oh shit. Make words make sense. “You can hear one of the songs I’m working on, if you come over, and since you’d be over why not just have dinner?” nice. 

Your face is the embodiment of shock, and confusion…but the second he sees that lovely smile appear he finally lets himself breath. “Okay!” you bounce. 

“Okay, so my place, lets say….6?” stay calm stay calm stay calm.

“Yea, 6 is great!”

>>>>>> that night

Okay, red dress or black? I rummage through my clothes in my closet deciding what's best to wear to a friend's dinner. Ugh, but I don’t want to be friends. What says “I don’t want to be friends I want to be more, but I also don’t want to make you uncomfortable with the wrong message”? 

Black….just go with the black dress. 

I glide my hands over the soft fabric of the outfit, feeling how it clings comfortably to my skin. The cardigan, in a rich shade of blue, perfectly complements my favorite colors, adding a vibrant touch to my overall look. My cherry red lipstick stands out brilliantly, making my eyes sparkle when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. "Finally done," I say with a satisfied smile, admiring how everything comes together.

Turning away, I notice Bruno, my faithful companion, peacefully sleeping on my bed. His fur glimmers softly in the ambient light. I can’t resist walking over to him, and I lean down to plant a gentle air kiss on his forehead, whispering, "Goodnight, my good boy." With a fond glance back at him, I head toward the door.

Its only a few short steps before I’m knocking on Chan’s door. I can hear the shuffle of him and Berry behind the wood, before the door swings open. 

“Hey!” he says, his smile reaching his eyes. 

“Hey” I giggle back. He steps aside so I can gracefully walk in and I immediately lean down to pet Berry. “Hi princess” I sing. 

“Okay okay, the princess can go to bed” he says as he leans down to pick Berry up and take her away to some hidden room.

Once he comes back he sees the pout on my face, “she was fine” I say.

“I know, but now is the time for the adults.” my cheeks flush. “Wine?”

“Love some” 

*****************

“Wow, that was incredible!” I exclaim, setting down my knife, my plate completely bare.

“Thanks,” he replies, his cheeks tinged with a hint of shyness as he leans down to collect our empty plates.

“I really mean it! I had no idea you were such a talented cook,” I tease, my voice playful and inviting.

“Ha, yeah, well, I guess we both have our secrets,” he shrugs, his eyes sparkling as he heads to the kitchen sink.

His words linger in the air. I really don’t know much about him, maybe we could change this. “How about we spice things up and play a drinking game? It’ll be a fun way to get to know each other,” I smile, raising my nearly empty glass with a seductive glimmer in my eye.

He pauses for a moment, the intrigue clear in his gaze, then settles back onto the couch, nodding in agreement. “What exactly are the rules of this drinking game?” 

I smirk, pulling my glass closer to my chest, the heat of the wine pulsing through my veins. "Alright, we play my game. You guess something about me—if you’re right, I drink; if you’re wrong, you drink. And vice versa." I let a playful glimmer dance in my eyes, the alcohol enhancing the seductive atmosphere between us.

"Okay, I’ll bite, but I get to go first," he replies with a mischievous spark. I can’t help but let a soft laugh escape my lips.

“Fine,” I shrug, my anticipation growing as I lean in slightly, inviting his guess.

“You have a boyfriend. Or a significant other,” he states confidently, raising an eyebrow.

I giggle, the bluntness of his question only adding to the intrigue. “Nope, no boyfriend here.” I lift my glass, letting the rich wine flow over my lips as I take a slow sip.

With an amused nod, he watches me, his smile radiant. “My turn,” I announce, shifting into a more relaxed position, making the moment linger.

“Your tattoo has a special meaning.” I point to the subtle peek of ink just visible on his back.

He glances at where I'm pointing, pulling his shirt down slightly to reveal more of the hidden art. “Of course,” he replies, his confidence shining through. “All my tattoos have a story.”

“All?” I tease, my curiosity piqued.

He bites his lip, teasing me with the thought of dodging my question, but it’s too late for that. He lifts his shirt, revealing a breathtaking view—a chiseled chest adorned with art. 

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, my gaze fixating on the three delicate paw prints trailing down his shoulder, but it’s the intricate compass that captivates me most. “What’s the story behind it?” I challenge.

“That’s another question,” he replies, turning to hold my gaze.

“Had to try,” I smirk, reveling in the tension hanging thick in the air.

“It’s not just about the story,” he says, searching my eyes. “It’s about the people it represents—my seven friends. I owe them everything.”

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” I muse, my thoughts spilling out, fueled by the warmth of the wine swirling in me.

He turns fully to face me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. He slowly reaches out, his fingers brushing against my ankle. “It would look stunning here,” he whispers, tracing along my skin. A flush spreads across my cheeks, and I feel the closeness ignite something primal within me.

For a heartbeat, it feels like the world has paused—our breaths mingling, the air alive with unspoken desire. “The wine is sure affecting you, huh?” he chuckles softly, never breaking that deep eye contact.

“Lightweight,” I tease, biting my lip, the game intensifying. “Do you want to stop?”

“Now that it’s my turn? Not a chance, baby,” he replies, his voice low and teasing.

A desperate want ignites within me, a need that spreads like wildfire, consuming my thoughts. “You’d be bothered if I told you I dream about you,” he confesses, caught in the moment.

A gasp slips from my lips, but truthfully, I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t drink—because I dream about him too. So, I throw back the rest of my wine, not caring about the intoxicating aftermath, only focused on the tension lingering between us.

“My turn,” I start, I set my glass on the table in front of us, and move so I can crawl towards his trembling body, “If I kiss you right now,” I come close to his body, inches away from his lips, my breath coating his skin making goosebumps appear on his muscled arms. “You’ll kiss me back” I bore into his eyes, which are pooling with lust. 

A sheer moment of silence fills the room; you can feel the heat of the moment radiating off our skin, until finally, Chan grabs hold of the back of my neck, pulling me to crash against his lips in a hungry kiss. 

It's nothing soft, or tender, its starved and greedy. His hands make their way over the sides of my thighs, pulling me across his lap so I can straddle his bulky thighs. Its then that I feel the true effects of the alcohol, his growing bulge poking my dripping core, teasing my entrance for what awaits the evening. 

I can feel his bare fingertips trace circles along my skin; his touch is so gentle compared to his kiss. His tongue demands entrance, licking past my lips, making my head spin, and the way he moves his plump lips would make any sensible women drop their panties. 

My hands grab hold of his shirt, trying to pry it off, but when I try to disconnect our lips, he just chases my lips, trying to reconnect us. I push his body to the back of the couch and watch as his eyes grow even darker than before. I lick and bite my lower lip and that seems to be the end of the line for Chan; with his big hands, he grabs the underside of my thighs, lifting me up along with himself. He carries me to a secluded room with a massive bed. 

He throws me across the mattress, letting my back settle into the cushions, but not for long because within less than a minute, he flips me over like I weigh nothing, and his hands immediately palm my ass. His hands grab the rim of my dress, throwing it over my ass enough where he has access. I fist the sheets and press my thighs together, feeling how much arousal has already pooled in my panties. 

Suddenly, I felt Chan’s front press against my back. I don’t know when he did it, but I feel the warmth of his bare chest covering my back. Even through the sheer fabric of the dress, I can feel his warm, bare body. “I can be a gentleman, or I can be a madman. Which do you want?”

His words make me moan, and my mind races with what other man I could see tonight. I think about how Chan could be a gentleman, treating me kindly while he fucks me nice a slow, claiming me like I’m his prey. But then a part of me, a deeper, hornier part of me, the pit of my belly burns with the need to see the madness in Chan. The side of him that shows no bounds, that could fuck me into tomorrow without warning. 

“Show me your wild side,” I smirk, letting my body buzz with excitement.

I feel the growl in his chest and pull the fabric from his teeth. His fingers trail up to the zipper of the dress, pulling it all the way down until most of my back shows. I let my arms slip through the holes, and he pulls it down until it's bunched up at my hips. 

The next thing he does is tear my panties apart, shredding the garment and tossing it to the side. I squirm in the sheets making him groan as I wiggle my ass in the air.  

He palms my ass hard enough that I’m sure it will leave marks in the morning. I can feel his finger tracing along the slit of my glistening pussy, playing with my folds, before finally I feel the stretch of a single girthy finger enter pass my fold. I moan at the feeling of the slight stretch; it's not the burning stretch my body craved, but I’ll take anything at this point. 

“Fuck this pussy is so greedy, look at your cunt sucking my finger in” he continues to pump his finger slowly into, spreading my wetness all around my folds, making my body squirm more. He harshly grabs hold of my hip with his other hand, his finger still holding place inside me. “You’ll take what I fucking give you” 

His harsh words only send sparks throughout my body, doing nothing but heat up the desire bubbling inside me. “more,” I whine out, rocking my ass against his finger, trying to get more friction. 

“More?” he questions, leaning in to kiss my left asscheek. “Say please” he growls against my skin. 

“Please” 

“Good girl,” without warning, he adds another finger past my folds and starts pumping both with no mercy, making my whole body shake. 

I scream as I feel my insides tremble from the cheer power Chan holds in one hand. Its in mere seconds that my body is shaking with my first orgasm of the night, but he doesn’t stop until I’m squirting, making a mess against his skin. I can feel the small feather lgght kiss against my ass, just like before, when he removes his fingers, letting my body squirm as it pleases. 

“Your so goddamn beautiful,” he growls. My body flops right side up, letting my back spress against the mattress. But I’m only allowed two breaths before Chan seizes our lips together, his hard member poking in between my thighs.I could sense his growing impatience, the way his teasing touch ignited a fire within me. Yet, beneath that playful exterior, I knew he was battling his own inner turmoil, wrestling with desire and frustration. The tension hung thick in the air, a delicious mix of longing and urgency that only drew us closer.

I slide my hand down to feel the smooth skin of his length and start pumping the coat of precum around his angry tip. He pulls away, but not before biting my lip and sucking in a breath. “Fuck” he breathes. 

“Me” I whisper back. 

~~~~~

Fuck, you are so tight around him. Even when your dripping cunt soaks him, he still feels your tight grip. Tight enough to feel like a warm vise wrapped around his cock, and oh did it feel good.

He slides his hand to your hip, holding you in place and ensuring you won't squirm away. "Don't tense up, I won't be able to last." He grits out between his teeth.

"I won't," you hiss out as he sinks another inch past your wet folds. "fuck your so big"

Chan couldn't help but puff his chest at your words. "Too big?" Was it wrong that your words turned him on more?

"no. give me more," you moan out.......no, no, it was not.

He wanted to take things slow, inching further into you so you could easily take all of him, but you just haaad to say the magic words.

he ventures in another inch or two and sighs as he hears your moans of approval. then he slips out to the tip, coating himself in your slickness before shunting his hips forward, hitting a deeper part of you that sends you gasping for air.

Fuck, you were so tight. He shut his eyes as he felt you spasming around his length. "m-more," you grunted. Barely holding yourself up.

"you don't know what your asking for" 

"yes I do, I can feel you holding back" he knew it too. He wasn't one to brag, but he knew how big he was, and from the way he so badly wanted you, it was taking every bit of willpower in him not to pound into you like some uncaged beast.

"I need to take my time, or else I might hurt you," he breathed out.

"I don't care if it hurts. I need you. Now, please." Your wines were like music to his ears. A hidden melody that he didn't know he needed.

He slowly eased out of your pussy, relishing on how your walls clung to him and how the slickness felt like butter. "fuck I need this pussy" he voiced his thoughts.

"then fucking take it. Claim it. Take me"

That was it. That was the last straw. Chan shifted your angle, taking your arms in his and using it as leverage to fuck into you. Chan's hips snapped forward, meeting your shaking form at tenfold.

all thoughts of what could hurt you were clouded by lust as more wetness coated the space between your bodies. Your hips bucked against his, and meeting his thrust sent shockwaves of more pleasure through you.

It was rough. It was wild. It was precisely what you needed and wanted at the same time. You asked him to claim you, and by goddamn it, he was going to make sure he was imprinted so deep inside you that you couldn't take any cock but his for the rest of your life.

You didn't have to worry about laying any claim on Chan. He was yours even before you started your walks. He was yours when he saw who you are. You already owned him, mind, body, and soul. The cherry on top was that each thrust of his hips sent another moan echoing around the room that tightened your hold on him.

He leaned back just enough to see what he was doing to you. he could see the way his dick disappeared into your tight pussy. "tell me you on the pill," he practically whined.

"yes, don't pull out."

He could feel you tightening around him, and he wasn't far behind. The feeling of his balls fighting the urge to finally release the pent-up tightness became painful.

He let one of your arms go to balance yourself as he snuck in below the both of you and down to pinch your clit between his fingers. That in itself sent you screaming, sobbing, begging, your tight cunt gripping his length so hard he could barely keep thrusting in and out of you.

That was his official undoing. He let go. Unloading inside you and releasing a sigh that sounded like waves crashing on the beach.

He stayed there for a moment, letting both your orgasms settle in before either of you said another word.

Once the heat of the moment settled and he slipped out of you. 

 he watched his cum drip out, and he won't deny it made his cock twitch.

"Jesus Christ, you should see how beautiful you look right now" he says under his breath.

"I think I'll take your word for it," and just like that, he found your whole body flattened against the bed, basically passed out.

"you okay?" he says, half jokingly, half worried. you just hold up an easy thumbs up before closing your eyes and letting sleep take over.

Chan laughs to himself and carries you to lean against the pillows the right way, and maneuvers you under the covers. He'll clean you up in the morning.

He slips in beside you, giving you a small kiss and whispering goodnight to you. You hum. Content and warm, and drawn to that same warmth, you cuddle up into Chan's side.

"We are going to have so much fun together."

*******

AN: I'm making so many Chan fics lately that I almost feel bad. But if yall want to see a specific member please let me know I'm more than happy to fulfill comments/asks/ etc!! love yall.

p.s/ also I'm not sure if yall know this but I make all the banners on my page including the small ones on my ko-fi. I only say this because I had an ask earlier asking about where I get my banners or where I go to find these photos, the photos I take from google but all the color, wording, fonts, etc I make myself !! 

[scenesniper]

☆ "weeping clown" ; general sfw & nsfw headcanons

pairing / weeping clown x afab gn! reader

disclaimer / possessive nature, choking fixation, body worship, orgasm denial

word count / 1,335 words

author's note / i wanted more miserable, pathetic, lore accurate toxic weepy so i decided to just write it myself.

SFW

☆ a very clingy man that is far too quiet to ever be the one to initiate a conversation with you. after all, how dare he have such thoughts when you’re shining all so bright. altruist you can say but behind it, he is all but possessive.

☆ you will always find letters forwarded to you by someone of anonymity but his handwriting is all but so familiar. you will always feel a set of eyes following you in everything you do around the circus. whether it be practicing for your next act, applying your makeup, eating, or paying attention to your own body care, it's always on you.

☆ weeping clown by his stage name is very self explanatory. even with his wishes of being so much more than what he is branded by, he carries on his sorrowful demeanor behind the stage. meeting you, whether you’re the first to ever truly acknowledge him or give him the light of day of your time, he will think of that interaction of so much more.

☆ he’s completely infatuated by you, not having the guts or confidence to ever approach you, he will make gifts for you in secrecy, going to great lengths to have it personally delivered to you by a postman to possibly hide the fact that it was him all along.

☆ however, you have suspected the clown for awhile now. the way his eyes avoid your own, his stuttering and brightening red state of his. you have always thought of it as normal for the clown, his cowering state, but there is just something about him that rang alarm bells.

☆ weeping is easily flustered. any hint of your attention on him has him already a profused bashful state. especially any physical contact with each other, even if it’s just holding hands, his hands will instantly clam up and become so warm. he gets embarrassed at these times and would begin to avoid eye contact so you wouldn’t have to see him in such a “pathetic condition”.

☆ kissing the weeping clown is rough due to his very chapped lips. he’s a clumsy and messy kisser, having no prior experience and frankly, only kisses with pure want and no thoughts at all behind it as if you’re going to disappear on him. you’ll always feel his hands messily messing the back of your hair and at times, when he’s pushing his tongue down on you, he loves it when you tug down on his scarf.

☆ his love, to be blunt, is completely unconditional. it doesn’t matter if you kill someone with your own bare hands, even if his idea of you shatters, his ideology still stands. he’s a man that is completely obsessed with the idea of you and while it is a harmful train of thoughts, that obsession turns into a sick love.

☆ even if his love comes from a twisted place, he cares for you in his own little way. he’s overprotective of you and attentive to your mental and emotional needs of yours. if someone is bugging you, he’s immediately on the band wagon in planning on how he’s specifically going to privately and in secrecy, handle it.

NSFW

☆ joker is not a confident man as we all know, and especially in bed. even if he’s bigger than most, around 8 inches or so, he is all but insecure about the approach. he’s a virgin and only has experience by touching himself late at night, clutching a crumpled picture of you and imagining your hands pumping his cock.

☆ he’s always the type to indulge in his personal fantasies and to finally have it happen to him, he’s all but overjoyed but extremely confused and insecure on how you can ever pick someone like him. he has always dreamed of you touching him, even when he’s ashamed of such thoughts when facing you upfront, he’d always go hard over the smallest things from you.

☆ your voice, your lips, your eyes on his, your scent, you brushing skin contact with him even if it’s just a small graze, oh god his dick is practically about to burst out his boxers. he loves the rough feeling of his dick begging to be dicked down and would often grind himself in his own boxers, imagining that friction is your pussy.

☆ he would get so long in those surreal fantasies of his, wanting to just breed you. but once actually having you, his insecurities of having little to no experience comes crashing down once more. you’ll be on his lap and he’ll be completely dumbfounded, absolutely having no idea where to put or place his arms and would stare at you undressing on him which god, is so hot to him.

☆ he’s the type to just cum right then and there in whatever you do to his body. touching his cock, oh he’s already seeing stars and tearing up. your warm mouth on his, he’s grinding his waist and dragging you by your hair to go deeper and deeper, causing you to choke and him getting off by your gagging sounds.

☆ he’s a big crier during it all, his eyes seeming to always tear up whenever he feels absolutely stimulated or from pure happiness, he’ll always throw his head back and bites his lips to the point it begins to start bleeding and then planting his blood soaked lips on yourself.

☆ body worship. weeping clown is ashamed of his disability and amputee, but you praising it and giving it utmost attention (not just only during sex of course) gives him an unexplainable emotion such as relief of your acceptance of him. how you don’t immediately shun him.

☆ he loves to worship you and your entire being, not just being the only one praised. he will always be going on and on, muttering about your beauty. he always feels as though he shouldn’t even have the privilege to be in your presence, let alone touch you. it’s an emotional moment for him the entire time, enveloping himself to your existence.

☆ he absolutely can’t get enough of you, always loving it when he’s the one on your lap or vice versa, he loves to look up at you and you wiping his tears off with your thumb. he loves to nuzzle on the palm of your hand every time you do it. once he’s more familiar and confident with your body, he finds himself more and more lost in sex.

☆ he’s a verbal partner, always gasping and lowering his moans. it’s not a hard feat to have him a mess over you and especially when you’re verbal, he can’t help but feel good knowing he’s the one getting those reactions out of you.

☆ he loves it when you deny him of his orgasm. tie him behind his waist and fuck his cock with your finger, palm, boobs, thighs, anything. he’ll start whining and drawing his voice out, begging for your touch, his tears practically streaming out by then.

☆ bouncing on his cock, he’s still so scared over the fact that you’re in his but he can’t help but get so lost in your touch. he’ll watch you with astonishment, watching your boobs bounce along your actions and begin latching his mouth on the bud of your nipples and sucking on it to the point there’ll be a prominent, red mark.

☆ aftercare with weeping clown would be him cleaning you up with a rag and bringing you the glass of water from the bedside, very quiet and unsure on what else to talk about. it’s a comfortable silence on your part but for the clown, he’s particularly anxious. you’ll have to be the one praising and tucking him for the night. during these moments, he’s especially emotional. he never wants to let go of this moment and then, decide to do everything that he can to keep you by his side no matter what.

[sansaaaaaagirl]

BE MY LOVER

I have to make a warning, no part of this fanfic is insulting or hateful towards Charles' current girlfriend. Let's be clear

There is no further warning.

(actually yes, I'm not a professional at writing fanfics, sorry)

###

The hours slipped away, minutes ticking down like grains of sand in an hourglass. Every second mattered as you sat in front of your computer, sifting through Ferrari’s sales reports, sponsorship deals, and revenue projections—anything and everything related to business.

You played a crucial role here, and you knew it. But you also understood the importance of pacing yourself.

After hours of staring at the screen, nursing every sip of coffee as if it were fuel keeping you alive, exhaustion crept in. Needing a break, you stepped out into the paddock’s open-air courtyard, hoping the crisp evening air would clear your head.

It had been a grueling week in Monza. A race like no other, one that required seizing every moment, every opportunity to boost the drivers’ popularity.

Or rather, his popularity.

Charles Leclerc wasn’t the type to engage much. Reserved, quiet—he rarely spoke unless it was to his brother or his mother. You respected that. After all, he wasn’t obligated to chatter mindlessly through life. But still, communication with him was essential for your job.

And damn, was it necessary.

You had worked tirelessly to keep his brand alive, to maintain his impact, to ensure his image never dulled. But it was difficult.

Difficult when the rumors kept swirling, relentless, whispering about his life—about what he did and didn’t do.

The worst part? Those rumors often involved you.

Speculation ran rampant. People claimed you interacted too much, that you looked like a couple. But in reality, this was just work. Nothing more. Occasionally, you had leaned on each other—shared burdens, vented frustrations—but it had never been about love or attraction. Right?

"Nice evening."

His voice broke through your thoughts. Green eyes watched you with amusement.

"You think so?" You leaned against the railing, exhaling. "I’d say it would be a nicer evening if you didn’t give me so much work."

"Oh?" He smirked, feigning offense. "You handle that. I’m the one risking my life at over 200 km/h, and you don’t hear me complaining."

"That’s different, Leclerc. What’s unfair is being dragged into things that don’t concern me." Your voice hardened, making your frustration clear.

"That’s just people talking," he said nonchalantly, pointing at you.

"Yes, but I don’t want to be called a homewrecker. Or hear people saying you’re a womanizer."

"So… you care about me?" His smirk widened.

"I care about your image, idiot." You shot back, irritation lacing your words.

"You know what?" He stepped closer, the air between you charged. "Forget it. Have dinner with me."

You laughed outright. The idea was ridiculous. Impossible.

He had a girlfriend.

"Don’t laugh, I wasn’t finished," he said, his teasing tone fading into something more serious."It’s a work dinner. You know, business."

"Just the two of us?" You arched a brow. "The marketing assistant and the Ferrari driver, alone in a restaurant? What do you think people will say?"

"Relax, you’re not that special." He rolled his eyes, grinning. "It’s not just you. I invited other staff members too."

"Are you sure?"

"Do I look like a liar?"

And though you wanted to say yes, you held back, keeping the conversation light. A dinner, likely a lavish one—how could you refuse?

"My girlfriend will be there," he added casually. "So no one will say a thing."

"Fine."

-

The restaurant was buzzing with quiet chatter, forks clinking against plates, glasses being refilled. The scent of truffle pasta and aged wine lingered in the air. You adjusted the pearl necklace resting against your collarbone, a subconscious gesture as you stole a glance at your reflection in the mirrored reception. The dress you wore was understated—black, fitted just enough to be elegant, yet casual enough to avoid raising eyebrows.

You weren’t here for a date. You reminded yourself that as you turned back toward the small group from Ferrari’s social media team, their laughter blending into the background noise.

Then the room shifted.

The energy changed the moment Charles walked in.

He wasn’t alone.

She was with him—his girlfriend, perfectly poised, her hand curled around his arm, as if staking a claim. She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, her expression faltering for just a second when she noticed you.

It was subtle, but you caught it.

“Oh,” her eyes seemed to say. *You invited her.*

The irony almost made you laugh. It wasn’t as if you wanted to be here. Charles had extended the invitation with an air of indifference, claiming it was just a work dinner, something the team did every now and then to keep morale high. Nothing personal.

And yet, it felt personal.

He made his way through the room, greeting colleagues, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries. She stood beside him, playing her role—the supportive girlfriend, the picture of effortless charm. Except, when her gaze flickered back to you, the warmth in her expression dimmed just a little more.

You refused to let it get to you.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice was familiar, low and teasing. You turned just as Charles stopped beside you, his head tilting slightly as he studied your face.

You rolled your eyes. “I was. Until now.”

He smirked. “Good to know I have that effect on you.”

Before you could respond, she stepped in, seamlessly inserting herself between you two.

“Darling,” she said, fingers curling around his wrist, her voice smooth, almost too sweet. “They’re waiting for us at the table.”

Charles barely reacted, just glanced at you for half a second longer before letting himself be pulled away.

You exhaled slowly, fixing your posture.

It was going to be a long night.

---

The seating arrangement was strategic—probably unintentional, but still ironic. You were directly across from Charles, his girlfriend seated beside him, your colleagues spread around the table in casual conversation. Wine was poured, plates were passed, discussions drifted between race strategies and upcoming PR campaigns.

But there was an undercurrent beneath it all.

Charles was a master at subtlety when he wanted to be. His fingers traced the rim of his glass lazily, his attention seemingly elsewhere, yet every so often, his gaze found you. A brief flicker of something unreadable.

You ignored it.

Or at least, you tried to.

“You’ve been working closely with Charles lately, haven’t you?”

The question came from one of the PR managers, but it was his girlfriend who reacted first. Her grip on her fork tightened just slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You smiled politely. “It’s my job.”

“She’s good at it too,” Charles added, his voice casual but deliberate. “Though, she does like to boss me around.”

A few chuckles rippled through the table. You shot him a look. “Someone has to make sure you don’t ruin your own career.”

He smirked. “And here I thought you just liked giving me a hard time.”

His girlfriend’s posture stiffened.

You took a slow sip of your wine. If she wanted to pretend she wasn’t watching your every move, that was her problem.

The rest of dinner continued in that same unspoken game. The conversations around you became white noise, blurred by the tension that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind carefully chosen words and fleeting glances.

When the meal was over and people began saying their goodbyes, you felt a presence at your side before you even turned.

Charles.

His voice was low enough that only you could hear. “Are you coming to the afterparty?”

You glanced at him, then at her. She was watching—of course she was.

You exhaled a quiet laugh. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He tilted his head, as if considering it. Then, with a smirk, he murmured, “Since when do we care about what’s a good idea?”

And just like that, the game continued

It was already 4 a.m. The vodka you had grabbed a while ago had long since been forgotten, yet you ignored all the signs telling you it was a bad idea, mainly because you wanted to take this as a break, not as a punishment.

You danced and danced, feeling carefree. At no point did you cross paths with Charles and his girlfriend, but you figured it was because she probably didn't want you there, so you simply ignored it.

From the dance floor, you made your way to the bar for another drink. The effects of the alcohol, the flashing lights, the heat, the sweat, the music—all a mixture of sensations telling you one thing:

You were drunk.

The dizziness made you stumble, causing a chuckle to rise inside you. You reached for your glass, about to grab it, when a large hand landed on your wrist, yanking the drink from your grasp.

"I think you've had enough, don't you?" he said, looking at you.

"Do you?" you shot back. "Give me the glass."

"I guess now I'll be the one to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble," he teased, mocking your state.

"Pfft," you laughed, amused. "In your dreams, Charles."

In your dreams.

He simply watched, taking you in. You were disheveled, but not enough to look a mess. Your makeup was a bit smudged, but the lipstick had completely faded. Your face was relaxed, flushed.

"I’ll take you to the hotel," he said, his tone determined.

"The party’s not over," you protested like a child.

"Sweetheart, the party's over for you."

And like a gentleman, he took your arm and led you, practically like a couple, to his sleek car. He opened the door, guiding you inside with ease.

He slid in beside you, letting out a sigh before looking at you. His lip curled into a smirk.

"And your girlfriend?" you teased. "She'll be mad if she sees this."

"And the media? I thought you cared about that more," he challenged.

"Don't you care about your girlfriend?"

"And why would you want to know if I care or not?" he asked. "Is this an interview?"

"Go to hell, Leclerc," you snapped.

"We're on our way there," he mocked.

The window was down, letting the wind blow against your face, making you feel sleepy and relaxed, a sense of peace washing over you, unlike anything else.

Lost in the calm, you didn’t even realize you had reached the hotel. But since you were so relaxed, Charles didn’t make any move to get you out. Instead, he just stared at you for a long moment.

Admiring you.

"Sleeping beauty," he teased. "We’re here."

You shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, your eyes barely open, enough to catch the way he was looking at you. His usual arrogance was still there, but something else lingered—something unreadable, something intense. You blinked, trying to shake off the fog of alcohol and exhaustion, but the weight of his gaze kept you frozen in place.

"Stop staring at me," you murmured, your voice husky.

Charles just smiled. "You looked too peaceful. I thought it would be a crime to wake you."

Rolling your eyes, you tried to sit up, but the sudden movement caused a wave of dizziness to wash over you. You staggered, and before you could react, his hand was on your thigh, steadying you. The warmth of his palm, even through the fabric of your dress, was enough to make you acutely aware of how close he was.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed hard, breath catching in your throat. The space between you had closed dangerously, and neither of you made any move to pull away. His eyes lingered on your lips, and instinctively, your tongue darted out to wet them. It was a simple movement, but it made him grip you tighter, as if he were holding himself back.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" you joked, trying to regain some control.

Charles chuckled quietly, shaking his head slightly. "You think too highly of yourself."

"Do I?" You tilted your head and studied him. "Then why haven’t you moved?"

His smirk faltered for a split second, and in that moment, you knew. The tension that had been building for months, buried under sarcastic remarks and fleeting glances, had reached its breaking point.

"Maybe," he said, his voice softer now, almost hesitant, "because I don't want to."

Your breath caught in your throat. It was the closest either of you had come to admitting there was something, something neither of you was willing to name, something far more complicated than either of you had been willing to admit.

And then he moved.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid from your thigh to your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your dress. He leaned in, his warm breath grazing your skin, giving you every chance to stop him, to push him away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you closed the distance, and your lips met his in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. It was deep, slow, and consuming, the kind that made your whole body melt into his. His hand slid to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, as though he’d been waiting for this just as much as you.

And maybe he had.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting together. His fingers still lingered on your skin, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

"Tell me this is just the vodka," he whispered.

You knew it wasn’t.

But you weren’t ready to say it aloud. Not yet.

"I don’t know," you said. "Testing it would make you quite the man."

He looked at you for a moment longer, and without wasting another second, he kissed you again.

"It’s a shame we can’t do this outside the hotel," he said, pretending to sound disappointed.

"I have a bed for two," you replied.

[wisecura]

Sheets

megumi fushiguro x fem-reader

p.1

p.3  ( ⸝⸝꩜ ᯅ ꩜⸝⸝;) p.5

p.4

AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!

warnings: yandere, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, mommy kinks, mommy issues, arranged marriages, forced marriages, angst, eventual smut, clan politics, age gap (5 years from meg, and a little over 10 with toji), toji aint the best dad, mentions of child abuse, slowww build.

Short summary: Your arranged marriage to Toji Fushiguro had been sudden and unexpected, but now you found yourself living under his roof alongside his moody stepson. Your only directive from your clan head before moving in was clear: keep a close eye on Toji, the notorious Sorcerer Killer, and his son, a potential sorcerer prodigy.

birthdays and interrogations

Megumi’s foresight was right on the money.

His father hadn’t returned home after their spat—he’ll, not for several days.

You couldn’t help but wonder how often things unraveled like that between them, the tension simmering beneath the surface until it inevitably boiled over.

The next few months with Megumi fell into a steady routine. 

Megumi had started joining you for breakfast regularly, his quiet presence at the table becoming a comforting and consistent part of your mornings. He seemed to warm up to you a little more after your conversation that night.

Though he still didn’t say much, the steady rhythm of shared meals filled the space with a sense of easiness. More than you could expect from the unexpected blend in family.

After school, he would return home, spending his evenings—occasionally—in your company, whether it was in the living room while you tidied or in the kitchen as you cooked. He spent a good portion of time just in your presence.

He still carried his signature scowl more often than not, but it had softened over time, losing its sharpness.

You'd known early on that Megumi wasn’t much of a talker, yet the conversations you did share held weight. There was a quiet vulnerability in the way he’d let his guard down in small, careful increments. It wasn’t much, just glimpses here and there of him beneath the tough exterior.

He’d ask questions about your day, mention things about school, or make begrudging comments about Toji’s latest absence or fight.

When Megumi's birthday rolled around, you wanted to throw him a party—something simple, but enough to show him you cared. When you mentioned the idea, he brushed it off, his scowl deepening as he muttered something about birthdays being no big deal.

You could tell by the way his eyes lingered, a mix of disbelief and confusion, that no one had ever gone out of their way for his birthday before. His embarrassment was almost endearing, and you couldn’t help but smile at the thought of surprising him. How would the kitty puff up this time?

Toji, unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found on the day. You hadn’t expected him to show up, but that didn’t matter. You were determined to make Megumi’s day special.

You decorated the kitchen with a few streamers and a handwritten “Happy Birthday” sign.

It wasn’t much, but you hoped it would make him happy. You’d even make a small cake—a recipe you’d found in an old cookbook—and the scent of frosting and sugar lingered in the air even after you finished baking.

The biggest challenge had been deciding on a gift. Your clan had given you a small stipend—a rare concession you’d managed to secure during one of your carefully planned visits. That much had been a stretch, but you managed. You’d met with them once or twice, offering just enough feedback to maintain their interest without revealing anything significant. It was a fine line to walk, but it granted you the luxury of a little extra money.

Megumi wasn’t exactly forthcoming about his interests, but he’d mentioned a thing or two. It didn’t hurt that you just so happened to notice the gaming system in his room.

It hadn’t taken much effort to discreetly check the brand and do a little research on popular titles that might suit him. You triple checked his current collection, making sure you didn't buy him a copy. You wrapped the games neatly, setting them on the table alongside his cake.

When he got home, he strolled into the kitchen and saw the setup. And that flustered reaction was everything you’d hoped for, even if he tried to downplay it. His scowl deepened, and his cheeks turned faintly pink as he mumbled, “You didn’t have to do all this.” But you caught the way his eyes softened, the way his lips quirked up ever so slightly, despite his efforts to hide it.

“You’re allowed to celebrate, you know,” you teased gently, pushing the wrapped gift toward him. “Come on, open it.”

He hesitated for a moment before finally reaching for the package. As he unwrapped the games, his expression betrayed a flicker of surprise, followed by something you might’ve called gratitude. He was impressed. “How’d you even know?” he asked, holding up one of the cases.

“I have my ways,” you say, keeping your answer vague. No need to admit you’d snooped a little.

The two of you spent the evening together, enjoying the quiet celebration. You’d cooked one of his favorite meals—something he’d mentioned in passing weeks ago—and lit candles on the cake, insisting he make a wish before blowing them out. For all his protests and attempts to act unbothered, you could see it meant something to him.

As the evening wound down, Megumi sat across from you at the table, fiddling with one of the new game cases. You were chatting about a sale they were having at the grocery store the next day, the air around you just seemed so lively. He’d never associated the apartment with anything other than cold and desolate.

He didn’t say much, but he wasn’t able to stop the faint smile that spread across his face. It wasn’t even a big celebration. But for the first time, in a long time, Megumi felt like someone cared.

Toji, meanwhile, continued his sporadic visits to the apartment. His presence like a weather shift—unpredictable.

Sometimes, his arrivals brought an icy chill, marked by curt exchanges and a tension you could almost taste. Other times, his visits erupted into heated arguments with Megumi, their voices echoing through the walls.

You’d learned when to stay silent, carefully observing the dynamic between them until you felt absolutely needed. When you did speak, your words were short, clipped, and almost always in Megumi’s defense.

You couldn’t help it. The boy had a way of stirring up your protective instincts, and you hated seeing the rift between father and son grow deeper with every spat. It didn’t help that you could relate to him.

And it also didn’t help that Toji was never around long enough to deal with the aftermath of these arguments. Megumi would sulk in his room for the rest of the day, shutting himself away, resulting in a silence that filled the house. You couldn’t help but associate Toji’s sporadic presence with Megumi’s absence, and it made you feel…lonely.

You’d grown so attached to the boy—his quiet company, his rare smiles. And it was becoming harder not to resent the man you’d married.

But you told yourself—it could always be worse.

Although Megumi and his father could barely share a room without wanting to rip each other’s throats out, your encounters with Toji weren’t entirely negative. He had moments of surprising thoughtfulness—checking in on you, asking if you needed anything. It was a nice gesture, though you weren’t sure how much sincerity lay behind it. He seemed intent on playing the role of “husband,” though thankfully, he hadn’t tried to sleep with you. He was away more often than not, and even when he was home, he never stayed long enough to share a bed.

He was tolerant. Leaving you somewhat restless. What did he want from you? From your marriage?

One evening, as you tidied up after dinner, Toji approached you, leaning casually against the counter. His arms were crossed as his sharp eyes studied you with an unreadable expression. This night was more tense, Megumi had left almost immediately after dinner, another small spat breaking out between the two. You’d only stepped in briefly like before, but the end result was the same. You and Toji. Bathed in silence. 

“You seem awfully protective of the kid,” his voice low but pointed. He watch you closely, gauging for any minuscule change in your expression. “…Almost makes me wonder if you’re planning something.”

You froze for a moment, his words catching you off guard. Placing a dirty bowl down a little harder than necessary. You meet his gaze evenly, with deliberation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, his smug grin only half-formed, and his eyes serious. “Means I’m not blind. I see how you hover around him—how careful you are with your words. Makes me wonder if you’re working an angle.”

You bristled at his insinuation. You’d never show Toji much softness, that was for sure. But Megumi. Megumi was different. You make your tone as firm as you could before replying. “Megumi has nothing to do with this. I wouldn’t drag him into…whatever shit my clan is trying to stir up. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Toji’s expression shifted slightly, something thoughtful flickering behind his sharp features. He’d never heard you so defensive before. You were always so even and clipped. The reaction was reassuring, but not absolute. He needed clarification.

“So, you are reporting to them?” He'd already assumed, but he would mind you confirming it. Especially since you were being so open with him. Your clan had some ulterior motives—not that that was surprising. What clan didn’t? But to tell him so forwardly…especially knowing he could send you away. There was some level of trust you were seeking from him.

“Yes,” you admitted, though your voice softened with a hint of frustration. “But…I’m not telling them much. I don’t have much of a choice here. It’s just enough to keep them off my back. I’m not here to be their little spy, and I won’t let them use Megumi for their bullshit.” Perhaps you were hoping to gain some sympathy from your situation. You were being honest. He could tell.

But could you appeal to the better nature in the wild card standing before you?

For a moment, Toji said nothing, his sharp eyes studying you with a weight that made the air feel heavier. He hadn’t expected your tone to take on such a defensive note, the emotion laced in your voice cutting through the practiced composure you always seemed to carry.

It was a constant. Around him, you’d been nothing but polite, your speech prim and proper—you’d been a quiet presence, never revealing too much, always staying just on the edges of their fractured household dynamic.

Hell, this conversation had only started because he’d noticed Megumi’s growing attachment and acceptance towards you—something that had caught him off guard.

He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. The kid was prickly and aloof with just about everyone, but with you? He was… different. More open, even if it was subtle. Toji hadn’t decided if he liked it yet, or if it made you a bigger threat. He wasn’t entirely sure if he could trust you—or if he even should.

Your reaction left him somewhat confused. A young girl stepping into a housewife’s role for her older husband and teen son. You should be wanting an out to this. Should be less happy. Less protective over Megumi.

His gaze boring into you as if trying to peel back the secret you kept hidden. Deciding that you likely weren’t lying about your sentiments, he continue.

“You’re pretty sharp for someone so young. Playing your clan like that… takes guts. Or recklessness.”

“I’m not reckless,” your hands fidget under his words. “I just know how they operate." You mumble more to yourself. "And I know how to survive.”

His smirk returned, and he pulled back a little. “Yeah, I can see that. But you’re still a kid. You shouldn’t have to play those kinds of games.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the faint trace of concern in his voice. “I’m not a kid,” you replied softly, the words echoing with a tone of defiance that felt uncomfortably similar to Megumi’s.

“You’re eighteen,” he countered, his tone resolute and stern. “That’s young. Too young for this kind of shit. You’re not wrong about the clan. They wouldn’t hesitate to put you to use. I get why you’re doing what you’re doing. Hell,” his voice tinged with a dark sort of humor, “they’ll probably have someone else lined up for you by the end of the week if they pulled you.”

Your chest tightened at the reminder, though you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. There’s been that question that’s been burning the back of your mind since this all started. Since you met him those months ago. Something that never made sense.

“Why did you agree to the marriage then?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “If someone else would’ve taken that place. If they didn’t force you.” If you knew my presence here could be dangerous.

Toji’s gaze darkened, lips set into a thin line as he processed your question. “Figured it was better than leaving you to someone worse,” his tone evasive. “I don’t like the clan bullshit. Never did.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before he added, almost begrudgingly, “You need protection, too. It wasn’t right what they were doin’.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. His words didn’t entirely align with the aloof, dismissive man you’d been learning to navigate. His cold and unpredictable nature. The Sorcerer Killer.

“So, can I trust you?” Trust that you’ll keep me safe.

That you won’t send me back.

He snorted, his smirk returning faintly. “Trust is a stretch. But for now, yeah, you’re safe here.”

The unspoken sentiment hung in the air, heavier than the words he’d spoken. You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a promise—or maybe both. What warning could he possibly be giving you? He wasn’t someone you could necessarily lean on—let alone read, but at least, for now, he wasn’t an enemy.

Your clan hadn’t let up during that first year. The snippets of information you’d provided weren’t enough—they needed more, demanded more, than you were willing to give. Representatives began knocking on your door with frustrating regularity, their grim smiles and strained words were an uncomfortable familiarity.

The landline rang incessantly, as though they were hoping to catch you off guard. Maybe to glean some tidbit you hadn’t shared during your carefully measured visits.

You’d done your best to subtly turn them away, declining their offers with polite firmness and brushing off their pointed reminders of your “obligations.” But damn were they persistent.

They’d even popped up at the door during your shared dinners with Megumi, the unwelcome interruptions souring the brief moments of happiness. It was enough to set a nasty taste in your mouth, leaving you somewhat salty. 

You hadn’t wanted Megumi to get involved, but the way his sharp eyes tracked your every move—it was clear he wasn’t oblivious to the clan visits. Even so, he never said a word about it. Megumi had been shielded from clan affairs for most of his life, and you wanted to keep it that way. Yet, each time you returned from one of those meetings, he seemed quieter, more distant.

It was as if an unspoken itch tore at the corners of his mind, questions he wasn’t ready to put into words. He never confronted you directly, but the intensity of his gaze and the taut set of his shoulders said enough.

And your clans more prominent questions lingered in your mind:

Was Megumi truly as promising a sorcerer as they claimed?

Would he eventually be adopted back into the Zenin clan and rise to take over as its head?

Was Toji Fushiguro up to anything suspicious?

And you—were you doing your part?

Building trust, forming a bond with the two, setting the foundation for future alliances?

Should you be left at that house?

Are you being useful?

The implications were unmistakable, sinking in with a cold, relentless clarity. The only reason you were here was painfully obvious—you were nothing more than a tool. Something disposable, easily manipulated and shaped to fit their needs. Your value wasn’t rooted in who you were but in what you could do for them. But you knew this already.

You had Megumi now.

And Toji

Even if he seemed to doubt you. He had every right to. But as long as Toji backed you, this was your home. This was where you belonged. For the first time in your life, you felt like you had something real—a family. A place that felt safe.

Megumi had noticed the tension in your shoulders, the tightness in your jaw, every time you returned from one of your exchanges. He could see the way your smile strained when you came back to him. Though you tried to hide it, you never quite managed to mask your emotions fully—not from him.

He’d developed the habit early on of reading you, attuned to the subtleties in your demeanor. Without even realizing it, he’d become quietly vigilant, watching over you in those moments. Then again it was hard not to memorize something so radiant and warm. Especially when it turned sour.

In the short time you’d been there, Megumi felt like he’d come to understand you better than he expected. He’d learned so much about you—your kindness, your charisma, your warmth, and the way you had a knack for smoothing over the jagged edges in his life.

It baffled him that you’d stuck around for as long as you had, but it also stirred something in him that he couldn’t quite define. Relief? Gratitude? Maybe even a flicker of hope. You wouldn't be leaving...right?

At first, he’d been hesitant to let himself get used to you. Because...people left—that was the one constant he’d come to understand.

No matter how much you wanted them to stay, they always found a way to slip through your fingers. And good people—people like you—seemed to bear the brunt of the world’s cruelty.

Whether it was bullying at school or tragic accidents that seemed to plague life around him, he’d learned that the world punished goodness more often than it rewarded it.

And then there were the visitors—those constant knocks at the door, pulling you into conversations that had you coming back tense. He knew it was from your clan. Could hear the familiarity in the way you said their names. You'd always laugh and wave it off, but he could tell you weren't exactly comfortable. Whether it was from him or the visits, he couldn’t tell.

Each time, his unease grew, a nagging at the back of his mind he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—would pull you away. Test your place in his life. Because that’s how it always went. Something always happened. It always did.

After a full year of hesitation and wondering. Something happened.

And everything…shifted.

p.5?

AN: Thank you for reading! Please reblog and like if you enjoy this series!

I will also be posting updates here:

https://www.tumblr.com/communities/obsessedjjk

come home

[nixoon-again]

"I wanna fly high…”

Sonic doesn't remember when was the first time he caught Tails singing this melody or where the kit picked it up from but what he does know is that whenever the hedgehog sung it in a hushed tone — in soft murmurs to match the steady breathing of the fox cub in his arms  cuddled close to his chest — it will be enough to put him to sleep.

He can't deny that catching Tails singing it to himself while tinkering alone in his workshop is cute and all, especially when he catches him dancing and the kit gets a little embarrassed afterwards and Sonic has to tell him it's nothing to worry about, but there's just something different about the nights when his baby brother just couldn't sleep, whether it be nightmares or thunderstorms or simply insomnia plaguing his cunning little fox brain, when he shyly tiptoes to Sonic in the dead of the night whenever the hedgehog decides to crash in his place and, with a quiet request, climbs onto his chest as Sonic holds him close. He scritches the back of his ear as his free hand brushes through the golden fur on the kit's back, both of their hushed breathing and soft heartbeats combining to make the melody even more peaceful.

To Tails, it was simply always more peaceful when it was Sonic's voice singing it.

It was never about the melody, about the song, about the lyrics. Just his big brother's voice.

Calm, soothing, safe.

"So I can reach the highest of all the heavens..." Sonic shifts a bit, just to give his sleeping arm some movement before he drapes it over the small of Tails’ back, the kit snuggling into the crook of his neck in return. Tails hums, content with his place atop the hedgehog's chest, listening to his (steady?) heartbeat as he wraps his twin tails around the both of them to provide enough warmth to fight off the cold that isn't necessarily the weather's fault this time. 

Just their own bodies failing to generate enough heat for comfort.

"Somebody will be waiting for me,” Sonic tries his very best to ignore the blood on his hands, the blood tainting his baby brother's chest and his own through the contact as well. He doesn't want to open his eyes, he doesn't want to see the red when he can pretend he's simply lulling Tails to sleep on a cold winter night and not to a slumber he might never wake up from. “So I-I have gotta fly higher..."

Tails purrs in his hold, secure and Sonic doesn't want anything else. He can't ask for anything else — well, he can. He can ask for a life that's going to be snatched away from his arms way too soon, for years yet to come, for wanting to see the boy in his arms grow up, for his bright smiles, for the wafting scent of breakfast in workshop he's returning to after a morning run, for a little more time, for home.

But Sonic doesn't ask for it. 

He's already using all of his leftover energy to stay awake just long enough for Tails to go first.

He doesn't want Tails to be alone, he doesn't want him to be scared, hurt and terrified in Sonic's arms who won't get up no matter how many times he begs every deity out there — Sonic doesn't want that. So he'll stay. Just long enough for Tails.

"Gotta keep goin'... Everything is a brand new challenge for me," If a tear rolls down Sonic's muzzle, he doesn't regard it. If anything it's hidden from sight when he lowers his head just enough to plant a soft parting kiss on top of Tails’ head. 

He continues with his lips still hovering above the boy's soft golden fur, "I will believe in myself..."

He can't feel his hands anymore, he doesn't know if he's still petting Tails. He doesn't want them to stop, his baby brother needs all the comfort he can offer to him right now. 

“This is only the start…”

His voice betrays him next.

Within moments, the world goes numb.

Sonic doesn't know which one of them went first.

[mattdillonbae]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐒.

warnings - use of bad language, sex, masturbation, roughness, oral sex, regular sex, cumming, etc

words - idek

fem girl x dallas winston

────୨ৎ────

"You know, I've had enough of this," Dallas murmured, his eyes scanning the crowded room with a mix of boredom and disdain. The party was in full swing, but he wasn't feeling it. The music was too loud, the laughter too forced, and the air had the sweet, cloying scent of spilled soda and cheap perfume. He was the king of the greasers, but tonight, he felt more like a caged animal.

With a firm grip on your wrist, he tugged you closer, his leather jacket creaking slightly as he moved. His eyes searched yours for a hint of agreement, and you nodded, a silent understanding passing between you. You'd had your fill of the party, too. The plastic cups and the sticky dance floor had lost their charm hours ago. His hand was warm and firm, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night outsider.

With a sense of relief, you both ascended the curved stairs, leaving the party's din behind. The steps creaked underfoot, echoing through the quiet house like whispers of a secret shared only between you. His room was at the end of the hall, a sanctuary from the chaos. The door creaked open, revealing a space that was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the party—dimly lit, with a single bed pushed against the far wall and a small desk by the window. The air was heavy with the scent of leather and something faintly musky, all him.

Dallas stepped closer, aggressively smashing his lips into yours. It was a kiss that didn't ask for permission—it demanded it. His tongue slithered past your teeth, and you could almost taste the rebellion that danced in his veins. You responded in kind, eagerly, as your bodies collided like two stars in a fiery embrace. His hands roamed over you, claiming every inch of your body as his own. You felt alive, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You could feel your pussy throbbing, begging for his touch. The anticipation was palpable, a pulsing need that seemed to resonate with every beat of your heart. His hands trailed down to your waist, the heat from his fingertips burning through the fabric of your dress as if it were nothing but tissue paper. The sensation was exquisite, a sweet torment that had your knees buckling and your breath hitching in your throat.

"I want this dress off," Dallas growled, his voice low and possessive. It wasn't a question, but a demand, a declaration of his intentions. Your hands fumbled with the zipper at the back of the dress, but he was too impatient to wait. With a swift, decisive movement, he yanked it down, the teeth of the zipper whispering against your skin. The dress pooled around your feet, leaving you standing in nothing but your lacy lingerie, your breasts heaving with every shallow breath you took.

He stepped back for a moment, his gaze raking over you like a physical touch, lingering on the curves of your body that the dim light painted in shadows and silhouettes. His grin was feral, his eyes glinting with a predatory light. "Damn, you're fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, the words a caress that sent shivers down your spine. You felt exposed, but not vulnerable—his praise was like armor, wrapping you in a warm embrace of confidence.

With a swift, almost violent movement, Dallas pushed you onto the bed. The mattress squealed in protest, but the sound was lost in the symphony of your gasps and his hungry growls. His weight pinned you down, his body a delicious pressure that made you arch into him. You could feel his erection straining against his jeans, a promise of what was to come, pressing into your stomach like a hot brand.

Dallas's mouth found its way to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. He sucked hard, leaving a bruise that bloomed like a dark flower under his lips. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that made you gasp and clutch at the fabric of his shirt. His hand slid under your bra, cupping your breast, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak. You moaned, the sound a soft whimper that seemed to inflame him even more.

You couldn't help but reach down, your hand sliding over the slickness of your thigh to the apex of your legs. Your fingers found your clit, a tiny bud of desire that pulsed under your touch. You began to circle it, the pleasure spiraling through your body like a tornado. Dallas noticed, his eyes darkening as he watched your hand move between your legs. "Show me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "Let me see how badly you want it."

With trembling hands, you pushed aside the lace of your panties, revealing the slickness that glistened in the moonlight. His eyes widened, and he groaned, his own arousal palpable. "Fuck," he whispered, the word a benediction that sent a bolt of lightning straight to your core. You moaned again, louder this time, as your fingers danced over your sensitive flesh. The sound seemed to unleash something in him, and he reached down to rip your panties off with a ferocity that was almost frightening. But you weren't scared. You were alive, more alive than you'd ever felt before.

His hand replaced yours, his thumb taking over the delicate dance. The roughness of his skin against yours was electrifying, a jolt of energy that made your toes curl and your back arch. His touch was sure, confident, like he'd been born to do this—to own your pleasure, to wring every ounce of it from your body until you were nothing but a trembling mess beneath him. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze a silent promise of what was to come.

Then, without warning, Dallas leaned down, his mouth claiming your clit with an aggression that made your eyes roll back in your head. His tongue was a whip, flicking and teasing, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through you like a tsunami. He didn't hold back, didn't gentle his touch. He licked you like he was devouring you, like he'd die if he couldn't taste you. And when he spat, the wetness of his saliva hit your sensitive flesh with a force that made you buck against him, your body begging for more.

But every time you tried to push closer, to grind against his face, he'd pin your hips down with a firm grip. It was a delicious struggle, a battle of wills that had your muscles tightening and your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. You were so close, so achingly close, but he wasn't going to let you come—not yet. His teeth grazed your inner thigh, the sharpness of the sensation making you squirm, making you want to scream.

"Dallas, I'm gonna cum," you whimpered, your voice high and needy. The words were a plea, a surrender, a declaration of war.

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Come all on me, baby," he said, his voice a low, seductive purr that sent a bolt of electricity straight to your core. "I want to taste you."

You came out all on him, he licked all your juices up until with one swift motion, Dallas was on his feet, his jeans and boxers pooling around his ankles. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, jutting out from his hips like an accusation. He stroked it once, twice, a silent promise of what was to come. You couldn't tear your eyes away, watching as he pumped himself with a practiced rhythm that had your mouth watering and your pussy clenching.

The sight of him touching himself, knowing you were the reason for his arousal, was too much. The need to feel him inside you was a wildfire, burning out of control. You whined, a desperate sound that seemed to come from some primal part of your soul. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming urgency of your desire. "Dallas," you pleaded, the word coming out as a breathy moan. "I need you."

He chuckled, the sound dark and rich like the finest whiskey. "You fucking needy, aren't you?" he said, his voice low and smug. But there was no mockery in his tone, only a deep, primal satisfaction that you were begging for him, that he had the power to make you feel this way. He climbed onto the bed, his cock bobbing with every movement, and positioned himself between your legs. With one hand, he guided himself to your entrance, the blunt tip of him nudging against your slick folds. You could feel the heat of him, the promise of everything you craved.

You whimpered again, the anticipation a delicious torture. "Oh, fuck," you breathed, your voice a trembling whisper. You'd been with boys before, but none of them had ever made you feel like this—none of them had ever filled you up so completely that you thought you might just shatter into a million pieces. And as he pushed inside you, the head of his cock stretching your walls, you realized that none of them ever would.

"Shit, you're tight," Dallas grumbled, his voice strained with effort. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the scream that was building in your chest. It burned, a white-hot ache that was almost too much to bear. But you didn't want him to stop. You wanted him to keep pushing, to keep filling you up until there was no space left for anything but him.

And then, with a final thrust, he was fully sheathed inside you, his hips flush against your own. You gasped, your nails digging into the sheets as you adjusted to the delicious fullness. For a moment, he just held still, savoring the feeling of being inside you, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles flexed with the effort of restraint.

Then, as if he couldn't take it any longer, Dallas began to move. His hips rolled into you in a rhythm that was both slow and brutal, a dance of lust that had your eyes rolling back in your head. He leaned down, capturing your mouth again in a kiss that was as fierce as the storm that raged outside. His teeth grazed your lower lip, making you whine into his mouth, the taste of blood mingling with the flavor of his tongue.

As he kissed you, his hand found your neck, his fingers wrapping around the slender column of your throat. He didn't squeeze, not yet, but the pressure was there—a constant reminder of his strength, his dominance. You could feel your pulse throb against his fingertips, a wild staccato that matched the tempo of his thrusts. His other hand slid down to your hip, his grip tightening as he began to move faster, harder, pounding into you like he was trying to claim you in the most primal way possible.

And then, as if the gods themselves had willed it, his mouth left your neck, traveling down to your chest. He took your left breast in his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before sucking hard on the nipple. You could feel the tension coiling tighter, the sensation a delicious agony that had your nails digging into his back. His other hand moved to your right breast, his thumb flicking over the peak in a teasing counterpoint to the fiery kisses he was bestowing on its twin.

With every touch of Dallas's fingers trailing across your bare skin, chills danced down your spine, setting your nerves alight. His hands were a maelstrom of sensation—his thumbs tracing lazy circles around your areolae, his fingertips grazing the soft flesh of your inner thighs, sending waves of heat crashing through you like a summer storm. The anticipation was unbearable, a sweet torment that had you squirming beneath him, your hips rising to meet each punishing thrust.

Then, as if reading your mind, his thumb found your clit again, his touch a masterstroke that had you gasping for air. The pressure was exquisite, a perfect symphony of pleasure that seemed to resonate with every beat of your racing heart. His eyes never left yours, the dark hunger in them a mirror to the desire that consumed you both. You could see the triumph in his gaze as you began to unravel, your orgasm building like a crescendo in a rock 'n' roll song, the tension tightening with every stroke of his cock.

The heavy throb in your stomach grew with each passing second, a storm of need that had your legs shaking uncontrollably. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your breath coming in ragged pants that seemed to echo through the silent room. It was as if the entire world had stopped spinning, leaving only the two of you in a cocoon of lust and desire.

And then, without warning, it hit you—the orgasm that had been building, coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring ready to snap. You screamed his name, the sound raw and uninhibited as it tore from your throat. Your body arched off the bed, your back bowing like a bow drawn to its full extent. The pleasure was like a white-hot knife slicing through you, leaving you trembling in its wake.

But Dallas wasn't done yet. As your climax rippled through your body, he pulled out with a wet pop that made you whine with the sudden emptiness. He took a couple of deep, shuddering breaths, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back his own release. And then, with a snarl of pure, primal need, he painted your chest with his cum, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. It was a declaration of his own, a brand that marked you as his.

"Oh, Jesus," Dallas sighed, plopping down on the side of the bed, his legs splayed out in front of him. His cock was still rock-hard, a testament to his unbridled passion. He watched you, panting and trembling, your skin flushed and your eyes glazed with satisfaction. You were a vision of debauchery, a greaser's angel sprawled out on his rumpled sheets.

Your body was a canvas of desire, your breasts heaving with every breath, the nipples still hard from his attention. Your legs were spread wide, the remnants of your orgasm painting your inner thighs like an erotic Pollock masterpiece. And your pussy, swollen and glistening, begged for more of the attention it had just received. Dallas couldn't help but admire the way you looked, the way you reacted to his touch. It was like watching a fire burn—beautiful and destructive.

With a gentle tug, he pulled you closer, his body spooning yours as he wrapped the covers around you both. The warmth was a stark contrast to the coolness of the room, and you couldn't help but melt into him, your curves fitting perfectly against his hard planes. His cock was still nestled against your ass, the slickness from your arousal leaving a sticky trail between your bodies. His arm was like a steel band around your waist, his hand resting on the soft mound of your stomach, his fingers idly playing with the wetness that still lingered.

"You did so good for me, baby," Dallas murmured into your ear, his voice a warm caress that sent shivers down your spine. He kissed your temple, his breath ghosting over your skin as his lips moved to the sensitive spot behind your ear. You shivered, the tender gesture making your heart swell with affection. His teeth grazed the lobe, sending a jolt of pleasure that had you tilting your head to give him better access. His kiss was firm, a brand of possession that had your toes curling in the sheets.

You felt a lazy smile tug at the corners of your mouth, your body boneless and sated in the aftermath of the explosive passion that had consumed you both. The room was quiet now, save for the distant sounds of the party that had long since faded into the background. The storm outside had passed, leaving only the occasional whisper of the wind to serenade you as you lay in the cocoon of his arms.

[estellan0vella]

Sunshine's Guide To Murder│Lee Minho

Chapter Thirty Eight: There Was A Fire SS: 8 (ignore time stamps and dates) Word Count: 4.1K Content Warnings: Talks of death, talks of a house fire, ghosts

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Minho wakes up groggily, his body protesting the movement as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The morning light filters through his blinds, too bright, too cheerful. He rubs his face, scrubbing away the remnants of a restless sleep. Something feels off, though he can’t put his finger on it.

Downstairs, the house is already alive with activity. Chan is in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee and scrolling through his phone. The faint sound of Hyunjin and Changbin arguing about cereal brands drifts in from the living room.

Minho grabs his jacket from the coat rack near the door, shoving his feet into his sneakers. As he reaches for the handle, Chan’s voice calls out, “Where are you going?”

“To Hayun’s,” Minho replies without missing a beat, pulling the door open.

Chan’s voice is puzzled. “Who?”

Minho stops, his hand frozen on the doorframe. He turns to look at Chan, eyebrows furrowed. “What the fuck do you mean, who? Hayun. My girlfriend. She lives with Jeongin, Jisung, and Felix. Is this a prank? Because if it is, it’s a shit one.”

Chan’s face twists in confusion. “Minho, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Changbin appears in the doorway, a piece of toast in hand. “You don’t remember the news from last year?”

Minho frowns deeply. “What news?”

Hyunjin walks in, his expression grim. “It was all over the place, Minho. After Yuna’s disappearance and-” He hesitates, his voice softening. “And your sister’s suicide. Those four students moved into that shared house. You know, the one with the faulty wiring.”

Minho feels like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “What about it?”

Hyunjin’s voice lowers further, each word like a blow. “There was a fire. They all died.”

The toast falls from Changbin’s hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Minho stares at Hyunjin, his heart hammering in his chest. “That’s not fucking funny,” he snaps. “I saw her yesterday.”

“Minho-” Chan begins, his tone cautious.

“No.” Minho shakes his head furiously. “No. This isn’t real. You’re lying. You all saw her yesterday. We all saw her yesterday. She was right there.”

“Minho-” Hyunjin tries again, stepping closer.

“I saw her yesterday!” Minho snaps, slamming the door open and bolting down the street.

Hyunjin swears under his breath, taking off after him. “Minho, wait!”

Minho sprints through the quiet morning, his legs pumping powerfully beneath him as he races against the crisp, invigorating chill of the air. Each inhale is a desperate gasp, mingling with the scent of dew-kissed grass and damp earth that fills his lungs. The early sunlight glimmers faintly through the trees, casting fleeting shadows that dance around him.

He doesn’t pause to think; every muscle in his body knows what to do, propelled by a fierce instinct. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, its frantic cadence echoing the whirlwind of thoughts as he navigates the familiar path, driven by an unshakeable purpose.

By the time he skids to a stop, his lungs are burning, and his legs threaten to give out beneath him. But none of that matters. He stares at the empty lot where Hayun’s house used to be. Nothing is left but a patch of scorched earth, overgrown with weeds. The air is still, unnaturally quiet.

“No,” Minho breathes, his voice breaking. He takes a shaky step forward, then another. “No, no, no.”

Hyunjin catches up to him, panting heavily. “Minho-”

Minho turns on him, his eyes wide and wild. “What the fuck is this? This isn’t fucking real. Where’s the house? Where are they?”

Hyunjin’s expression is pained. “Minho, you never met them.”

“Don’t,” Minho growls, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained fury. “Don’t fucking say that to me.”

“I’m serious,” Hyunjin insists, his voice cracking slightly. “You never met them. They’ve been dead for almost a year.”

“That’s bullshit!” Minho yells, his hands balling into fists. “Hayun is my girlfriend. We’ve spent the last eight, no, nine, months working on proving my sister’s innocence and then finding out who killed your cousin. Their podcast-”

“Their podcast topped the charts when they died,” Hyunjin interrupts softly. “That’s how you found it. That’s how you knew about them. But you never met them.”

“I saw her yesterday!” Minho’s voice breaks, his eyes stinging with tears. He points a trembling hand at the empty lot. “You saw her too! We all did!”

Hyunjin shakes his head, his own expression crumbling. “Minho, I didn’t. None of us did.”

“You’re lying,” Minho whispers, his voice barely audible. “You’re fucking lying.”

“I’m not,” Hyunjin says, stepping closer. “Minho, maybe we should go to the hospital.”

Minho recoils as if he’s been struck. “I’m not fucking crazy! Don’t look at me like that.”

“Minho-” Hyunjin tries, but his voice falters.

“They were alive yesterday,” Minho says, his voice rising again. “Hayun, Jisung, Felix, Jeongin- They were alive. I don’t understand what kind of fucked up joke this is, but it’s not funny.”

Hyunjin’s hands hover uncertainly, as if he wants to comfort Minho but doesn’t know how. “I don’t understand either,” he admits. “But I do know that they’ve been gone for almost a year. I’m sorry.”

Minho shakes his head furiously, stepping back toward the lot. He stares at the ground, his chest heaving as he fights to make sense of what’s happening. The world feels like it’s spinning out of control, and no matter how hard he tries to ground himself, he can’t.

“They were alive,” he whispers again, his voice hollow. “I saw them.”

Hyunjin doesn’t reply. He simply stands there, helpless, as Minho sinks to his knees, clutching his head. The weight of the moment crashes down around them, suffocating in its intensity.

Hyunjin kneels beside Minho, his knees hitting the dirt with a muted thud. His hand hovers near Minho’s shoulder, unsure whether to offer comfort or give him space. “Minho,” Hyunjin says softly, his voice strained. “I… I don’t understand either.”

Minho doesn’t respond. His fingers fumble with his phone, his hands trembling as he opens the gallery app. He scrolls through his camera roll, past what he remembers as snapshots of laughter and joy. The pictures he swears he took of Hayun smiling, of Felix proudly presenting a pan of brownies, of Jisung in mid-rant, waving his arms like a madman, are all empty.

The images show the same scenes: Minho’s bedroom, the table at the café, a bench by the Han River. But in every one of them, no one is there. Just empty chairs. Bare walls. Blank space.

“No,” Minho whispers, his voice cracking as he stares at his phone. He scrolls faster, desperate, frantic, hoping, praying, he’ll find something to prove what he knows to be true. “No. This can’t be right. This isn’t fucking right.”

“Minho,” Hyunjin says, his voice firmer now. “You never met them.”

“Yes, I fucking did!” Minho snaps, his voice filled with raw emotion. He throws his phone onto the ground, the screen shattering on impact. He doesn’t care. “Hayun’s favourite colour is lavender! She told me. I know it. Felix made the best brownies, but he couldn’t cook for shit! Jeongin and Chan- They had something going on. You and Jisung-”

Minho cuts himself off, his throat tightening as tears well in his eyes. He glares at Hyunjin, daring him to argue. “You and Jisung were close. Don’t fucking tell me you weren’t.”

Hyunjin’s face is pale, his lips pressed into a thin line. He shakes his head slowly. “Minho,” he says, his voice gentle but unsteady, “none of that happened.”

Minho feels like he’s been punched in the gut. The air is thick, suffocating, as he tries to process Hyunjin’s words. He looks down at his trembling hands, then back at the empty lot in front of him. His mind races, every memory of the past year swirling in a chaotic mess. They felt real. Every conversation. Every laugh. Every goddamn moment.

“They did happen,” Minho whispers, his voice hollow. He looks up at Hyunjin, his eyes bloodshot and glistening with tears. “They fucking happened.”

Hyunjin exhales shakily and rises to his feet. “Come on,” he says, extending a hand toward Minho. His voice is filled with a mix of pity and determination. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where the fuck could we go that’s going to make any of this make sense?” Minho bites out, his voice bitter and dripping with frustration.

Hyunjin hesitates for a moment, his gaze falling to the ground. Then, he looks back at Minho, his eyes solemn. “The cemetery.”

Minho’s heart pounds in his chest as they walk through the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. The air here feels heavier, as though the weight of loss clings to every blade of grass. The gravel crunches beneath their feet as Hyunjin leads him down a winding path, past rows of gravestones.

Minho’s breath catches when they stop. Four graves sit in a neat line, their headstones polished and gleaming in the pale sunlight. The names and dates are etched with haunting precision.

Han Jisung 14th September 2004 – 15th September 2024

Lee Felix 15th September 2004 – 15th September 2024

Jang Hayun 14th March 2005 – 15th September 2024

Yang Jeongin 8th February 2005 – 15th September 2024

“No,” Minho chokes out, stumbling back a step. His legs feel like jelly, and he grips the edge of a nearby headstone to steady himself. “This- This is bullshit.”

Hyunjin stands silently beside him, his face pale and drawn. He doesn’t speak, letting Minho process what’s in front of him.

“They’re dead?” Minho asks, his voice rising in disbelief. His chest heaves as he points at the graves, his hands trembling. “No, this doesn’t fucking make sense. I talked to them yesterday. Yesterday, Hyunjin! They were alive! We were-”

He cuts himself off, his voice breaking as he drops to his knees in front of the graves. Tears spill down his cheeks as he clutches at the grass. “No. This isn’t real. This can’t be fucking real.”

“Minho-” Hyunjin kneels beside him again, his hand resting gently on Minho’s shoulder. “I don’t know what’s going on, but they’ve been gone for almost a year. There was a fire in their house. Faulty wiring.”

“No,” Minho whispers, shaking his head. “I- I don’t understand.”

Hyunjin swallows hard, his grip on Minho’s shoulder tightening slightly. “I think we need to get you to a hospital. This- This isn’t something we can just figure out on our own.”

Minho jerks away from him, his eyes blazing. “I’m not fucking crazy! Don’t you dare treat me like I’m losing my mind. They were alive! I’m not imagining this!”

“I’m not saying you’re crazy,” Hyunjin says quickly, his voice steady but filled with urgency. “I just think you need help. Minho, this, whatever’s happening, it’s not normal.”

“No shit, it’s not normal!” Minho yells, his voice echoing across the quiet cemetery. He scrambles to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the graves. “None of this makes any fucking sense! How can they be dead when I’ve spent the last year with them? How can this be fucking real?”

Hyunjin watches him silently for a moment, his own emotions warring on his face. “I don’t have the answers,” he admits quietly. “But Minho, this? This is real.”

Minho stops pacing, his chest heaving as he stares at the headstones. His mind is a whirlwind of memories and emotions, all colliding in a way that makes him feel like he’s unraveling. He sinks back to his knees, his hands curling into fists in the grass.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers again, his voice broken. “I don’t fucking understand.”

Hyunjin sits beside him, his own shoulders slumping as the weight of the moment presses down on them both. Neither of them speaks, the silence stretching between them like an insurmountable chasm.

Minho doesn’t move for a long time, his knees buried in the grass as the weight of the past few hours crushes him. The cold air nips at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. All he can focus on are the headstones in front of him, the names carved into them mocking him with their permanence.

“Minho,” Hyunjin says softly after a while. His voice is careful, like he’s walking on eggshells. “You should come back with me. Let’s… figure this out together.”

“Leave,” Minho mutters, his voice low and raw.

“What?” Hyunjin steps closer, concern etched into his face.

“Fucking leave!” Minho snaps, his head whipping around to glare at Hyunjin. “Go! I don’t want you here!”

Hyunjin flinches, his jaw tightening, but he nods. “Okay,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. I’ll go. But call me if… if you need anything.”

Minho doesn’t respond, turning his back to Hyunjin. He hears the crunch of gravel as Hyunjin walks away, his footsteps fading into the distance. Minho’s breathing is uneven, his mind racing as he tries to piece together the chaos unraveling around him. He presses his palms against his eyes, willing himself to wake up from what has to be a nightmare.

But when he opens his eyes again, he freezes.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees movement. Four familiar figures stand a few feet away, partially obscured by the mist that clings to the cemetery. He blinks, his heart racing as he turns his head fully to face them.

It’s them.

Hayun. Jisung. Felix. Jeongin.

They’re standing together, their forms faint and shimmering like they’re caught between reality and something else. Their eyes are on him, filled with a strange mix of sorrow and warmth.

“What the fuck?” Minho whispers, his voice trembling. He scrambles to his feet, stumbling slightly as he takes a step toward them. “What the fuck is going on?!”

Hayun steps forward, her hair rippling softly as though caught in a breeze that doesn’t exist. She offers him a sad smile, her eyes glistening with unspoken emotion. “Minho,” she says softly, her voice carrying an almost ethereal quality. “Everything you remember, it’s real. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Minho repeats, his voice breaking. “What the fuck does that mean, Hayun? You’re standing right here, but you’re dead? I don’t- This doesn’t- Nne of this makes any fucking sense!”

Hayun takes another step closer, her gaze unwavering. “You have to listen to me,” she says firmly. “You have to prove Chaeryeong’s innocence, okay? You have to do that.”

Minho shakes his head, his chest tightening. “No. No, I don’t care about that right now. I don’t care about anything but you. You can’t leave me, Hayun. You can’t.”

Her expression softens, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “Minho,” she says gently, “you never really had me. I’m dead.”

“Don’t fucking say that!” Minho yells, his voice cracking. He grabs fistfuls of his hair, his body trembling with rage and despair. “You were just here! We were together, Hayun! We-”

“Minho,” Jisung interjects, stepping forward. His usual cheeky grin is gone, replaced by a sombre expression. “We died. It fucking sucked, by the way. Zero out of ten do not recommend.”

Minho stares at him, his mind reeling. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No, you’re wrong. You’re all wrong. This is some kind of sick joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Jeongin says quietly, his voice steady but tinged with sadness. “We’re dead. And now that we’ve helped you, we get to move on.”

“Move on?” Minho echoes, his voice hollow. He looks between them, his vision blurred with tears. “What the fuck does that even mean? You’re just going to leave? After everything?”

Felix steps forward, his usually bright eyes dim but still filled with affection. “We’ll miss you, Minho,” he says softly, his voice breaking slightly.

“Don’t fucking say goodbye,” Minho snaps, his anger flaring again as he takes a step toward them. “You can’t just-”

“We have to,” Jisung cuts in, his tone uncharacteristically serious. He glances at the others, then back at Minho. “We’ve done what we needed to do. It’s time.”

One by one, Jisung, Jeongin, and Felix turn and begin to walk away, their forms becoming fainter with each step. Minho’s chest tightens as panic claws at him.

“Wait!” he shouts, his voice cracking. “Wait! Don’t fucking go! You can’t just-”

“Minho,” Hayun says softly, pulling his attention back to her. She’s still standing in front of him, her presence both comforting and heartbreaking.

“I don’t understand,” Minho whispers, his voice shaking as he stares at her. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you stay?”

Hayun’s eyes fill with tears, but she smiles, a soft, bittersweet expression that makes Minho’s heart ache. “I’ll wait for you,” she says, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. “In whatever comes next. That, I promise you.”

“Hayun…” Minho’s voice cracks as he reaches for her, his fingers brushing against empty air. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“Our love was real,” she says, her voice trembling as she steps backwards, her form beginning to fade. “At least hold on to that, Minho. Hold on to it.”

And then, she’s gone.

Minho falls to his knees, his chest heaving with sobs as the weight of her absence crashes down on him. The cemetery is silent again, the only sound his ragged breathing and the distant rustling of leaves.

Minho jerks awake, gasping for air as if he’s just surfaced from being underwater. His heart pounds violently in his chest, his hands trembling as he clutches at the blanket tangled around him. The faint light of early morning filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his eyes wide and unblinking as he struggles to orient himself.

His gaze shifts to his left, and he freezes.

Hayun is lying next to him, her chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. Her hair is splayed across the pillow, and her left arm is still cradled in the sling. She’s alive. Alive. The sight of her sleeping peacefully sends a surge of relief crashing over him so intense it leaves him dizzy.

Minho’s breath catches, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the urge to grab her and hold on for dear life. Instead, he reaches out hesitantly, brushing his fingers over her good arm. Her skin is warm and soft under his touch, solid and real. She stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling back into her slumber.

He yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, his heart hammering in his chest. “She’s real,” he whispers to himself, barely audible, as if saying it out loud will solidify the truth.

Without thinking, Minho bolts out of the room, his feet barely touching the ground as he rushes down the hallway. His first stop is Jisung’s room, and he flings the door open without hesitation. The sight before him stops him dead in his tracks.

Jisung is sprawled across his bed, snoring loudly, his face buried in Hyunjin’s neck. Hyunjin’s arms are loosely draped around Jisung’s waist, their legs tangled together like a lazy knot. Jisung mutters something in his sleep, his voice muffled and slurred, and Hyunjin responds with a soft snore of his own.

Minho exhales a shaky breath, a strangled laugh escaping his throat. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice barely steady. “You’re okay. You’re fucking okay.”

But he doesn’t linger. He has to see for himself that they’re all here. He backs out of Jisung’s room and moves quickly to Felix’s door, pushing it open with trembling hands.

Felix is sprawled out across Changbin’s chest, his head resting on Changbin’s shoulder. Changbin is snoring softly, one arm slung protectively over Felix’s back. Felix shifts slightly, his brow furrowing before he relaxes again, mumbling something about cookies.

Minho’s hand flies to his mouth as he chokes back a sob. He wants to laugh at how ridiculous they look, but the relief coursing through him is too overwhelming for humour. “You fucking idiots,” he whispers shakily. “You’re fine. You’re all fine.”

His last stop is Jeongin’s room. He doesn’t even knock, throwing the door open and bracing himself for what he’ll find. And there they are. Jeongin is curled up against Chan’s side, his head resting on Chan’s shoulder. Chan has one arm wrapped around Jeongin, his other hand resting on Jeongin’s head as if shielding him from harm even in sleep.

Minho stares at them, his vision blurring with tears he refuses to let fall. He leans heavily against the doorframe, his body trembling as he whispers, “You’re alive. You’re really fucking alive.”

He steps back into the hallway, the weight of the past few minutes crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He crouches down, his head resting against his knees as he repeats the words like a mantra. “It was just a dream. They’re alive. They’re fucking alive.”

The tears come then, hot and unstoppable as they streak down his face. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, doesn’t try to hold back the broken sobs that wrack his body.

“They’re okay,” he whispers through the tears, his voice shaking. “They’re okay.”

Minho is still sitting on the floor, his head buried in his arms as he works to calm his erratic breathing, when he hears the soft creak of a door opening. He lifts his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot and puffy from the tears he hasn’t bothered to hide.

“Min?” Hayun’s voice is soft, tinged with confusion. “What are you doing sitting on the floor like that?”

He looks up, and there she is. Standing in the hallway, peeking out from behind her slightly cracked bedroom door, her hair messy from sleep and her left arm still cradled in the sling. She’s so perfectly her, alive, whole, and real, that his chest tightens painfully, and without thinking, he surges forward.

Before she can react, he wraps her in a tight hug, careful to avoid jostling her injured arm. His hands press into her back, desperate to ground himself in the feel of her body, warm and solid against his. His voice is low and fierce when he speaks.

“You’re not dying,” he murmurs into her shoulder, his words muffled but firm. “You hear me? I’m not fucking losing you. Not ever.”

Hayun blinks in surprise, still half-asleep, her free arm coming up to pat his back awkwardly. “Uh, okay?” she says, her tone uncertain but tinged with amusement. “Any particular reason for this sudden declaration?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look her in the eyes, his hands still gripping her shoulders. “I’m calling a fucking technician,” he says, his tone serious and unwavering. “They’re going to check all the wiring in this house. Every single goddamn inch of it. I don’t care how much it costs.”

Hayun stares at him, wide-eyed and confused, before a soft giggle escapes her lips. “Minho, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t argue with me on this,” Minho insists, his voice rough but steady. “Just let me do it. Okay? It’s no big deal.”

Hayun tilts her head, eyeing him with a mix of confusion and affection. “Sure, okay. Call the electrician. Knock yourself out. But seriously, what’s going on? Did you have some kind of nightmare or something?”

Minho hesitates, his hands dropping from her shoulders as he shifts awkwardly on his feet. “It’s… nothing,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “Just thought about it, that’s all.”

Her gaze softens, and she steps closer, her good hand reaching out to cup his cheek. “You’re acting weird, but you’re cute when you’re all protective,” she says with a small smile. “So I’ll let it slide.”

Minho’s breath catches as he looks down at her, his chest tight with emotions he can’t quite name. Before he can stop himself, he leans in, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that’s both urgent and tender. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he pours every ounce of his love and relief into the kiss.

When they pull apart, Hayun’s eyes are wide. “Wow,” she breathes, blinking up at him. “What was that for?”

“I love you,” Minho says, his voice trembling slightly. “I need you to know that, okay? It’s only been a few months, but you… you mean everything to me, Hayun. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before, and it scares the shit out of me, but I don’t care. I fucking love you.”

Hayun stares at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, before a slow smile spreads across her face. “I love you too, Minho,” she says softly. “I really, really do.”

Minho exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I don’t think I could handle it if you didn’t.”

She giggles, the sound light and infectious, and Minho feels a little of the lingering weight on his chest lift. “You’re such a sap,” she teases, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now come on, lover boy. Let’s go back to bed before you wake the whole house.”

Minho lets out a soft chuckle, his grip on her tightening for a brief moment before he releases her. “Fine,” he mutters, his tone begrudging but affectionate. “But don’t think I’m letting this wiring thing go.”

Hayun rolls her eyes, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “Whatever you say, Minho. Now, come on.”

He follows her back to her room, his heart still racing but his mind quieter now. As they settle back into bed, Hayun curling up next to him with her head resting on his shoulder, Minho presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m not losing you,” he whispers again, more to himself than to her.

Hayun doesn’t respond, she’s already drifting back to sleep, but the soft smile on her lips tells him she heard him. And for now, that’s enough.

Rewatched SKZFLIX, cried, got inspired at 2am, wrote this and made myself cry writing this, debated making it real instead of a dream, decided against it

Taglist: @hityoulikebahng @drewsandsebastianswife @fackeraccount @lily-loves-kpop @stilldontknowhoiam

@ziggy1221 @justaspoonofjam @tr-mha-fan @candycurshidkwhatthehell

@heeseungspookie @smigcrazy @skzstannie @nightmarenyxx @beaann

[nocasdatsgay]

To Be Marked as Yours

Pairing: Neris | Rating: T | Word Count: 1813

Summary: Nesta refused a bite mark from her mate when they wed. But seeing her sister’s fresh mark has her questioning that decision.

Warnings: Omegaverse, Omega!Nesta/Alpha!Eris, Inner turmoil (Nesta’s worrying) Biting marks, Eris using his High Lord commands.

Part 1 | Part 2| Read this on AO3 | Read below

For Day Five of @acotar-omegaverse-week Marks

Gen Tag: @mybestfriendmademe @hieragalbatorixdottir Borders by @tsunami-of-tears

Nesta was staring. She could hear the voice of her mother harshly scolding her in the back of her mind even still. But she couldn’t look away. She was having tea with her sisters in Valaris. A monthly tradition once she agreed to marry Eris, so they could visit. They had skipped the month prior due to Elain’s mating ceremony. Now Nesta was staring at her, the mark on her neck to be precise.

Thoughts were rushing through her mind. She’d never seen a fresh mating mark. When they first saw Feyre after she turned fae, hers was concealed and when she saw it later, it was healed. But Elain’s. Elain’s was deep red, teeth markings over her scent glands. Nesta glanced at Feyre, her eyes going to the faded mark on her neck. Then her eyes dropped to her hands.

Nesta didn’t have a mating mark.

She refused it, telling Eris she would not be branded like a cow. She remembered him asking coldy what she would have them mark the marriage with instead. When he struck down the idea that the marriage agreement from the Night Court would suffice, she asked for rings.

“It’s what humans do,” She said.

He scowled but returned a week later with glistening red bands to go on their respective ring fingers.

“How will anyone know this is a mating ring?” He muttered when he walked away, still looking at it on his hand next to all the other rings he wore.

Guilt twisted in her stomach. She wore a high neckline to hide her lack of a mark outside of the Forest house. The ruby dress she wore today for tea had one. At home it didn’t seem to matter. The Autumn Court didn’t care or were too afraid to voice their opinions.

Nesta wanted to ask so badly if Elain wanted the mark. Or if her mate had forced it on her. Did it hurt to receive it? She was told it didn’t if it was during a heat. Elain had always been regular, it was possible even now she planned her ceremony right before it.

“Nesta.” Her gaze snapped up to Elain’s. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she blinked and took a sip of her tea.

It was not lost on her how Feyre and Elain exchanged a look. If they were communicating silently, she tried to not show she cared. They all finished their tea like nothing had happened. That afternoon, Nesta sequestered herself to her freshly cleaned nest, with a book and a pile of Eris’s shirts she hid from the maids.

“You’re unusually quiet today.” Nesta glanced up from her book. Her mate stood at the door, not entering. “Did you fight with your sisters at tea?”

“No,” she curtly replied. She deliberately did not grant him entrance. “I just thought you’d appreciate the silence.”

“You know I can feel when something bothers you,” he replied smugly. “And you’re here. You may as well tell me now.”

“You are what is bothering me. I’m trying to read.”

He hummed. “Shall I have Cassandra bring your dinner here?”

She pretended to think on it. With a sigh she flipped her page and replied. “No. I’ll be at dinner.”

He nodded and left the doorway without an argument. She closed her book with a huff. Then she pulled one of his shirts up to her face, annoyed and thankful that he let her be.

At the next breakfast tea with her sisters, Nesta was staring again. Only now Elain’s mark had healed to a faint ring, looping up past the sleeve of her dress onto her neck. Unlike last time, however, Elain didn’t dismiss her stares.

“It healed nicely, don’t you think?” Elain said, so soft in that airy tone of hers.

“Yes,” Nesta replied and without much thought asked, “Did it hurt?”

Elain furrowed her brows. “I suppose? Only for a moment when I received it. Did yours hurt?”

Nesta felt her face flush. She could feel the stare from Feyre next to her, no doubt watching her reaction intensely to see what she’d say.

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss.” She finally answered.

“Nesta.” It was Feyre who reached over, placing a hand on her forearm. Her blue eyes held such concern, Nesta was taken aback. “You know you can talk to us. If something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong,” she shrugged her shoulder to get Feyre’s arm off of her.

“Just know we are here for you Nes.”

She wanted to scoff but instead swallowed down her urge to run or to be worse. The tea went by quicker than planned and when Nesta returned home, she stomped through the halls. When she found her mate lounging in their sitting area, she decided to be blunt the moment he looked up at her.

“I want you to mark me.” She turned her head, baring her neck. “Just do it and get it over with.”

“Why?” He put his book aside and sat up fully on the couch.

“Why?” She glared. “I am obviously a disgrace of a wife- mate, whatever the terms are.” She added with fluster. “So do it. Mark me.”

Eris’s features became dark, so much that fear crept into her stomach. He stood, towering over her and his power rolling off of himself in waves of heat.

“Who said that to you?”

“No one-“

“Someone did. Tell me now.”

She felt the magic wash over her. She only felt a High Lord’s command once before and for Eris to use it- tears welled in her eyes from shame. She fought it for a moment, tilting her chin up and steeling herself.

“It was myself. I said it.” She let the tears fall, spewing truth like it was venom. “Do you not notice the high collars on my dresses I wear outside of court? To the hide my shame? To hide that I am a coward who cannot submit to her husband fully?”

There was heavy silence between them for a moment. Nesta tensed, fighting back her sniffles as she watched Eris carefully. He was good at hiding his emotions like she was. The stern look on his face only faltered when he finally spoke again.

“Do you want it? Tell me yes or no.”

She winced; another command to answer truthfully.

“No.”

“Then it’s not up for further discussion.”

His features soften to that laced with sadness. Nesta was uncertain of what to do. She felt the magic of the command leave her.

“You commanded me,” she whispered.

“Would you have spoken truthfully if I didn’t?” His voice cracked, eyes laced with silver. “I will burn those dresses. I thought you preferred them because they were close to human fashion. If you only wear them to hide a lack of a mark then they are not needed.”

“Why are you not angry?” Nesta yelled. She didn’t understand. “I will not bear your mark!”

“But you already do.” He grabbed her hand and held it up, the red ring flashing under the fae lights. “This is my mark. You accepted it and you wear it.”

“But this is-“

“Human. Yes.” His grip loosened slightly. He pulled her hand up and kissed the tips of her fingers. His voice was softer when he added. “But it is you. This is the only thing you’ve asked of me. I’m not going to take it away from you.”

Amber eyes stared back into her own. She could feel the love he sent her though their shared bond. She shoved back her tears.

“The other courts will talk.” She said softly.

“They always talk.”

“What if they think less of you?” Because I won't submit. Her mind finished where her voice could not.

Eris pulled her to him. Her knees felt weak from the scent of him.

“I do not care what the other courts or high lords think.” He gently tilted her chin up with his free hand. “You are my mate and I love you. The rings are proof enough if they wish to see a physical representation of it.”

Rarely did they utter the words to each other, so when Nesta said them, her voice cracked a little. “I love you too.”

Eris then swept her off her feet into his arms, making her yell at the sudden movement.

“I think we should retire for the night,” he smirked carrying her down the hall. “I do owe you an extensive apology for commanding you earlier.”

“That you do.” She added sternly, “And you better not ever do it again.”

“Are you threatening me, love?” He grinned and he nudged open the door with his foot.

“Would it be me if I didn’t?” She smiled.

The next time Nesta saw her sisters, she wore an off the shoulder gold dress. Her heart was pounding in her ears as she approached but she held her head high. Both Elain and Feyre’s eyes went to her neck. Then Feyre yelled out, pumping her fist in the air.

“I knew it! Nesta, you just won me so much money.”

“Excuse me?” Nesta stopped, glaring at Feyre.

“Rhys swore Eris would make you take his mark. I told him he didn’t know how stubborn you were. I told him!”

“As if Eris makes her do anything,” Elain giggled.

“I’m right here!” Nesta’s face had flushed and she turned her glare to Elain. “You both made bets on me?”

Elain shrugged. “You’ve been mated for so long, I didn’t think the mark was an issue. You were acting odd the last two months. I suspected you might be pregnant. So I lost that bet.”

Nesta scoffed, so uncomfortable with her sisters bombarding her. “I should go back home; you both are insufferable.”

“You also wear a ring,” Feyre teased. “They don’t know what that is on your hand. But we do.” She guestered between herself and Elain.

“Then why didn’t you just ask? Or say something?” Nesta snapped.

“We asked you the last time we saw you if something was bothering you!” Feyre put her hands on her hips. “You got defensive!”

Nesta couldn’t argue with her on that, she paced for a moment in a small circle. “By the mother, can we just have our tea?”

Elain let out a laugh that rang throughout the little garden they were sequestered in. Nesta sent her a glare but neither pushed it further. When they finally sat down, Elain eyed her as she poured the tea.

“So what made you finally stop wearing high collars?”

Nesta huffed. “I’m going to need a stronger drink than tea if we are going to have that discussion.”

Feyre, ever the prepared one of the three, pulled out a bottle of whiskey from a pocket realm and winked at her. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for ducksandswans behind the cut; Jason gets knocked up and accidentally goes home about it. ( chrono || non-chrono )

Jason tightens his grip on Pup Brother and Quiet Sister tightens her grip on him. He can smell the whole pack's scents–smell the whole pack's packscent–and he feels . . . good about that. He likes that. 

He missed them. He shouldn't have stayed gone so long. Though now there's a pup, and maybe even more than one, so he supposes it was worth it. 

And either way, he's home now. 

Grandpa said. 

“ETA on B?” Big Brother asks. 

“Eighteen minutes, if they avoided the downtown traffic,” Big Brother’s mate says. Jason hums acknowledgment, then lets himself relax just a little more. More than he even thought he could, really. 

It's nice. 

It's really nice. 

And they're all safe, too. 

“Holy crap, is he purring?” New Brother mutters under his breath. 

“He is definitely purring,” Loud Sister confirms. “Like a big grumpy motorcycle.” 

“Pretty sure I've heard quieter motorcycles,” Big Brother's mate says wryly. “It's pretty cute, though.” 

“It is so cute, oh my god,” Big Brother says in despairing delight. “This is bad enough, how are we gonna handle him being like this with an actual baby?” 

“I think that's mostly a ‘you’ problem, Dick,” Little Brother says. 

“That is definitely a ‘you’ problem,” Loud Sister agrees. 

“For sure,” New Brother says. 

“Very cute,” Quiet Sister hums, nuzzling the back of Jason’s neck and patting his shoulder. “Baby brother.” 

“Thank you, Cass,” Big Brother says with a huff, folding his arms. “This is so adorable I can’t even stand it.” 

Jason huffs, rolling his eyes, then just settles in and closes his eyes. It’s safe to. And he has a nest to let his scent seep into and through, and “bred” pheromones to let settle into and fill up the den. He’s early enough in his pregnancy that it’ll probably take a little while, so it’s past time to concentrate on putting those off and scenting the room. The nest’s all made, and Pup Brother and Quiet Sister are in it, and Grandpa’s by the door and Big Brother and Little Brother are just outside the nest, and Loud Sister and New Brother and Big Brother’s mate are all here too, so . . . 

So once Alpha’s here, then everything will be perfect. 

“He’s purring again,” New Brother mutters. “I literally did not even know he was physically capable of making that sound.” 

“Capable of making it to motorcycle-shaming levels, apparently,” Loud Sister says with a laugh. “Damn, Jason.” 

Jason doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he isn’t worried about it. If it’s important, someone will take care of it. 

Everyone’s here, so of course someone will. 

“Silence, all of you,” Pup Brother grumbles, sounding long-suffering but staying settled secure in Jason’s arms, which is good. Definitely. He should be there right now. 

Jason nuzzles him some more, for obvious reasons, and then just concentrates on letting his pheromones spread through the room. His nest already smells like the pack and so does the den, obviously, but it doesn’t smell like pup-is-coming.

It needs to, obviously. 

Someone’s purring. It’s not Pup Brother, but Jason’s not sure who else could be. 

Well, it doesn’t matter, really. 

Some of the others talk about some things, their voices soft and quiet. Jason doesn’t worry about it. It’s just little stuff, like patrol schedules and classes and appointments. Normal little things for a pack to talk about, and easy to settle into the background as white noise while he lets his pheromones fill up the room and makes sure Pup Brother’s eaten. 

He eats some of the apple slices and peanut butter, himself. The pup needs to eat too. 

It’s the same cheap, shitty store brand that he used to insist on as a pup himself. 

“ETA five minutes,” Big Brother’s mate says eventually after checking her phone. Jason’s not sure what she’s talking about, but isn’t worried about that either. If it’s important, someone will tell him. Or handle it. Or both. 

All he has to do right now is wait for Alpha to get here, and then everything will be fine. 

Everything will be perfect, actually, once Alpha gets here. 

The others talk a little more. Their voices are still soft and quiet, so Jason still doesn’t worry about it. He just stays curled up around Pup Brother and in Quiet Sister’s arms, and letting his pheromones fill up the den with bred and home-safe and all the usual things that are usually part of presenting a pup to the pack. 

It’s nice. The . . . being here. It’s nice. 

He missed it here. 

He wonders why he missed it so bad. Has it been that long, or . . . ? 

He just missed it. 

But now he’s here, so he doesn’t have to miss it anymore. 

Grandpa turns his head towards the door and pushes himself up out of his chair. Jason whines in disappointment. Is he leaving? Why’s he leaving? 

“I’ll just be a moment, my boy,” Grandpa assures him, and Jason settles, a little. If Grandpa says it’ll be just a moment, then he means it. 

Grandpa steps out into the foyer again and everyone else goes quiet all at once, and Jason realizes–oh. The front door just opened, didn’t it. He doesn’t hear footsteps, though. 

. . . does that mean . . . ? 

“Alfred?” Alpha says from the foyer, sounding just barely concerned, and something in Jason vibrates at the sound of his voice. “What’s going on?” 

“Is someone purring?” Alpha’s mate asks curiously. 

“Master Jason came home, Master Bruce,” Grandpa says. 

“. . . he what?” Alpha says, his voice sounding–strange, just a bit. Jason isn’t sure why it does, but feels . . . 

“Just–the living room, Master Bruce,” Grandpa says. “You should come and see for yourself.” 

Grandpa steps back into view of the doorway, and Jason still feels unsettled and just a little bit uncertain, and isn’t sure if–

Then Alpha steps into view too, and Jason forgets everything else

[icaruseater]

2025 Trend Predictions

Those wallets that attach to your phone become hugely popular for women, to the point where people will speculate if purses in general are going out of style (they’re not).

Hippie “stomp clap” folk music OR Imagine Dragons-type music makes a resurgence

People stop whining about how dating sucks now and start taking matters into their own hands by doing more IRL events: speed dating, matchmaking, etc. Like dating apps, it’s initially judged and seen as “cringe” before catching on

Move over, matcha: the newest mainstream drink fascination will be the delicious thai tea. They have so much in common already: an iconic color, rich flavor, originating from East Asia, where they’re already popular in their respective countries. 

A smoothie as a meal becomes super popular again - “I don’t have an ED! It's just convenient.” (or, with the way things are going, people might not even outwardly deny having an ED)

“Doomsday prepper” mentality goes mainstream, people will be very keen on learning apocalyptic survival skills and jarring things

 Old fashioned YouTube style challenge videos come back: stuff like chubby bunny, cinnamon challenge, and the ice bucket challenge

 Among conversations about “the death of the it girl” we have our first monocultural “it-boy” we’ve had in years

 An increasing interest in print media- more zines? (please let this be true)

Customized, personalized pizza becomes big. Videos like “did you guys know that you don't have to put tomato sauce on your pizza? You can use any sauce you want! I just used buffalo ranch, it's a m a z i n g, you have to try this!”

People care a lot more about having “chic” cutlery/houseware

Chewing tobacco, AKA dip or chew, becomes BIG (though Zyns have been on the Bubbling Under Trend Charts for a while)

More BS conspiracy theories, allowing for more people to parade as pseudo intellectuals

Coffee, toffee, and caramel scents carry on the gourmand trend in fragrance

The “it-bag” is from Burberry or a similar brand, as quiet luxury continues to reign

No one cares about Thanksgiving or most festivities, people come online to complain about how no one cares about Thanksgiving or most festivities anymore

Worrying about if you’re getting enough electrolytes will become a “thing”

 Everyone reads my stuff and thinks it's great :D

[yoursinisforgiven]

REDAMANCY ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: philosophical themes, story likely takes place after episode 12 of isaac’s series, kisses.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The soft hum of the dryer fills the room as you lift warm, fragrant clothing from the hamper to fold. There's something oddly soothing about the ritual, a peace that feels almost sacred in its simplicity. People often talk about domesticity in the context of relationships—shared spaces, shared duties—but isn't it possible to find that same kind of harmony within yourself?  

You’ve always loved doing the laundry: the softness of freshly cleaned fabric, the faintly floral or citrus scent that lingers in the air. It feels like a small act of care, a moment where the chaos of the world is folded neatly into order. Isaac, of course, doesn’t understand this.  

“You know,” he’d said yesterday, stepping into the laundry room with an incredulous look, “you don’t have to do this yourself, right? We have people to do this for us.”  

You glanced up from the pile of clothes in your lap. “I know.”  

He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “So why do it? You’ve got a million other things you could be doing.”  

You shrugged, smoothing out the wrinkles in a shirt. Isaac raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, his gaze shifted to the shelf above the washer. “We’re running out of detergent,” you said, cutting him off before he could comment further. “There’s maybe enough for one or two more loads.” You folded another shirt and set it neatly on the growing pile.  

He nodded. “I’ll pick up more this week.” Pushing off the doorway, he headed back toward his study.  

Now, as you tuck the last folded shirt into the basket, you think about his words. He hadn’t meant to be dismissive; it was just how his mind worked. Efficiency over sentiment, delegation over personal involvement. For Isaac, laundry was a task to be outsourced, not a moment to slow down and breathe.  

As you reach for the next item—a dress shirt of his, soft and faintly smelling of his cologne—you pause. You think about the countless ways people express care, sometimes in direct, obvious gestures, but more often in the quiet, unnoticed details. Folding his shirt feels like one of those moments—a small, unspoken offering.  

The dryer buzzes, breaking your thoughts. You glance at the clock. Isaac will be home soon, and you wonder if he’ll notice his freshly folded sweater neatly placed in the drawer. Probably not, you think, but that’s okay. Some things don’t need to be noticed to matter.  

──

The next day, you step into the laundry room, your gaze almost immediately drawn to the shelf. Something catches your attention—a new addition you hadn’t expected. Isaac had gotten laundry detergent. But not just any kind; it was the expensive brand.  

You pause, blinking in mild surprise. On the rare days you went out to run errands yourself—not without Isaac insisting you check in and assuring him you’d be safe—you always bought the cheaper option. Practical, efficient, and easy. This, though, was different.  

Your brows furrow slightly as you walk closer, reaching up to take the bottle in your hand. The sleek design, the bold lettering touting “eco-friendly” and “sustainable,” feels like a deliberate choice. You turn it over, inspecting the label. Plant-based, cruelty-free, biodegradable.  

Isaac must have done this on purpose.  

You trace the edge of the cap with your thumb, trying to decipher the message behind the gesture.  

“Isaac,” you call out, raising your voice slightly so it carries to his study. Moments later, you hear the sound of his footsteps—slightly hurried. He appears at the doorway of the laundry room, a curious look on his face, glancing at the bottle in your hand.  

You hold out the detergent toward him, your expression skeptical. “Why did you buy this?”  

“You said we were running low,” he replies simply.  

“I never get this brand,” you counter.  

Isaac hums in acknowledgment, studying your reaction. “I know, but it’s more eco-friendly.”  

You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s expensive, Isaac. Almost double the price of what we usually get.”  

“Money isn’t a problem—it’s never been,” he says, his tone genuinely puzzled at your worry.  

“That’s not the point,” you say, setting the bottle down on the counter. “It’s about being practical. We don’t need to spend extra just to feel good about ourselves.”  

Isaac folds his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. “But isn’t that the whole point? Making choices that align with our values, even if they’re inconvenient or cost a little more? Isn’t that what you’ve been saying about sustainability?”  

You’re quiet for a moment, his words hanging in the air. He’s not wrong, exactly, but the simplicity of his reasoning grates against the internal calculations you’ve been making for years. “It’s not just about values,” you say finally. “It’s about balance. We can’t fix everything by throwing money at it.”  

He nods slowly, considering your response. “But if we don’t act on the small things, how do we build the habit of tackling the big ones? Isn’t this where it starts?”  

You cross your arms, leaning against the counter as you mull over his words. “I get what you’re saying, but sometimes it feels like... like these choices are performative. Like buying the ‘right’ detergent isn’t really going to change anything, not in the grand scheme of things.”  

Isaac steps closer, his tone softening. “Maybe not. But it’s not just about changing the world—it’s about changing us. How we think, how we act, what we prioritize. Isn’t that worth something?”  

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, the debate quiets. He’s always had a way of making you see things from a different perspective, even when you don’t want to.  

Finally, you sigh, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. We’ll try it. But if it doesn’t work as well as the cheap stuff, you’re doing the laundry.”  

He chuckles, stepping closer until he’s standing right in front of you. “Very well then.” His eyes soften as he leans down, brushing a kiss against your forehead. You tilt your head up, catching his lips with yours for a brief, tender moment.  

As he pulls back, he grins. “But I think you’ll be surprised.”  

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the detergent back on the shelf. The small kiss lingers in your mind as you start the next load of laundry, the gentle hum of the washer filling the room. Maybe he’s right. Maybe the small things matter more than you realize.

──

author's note: a small drabble compared to a fic, the requested was quite vague. though i don't like the finished product, i did enjoy writing fluff.