#chapters: secrets of ears

[equaltotheuniverse]

StarCycles

Chapter 2 cover page:

Cracks of Refraction

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[leemurcats]

The absolute URGE I have to write an essay on the storytelling and its development in deltarune up until this point. GOD chapter 4 is my favorite right now to symbolism and storytelling ALONE

[trashyswitch]

Chapter 21: The Tickle Community Flags

Luigi and Mario head home from their dinner with their family. Mario learns about the tickle community flags, while Luigi learns how to be honest about what tickles he desires.

They are back! This fanfic will talk a slight bit about the fetish community, but only about the flags. And I promise that this time, Luigi doesn't have an opinion on the whole thing. He's just neutral, and that's how it'll stay. I hope you enjoy.

After they got home, Mario and Luigi plopped themselves onto the couch for a few moments. “Gosh…What a night…” Mario muttered breathlessly. 

Strangely enough, Luigi didn’t respond to his brother. In fact, the only answer Mario got from his brother was pre-recorded laughter coming from Luigi’s phone. 

Mario turned to look at Luigi, immediately recognizing the laughter. He leaned in to look at the video, and started laughing softly as he watched the funny video of Uncle Arthur and Uncle Tony tickling the hell out of their Papa. “I always knew Papa was ticklish, but…not this ticklish.” Mario added. 

Luigi giggled. “I know, right?! Makes me wanna get him back for all those years of him playing the tickle monster.” Luigi admitted. 

Mario chuckled. “I might just offer to help you.” Mario added. 

Luigi looked at Mario with surprise. “Wait, really?!” Luigi reacted. 

“Well, yeah. Revenge was bound to happen eventually, right?” Mario added. 

Luigi chuckled. “True…” 

Mario turned to look at Luigi. “You said you had flags to show me?” Mario asked. 

Luigi nodded and hummed, pulling up the picture for the ticklee flag. “This was the flag I was gonna show you first.” Luigi admitted as he showed his phone to Mario. 

Mario looked at the picture and smiled. “Usually the colors mean something. What do they mean?” Mario asked. 

Luigi chuckled and looked at Mario. “The dark blue and turquoise colors are supposed to represent trust and security.” He said. “I don’t know which represents which, but I do know for sure that the yellow line in the middle represents laughter.” Luigi added, pointing to the yellow stripe in the middle. 

Mario nodded and smiled as he scrolled down. “What about red and pink?” Mario asked. 

“The red and pink and yellow flag is the tickler flag. I think the red represents excitement, and the pink represents playfulness.” Luigi admitted. 

And the blue, turquoise, yellow, pink and red flag represents switches?” Mario asked with a smirk. 

“Y-Yes.” Luigi replied. 

Mario smiled and pointed to the Tumblr. “Who’s @your-fav-loves-tickles?” Mario asked. 

“Oh! They came up with the flags. They also used to upload these pictures of characters with their respective flags on it, stating that ‘this character is a [blank]’.” Luigi explained. “For example: “Freddy Fazbear is a lee.” Luigi explained. 

“Is that confirmed?” Mario asked. 

Luigi shrugged his shoulders. “I think Tumblr deleted their account, sadly…” Luigi admitted. 

Mario clicked his tongue. “That sucks…” Mario muttered. 

“But the flag post has been reblogged so much through the community, that…no one has forgotten the creator.” Luigi added. “We can’t open their Tumblr anymore, but we know their name.” Luigi mentioned. 

Mario smiled and clicked the back button on Google, and tilted his head when he saw them. “Is this…” Mario turned Luigi’s phone to show him the light purple and dark purple striped flag with feathers on it. And beside it, was a dark blue and black striped flag with red feathers on it. 

Luigi hummed. “Right, that’s the tickle fetish flag.” Luigi replied. 

Mario hummed. “Fetish flag?” Mario asked. Luigi nodded his head. “Yup. Some people like tickling for different reasons. Some people like it for innocent reasons, some people like it for sexual reasons.” Luigi explained. “And some people like it for both.” Luigi explained. 

Mario looked at the flags. “So these lee, ler and switch flags don’t represent both sides?” Mario asked. 

“Nope. The NSFW side has its own set of flags.” Luigi told him. 

Mario nodded his head and looked up [tickle flag] on his own phone. “Which flag do you go by?” Mario asked. 

“The switch flag.” Luigi replied. “What about you?” Luigi asked with a smile. 

Mario looked up at Luigi. “I’m not really part of the community.” Mario admitted. 

“But you’re an ally.” Luigi added. 

Mario chuckled. “I guess…but…” Mario muttered. 

Luigi smiled. “That counts, Mario. Just like with the LGBTQ+ community, we need ally’s just as much as we need members.” Luigi told him. “In fact, in this community, we’re in dire need of ally’s.” Luigi added. 

Mario smiled and clicked something on his screen. “Switch flag: printed.” Mario said as he got up. 

Luigi watched as Mario got up off the couch. “Printed?? For what?” Luigi asked. 

Mario smiled. “For representation.” Mario told him. “You deserve a tickle pride flag on your wall.” Mario told him. 

Luigi smiled brightly and got up off the couch. He ran to the kitchen, grabbed the scissors and removed some pieces of tape while Mario took the paper off the printer and cut out the switch pride flag. Placing it upside down in front of his brother, Luigi rolled the tape pieces up and placed the tape pieces onto the back of the paper, before putting the paper flag up onto the wall. “There.” Luigi said, smiling as he looked at the wall. 

“It’s perfect.” Mario said with a smile. “But…One more thing:” Mario taped something else up on the wall. “There. Now it’s perfect.” Mario said before crossing his arms. 

Luigi looked at the wall and blushed deeply upon seeing it…It was the purple feather from back when they were at the daycare. Luigi sighed and rubbed his arm as a wobbly smile grew onto his face. 

Mario giggled. “Did I put you in a lee mood?” Mario asked. 

Luigi whined and covered his mouth. “Noooo.” Luigi muttered. 

Mario smirked and leaned in. “You wouldn’t happen to be lying now…would you?” Mario asked. 

Luigi uncovered his right eye using his fingers, and looked down. “.....Maaaybe…” Luigi muttered next. 

Mario giggled and wiggled his fingers at him. “Tickle tickle~” he teased. 

Luigi squeaked and covered his eyes again, shaking his head. “Nooohohohooo.” Luigi whimpered. 

“Tickle tickle tickle~” Mario teased again, bringing his fingers closer to Luigi while wiggling his fingers slightly faster. 

Luigi let out a few squeaky giggles and doubled over slightly, bending his knees while he slightly curled himself up like an adorable hedgehog. 

“What’s another tease…Oh! Coochy coochy coo~!” Mario teased, poking Luigi’s right side. 

Luigi squeaked and uncovered his face, curling away from the finger before giggling from pure bashfulness. “EEEheheheeee! Mahario nooo!” Luigi begged. 

“Okay.” Mario replied, stopping. “But what about the ears?” He asked, bringing his hand up to Luigi’s left ear. 

Despite the visible need to move away, Luigi pushed through and let Mario’s finger tickle against his ear. “Swirly-swirly-swirly-swirrrrl~” Mario teased. 

Luigi let out many squeaky giggles, snorting occasionally. “Heeheeheeheehee! *snort* Nuhuhuhuuuu!” Luigi giggled. 

“Ooohoho, but yes!!” Mario then did the unthinkable: He started scratching on the back part of Luigi’s ear…

And Luigi squealed super loudly and curled his neck, before giggling all hysterically. “HAHAHAhahahahaha! Whyhyhy thehehehere?!” Luigi asked, skittering away and holding the back of his ear. 

Mario chuckled. “Because someone mentioned they liked being tickled there.” Mario reminded him. “Someone I happen to know very, very well…” he added. 

Luigi bit his lip and looked down. The difficult part was…he had a point. He had a big point. He had told Mario on Monday night that he loved ear tickles. And…he was going to either regret saying it, or be thankful for saying it. Or maybe a mix of both…who knows. 

Luigi let out a breath. “Okahahahay.” Luigi replied. 

Mario stopped tickling. “Okay what? Okay ‘that’s enough’? Or ‘okay I want more’?” Mario asked next. 

“The…the second option.” Luigi admitted. 

“What was the second option again?” Mario asked, acting completely oblivious. 

Luigi whined and audibly groaned. “Mario, Stoooop!” Luigi whined. 

“I’m not doing anything! I’m just asking you to clarify what you mean by ‘the second option’.” Mario told him. 

Luigi grunted and covered his face. “You suck.” Luigi muttered. 

“Like a vacuum?” Mario teased. 

Luigi couldn’t stop the laugh that left his mouth. “No, like a leaf blower.” Luigi replied. 

Mario laughed a bit at that. “Well, I don’t know how else to explain this: Tell me what you want, and where you want it.” Mario told him. 

“Ihi wahahant more tickles…on my ears.” Luigi told him. 

“Very well!” Mario walked up and started tickling his right ear gently with his fingers. “Ear tickles coming right up.” 

Luigi snorted right away and tilted his head towards the fingers, giggling and showing off his dorky, toothy smile right away. “Ohohoho gohohohosh! Hahahahahaha!” Luigi laughed. 

Mario smiled and tickled around the crevices and folds of Luigi’s ears. “Coochy coochy coochy coo, Luigi~!” Mario teased. “Listen to that perfect little Lee-uigi laugh!” Mario teased. 

Luigi could feel the warm blush on his face heating up upon hearing that. Baby teases?! AND nicknames?! Why must he do this to him?! What part made him start teasing in this fashion?! Was it the fact that he lied before?! Is his brother looking for an apology from him for lying to him?! 

“Yohohohou’re beheheing uhuhunfahahair!” Luigi reacted. 

Mario smirked. “Oh I am, am I?” Mario teased. 

“Yeheah!” Luigi replied rather confidently considering the circumstances. 

Mario shook his head. “If this is unfair…” Mario then laid Luigi down onto the floor and gently placed his hand onto Luigi’s cheek to keep his head turned to the side. With his head effectively immobilized, Mario started dragging his finger very slowly around the folds of his ear. “Then THIS must be SUPER unfair.” Mario added in actuality.

Luigi started wiggling his limbs around and giggling in short spurts as he struggled to cope with such slow, overwhelmingly evil tickles. To make matters worse (or better), Luigi’s head was being held down in a position that limited his movements from the shoulders up. So even if he wanted to shake his head, he just couldn’t. The fact that Mario had the palm of his hand flat against the cheek with his fingers on the facial muscles surrounding the ear…it was something only a skilled tickle community member could possibly come up with. There had to be something he wasn’t telling him. Because no person ever masters a skill in a week! How can someone outside of the community know so many tickle strategies in so little time?! 

“Ihihihi’m sohohorryhyhy.” Luigi admitted. 

“For what? You didn’t do anything.” Mario asked next. 

Luigi looked at him. “Yohou’re not-” Luigi moved Mario’s hand away from his ear. He tried his best to keep talking despite his face being pushed down somewhat. “You’re not mad that I lied to you earlier?” Luigi asked. 

Mario tilted his head. “You lied to me? When?” Mario asked, genuinely forgetting. He removed his hand from Luigi’s cheek, letting Luigi turn his head back forward. 

“Wh-…” Luigi looked up and bit his lip. “When I said I wasn’t in a lee mood…and then you said ‘are you lying to me’.” Luigi admitted. 

Mario chuckled. “No. I’m not mad about that at all.” Mario admitted. “I know that you lie when you want to be tickled.” Mario said. “You…You seriously thought I was gonna be mad at you for that?” Mario asked. 

Luigi bit his lip and nodded his head. “If you were mad…then I might get tickled more…” Luigi admitted. 

Mario chuckled and closed his eyes as he shook his head with a smile. “Luigi…you wanted ear tickles, right? That’s what I was giving you. Do you want me to continue? Or do you wanna go to bed?” Mario asked him. 

Luigi smiled and turned his head to the left side again. “A couple more minutes…then I can go to bed.” Luigi told him. 

“Hear you loud and clear!” Mario placed his right hand on Luigi’s right ear. But then, Mario moved Luigi’s head forward so his head was straight. With the head straightened out, Mario placed the left fingers on his left ear and started to skitter. “How about I do both ears this time?” Mario asked. 

Luigi jumped and started letting out squeaky giggles with snorts in between. “EEEheeehee! *snort* Ohoho- *snort* Ohohoho gohosh! *snort* Heeheehehehe!” Luigi giggled. 

“Which ear tickles more? The right?” Mario tickled the right ear only.

Luigi snorted and covered his mouth instinctively, not wanting Mario to hear his snort. “MMMHMHMHMHmhmhmhmmm!” Luigi let out a muffled whine. 

“Hey!” Mario tickled his fingers onto the skin right behind the ear. “No covering up your laugh. You know this.” Mario ordered as he booped his nose. 

Luigi squeezed his eyes shut as he uncovered his mouth. “NAHAHAHA!” Luigi cackled. When Mario moved his right fingers back onto the right ear, He went back to calmer laughter. “Hahahahaha! HEheheheheheee!” Luigi giggled. 

“Alright, good. What about the left?” Mario asked, tickling his left ear alone with his left hand. “Does the left tickle more?” He asked. 

Luigi snorted yet again. “HAhahahahaha! Kihihindahaha? Ihihi thihihink?” Luigi replied. 

“I see.” Mario replied. 

Luigi did all he could to not cover up his mouth. He didn’t want the secret spot to be tickled again. Not yet, anyway. But when I say it was hard, it was REALLY hard. To the point that Luigi’s laughter sounded slightly strained, and not entirely freeing. And it didn’t take long for Mario to notice this. He stopped his hands. “You look like you’re struggling. Do you want me to keep your hands out of the way for you? Or do you want to be allowed to cover your mouth?” Mario asked. 

Luigi looked up at Mario and thought for a moment. “Just…I think I want to cover my mouth.” Luigi admitted. 

Mario nodded his head and straightened Luigi’s head. “Let’s give this a try.” Mario told him as he started to flutter his fingers on the ear. 

Luigi giggled and started snorting almost right away. “HEhehehehehe- *snort* HAHAhahahaha! *snort* Gahahahahaha-” Luigi finally covered his mouth and continued giggling while muffling them with his hand. 

“So cute…” Mario teased. “I can’t wait to tell Peach about this tomorrow.” Mario teased. 

Luigi uncovered his mouth. “Wahahahait- Ahahabout whahahahat?” Luigi asked. 

“About how adorable you are!” Mario replied. “Buhuhut- shehehe knohows thahahat.” Luigi replied. 

“So you admit it?” Mario asked with a chuckle. “You admit that you’re cute?” Mario clarified. 

Luigi whined and covered his face, growing more and more embarrassed. “Mmmhmhmhmhmhmm.” Luigi muffled. 

Mario smirked and poked his belly button. “You didn’t answer me.” He told him. Luigi screeched and covered his belly, doubling over and laughing. “You admit that you’re adorable?” Mario asked again, grabbing his shoulder and poking his side repeatedly. 

“Nohohoho!” Luigi replied, pushing Mario with his one hand as best he could. “Ihihi’m nohohohot!” Luigi told him. 

Mario chuckled and poked Luigi a few more times before stopping. “There. You got your fill for the night?” Mario asked. 

Luigi chuckled and nodded his head almost like a shy puppy. “Yeah…” he replied awkwardly. 

“Alright. I’m gonna shower and head to bed.” Mario told him. 

Luigi nodded and got himself into his PJ’s. “Sounds good.” 

While Mario went to get ready for bed, Luigi hopped onto his phone and decided to do some fanfic reading while he waited. He checked up on any fanfictions from his online friends, and began to reply to new DM’s from his online friends. A lot of the posts he was seeing were posts about dealing with lee moods on their own…and how lonely that can get. And while he understood that…he felt really lucky in that regard. Lucky that he could just tell Mario about the tickle community. Lucky to have someone who can tickle him when he’s in a lee mood, and let Luigi tickle him when he’s in a ler mood. It felt…comforting for him…but almost unfair in that aspect. Because not everybody has a twin sibling that’s a member or an ally of the community. 

Speaking of ler moods…reading all these stories had ended up stirring up a ler mood inside him. But…even if he wanted to act on it…he would have to wait till morning to do such a thing. Mario had to sleep. And frankly, Luigi should be asleep too. But he still couldn’t let go of the daydreams of tickle fights with his brother at 12am. 

One hour turned to two hours. Two hours turned to three hours. And Luigi was still awake due to the overwhelming tickler mood. He could imagine himself making Mario laugh and cackle with just a few pokes to the ribs, or cackle thanks to a few skittering fingers in his armpits. Gosh, even the idea of poking in Mario��s belly button made him want to smile. 

His imagination was going haywire, and he was struggling to stop it. The thoughts were driving him crazy…and the idea of waiting for morning was making time go way too slow. He could feel himself getting unbelievably antsy. He couldn’t sit still. The silence of the room was killing him…

Not able to take much more of this, Luigi quickly pulled out his phone. He pulled up a certain profile on Tumblr, and clicked the anonymous asking area. He started to type something into the message area, and checked it over. Then, he added his usual trademark hat emoji, before sending the message. Maybe someone in the tickle community would be able to help him out during this overwhelming, desperate ler mood.

Only one way to find out. 

[thekinslayed]

Edge of Desire

summary | Your efforts in the marital bed stayed fruitless after many moons married to your uncle, and Aemond wants to change that. (based on these requests.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), lovemaking, morning sex, medieval conception practices, awkward pining, enemies to lovers kinda, cockwarming

song rec | Edge of Desire - John Mayer

wordcount | 5.5k

note | something softer with aemond this time around :)

(special chapter -> Show Me Your World)

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Ow! My hair!”

“Stay still, woman.”

Aemond readjusted his weight above you, grumbling as he leaned on his elbows. He huffed out a hot breath of air, which fanned your face while you lay on your back. His length softened within your walls the longer you stayed connected, preventing any seed from leaking out per the maester’s orders.

It had been nearly a whole year since you proclaimed your vows to your uncle under the eyes of the Seven. Your hand had been offered as a gesture of good faith, arguably a desperate attempt between both sides of your family to mend the rift that has been growing for years. It had worked somewhat, but as the moons passed and your relationship with your husband refused to warm, there have been growing concerns on either side of your family. Your animosity towards each other was no secret, with the vile insults Aemond had thrown against you and your brothers regarding your questionable parentage throughout your youth, which ended of course, in the incident. You had no part during that horrific night in Driftmark, but you were not saved from the consequences of that night. 

Barely a moon after you had turned eight and ten, you sailed towards King’s Landing, to your fate. Your only comfort was the sight of your dear dragon flying above you, watching over you like a guardian. After you were draped by your lord husband with the dark, dragon-embroidered cloak, you made an agreement with each other. Aemond shall have his space, and you will have your own. You shall not bother him, and neither will he. However, you are expected to keep up appearances, at court, at the feasts, and even at the dinner table where queen Alicent pestered you both endlessly with any progress on your efforts in the marital bed. With the lingering friction still driving you apart from your husband, it was no surprise your womb still bore no fruit. He would call you to his chambers to perform your duties for one night each week, sometimes twice, for extra measures. Your efforts remained futile, for his seed never took and you remained childless many moons after your wedding. This growing concern has led to an intervention by the maesters, who recommended a myriad of methods that would aid in your conception.

You were to lay together every morning. Not at night, unless you wanted a girl.

The princess must clench her fist while her husband “did nature’s work”.

Your bed must face the east while you coupled, to ensure it is a boy.

The prince must remain inside the princess for an hour after he has finished to guarantee the seed is taken.

The last measure was absolutely dreadful. It was painful enough to have your womanhood assaulted by a man you rarely saw eye-to-eye with, but to stay there for an hour? Gods be good. 

Aemond let out another grunt in your ear when his left arm grew sore from carrying his weight, shifting to lean onto the other arm instead. You turned your head to look at the hourglass on the nightstand. There was still a good amount of time left, and you silently prayed that the sand passed through the glass faster so you may escape this awful predicament. Your tailbone was starting to grow numb from the lack of movement, causing you to subtly shift your hips upwards to relieve the pressure from your backside.

“Stop it,” your husband hissed, making you huff in annoyance. Aemond rolled out his shoulder to relieve the soreness from the joint, before shifting his weight to do the same to the other. His long, silver hair enclosed you like a curtain, soft and light like the touch of a feather. You would be tempted to feel it under your fingertips if only it wasn’t tickling your face, adding to your aggravation. You moved his hair away from your face, letting out another huff. “Stop acting like this inconveniences only you, wife, I would’ve been much happier spending my mornings down in the training yard. My arms are getting too fucking tired,” Aemond grumbled.

You could feel his muscles start to tremble from the exertion of holding his weight up, unwilling to touch your skin by even a hair. You bit back a snarky response, starting to feel bad for him.

“Can’t we switch positions? Perhaps I could be on top,” you recommended, to which your husband only responded with a grunt.

“No, the maesters said we must stay this way. Any other way would make the seed fall rather than stay in. I do not want to do this any longer than we have to.” 

You snickered at his words, turning your head away to subtly roll your eyes. Despite your irritation, his subtle quivering was making you feel sorry for him. You bit your lip as you thought about what to do. 

“Here, why don’t you…” You placed a hand on his back, urging him to lay against you. Aemond had started to refuse, but you insisted, assuring him he wouldn’t crush you under his weight. With a sigh, your husband relaxed above you, finally letting his arms rest. He laid his head right beside yours, and with only a small turn you could smell the remnants of smoke in his starlit hair, coupled with the rosemary oil rubbed into his tresses every night. His lips ghosted over your shoulder; the skin exposed from when your nightgown had shifted askew. His warmth engulfed you like a warm blanket, his weight surprisingly comfortable. It was quite nice actually, despite your reluctance to admit the fact.

“Is this better?” you asked, your tone simmering down into a softer tone. Aemond hummed in response, turning his head to the side. His lips were now positioned right under your ear, and his every breath fanned the side of your face like a warm breeze on a summer’s day.

“Quite. Though this whole ‘laying for an hour’ nonsense is still quite dreadful, in my opinion,” he muttered. His voice buzzed directly into your ear, pulling a strange twinge in your chest when he did so. You trained your gaze on the embroidery on the roof of the canopy, studying the two dragons seemingly entwined against each other. It was almost like you and Aemond, funny enough.

“It is easy for you to say when men often find the act more enjoyable,” you commented almost bitterly. Aemond was silent momentarily upon your words, before seemingly snuggling even closer to you, though you assumed he was only trying to make himself comfortable.

“Is it so horrible?” your lord husband asked, a subtle hint of concern in his words that you barely caught. You turned to look at the hourglass again. Still quite a bit to go.

“Well, it hurts, more than anything.”

Another silence passed. Aemond’s mind ran a league in a minute at your words, reflecting on the pain he unknowingly inflicted upon you on the times you did your duty. As much as he harbored no love for your family, especially your bastard brothers, you were still his wife. His mother had instilled in him since he was a boy that any woman he would take as his wife should always be treated with respect, for she was an image of the Mother. Granted, Alicent was surely not picturing Rhaenyra’s only daughter beside her favored son upon the altar of the Sept when the day came, but the sentiment still extended to you all the same. 

Aemond shifted his weight back to his hands as he lifted himself once more, so he may look upon your face. It was then he granted himself to really get a good look at you. He may be half-blind, but Aemond knew you were beautiful, there was no denying it. His good eye studied your features, noting the absence of the crease between your eyebrows whenever you were displeased, which was most of the time you spent by his side.

“I have no wish to hurt you,” he whispered.

“I know, ‘tis alright. I am tougher than I look,” you replied softly, your lips turning into a downward smile. Before you could stop yourself, your hands moved to tuck a stray strand of silver behind his ear on instinct. You looked into the purple of his good eye, the other covered by a patch of leather. “Besides, Daemon always used to say men have it much worse on the battlefield, for there is far less mercy when facing your enemies than your own wife,” you added to which Aemond only scoffed in response, shaking his head. Your chest rumbled with a laugh at his reaction, especially after his lips pursed into his signature feline-like pout.

Of course, Daemon would think that way, Aemond thought. His uncle was hardly the image of chivalry for any married couple across Westeros, and it was rather gauche of him to be bestowing any words of wisdom to his stepdaughter about the matters of matrimony. 

All of a sudden, there was an odd feeling in his chest when your eyes seemed brighter than they had even before when you looked at him. He’d seen that light before, when you looked at your brothers, his half-sister, even at Helaena, but never him. You had such beautiful eyes, ones he could swim in their depths forever. Aemond faltered, unsure of what to do with this newfound flutter in his otherwise stone heart. He opted to lower himself to your warmth once more, burying his head into the junction where your neck and shoulder met. The scent of your flesh was naturally sweet, making him subtly press his nose into your skin.

“I am not your enemy,” he said, with a rather unfamiliar softness. He felt your hand come up to rest on his back, resting on the space in between his clothed shoulder blades. A small smile lifted the corners of your lips, one hidden from his view. You turned to look at the hourglass, which had already emptied. You made no move to tell Aemond to get up, but instead, you pressed the side of your face against his own, breathing in the scent of his hair.

“I know, husband.”

Walking through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond thought back to all the depraved remarks Aegon would make him listen to about his experiences in the Streets of Silk— how the whores would touch him, and how he would touch them, making them mewl and sigh in delight. He knew not whether they were doing it only for show, but perhaps in some way his brother might have learned a thing or two in the many years he frequented the stinking streets of Flea Bottom just for a taste of flesh. 

Despite better judgment, his feet led him to his brother’s door. His fist had raised to rap against the old wood, but then he faltered. Though seeking Aegon’s insight would surely be far less embarrassing than continuing to follow through with whatever the maesters have him and his wife doing in the marital bed, the endless jests and amusement the elder shall find in the matter would definitely haunt him for a long time. Your husband did not wish to humiliate you any further, not when the matter has already involved too many people. With a hair’s breadth between his fist and Aegon’s door, Aemond sighed, dropping his hand and turning on his heel to walk away.

He and his brother have had their fair share of women who have warmed their beds, Aegon more so than himself, but they have only ever fucked. It was for their pleasure, to quench the fire in their cocks. It wasn’t tender or sweet, or gods forbid… loving.  He knew he couldn’t treat his wife the same way he did a whore if he wanted your partnership to prosper; he couldn’t treat you this way.

He thought about asking his mother, though letting her know of your problems in bed, even more than what she already knew, would probably do them more harm than good. Perhaps Cole? No, that wouldn’t be a good option. Matters of the flesh are a touchy subject for Aemond’s mentor and father figure, perhaps even more so when the blood of the woman who shunned him is involved. 

It had always been like this for him. A plethora of questions would boggle his young, curious mind, yet there was no one to indulge him. It had hurt him, of course, but he had learned that some things would have to be acquired by his own volition. This is how he had become such a prolific scholar, had come to claim Vhagar, and proven himself a man worthy of praise.

A laughter through the halls snapped him out of his exasperating worries. The glimmery shrill of youth, unmistakenly that of his sister’s babes, beckoned him like a beacon towards the nursery. There he found little Jaehaerys riding his wooden pony, mimicking a horse’s bray as he rocked back and forth. Helaena watched on in amusement, little Maelor clutched in her elbow. And then there was you, tickling his niece’s belly on the floor, a joyous laughter of your own adding to the symphony. You bent to pepper kisses into the crook of Jaehaera’s neck, making the girl squeal and kick her legs in delight.

You were so good with the babes, this Aemond couldn’t deny. You would offer to help Helaena watch over them on most days when she would grow weary and Aegon was away on the council. As much as your husband would try to look the other way, he couldn’t miss the way you looked at them with fondness, how you would press your nose into the youngest’s hair to smell that sweet, milky scent of his skin. Perhaps he would like to see you with a babe of your own. Yours and his, he wondered what they would be like.

“Oh, Aemond, come!” Helaena exclaimed, beckoning him over. It was then he realized he had been standing in the doorway like a fool, and so the prince stepped into the nursery. Jaehaera, after having spotted his approach, jumped to her feet in excitement. Aemond greeted her with a fond smile and a pat on the head, kneeling to her height. You moved your skirts to let your husband settle by your side, your knees slightly pressed against each other.

His eyepatch had been knocked askew when the young princess had gleefully embraced her uncle, and you had quickly righted it in its place. Your touch was light on his scarred cheek, a foreign featherlike caress that sent a slight shiver down his spine.

“Thank you, wife,” Aemond whispered, turning to you. There it was again, that little look on your face. You regarded him with a budding warmth he hadn’t quite known, a smile that rounded out the apples of your cheeks, though he figured it was one you directed to the little girl in his arms. He returned his gaze to Jaehaera, who had handed him a dragon toy to play with, willing himself to pay little mind to your lingering gaze burning the side of his cheek.

You couldn’t quite recall when your affections towards Aemond had started to change, all you knew was your heart didn’t hold the same twinge of displeasure in his presence, nor did you dread having to keep up appearances in court. There were some instances where you even sought him out, had peeked out the Keep’s yard to watch him train some mornings, all without his knowledge of course. Your coupling was still as unpleasant as ever, but you had grown to not mind the feeling of his weight on yours once the hourglass had been turned to start the hour, the pair of you descending into a comfortable silence most times. Going through the motions had gotten easier by the day, a well-practiced dance between the two of you.

You would wake with the sun’s rise, and then make your way to your husband’s chambers. He would be already awake, always, awaiting your arrival. The bed would be quite warm from his heat, thanks to his dragon blood, and it was a pleasant comfort to have. Once the deed was done, you were off to your separate duties for the day. It was routine at this point; therefore, it was quite odd when you were summoned to your husband’s chambers late into the night.

“It is nighttime,” you said when you entered as if it wasn’t quite obvious from the darkness that enveloped his apartments. Your husband was clad in his cotton tunic and breeches, sipping on a glass of wine.

“I know,” Aemond replied, turning to you. He could chuckle at the look of confusion on your face, with your furrowed brows that creased the skin between them, if it weren’t for the odd nerves swarming in his belly.

“Was there something you need?” you asked, accepting the cup of red that was handed to you.

“No, well… perhaps,” he muttered. You gulped your wine, a droplet spilling over the corner of your lips. Before you could act, Aemond’s thumb darted out to wipe away the tear of red that was on its way to run down your chin. You stopped yourself from jerking away, though you couldn’t deny your perplexion. “I just… I figured we could try something.”

“Try what?” you asked again. He was acting odd, with the way he was looking at anywhere but you, a contrast to his usual sharp form. This was starting to grow concerning; gods, he’s not about to kill you, is he?

“Do you trust me?” Aemond asked. He had gotten closer to you, quite close enough that you could feel the warm waft of his breath on your cheeks. His large, calloused palm cupped your jaw, warming up your cheeks. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, nodding your head meekly.

You trusted him, you really did, in an inexplicable, convoluted way. The past would tell you not to, but your time as his wife had shifted your connection into something intimate. Away from the endless troubles within your kin, all the terrible infighting with burning words and stares sharp as knives, you and Aemond found little trouble with each other, especially with the arrangements you agreed upon. After you had said your vows in the great Sept, you spent your first moons as the one-eyed prince’s wife with a guarded vigilance. You blocked the entrance to Maegor’s tunnels with your vanity, had given the first bite of your food to the rats in search of poison, and had even slept with a dagger underneath your pillow in case your uncle came to you in your sleep. There was none of that. Granted, the Hightowers weren’t the warmest, most welcoming bunch, but they treated you well— some of them, at least.

You weren’t sure where you stood with Aemond. You didn’t hate him, not anymore at least, and you would like to believe he wasn’t coming for your head anymore. The pair of you were… fine. You figured this was a comfortable position to be in, and you dared not utter the wish in your heart of hearts, in fear of rejection. The budding light in your chest as he looked at you now, in the dim glow of his chambers, made known what had been growing over the days you spent in his presence. It couldn’t be helped.

And now, as you stood toe to toe with him, your face cupped in his palm, you knew the balance was about to tip over; for better or for worse, however, you didn’t know.

Your breath came out as a shudder as his face descended upon yours, the time moving all too slow in your perception. Your hands tightened into fists in anticipation, your pulse thrumming in your ears so thunderously you could only hope he didn’t feel it. Just as his lips were a mere hair's breadth away from yours, Aemond stopped, sensing the rigid tension in your spine. With a sigh, he leaned his forehead against yours.

 “Aemond, w-what has gotten into you?” you whispered, cautious to not break the solemn air in the room. Your hands came up to rest on his biceps, squeezing at them in question. He was silent for a moment, his eye closed in thought. You waited, patiently.

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. You sputtered half words in shock. He did not need to do that, you expected little as a woman and were doing your duty in bed just fine. Why would he willingly want to do so? By the gods… why did he want to?

His thumb caressed your cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge your reaction.

Your throat felt dry, and you longed for the cup of wine you had set aside. Your mind ran a league in a minute, the proposition he was offering was one many women would kill their spouses for. Truthfully, you didn’t know what making you “feel good” would entail, your lack of knowledge and experience from your sheltered upbringing limiting your mind on the art of the ways of the flesh.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

You could say no and he would dismiss you, and the night would be over. You would pore on what could’ve been if you had said yes, and you would never know what would have transpired. You could say yes, and this whole thing would be a disaster, an embarrassment if it ended in proving how incompatible you truly were. Or… you would enjoy it, you both would.

You nodded your head again, still untrusting of your own words. Aemond walked you backward to the bed, urging you to lay back once the back of your knees hit the frame.

As his deft hands lifted your nightgown to your hips, you fisted the sheets tight in your hands in angst. You watched him as he watched you, or your womanhood, rather. Your husband’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his good eye twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers.  

You felt open… exposed. The urge to cross your legs shut threatened to overwhelm you, but his hands caressing the meat of your thighs prevented you from doing so. He descended upon you, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of your thigh. Gooseflesh rose all over your skin, and you gasped when he came close to your flower, making you grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aemond…” you breathed out.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispered, taking your wrist to direct his kisses there. “Have faith in me.”

You retracted your hand from his firm shoulder, leaning your weight on your elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against your slit, making you involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses on your mound, then little licks against your slit. His good eye flickered to gauge your reaction, where you had started to bite your lip. Two fingers split your folds open, baring all of you to his hungry gaze. His tongue delved deeper into your slit, penetrating you.

“Oh,” you exhaled, tilting your head back. With a surge of confidence, your husband began to devour you in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, ones unheard of before, had started to spill from your lips, and what a delightful song it was.

A finger soon replaced his tongue, entering your gummy walls as though it were his cock. It thrust in and out of you the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within your walls, your toes clenched as a jolt ran up your spine.

“Good?” Aemond asked, to which you could only respond with a nod and a whine.

His lips found your pearl, and then another finger had joined the other. The prince soon found a rhythm, one that had you writhing and moaning unabashedly. What an odd sensation it was, yet utterly delicious as it was depraved.

The pressure in your stomach built in a steady rise. It sparked your muscles to twitch in Aemond’s hold, growing spasmodic as you were hurled closer to your precipice. You came with a whine, your head thrown back into the feather mattress as your husband guided you to your end.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” you asked, breathless. Black spots danced around your vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded you, his arms caging you in between his hold. His hair draped around you like a curtain, the wispy ends tickling your nipples through the cotton of your dress.

“I am quite diligent in seeking the knowledge I might find useful, dear wife, and it seems they have proven to be so,” Aemond responded. You dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did you to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from you. You merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of your nightgown, pulling them down to bare you fully. You let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his good eye that promised you more. His good eye was glued onto your breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much to both of your delight. You bit your lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aemond could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would’ve done so.

His cotton tunic soon followed, then his breeches, and as he stood before you, cock stood stiff in attention, you get a good look at him. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. You beckoned him closer, pulling on the strip that held half of his hair up. Soft fingertips trailed his jaw, his scar, before circling the leather patch that masked his left eye.

“Can I?” you whispered, looking into his good eye as he studied you. Aemond paused for a moment, almost faltering. The warmth of your thighs caged onto the sides of his waist was a welcome comfort, luring him closer to wanting to nestle in your ever-loving heat.

“Tis not a good sight to gaze upon,” he mumbled. You had cupped his jaw when he started to look away, keeping him close with a small smile.

“You are my husband. I wish to have you, all of you, as you will have me.”

A promise. An agreement.

A solemn echo of your vows upon the altar.

I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.

He had pulled the patch off from the clasp on the back of his head. The sparkle of the sapphire had stunned you in awe, and as you cupped his jaw, the look of wonder on your face and the lift in your lips couldn’t be helped.

“It is beautiful, husband,” you said, beaming up at him. “You are beautiful.”

He had huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on your cheek before mumbling into your skin, “I should be telling you that.”

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against your hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through your veins. Aemond pulled away, the look in his eye taking a warmer, softer tinge as did yours. The smile on your lips had melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, you watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon your entrance. His breach was much smoother this time, no stabbing pain that made you scrunch your face, all thanks to his efforts in preparing you. It was rather delightful, a delicious stretch that made you bite your lip as he grunted above you. He would have asked you about the pain, but the deep kiss you had pulled him in to let him know there was little of it.

Aemond’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into you gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. You had never felt closer to him the way you did now, your connection transcending that of something physical. Your husband’s face was buried into the crook of your neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into your auricle. You fared no better, your mewls echoing into the quiet of the room. Aemond had taken hold of your fisted hand, the godsdamned instructions from the maester taking on memory in your muscles, and he had pried them open. His larger, rougher fingers intertwined with yours, holding onto you for dear life as he took you deeper, and deeper, poking a spot within your womb that made you shiver in delight.

“Aemond,” you breathed out. His aquiline nose pressed into the side of your face, breathing into the sweet scent of your dampening flesh.

“Say it again… say my name again.” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft with you, only you. His lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made you moan.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond! My lord husband,” you whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on your pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up your spine. Your grip on him was tight, almost numbing, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel you everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, you were his after all.

“My wife, my dearest darling. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?” You nodded fervently at his dirty whisper, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was prickled with salty sweat when he had pressed it against yours, his lips barely an inch away from yours. The silver-haired prince’s breath mingled with yours, and you had chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across your bottom lip. Your release washed over you the moment he kissed you again, your moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into you still, chasing his own release, and your spasming walls massaged him to guide him to his end. Aemond pulled away to look at where you were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into your sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. He was close, evident from the way his eyebrows scrunched together. With a hand on your breast, the other on your jaw, your husband came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed into your womb.

Aemond had moved to collapse by your side, but you had pulled him close to your chest, letting him lay on you with his softening length still nestled in your walls.

“Stay.”

You lay there together in silence, breathless, boneless. His hand rubbed on your waist, as did yours on his muscled back, comfortable in the silence you were in.

“I am sorry,” your husband had whispered, before shifting to lean on his elbow to look at you. “For…”

He need not say everything, or anything at all. You knew what he meant. That was all too long ago, almost a lifetime that scarcely felt yours. It was different now between you and him. The world could descend into flames and tear itself inside out, but you and Aemond would not lose each other.

You nodded, tucking a loose strand of silver behind his ear. “I am sorry too, deeply so.”

Slumber had found you while you were wrapped in your husband’s embrace, the heat emanating from his bare body pressed against yours a comforting blanket. In the morn, he had taken you again, slipping into your welcoming walls as you both stayed laid on your side. Aemond had left Cole a waiting fool in the courtyard while he missed his training, a curious deviation from his otherwise strict routine.

You were both learning how addicting this could be, though it seemed neither of you wanted to complain. You could hardly separate from your husband’s hold to dress to break your fast, and the pleasant glow on both your faces at the dining table with the rest of the family was a dead giveaway of the progression in your relationship. With the frequency of how much you latched onto each other every moment you found yourselves alone, it came as no surprise that by the end of the moon, the realm celebrated the growing babe in your womb.

A life forged by your own hand. Yours and his.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

The Roaring Knight encounter at the end of Chapter 3 is a masterclass at showing you that the REAL protagonist of Deltarune isn't Kris - it's Susie.

This doesn't really make much sense at first glance - you can't even really FIGHT the thing on equal footing without the Shadow Mantle, and to even get that Kris has to go through a harrowing gauntlet and fight a whole OTHER secret boss that doesn't even use the battle mechanics we've grown accustomed to. Kris Suffers to get that item, the one thing that can let them stand up to the Knight's merciless assaults. Hell, the game won't even let you retry if you lose until you have the Mantle in your possession. You would therefore assume that the Mantle belongs to Kris, and that they are the ones who should wear it.

And yet. Even when you don't have this item, who stands up to defy it? Susie. Who stops it from doing... whatever it was trying to do to Toriel, TWICE? Susie. And who gives chase across the boundary between light and dark, across the entirety of hometown, to stop it from abducting Undyne? Why, it's Susie. Her actions are those of a hero standing up to a terrible villain of unknowable power, and she does it without a shred of hesitation, even faced with the very real prospect of being killed.

And if that were it, it'd be kind of boring. But that's not it at all, because the reinforcement of this idea continues into the fight itself. Because if you can keep Susie alive for five turns, she starts monologuing against the boss, telling it how much it sucks and that she'll always have her friends behind her.

The Knight is presented to us as unknowable, invincible, unstoppable. Regular attacks bounce off of its absurdly high HP, it cannot be Checked like a normal enemy, attempts to reason with it fall on deaf ears. And yet, what's the one spell that can meaningfully hurt the Knight, to the point of temporarily disrupting its form? Susie's Rude Buster.

And then, when you throw yourself at the Knight again and again, trying to figure out its weakness, trying to outlast its brutal onslaught, it hits you - the Shadow Mantle does NOTHING for Kris in this fight, but it does EVERYTHING for Susie. Susie's the one doing all the damage. Susie's high HP perfectly compliments the shadow mantle's protection against the Knight's more absurd attacks. Ralsei has no way to meaningfully contribute to the fight at all, and while Kris can use Hold Breath to give the SOUL a boost, their utility begins and ends there. The most that either of them can really do is to act as TP and healing bots for Susie, and to equip weak armours that have beneficial effects, such as the TwinRibbon, Silver Watch, Blue Ribbon, TensionBow and Lodestone - the effects of these items persist regardless of whether the character wearing them is DOWNed or not, and, you guessed it, are equipped not to help them survive, but to allow them to support Susie even when incapacitated.

Then you start seeing it in other areas. Who is it that facilitates change in the other characters - Ralsei, Noelle, Berdly? Susie does, each and every time. She effortlessly upends their own myopic views of the world, defying them to change and be better, without even really realising that's what she's doing - is it any wonder that EVERYONE in the main cast seems to have a thing for her? She's magnetic in the way that heroes are, not despite her brashness and short temper but BECAUSE of them - because she cuts so effortlessly through the FICTIONS that other characters cling to, the stories they tell themselves about who they are, what they can do, and how they ought to be. Susie shatters those preconceptions and offers an alternative - live how you want to live, make the choices that you want to make, and let no-one else ever tell you who you are.

Susie is the hero of Deltarune, and the Roaring Knight's fight encapsulates why perfectly, without ever once drawing attention to the fact. It's sheer genius on Toby's part and I salute the skill with which it conveys those ideas in such an organic way.

[unikhroma]

we need to talk about ramb [analysis/theory]

MASSIVE shoutout to my friend mycringefactory for ripping his sprites

ramb! he's the power strip darkner in chapter 3 that runs the stand in the green room and introduces you to the set of games that leads to the chapter's unusual secret boss.

weird attention to detail with his sprites, telling kris that he knows they want, dismissing their concerns that something might be up, having a page of the sweepstakes ARG named after him instead of the location it's showing, directly introducing kris to a rendition of the weird route and saying that it's "REAL fun".

seems like if it were some other character, these would be ringing more alarm bells. but i knew, i Knew there was something up with him. he is the secret boss, it's just not in a way we're used to. strap in, cause this is long as fuck <- not an exaggeration i've been writing this for the past three days.

ramb is the shadow mantle enemy.

ramb wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games he's provided! no he really wants kris to have fun and enjoy the games. he mentions it a lot, and keeps saying that he knows kris and what they want. in the context of a game about the weird route no less.

and all this is much like the shadow mantle enemy. it says outright that it thinks a part of kris isn't getting the shadow crystals because it'll get what they want, instead it's that they're just enjoying this, like ramb keeps saying is the case for them.

it wasn't there to stop kris: what it wanted was to see kris play, said plain as day. i believe the flickering red comment is about kris' eyes, that it wanted to see them really get into playing the game.

it's hard to believe that this is all just a parallel when it lines up So Closely. i feel like you don't just have two characters speak almost exactly the same and with such an emphasis on the same things, with the only difference being an accent in one of them. not to mention that there's an NPC tells you who ramb parallels.

can't find footage, but m-chromatic says this is from a pippins NPC

the shadow mantle enemy also further emphasizes its interest in kris having fun with a secret room in one of the games:

"Having fun?"

it feels like such a personalized message to them, and whether kris is having fun is something that ramb is very concerned with.

something particularly notable is what happens the first time you get proper dialogue from the mantle enemy. after the board is cleared, kris asks ramb about someone being backstage, and he denies it and says he's been there on security the whole time.

also i find it odd that the first line is one of the few times that expression of his shows up. in the second line he turns his head away in a smile

another thing:

and this bit might be a stretch but it's worth mentioning: the little creature that the mantle enemy turns into does happen to have floppy ears like ramb does.

once again shoutout to mycringefactory for ripping these sprites

alright, so ramb may have control of this game, probably from the wide variety of controllers in the backstage (though i have a personal theory that he can go into the game himself). but why do i think he has anything to do with the game itself? well, this ties into a sub-theory:

MANTLE/MANHOLE is a dragon blazers romhack made by ramb, and is what tenna unknowingly built his game off of.

in case you're wondering why i'm giving it two names. i personally think it's manhole cause it ties into other things

tenna's game vs the original game. "some big ol' blasted line from A to B" vs "the ORIGINAL game where YOU decide what to do". the parallel of regular route vs weird route is a lil on the nose. in this game, you're made to do a re-imagining of the weird route in chapter two and something beyond that. but the game wasn't always that.

the spamton sweepstakes is how we know this. the d_a_m_n_y_o_u_t_e_n_n_a page and noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog teases MANTLE/MANHOLE and ties it back to ramb. clicking the TV will change the screen to be static-filled (like the game cuts to when the controller isn't plugged in), and the lowest point of the page contains static squares, one leading to a neon blue screen and the other leading to ramb's page.

the neon blue screen (similar to the title screen of MANTLE/MANHOLE) can be scrolled up to show what looks like a representation of the ice area in the old game where you use the ice key. the door on the page leads to noelle's icepalace_glaceir blog, where she describes an oddity in dragon blazers that lines up perfectly with an area in the old game.

this cross area in the old game is accompanied by a track named GLACEIR. on noelle's blog, she writes that she's currently listening to a song from dragon blazers of the same name. it would make sense that if she's writing about that area and feeling nostalgic about it, she'd be listening to the song from it as well.

the choice of word for what her mood is.. i can't help but think of how that one weird ass expression of ramb's is called "nostalgic"

with all that in mind, i feel like it's pretty clear that that "old thing" tenna says he based his game on was intended to be dragon blazers. except that "original game" was clearly tampered with. it's not a coincidence that this game has a rendition of the weird route's beginning, it was put in there by someone. tenna is bothered by MANTLE/MANHOLE's contents as well:

another clue on the game being modified by ramb is, despite it being dragon blazers, the third board isn't a non-specific RPG location and is instead based on cyber world, specifically cyber city and queen's mansion's basement.

ramb originates from cyber world and while tenna may have known things about cyber city due to his connection with spamton, it's highly unlikely that he's seen the mansion basement, so it had to be ramb who modded it. ramb mentions people who live in queen's mansion like he knows them well.

another thing.. think about the names associated with him: his name is ramb. like RAMb. to put it simply, RAM is any data in a computing device that can change or be modified, and it's implied that he modded dragon blazers.

his name is misspelled as ROMb in-game and in the sweepstakes page regarding him and the old game. the track that plays in the S-rank room and thus when you speak to him about the game is called "Dump". to mod a ROM, you'd have to dump it from the hardware first (though i don't think that's necessarily what ramb did since we're in a fantasy world).

the dump thing is interesting to me also cause as mentioned before, the spamton sweepstakes has a page for ramb, but it was first accessed by clicking "[scrap heap]" in one of the prize descriptions. another allusion to him and trash... btw i feel like it's worth stressing: HE'S HAD A PAGE NAMED AFTER HIM THIS WHOLE TIME!!

oh and there's these two lines from him that absolutely implies that he had some kind of hand in the games backstage. the "HIS" would not be emphasized like that if the old game was impersonal to ramb.

so why is ramb like this?

why'd he want kris to play his fucked up snowgrave game so much? what's all this talk about fun? and then after all that, asking them if opening the fountain was that good of an idea... after all, doing so would cause him several darkners to turn to stone.

he's a power strip. like outlets, power strips can have a large variety of things connected to them: fans, chargers, TVs, video game consoles.. the key difference though, is that they can have multiple things connected to them at once and they're portable.

ramb shouldn't turn to stone because, unlike that zapper that turned to stone because its likely to be for catti's TV and isn't compatible with the dreemurr's, he's not bound by that kind of restriction. in fact there's a lot of uses he can have, multiple at once even. he's also directly relevant to TV world as being able to provide power to tenna himself.

but ultimately, in the same vein as tenna, he stopped being used. and getting kris to play these games, when his purpose is "letting you play your games", might've been a way to keep himself alive. "Without play... the knife grows dull." i think this line from him as the shadow mantle is also in reference to how without him being played, he'll turn to stone (grow dull).

i don't think this is just that side of himself being un-petrified because of the light. the light is enveloping him entirely, you can see it go well past him. i think he needed to be as close in proximity to the game as he could since it's tied to his purpose. more on this later.

selfish actions aside, i do think ramb cares about kris. but he was also suffering from being outcasted both socially and by lightners including them, so i think he was preparing for a fountain opening and the opportunity to convince kris into spending time with him again.

he was really done dirty by his fellow darkners man

he projects onto kris so much: he wants to have fun too. he misses those times. an opportunity to meet an old friend in the midst of loneliness and to relive those good memories he holds onto so much? well, he had to do something.

...and the something he did was steal the shadow mantle and create a fucked up game for this kid because he missed seeing them have fun and thought that all that fucked up shit was what they liked. (i think it's implied that kris plays video games in a bit of an aggressive way? unfortunately struggling to find specific scenes about it)

the thing about how he was already stone on the inside makes me wonder if that's a way of saying that he died inside a while ago and the loneliness broke him. part of me thinks he's intended to represent mentally ill people who fall through the cracks cause they don't "seem" like they are. this power strip needs therapy and medication man

the implications of him modifying the game to show the weird route in particular though... is he trying to encourage it? is it a warning? was learning about the weird route the thing that made him spiral and turn to doing this? it's very likely yes, since similar things happened to jevil and spamton.

how does he know about the weird route and what happened to him?

awesome first question: i don't know. it's possible that, because he's meant to parallel tenna, that he too was contacted by the knight, and they told him about it. however, it may not be that one-to-one. since spamton's forbidden knowledge came from someone outside of the in-game universe (we presume gaster), he could've gotten it from that.

and what's up with all the DEVICE_FRIEND appearances in his romhack? ..honestly can't explain it either. but since he depicts queen's mansion in it, i get the feeling that he's been down there and he saw it. maybe it's something that really stuck with him, or he had extended contact with it.

now as for his fate.. after the sword route is complete (meaning all three boards of his game are finished), the rabbick in the S-rank room expresses fear over something that happened with ramb.

so what the hell happened to him to freak this rabbick out so much?

most likely: he parallels tenna, so maybe he was also enlisted by the knight, and his job was to keep the shadow mantle out of kris' hands. because he failed to do so, he got taken or hurt by the knight as punishment.

less likely but more interesting to me: let's address the rabbick saying that kris already went past. we saw the pixel kris leave the backstage, so that seems to be what they saw. the pixel kris escaping the game may mean that the game will technically never be turned off, making it so that ramb is always being "used" and thus not fated to turn to stone while the fountain is still open

so the rabbick might've been frightened by a darkner that shouldn't be alive coming to life again (..thoough i have a theory that he might be able to shapeshift and that freaked them out but that's for another post)

either way, if you completed the sword route, ramb is somewhere else now. isn't that fun?

so! now with all of this information about him in mind: do you see why i'm insane about him. there's more evidence for some of my points (like ramb knowing you missed the ice key and having another creepy message for kris in a secret room) and evidence for potential counterpoints, but this post is so fucking long man.

thinking about exploring other things about him like his beef with tenna but we'll see. because this took a lot out of me LOL. anyway:

THANK YOU FOR READING!

oh and by the way, if there's a little man who doesn't fit with the other darkners telling kris to do some weird out-of-the-way shit and telling them that that's what they really want and he's talking about freedom, you should be asking questions

[mcrdvcks]

needy pt.1

chapter summary: You're Scott's younger sister and for months you've been secretly dating Logan. How much longer can you and him keep the secret?

word count: 8.3k+ (19.3k+ total)

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: don't ask how or why this is so long, it was meant to be be less than 10k words but it just kept going. i was having a lot of fun writing this, and if people want to see a continuation or some other part of the story with these two, don't be afraid to ask! for now, enjoy cause there are like 3 smut scenes

there are two parts! tumblr has a word limit so i had to split it up!

warnings/tags: smut, unprotected piv, slight exhibitionism, slight pain kink, creampie, age gap (that's obvi), oral (f!receiving), slight praise kink, fingering, secret relationship, jealously, some possessiveness, peter maximoff being a little shit, fluff, slight angst

❀ part 2 ❀

“That’s it sweetheart.” Logan drawled, his body hovering over yours while slowly thrusting into you. “Doin’ so good for me.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, nail indents healing immediately.

Logan let out a low, rough chuckle against your throat. "Feisty, huh?" His voice was thick with heat, lips dragging along your pulse as he thrust deeper. "Go on, doll, mark me up all you want. Ain't like it'll stick—but I like feelin' you try."

Your breath hitched, legs tightening around his waist. "Shut up and move, Logan."

His smirk was all teeth. "Bossy." But he gave you what you wanted, picking up the pace, the bed rocking under both of you.

Knock. Knock.

Your body stiffened instantly. Logan froze too, just for a second, before his head snapped toward the door.

"Y/N?"

Scott.

Your stomach flipped. Logan's grip on your hip tightened. "You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," he muttered under his breath.

"Shut up," you hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at you, clearly amused despite the situation.

Scott knocked again. "You in there?"

You scrambled for an excuse, trying to keep your voice normal. "Uh—yeah! What do you want?"

Logan leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "Think he knows his baby sister's gettin' fucked dumb by the big bad Wolverine?"

You smacked his shoulder. "You're not helping."

Scott sighed on the other side of the door. "Jean said you weren’t in your room, and you missed training this morning. You okay?"

Shit. "Yeah! I'm fine! I just—I was asleep."

Logan stifled a laugh against your neck. "Not a total lie," he murmured, nipping at your jaw.

You shoved at his chest. "Stop it," you mouthed.

Scott hesitated. "You sure?"

Logan's hips rolled, and you barely bit back a moan. "Positive," you choked out. "Just… tired. Can we talk later?"

A pause. Then: "Alright. Just checkin'." His footsteps retreated down the hall.

Logan didn’t wait. The second Scott’s footsteps faded down the hall, he was back on you—mouth hot, breath rough, hands greedy.

"You shoulda heard yourself," he murmured, lips dragging along your jaw. "Tryin’ to sound all innocent when I got you stuffed full like this."

Your nails dug into his back again, legs still locked tight around his waist. "And whose fault is that?"

His smirk was downright filthy. "Mine. And I ain't even a little sorry."

He moved again—slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping against his shoulder. You bit down on his skin, just to keep quiet, and he groaned low in his chest. "Fuck, doll, do that again."

You did, dragging your teeth over his collarbone, then licking over the mark like an apology. His pace stuttered for half a second before he pressed you deeper into the mattress, forearm braced next to your head.

"You wanna play dirty, huh?" His voice was a growl now, rough as gravel. "You're gonna be real sorry 'bout that."

And then he set a punishing rhythm—hips slamming into yours, his body pressed so tight to you that you could feel the heat of him everywhere.

You couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Every drag, every thrust had you unraveling under him, nails clawing at his arms, his back, his shoulders—anything to ground yourself.

"Logan," you gasped.

He groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Yeah, sweetheart, I know. I got you."

His breath was hot against your skin, his weight solid, grounding. But there was nothing slow or sweet about the way he moved now—his hips drove into yours with an intensity that made your nails sink even deeper into his back.

"Fuck, Logan," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, rough and dark. "S'what I like to hear," he muttered, dragging his teeth along the side of your throat. "All those little noises—only I get to hear ‘em, huh?"

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking just enough to make him grunt. "Maybe if you'd shut up and—oh, shit—keep going—"

Logan didn't need more encouragement. He pressed you further into the mattress, keeping you pinned beneath him, his pace relentless. Every roll of his hips sent a sharp, toe-curling heat through you, your pulse thudding loud in your ears.

Then—his mouth was at your ear again. "You still think Scott bought that bullshit excuse?"

Your stomach tightened, pleasure warring with panic. "Shut up," you hissed.

His smirk was pure sin. "Nah. Kinda fun knowin’ he was just outside while I had you like this—"

"Logan," you warned, biting back a moan.

He just hummed like the idea amused him. "Bet he'd lose his fuckin’ mind if he knew, huh? His sweet, innocent baby sister—" His hips slammed into yours, forcing out a sharp, breathless gasp. "—gettin' wrecked by the guy he hates most."

You slapped a hand over his mouth again, eyes flashing. "Do you want us to get caught?"

Logan just huffed against your palm, but his eyes burned with something darker. Amused. Possessive. A challenge.

Then, just as quickly, he shifted, dragging your hand away and pinning it above your head, his fingers laced through yours. "Nah, I like keepin’ you all to myself," he murmured against your lips before claiming them in a kiss—deep, messy, all tongue and teeth and heat.

The knock at the door had long since faded into silence, but the risk still lingered—your brother was right there, just down the hall. The thought alone made something coil tighter in your gut.

"Logan," you whispered, half warning, half plea.

"Shh," he muttered, his free hand slipping down your body, gripping tight at your waist as he drove into you again. "Just focus on me, sweetheart. Nothin’ else matters."

And for now, with his body pressing you deeper into the sheets, his breath ragged against your skin, and his hands branding you in ways that would never fade—he was right.

---

Dinner was already a disaster, and you hadn’t even sat down yet. Scott was in full big-brother mode, still eyeing you like he wasn’t convinced by your excuse from earlier. Jean had that look too—like she could hear your heart rate spike every time Scott brought it up. And Rogue? She was the worst of them all, smirking every time you so much as shifted in your seat.

“So,” Scott started, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “You sure you’re okay?”

You grabbed a plate, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah, Scott. Just tired. I overslept.”

Scott frowned, clearly skeptical. “You never oversleep.”

Rogue snorted into her drink. “Maybe she had a long night,” she said innocently, then flicked her gaze toward you with way too much amusement.

Your stomach dropped. You shot her a glare, but she just smirked over the rim of her cup.

“Long night doing what?” Scott asked.

Jean sighed. “Scott.”

“No, seriously. She missed training. That’s not like her.”

“Maybe she was busy,” Rogue said, taking a slow sip. “Real busy.”

You swore you were going to kill her. Right here. At the dinner table.

Scott’s frown deepened. “Doing what?”

Before Rogue could dig your grave any deeper, Logan walked in like he owned the place, rolling his shoulders and grabbing a beer from the fridge. He barely spared you a glance, but you knew he was enjoying this way too much.

“Doin’ what, Summers?” Logan popped the cap off the bottle and took a swig, looking entirely unbothered.

Scott gestured toward you. “She missed training this morning. Said she was sleeping, but she never oversleeps.”

Logan shrugged. “Guess she needed it.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “You don’t think that’s weird?”

Logan leaned against the counter, looking unimpressed. “What’s weird is you interrogatin’ her like she committed a crime.”

Rogue let out a cough that sounded a hell of a lot like a laugh.

Jean, who had been watching the entire thing unfold, finally spoke up. “Scott, drop it. If she says she was tired, she was tired.”

Scott exhaled sharply, clearly still unconvinced but finally letting it go. “Fine.” He grabbed his plate and moved to sit down.

Logan smirked over the rim of his beer before taking another sip. You didn’t even have to look at him to know exactly what was going through his head.

As soon as Scott turned away, Rogue leaned over and muttered under her breath, “You’re lucky Jean shut him up.”

You kicked her under the table. She just grinned.

---

Later that night you were in your bedroom reading a book when someone knocked on your door. “It’s open!” you called out. You knew it wouldn’t be Logan, not when it was only 9 pm.

Rogue plopped down beside you, stretching her legs out and giving you a shit-eating grin.

"So," she drawled, nudging your shoulder. "How's your nap?"

You groaned, already regretting not locking your door. "Not you too."

"Oh, especially me," she said, grinning. "C'mon, sugar, I deserve some details after helpin’ cover your ass at dinner."

You shot her a glare. "You almost got me caught."

"Please," she scoffed. "Scott's dense as hell when it comes to you. If Jean weren’t there, he’d still be tryin’ to figure out what was ‘off’ about you today." She smirked. "Meanwhile, I know exactly what was off."

You grabbed a pillow and smacked her with it. Rogue just laughed. "Hey, I ain't judgin’! I just think it’s funny how not subtle you two are."

You gave her a look. "We are subtle."

"Uh-huh. Sure," she said, rolling her eyes. "So subtle that I had to watch Logan barely contain his smug-ass smirk at dinner. You realize you got played, right? Scott started pushin’, and Logan shut it down in, like, two sentences."

You frowned. "That wasn’t playing me—that was helping me."

Rogue snorted. "Girl, Logan lives for this. He’s gettin’ off on the fact that he’s sneakin’ around with Scott Summers' baby sister."

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You hated that she was probably right.

Rogue grinned. "Bet he’s got a real nice ego boost right now."

You sighed, flopping back against your pillows. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," she said cheerfully. "But you do love makin’ bad decisions."

"Logan is not a bad decision." She raised an eyebrow. You crossed your arms. "He’s not."

Rogue just smirked. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, sugar."

You groaned. "Are you done?"

"Not even close," she said, kicking her feet up on your bed. "But I’ll give you a break—for now."

"Gee, thanks."

She chuckled, then eyed you for a moment before her smirk softened just a little. "You really like him, huh?"

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. I do."

Rogue nodded, like she already knew. "Then I guess I’ll keep coverin’ for you."

You smiled. "Thanks."

"Don’t thank me yet," she said, grinning. "If you two do get caught, I wanna be front row for Scott’s meltdown."

---

A few nights later, you barely made it two steps into your room before a rough hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside. The door shut behind you with a quiet click.

“Jesus—Logan!” You turned, ready to shove him off, but the moment you saw the look in his eyes, your stomach flipped.

His hands were already on your waist, pushing you back until your spine hit the door. His body was flush against yours, heat radiating from him.

“You’ve been drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy all day,” he muttered, voice low, rough. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place like he needed to. “Sittin’ across from me at dinner, actin’ all innocent, while I’m still thinkin’ ‘bout the way you came on my cock the other night.”

Your breath hitched, pulse spiking. “Logan—”

“Could barely keep my hands to myself,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat. “You think Scott noticed how damn quiet I was?”

You swallowed hard, hands clutching at his arms. “You were quiet?”

Logan chuckled against your skin. “See? You weren’t payin’ attention either.” He pressed closer, one thigh slotting between yours, and you felt him—hot, hard, ready.

“Logan,” you breathed, your fingers twisting in his shirt.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” His lips brushed your ear, teasing. “Tell me what you want.”

A sharp knock made you both freeze. Again? Your stomach dropped as Logan exhaled sharply, muttering a curse under his breath.

“Y/N?” Scott’s voice.

You shut your eyes, biting back a groan. Logan’s forehead dropped against your shoulder, his whole body tense.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he whispered.

You shoved at his chest, mouthing move. He just smirked, staying right where he was.

Scott knocked again. “You in there?”

Logan's smirk widened, eyes gleaming with something smug. You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to sound normal. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Open up.”

Panic shot through you. Logan just raised an eyebrow, amused. You shoved at his chest harder, whispering, “hide.”

He grinned. “No.”

Your glare was sharp. “Logan.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes before finally stepping back. “Fine.” He moved toward your closet, muttering, “This is fuckin’ humiliatin’,” under his breath.

You didn’t have time to argue. The moment he was out of sight, you exhaled hard and cracked the door open.

Scott frowned down at you. “Why’d that take so long?”

You forced a casual shrug. “I was getting ready for bed.”

Scott squinted at you, then looked over your shoulder, like he expected to find some kind of evidence of your lies. “You sure?”

Your heart pounded. “Yes, Scott,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “Why are you here?”

Scott still looked unconvinced, but finally said, “I wanted to see if you wanted to train in the morning. Just us.”

You blinked. “Uh… sure?”

“Cool. Early morning session. Don’t be late.” He gave you another suspicious look before stepping back. “Night, Y/N.”

You gave him the fakest smile you could muster. “Night.”

The second the door shut, Logan was out of the closet, shaking his head. “You owe me for that.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, poor you. Hiding for thirty seconds.”

He stepped close again, hands sliding back onto your waist. “Not the hidin’ part that pissed me off,” he muttered, pressing his mouth to your throat. “It’s the part where I didn’t get to finish what I started.”

Heat curled in your stomach. “Then finish it,” you whispered.

Logan’s grip tightened, fingers digging into your waist as he pressed you back against the door, his body flush against yours. Heat radiated off him in waves, thick and consuming.

"Thought you'd never ask," he murmured, his voice all gravel and dark amusement. His lips traced a slow path along your jaw before dragging down to your throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, desperate to hold onto something as his hands moved—one sliding up your side, under your shirt, rough fingers splaying against bare skin. You sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed his thigh between yours, the pressure making your head spin.

"Logan—"

"You were teasin' me all damn day," he muttered against your skin. "All wide eyes and sweet little smiles like you weren’t sittin’ there with my fuckin’ marks still on you."

Your breath hitched. His teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp. "Not my fault you left them," you whispered, your own hands slipping under his shirt, tracing over the hard muscle of his stomach.

Logan chuckled—low, dangerous. "Oh, it was on purpose, sweetheart. Wanted you rememberin' exactly where my mouth was."

His lips skimmed your jaw, his stubble scraping your skin as he worked his way lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. His hands were firm, fingers digging into your waist, holding you against him like he needed you there.

"You should've finished before Scott interrupted," you muttered, breathless, trying to keep some semblance of control.

Logan chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. "Sweetheart, you really think I’m the kinda guy to rush this?" His teeth scraped over the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "Nah. You started this game, now you gotta deal with the consequences."

His hands moved—one slipping beneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, rough and warm. The other slid lower, down the curve of your hip, before gripping the back of your thigh and hauling it up against his side. The movement sent you pressing closer, heat meeting heat, and you gasped.

"You feel that?" His voice was a low growl. "Been hard all damn day because of you."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him even closer. "Then do something about it."

His smirk was pure arrogance. "Oh, you got some fire tonight, huh?" His hand on your thigh tightened, his other sliding higher beneath your shirt, grazing the underside of your breast. "I like that."

Before you could snap back, he kissed you—hard. No hesitation, no teasing. His lips crashed against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he was claiming you, like he'd been waiting for this all day. And maybe he had.

Your back hit the door harder as he pressed into you, deepening the kiss, swallowing the quiet moan that slipped from your throat. His hands were everywhere—roaming, gripping, pulling.

Then, with no warning, he lifted you. You gasped against his lips, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he turned, carrying you toward the bed like you weighed nothing.

"You just gonna manhandle me now?" you teased, breathless.

Logan smirked, dropping you onto the mattress with a bounce. "Damn right I am."

Before you could recover, he was on you—hands braced on either side of your head, knee pressing between your thighs. His lips were back on yours, insistent, hungry. He kissed like he fought—relentless, determined, and utterly in control.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and the growl he let out sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, dragging it up, his knuckles grazing heated skin as he peeled it over your head. The second it was gone, his mouth was everywhere—kissing, nipping, sucking at the newly exposed skin like he had something to prove.

"Logan—" Your voice hitched as his teeth scraped over your collarbone.

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, lips moving lower. "Let me enjoy this."

His hands found the waistband of your pants, tugging them down with far too much ease, his lips still moving, still teasing. You barely had time to process the cool air against your skin before his hands were on your thighs, spreading you open.

He looked up at you, eyes dark, heated, hungry. "You are gonna be real quiet for me, right?" His voice was nothing but rough gravel and amusement. "Wouldn't want your brother to come knockin' again."

You should've had a smart-ass response ready, but the moment his mouth was on you, your brain short-circuited. A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, a teasing flick before he sealed his lips around you and sucked. Your fingers shot to his hair, tangling in the thick mess, your back arching off the bed before you even realized it.

"Logan—"

He growled against you, the vibration sending a shock straight through your system. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"Quiet, sweetheart," he murmured, dragging his mouth away just enough to speak. His lips were slick, his voice dark with amusement.

You clenched your jaw, the reminder making your face burn—but not enough to stop you from tugging his hair, shoving him back down where he belonged. Logan chuckled, but didn’t argue.

He buried himself between your thighs again, tongue pressing, curling, teasing. Every flick sent heat pooling deep in your stomach, every slow, deliberate movement dragging you higher and higher, the tension coiling tight.

Your breathing turned uneven, fingers clutching at the sheets. "Logan," you gasped, your thighs threatening to clamp shut.

He didn’t let you. His hands flexed, holding you open as he devoured you, his pace slow and maddening, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"You’re close," he muttered, voice muffled against your skin. He pressed a kiss right where you needed him most, almost gentle. "I can feel it."

You bit down hard on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of begging. But Logan had other plans. He sucked, hard and sudden, and your whole body jerked.

A sharp cry broke from your throat, your hands flying to muffle yourself as heat crashed through you. The tension snapped, pleasure rolling through you in shuddering waves, your body trembling beneath his hold.

He groaned against you, like he was savoring every second, like he lived for this.

Only when you finally slumped back against the sheets, breathless and spent, did he pull away, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Sweetheart," he muttered, his voice thick with heat and satisfaction. "You taste so fuckin’ sweet when you come for me."

Your face burned, but you still shot him a glare. "Cocky."

Logan smirked. "Damn right."

Then he was on you again, lips crashing against yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His body pressed flush against yours, his jeans rough against your bare skin, and—

Yeah. He was still hard as hell.

"You got yours," you murmured against his mouth, reaching between you. "Now let me return the favor."

His breath stuttered as your fingers brushed against the hard length straining behind his zipper, but before you could do anything else, his hand caught your wrist.

"Not yet." His voice was rough, strained. "I need to be inside you first."

Your stomach flipped. He reached down, making quick work of his belt, his jeans, shoving them down just enough. You caught the briefest glimpse of him before he was lining himself up, the heat of him pressing against you.

"Fuck," he groaned as he pushed inside, slow, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.

Your mouth parted, a soft, breathless moan slipping free at the feeling of him—full, deep, overwhelming in the best way.

Logan shuddered. "You feel so fuckin’ good, doll," he rasped against your ear.

Then he moved. A slow, deliberate pull before thrusting back in, setting a steady, deep rhythm. Every movement sent sparks through your system, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your breath coming in soft gasps.

Logan groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Fuckin’ hell, I missed this."

You clung to him, your body tightening around him in response. His pace faltered for half a second before he growled—and snapped his hips into you. A sharp cry tore from your throat, and Logan grinned. "That’s what I thought."

Then he really started moving. Deep, rough thrusts, dragging you higher and higher, your nails raking down his back as pleasure coiled tight again, building faster this time.

"Logan—"

"I got you," he muttered, voice wrecked. "Come on, sweetheart, let go for me."

You did. The pleasure crashed through you, your body trembling as you came around him, his name falling from your lips in a breathless moan.

Logan groaned, his thrusts turning erratic before he buried himself deep, his whole body tensing as he followed you over the edge.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just tangled together, catching your breath.

"You’re heavy," you muttered, pushing weakly at his chest.

Logan huffed a laugh but finally rolled onto his side, dragging you with him.

"You love it," he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

You snorted. "You wish."

He just grinned, pulling you closer.

---

You and Logan rarely have date nights. It was hard to find a quiet, empty space in the mansion that you knew no one was going to go into.

Let alone Scott letting you go out at night, even if you were 25.

But, tonight, you had a way around that. Rogue had already gone out with Bobby to the carnival that was in town which gave you a perfect excuse to leave the mansion.

You walked to the front door and barely put your hand on the doorknob when Scott’s voice rang out.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You froze, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral before turning around. "Carnival. Rogue and Bobby already went, so I figured I’d go check it out."

Scott crossed his arms, eyeing you suspiciously. "Since when do you like carnivals?"

You shrugged. "Since now." Scott frowned like he was trying to figure out what was off. You didn’t give him a chance to ask more questions. "You gonna let me go, or are we really about to have a whole interrogation over funnel cakes and rigged games?"

Before Scott could answer, Logan came strolling down the hallway, clearly on his way somewhere—until Scott turned to him.

"Logan, drive her."

Logan blinked. "What?"

Scott gestured toward you. "She’s going to the carnival. Drive her."

Your stomach flipped. You had to fight to keep the surprise off your face. This was perfect.

Logan’s expression didn’t change, but you knew him well enough to catch the slight twitch of amusement in his eyes. "Why?"

Scott gave Logan a flat look. "Because I don’t want her going alone."

"I can handle myself," you said quickly.

Scott ignored you, still looking at Logan. "Just drop her off and make sure she actually goes inside. Then pick her up when she’s ready to leave."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "I’m twenty-five, Scott. Not fifteen."

"And yet, you’re still my little sister," he shot back.

Logan sighed like this whole conversation was exhausting. "Fine. C’mon, kid," he said, jerking his head toward the door.

You clenched your jaw at the nickname, knowing exactly why he used it in front of Scott. But you didn’t argue. Instead, you grabbed your jacket and walked past them, ignoring the smug look Scott gave you like he’d just ensured your safety for the night.

The second you and Logan stepped outside, he let out a low chuckle. "Well, ain’t this convenient?"

You shot him a look. "Don’t be smug."

"Too late."

---

The drive was quiet at first, just the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Logan shifting gears. You knew Scott had probably expected Logan to drop you off, watch you go inside, then leave. But instead, Logan was taking the scenic route, driving further away from the carnival.

"You know, if Scott ever finds out about us, he’s gonna kill you," you said, watching the streetlights blur past.

Logan smirked, eyes still on the road. "Nah. He’s gonna try."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading in your chest betrayed you.

After a few minutes, Logan pulled into a small lot near a bar you both knew was usually quiet on weekdays. He killed the engine and turned to you. "So, what’s the plan, doll? We head in, grab a drink, then pretend you spent the whole night winnin’ stuffed animals?"

You smirked. "Something like that."

Logan leaned in slightly, eyes darkening. "Or… we could skip the drinks and find somethin’ else to do."

Your breath hitched, heart pounding. "Temptin’."

His smirk widened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he just reached for his door handle. "C’mon, let’s make this date look real."

You followed him inside, the warmth of the bar a stark contrast to the cool night air. It wasn’t crowded—just a few regulars, a couple playing pool in the corner, and a bartender who barely looked up as you both walked in.

Logan led you to a booth near the back, out of the way, and slid in across from you.

"So," he drawled, resting his arms on the table, "you gonna let me win you a giant teddy bear later?"

You snorted. "You? Win a carnival game? Please."

His eyes gleamed with amusement. "You doubtin’ me, sweetheart?"

You leaned forward slightly, a teasing smile on your lips. "I’m just saying… those games take skill. Precision. A soft touch. You’re more of a… smash things and ask questions later kind of guy."

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. "You got a real smart mouth, you know that?"

"Yeah, and you love it."

He smirked. "Damn right I do."

The bartender came by, and you both ordered drinks. Logan, of course, got whiskey. You opted for something lighter. As soon as the bartender walked away, Logan reached across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.

"Been wantin’ to do that all day," he muttered.

Your heart flipped. You curled your fingers around Logan’s, warmth spreading from the simple touch. He never did this at the mansion—not where anyone could see. But here, away from prying eyes, he was different.

"Yeah?" you murmured, teasing, but your voice was softer than you intended.

Logan’s thumb traced lazy circles against your skin. "Yeah." His eyes flicked up, locking onto yours, something unreadable in them. "Kinda hate sneakin’ around all the time."

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the weight behind his words. "I know."

He didn’t push, didn’t say anything else—just held your hand, like that was enough for now. And maybe it was.

The bartender dropped off your drinks, barely sparing either of you a glance. Logan finally let go, but not before giving your fingers one last squeeze.

You picked up your drink, taking a sip. "So, you actually gonna win me that teddy bear later, or were you just talking shit?"

Logan smirked, reaching for his whiskey. "Sweetheart, I ain’t losin’ to a rigged game."

"You sound awfully confident for someone who doesn’t exactly scream ‘hand-eye coordination.’"

Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

"You’re the one dating me."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, but the smirk tugging at his lips said he didn’t mind one bit.

The two of you sat there, drinking, talking, stealing quick touches when no one was looking. It felt easy—like it was supposed to be like this all the time.

You didn’t know how long you stayed, but eventually, Logan leaned back in the booth, stretching his arms across the seat. "Time to make this date look real."

You raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we go to the damn carnival, you let me win somethin’, and we make sure Summers doesn’t think you were out doin’ somethin’ reckless."

You smirked. "Technically, I am."

Logan snorted, throwing some cash on the table before standing up. "C’mon, trouble. Let’s get you a prize."

---

The carnival was packed, neon lights casting everything in a bright, chaotic glow. The scent of fried food, sugar, and asphalt filled the air, mixing with the hum of laughter and the occasional shriek from a nearby ride.

You walked beside Logan, your fingers grazing his every few steps, but neither of you reached out. Not here.

"Alright, hotshot," you said, stopping in front of a shooting game. "Let’s see if you’re actually as good as you claim."

Logan stepped up to the booth, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. "You doubtin’ me?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "I don’t doubt that you’re good at a lot of things, but precision? Patience? Not exactly your strong suit."

Logan just grunted, dropping some cash onto the counter. The guy running the booth handed him a plastic rifle, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"You gotta hit all five targets," the guy drawled, popping gum in his mouth. "You miss one, you lose."

Logan spun the rifle in his hand like it was nothing, raising an eyebrow at you. "Watch and learn, sweetheart."

You huffed a laugh, but then—

Crack.

The first target dropped.

Then the second.

Then the third, fourth, fifth—so fast the guy running the booth barely had time to register it before the last one clattered down.

Logan set the rifle down with a smirk. "Told ya."

You blinked. "Okay. That was… impressive."

"You're damn right it was." He turned to the booth guy, jerking his head toward the line of stuffed animals. "Pick whichever one she wants."

You looked at the rows of plush toys, pretending to think before pointing at the most obnoxious, oversized teddy bear in sight.

Logan’s smirk faltered. "Really?"

"You said I could pick," you reminded him, grinning.

He muttered something under his breath but took the giant bear when the guy handed it over, tossing it at you. "Happy now?"

You hugged the ridiculous thing to your chest. "Very."

Logan shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You’re gonna be the death of me, doll."

You grinned, looping your arm through his as you walked. "Yeah, but what a way to go."

---

By the time you got back to the mansion, it was late. The house was mostly quiet, save for the faint murmur of the TV in the common room.

Logan parked in the driveway, shutting off the engine. Neither of you moved right away.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "You know we can’t keep this up forever."

Your chest tightened. "I know."

Silence stretched between you for a beat. Then he spoke, "you worth the trouble, sweetheart?" Logan’s voice was softer, rough in a different way.

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. "You tell me."

His lips twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over, curling a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you in for a slow, deliberate kiss.

It was different from earlier—less teasing, less rushed. Just warm, steady, like he was trying to say something without actually saying it.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a second before he exhaled and pulled away completely. "Go on. Before Summers comes lookin’."

You rolled your eyes but grabbed the stupidly large teddy bear and climbed out. As you walked inside, you didn’t have to look back to know Logan was watching.

---

"Jesus, sugar. That’s a big teddy bear," Rogue said, leaning against your doorframe with her arms crossed, smirking.

You flopped onto your bed, the ridiculous oversized bear landing beside you. "Yeah, well, I earned it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Did you? ‘Cause I got a feelin’ Logan earned it, and you just picked the biggest, most obnoxious thing you could outta spite."

You grinned, not even trying to deny it. "He said I could pick."

Rogue let out a snort and stepped inside, flopping down next to the bear and poking its fluffy face. "So, how was date night with our favorite bad decision?"

"Great, actually," you admitted, hugging a pillow to your chest. "We got drinks, he won me this monstrosity, and Scott still thinks I was eating funnel cake and riding the Ferris wheel all night."

Rogue let out a dramatic sigh. "That boy is so clueless, it’s almost sad." Then she shot you a look. "But you know he’s gonna find out eventually, right?"

Your stomach twisted, but you shrugged. "I know."

She tilted her head. "And?"

"And… we’ll deal with it when we have to."

Rogue studied you for a moment, then smirked. "You’re fallin’ for him."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, you grabbed the teddy bear and smacked her in the face with it.

She cackled, shoving it away. "Oh, sugar, you are so screwed."

"Shut up."

"Nah, I love this," she teased. "Big, bad Wolverine gettin’ all soft for little ol’ you. It’s cute."

"He is not—" You stopped yourself, because… yeah. He kind of was. At least with you.

Rogue grinned, smug as hell. "I bet he’s outside your window right now, just sittin’ there, all broody, waitin’ for me to leave so he can sneak in."

You rolled your eyes. "He’s not that predictable."

A faint tap at your window made you both freeze. Rogue's eyes went wide before she burst out laughing, smacking your arm. "No fuckin’ way."

You shot her a glare before pushing off the bed, crossing the room, and pulling the curtain back.

Sure enough, Logan stood outside, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. You cracked the window open just enough to whisper, "Are you serious?"

Logan just smirked. "You gonna let me in, or what?"

Rogue was still laughing behind you. "Oh, sugar, I’m never lettin’ you live this down."

---

“Where’d you get that necklace?” Jean asked, looking over the rim of her coffee mug.

You barely paused as you stirred sugar into your coffee. "Bought it for myself," you said, keeping your tone casual.

Jean hummed, watching you for a second longer before taking a sip. "It’s nice. Simple."

You nodded, fingers brushing over the small silver Earth pendant. "Yeah. Thought so too."

Across the table, Rogue smirked into her cup but said nothing. You could feel her amusement radiating off of her, but you refused to look at her. If you did, you’d probably give yourself away.

Jean, thankfully, didn’t press. She just shrugged and leaned back in her chair. "Well, good for you. You don’t usually wear jewelry."

You forced a small smile. "Guess I’m changing things up."

Rogue let out a quiet snort. You kicked her under the table.

Jean’s gaze flicked between the two of you, like she was debating whether or not to ask what that was about, but before she could, Scott walked in, yawning as he grabbed a cup of coffee.

"You training today?" he asked you, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah," you said. "After breakfast."

Scott nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He didn’t seem to notice the way Rogue was still fighting laughter or how Jean kept glancing at your necklace.

You exhaled quietly, focusing on your coffee. Crisis averted. For now.

---

Later that day, you found Logan in the garage, leaning against his bike, arms crossed as he watched you approach.

"You know," you said, stopping in front of him, "Jean noticed the necklace."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You tell her?"

"Nope," you said, rocking back on your heels. "Said I bought it for myself."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Smart girl."

You smirked. "I try."

Logan reached out, hooking a finger under the chain and tugging you closer. "Y’could’ve just told her the truth."

You gave him a look. "Oh, sure. ‘Hey Jean, thanks for noticing! My secret boyfriend who my brother would literally kill bought it for me. Cool, right?’"

Logan smirked. "I’d pay to see the look on Summers’ face if you ever actually said that."

You rolled your eyes. "You just wanna see him lose his shit."

"Maybe," he admitted, voice full of amusement.

You sighed, shaking your head. "You are such a menace."

Logan’s grip on the necklace tightened for a second before he let it go, letting his fingers trail lightly over your collarbone. "You still wearin’ it, though."

Your breath hitched slightly at the touch, but you kept your expression neutral. "Yeah. I like it."

His smirk softened, just a little. "Good."

For a second, you just stood there, his fingers still ghosting over your skin, the garage quiet except for the distant hum of voices from the mansion.

"You gonna let me take you somewhere tonight?" Logan asked, tilting his head slightly.

You raised an eyebrow. "Somewhere like…?"

Logan shrugged. "Just a ride. No missions, no Scott breathin’ down your neck. Just us."

Your stomach flipped. You hadn’t had much alone time with him outside of stolen moments in your room or hidden corners of the mansion.

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. "Yeah. Alright."

Logan’s smirk widened. "Good girl."

Your face heated, but you ignored it, turning on your heel before he could say anything else. "I’ll meet you out here at eleven," you called over your shoulder.

"Don’t be late, sweetheart," he said, and you didn’t have to look back to know he was grinning.

---

The night air was cool against your skin as you stepped off the mansion’s back porch, your pulse quickening with every quiet step. You stuck to the shadows, moving with practiced ease—this wasn’t your first time sneaking out. But it was always a gamble. Always a risk.

Still, that didn’t stop the thrill from curling low in your stomach.

Logan was already waiting by his bike, leaning against it with his arms crossed, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. He exhaled, watching you with that familiar smirk—half amused, half something darker.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, flicking the cigar away.

“I said eleven," you shot back, coming to a stop in front of him. "It’s eleven."

Logan glanced at his watch like he didn’t believe you, then shrugged. "Close enough."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything else, he grabbed the helmet from the handlebars and held it out. You hesitated for half a second before taking it, slipping it on as Logan swung a leg over the bike.

"Hop on, doll."

You did, settling in behind him, your arms wrapping around his waist automatically. He was warm, solid beneath your touch, the scent of leather and faint cigar smoke clinging to him.

"You gonna tell me where we're going?" you asked, voice slightly muffled behind the visor.

Logan reached down, gripping your thigh just enough to make you feel it. "Nope."

Your stomach flipped. Before you could push for an answer, the engine roared to life beneath you, and then you were moving—tearing down the quiet backroads, the wind rushing past, the world blurring into streaks of light and shadow.

You didn’t ask again. You just held on tighter.

---

Logan didn’t stop until you were well outside of town, pulling off onto a secluded dirt path surrounded by thick trees. The headlights cast long shadows against the trunks as he killed the engine. The night settled around you, quiet except for the faint hum of crickets and the cooling tick of the bike.

You pulled off the helmet, shaking out your hair before looking around. "This is either really romantic or the start of a horror movie."

Logan snorted, stepping off the bike. "Guess that depends on your definition of romantic."

You smirked, handing him the helmet as you stood. "So? What’s the plan, tough guy? You bringin’ me out here to bury a body?"

He huffed a laugh. "Nah. Just figured we could use some real privacy for once." He jerked his head toward a break in the trees. "C’mon."

You followed him down a small path, stepping carefully over the uneven ground. After a few minutes, the trees thinned out, revealing a stretch of open sky and a lake shimmering under the moonlight.

Your breath caught for half a second. You hadn't expected this.

Logan glanced at you, catching the look on your face. "Not bad, huh?"

You crossed your arms, pretending to consider. "It’s alright, I guess."

He smirked. "Brat."

You grinned but didn’t argue. Instead, you kicked off your shoes and stepped onto the wooden dock that stretched over the water, feeling the worn planks creak under your weight. Logan followed, hands in his pockets as he leaned against one of the wooden posts.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The air was crisp, the reflection of the stars rippling over the water’s surface. It was quiet. Peaceful. Something you didn’t get much of at the mansion.

Then Logan’s voice broke the silence. "You ever think about leavin’?"

You blinked, turning to him. "What?"

He kept his eyes on the water. "The mansion. The team. All of it."

You frowned. "Why would I?"

Logan let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "Dunno. Just seems like sometimes you’re tryin’ to be somethin’ you ain’t."

You stared at him, caught off guard. "And what exactly do you think I am?"

Logan’s eyes finally met yours, something unreadable in them. "Someone who don’t belong in a cage. No matter how nice they make it look."

Your stomach twisted. You knew what he meant. The mansion was safe, sure. But it was also rules, expectations, eyes always watching. You’d built a life there. A good one. But was it really yours? Or was it just the one Scott expected you to have?

You swallowed, looking away. "And what about you?"

Logan tilted his head slightly. "What about me?"

"Do you ever think about leaving?" You asked.

A pause. "All the damn time."

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache.

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t say anything. Instead, you stepped closer, reaching for his hand. Logan let you take it, his fingers curling around yours automatically.

"You don’t have to stay, you know," you murmured. "If you really wanted to go."

Logan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah, doll. I do."

Your throat tightened. You knew what he meant. He wasn’t staying for the team.

He was staying for you.

For a moment, you just stood there, his hand warm in yours, the lake stretching out endless and quiet beneath the stars.

Then, finally, Logan smirked. "This is gettin’ a little too sentimental. You wanna go for a swim or somethin’?"

You snorted, shaking your head. "It’s freezing."

"So?"

You rolled your eyes. "You go first, tough guy."

Logan didn’t hesitate. He kicked off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and before you could even process what was happening—

Splash.

You gasped as water sprayed onto the dock, the surface rippling wildly where Logan had disappeared. You stared at the disturbance for half a second before Logan popped back up, slicking his hair back with both hands. "Water’s fine."

"You’re a liar," you laughed.

Logan grinned, then suddenly shot out an arm—grabbing your ankle.

"Logan—!"

Too late.

You yelped as he yanked, throwing you completely off balance. The last thing you saw before you hit the water was his smug, grinning face. The cold was a shock—freezing against your skin, stealing the breath from your lungs as you surfaced, gasping.

"You asshole!" you sputtered, shoving wet hair out of your face.

Logan just laughed, the deep sound echoing across the water. "You deserved it," he said, treading water.

"You’re dead," you threatened, lunging at him.

Logan dodged easily, still grinning. "Gotta catch me first, doll."

Oh, it was on now.

You lunged again, cutting through the water as fast as you could, but Logan was quick—too quick. He moved just out of reach every time, smirking like the smug bastard he was.

"That the best you got?" he taunted, backstroking away like he had all the time in the world.

You narrowed your eyes. "You realize I have powers, right?"

Logan’s smirk widened. "Then use ‘em, sweetheart. Let’s see what you got."

Oh, he was asking for it. You didn’t hesitate. You focused, letting energy pulse through your limbs, giving yourself a boost as you surged forward. Logan’s eyes barely had time to widen before you tackled him, sending both of you under the water.

Bubbles rushed around you, the muffled sound of movement filling your ears as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, dragging him down with you. You knew he could hold his breath longer than you, but you weren’t planning on letting this turn into a real fight.

Instead, you twisted, using the momentum to flip him over so you were the one pinning him, hands braced against his shoulders. Even underwater, his smirk was there—amused, challenging.

You rolled your eyes and pushed off, breaking the surface first.

A second later, Logan popped up in front of you, shaking water from his hair. "Not bad," he admitted, voice rougher than usual from the cold. "Didn’t think you had it in you."

"Yeah, well, you underestimate me a lot," you shot back, treading water.

Logan’s smirk softened just a little. "Never."

Your breath hitched, pulse stuttering for a second, but before you could dwell on it, Logan moved—closing the distance between you in one smooth motion. His hands found your waist under the water, steady, warm despite the chill.

"You’re shivering," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes. "Because you threw me in a freezing lake, dumbass."

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, but instead of teasing you again, he just pulled you closer. The warmth of him was instant, the solid weight of his body pressing against yours. His hands slid up, fingers tracing along your ribs, your back. You swallowed, heartbeat thudding as his lips brushed against your temple, then down to the edge of your jaw.

"You wanna get out?" he murmured, voice low.

You nodded, but neither of you moved. Instead, Logan dipped his head, lips ghosting over yours, slow and teasing, like he was giving you a chance to pull away. Like he wanted you to.

But you didn’t. You closed the space, pressing your mouth against his, your fingers slipping into his wet hair as he kissed you back—deep, slow, like he had all the time in the world.

The water rocked around you, your bodies drifting, the night air cool against your skin. It was dangerous, reckless—standing there like this, kissing in the open where anyone could find you.

But you didn’t care.

Not tonight.

Eventually, Logan pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips, "C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you warmed up."

His smirk was back, but there was something else in his eyes now—something softer, something real.

You exhaled, nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Logan didn’t let you go as he led you back toward the shore, his grip firm, steady. Like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

a few things - one, reader's powers are energy manipulation. two, i think it's in the next part, but reader has a degree in something nature/environmental related. it's not heavily described though. anyways, enjoy part 2!

❀ part 2 ❀

[gojosoups]

cw: yandere!Gojo, revolutionist!Gojo, royalty au, mentions of sexual relationships, unhealthy behavior, manipulation/coercion, blood, death, abuse of power, gaslighting, toxic relationships, possessiveness, and jealousy. not proofread lol

a/n: I had this idea come to mind when I was cleaning lol, might make this into a mini series, like 4-5 chapters? this was in my drafts for a while, but it went through some VERYY heavy editing

a/n 2: imma kms and everyone for not telling me I spelt coronation as coordination 😭😭😭

Gojo Satoru who's been obsessed with you since childhood, the kingdom's beloved princess and heir in line for the throne. Betrothed to another, a man of the neighbouring kingdom for the sake of diplomacy,

Gojo Satoru—your shadow, your other half—your best friend since childhood, trusted with your life by your parents. Gojo Satoru, a mere servant, and yet he was entirely yours to serve.

The years passed, and what was once an innocent friendship blossomed into something more. Childhood years that were spent in the same bed, throwing sleepovers and tossing feather pillows at each other were now spent with longing glances, shared whispers, and stolen touches beneath the very same sheets.

But of course, no one could know.

The King and Queen would never allow it—their pride and joy, the heir to the throne—lusting after a mere servant? Unbelievable. After all, you were a princess, meant for greatness, beyond whatever a mere palace worker could offer you.

And yet, behind closed doors, your secret was kept safe.

Behind closed doors—you were his. Each day began in his arms, and each night was spent in his arms.

In the eyes of the court, both of you kept up the act.  

Gojo who kept you busy during galas, an arm wrapped around your waist, guiding you towards the ballroom, away from the prying eyes and hands of the men. Meanwhile you, just as possessive of your lover, who kept the female servants busy and as far away from him, because even if he were a mere servant, he certainly was a sight for sore eyes across kingdoms. 

Of course, this secret would not last forever. 

Not when the king and queen, bless their old souls and frail bones, had dreams of grandchildren running around the floral grounds of the palace. Not when they announced your coronation and engagement in front of the whole kingdom. 

While the kingdom rejoiced, streets bustling with excitement as preparations began, that night, you wept in the arms of your lover, crying for your untold future as he held you close. Sobbing into his chest, gripping onto him like he was the only thing you knew. He held you tighter, soothing you and whispering sweet promises in your ear. 

Promises he intended to keep. He would never let you go.

Overnight, the kingdom was taken down.

Your so-called in-laws never made it past the palace gates. Their carriages left abandoned at the border, the once-pristine gold and polished wood torn down. And not a single soul in sight—only a trail of blood leading into the depths of the wood. Yet no one said anything.

Not when the crown was placed atop Gojo Satoru’s head. Not when he took his rightful place on the throne and the kingdom could only bow.

Your parents—silenced with a mere look—could only watch as they were exiled, sent far away from the imperial palace, and kept under his watchful eye. 

After all, how could they object? 

He gave them everything they wanted. 

A kingdom. A legacy. And above all, an heir with eyes as blue as his. 

And he would never let them—or anyone—take you away from him again.

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐒 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[acid-ixx]

'cause you're takin' it like a champ, sweetheart !

(nsfw) romantic! yandere conner kent x gn! reader

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ; leaked sex tape post ; other post !

a/n: mdni. purely nsfw. inspired off of @luludeluluramblings. the reader here is gender neutral but is a bottom, so interpret them as any gender as you will! mentions of breeding, oral (giving &. receiving), and overstimulation.

i'm sorry but i just read about the sex tape thing and now i'm shitposting you guys. what if instead of making chapter 6 for my series angsty, i make conner and you have kinky, sloppy, sweat-drenched sex after your first date? what if instead of the batfamily stripping you away of your freedom, conner strips you naked right before one of the secret cameras placed inside the room you're both in, that he's sure records every single passionate movement you both make in bed?

what if instead of you crying from the pain of all the negligence, you writhe and mewl like an overstimulated pornstar as he pounds away all your worries instead??? and if the footage unknowingly gets leaked? holy shit, not only do you possess the title of bruce wayne's infamous bastard child, but you're now also known as a kryptonian monsterfucker who definitely possesses the energy of a bull if it means you could handle bed-breaking sex to the point you're sure anyone from a mile away could hear your bated, snappy breaths and conner's sporadic, non-stop humping into the most pleasurable parts of your body.

cause even if he's half-human, that doesn't take away the fact that he is half-human. he sports features that aren't typical in normal anatomy. this just translates to: less energy is consumed when fucking you, so he could go on and on and on eating his love out, leaving marks for hours whilst simultaneously ensuring that you're probably well-bred (and i hc that it's probably almost exclusive to kryptonians that they cum, a lot) and dripping and feeling full by the end of the night (or day, heaven knows just how long he could go off worshipping your body).

and yes, the leaked sex tape piqued the interest of most curious eyes and it's probably going to be the spectacle for most researchers curious about kryptonian anatomy- but consider this. conner's not the only man obsessed with you. there're some romantic interests out there seething with rage, at the same time nutting and touching themselves to the video and playing it on repeat cause you're taking it like a champ.

unfortunately for them though, you've already been too addicted to the feel of conner spearing you down that you just can't fathom anyone else holding you the same way he does. you love the dichotomy he puts you through (to the point you ignore the red glinting lenses above your body) when he's possessively pinning you to the any fucking surface with his strong arms wrapped around your waist, with no chance of escape, the sensation of his dick penetration in and out in a hasty, yet rhythmic beat. yet despite the harsh thrusts, his hand still find itself to your sweaty forehead to wipe away stray hair, his lips taking its sweet time softly pressing kisses from the crown of your head all the way to your lips.

"good j-job takin' me whole, sweetheart— ah! god, i love you..." he whispers praises with his parched throat on your ears, every syllable enunciated with the thrum of his hips, your legs nearly resting over his shoulder. if not for his breaths hitting the inside of your ears, goosebumps spreading throughout your body, you wouldn't have picked up on the bass of his voice complimenting you.

your grip on his body only tightens, eyes shutting deeper into the near zenith. with just how much you're humping back despite the soreness in your muscles, tears escaping your eyes from pure, unfiltered pleasure, it's as if you're putting on a performance for the whole world to see.

"i— AH! i love you, t-too, kon– baby!" your reply came in the form of a squeal after another of his particularly harsh thrusts from waiting for your response. god, your throat hurts, it's more sore than conner's, taking him in your mouth fully felt like a fever dream, but you could remember the shape of his tip puncturing the back of your throat that it has your body reeling for another mind-blowing orgasm.

the glass of water on the stand beside you both is empty, it's been empty for hours. yet conner's still thirsty, how else would he be quenched from his urge when his previous ministrations of eating you out whilst prepping you to take his dick makes him even hornier? there's something about your body that makes the kryptonian want to memorize every single detail from how you writhe when the piercing in his tongue penetrates a sensitive part of you, and oh, the salty taste of your sweat and tears is heaven for a starving man like him.

shit, the thought of sloppily devouring you whole after he fills you up time and time again would be the cherry on top. overstimulation works pleasures on his sweetheart's body like a charm. he loves seeing the more desperate parts of you begging for more yet telling him to stop at the same time, as your hands still tangle harshly on his hair to keep him in place.

... but for now, he's got to focus on the lack of love marks on the expanse of your body, his vision nitpicking all the places in your skin that he's going to suck hickeys on. it'll definitely be his final piece of the puzzle to show all your other admirers his claim on you.

and the whole world can only bear witness to the artwork he's creating with you.

welp, guess it's just going to be you and conner alone in the room for a while, satiating both your hunger for each other, haha...

— oh, and don't forget the hundreds of cameras placed strategically to record all angles of your bodied fucking like animals!

[chris-prank]

A desperate yandere in your area

Chapter 2 : Surprise visitor

Sub pathetic yandere x GN reader

Previous chapter - Next Chapter

(This is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only, I do not support yandere behaviors in real life)

CW: NSFW, collar, praise kink, masturbating in secret, handjob, voyeurism, teasing, porn with plot, yandere behavior, mention of stalking, reader is horny too and L bomb

Word count: Over 2K

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

You sat on your bed, putting headphones in your ears. It had been a truly tiresome day, so you figured that a little alone time was well deserved before doing any house chores. Setting comfortably against your pillows, you selected one of those “man moaning and whimpering” audios. You closed your eyes as the delectable sounds filled your surrendering. 

You were starting to get into it, when suddenly, a moan seemed to have been louder than the others. They were also small whimpers…Weird…You decided to not pay much attention to this as your body relaxed. Your hand creeped down your pants when you went in the mood again. 

You were making rhythmic movements, trying to imagine a pathetic man in front of you making all these slutty moans. Even in your while enwrapped in your fantasy, you swore some noises were always too loud to be coming from your headphones. You used your clean hand to pause the audio and there it was again! A small whimper!

You checked your phone and no, the audio hadn’t started again. It was so faint that it was difficult for you to pinpoint where it was coming from. You took out your headphones and really tried to concentrate on the source of the noises. It almost sounded like an injured animal, maybe a cat had gotten into your apartment ? You knew that one of your neighbors had one, so it wasn’t impossible. You sigh in defeat, knowing that you wouldn't be able to finish what you started. You took a blanket and got off your bed. You roamed around the room as quietly as possible, not wanting to alarm the poor unknown creature. As you got closer to your closet you could feel your heart pulsating in your ears, the whimpers were coming from there. You raised the blanket, ready to throw it if the animal showed any sign of aggressivity.  

In one swift motion you opened the closet door. And there was… Jacce sitting on the ground, pumping his cock forcefully. He was so engrossed by the smell of your shirt covering his face, that he had failed to remember to keep it down. You didn't even scream or move. You felt like you dissociated from your body, as if you were watching this surreal outcome from a second point of view. 

The man opened his eyes when he was just about to cum, finally noticing you standing in full height before him— just like he had fantasized on so many occasions, but this time it was real. 

“F—ngahh—uck.” His eyes rolled back for a second, his body shuddering while he ejaculated. Ropes of cum shooting unintentionally in your direction.  

His sudden climax reactivated your nerve system. You dropped the blanket on him, ran out of the room and into the living room. Not only was there a man that broke into your house to masturbate, this intruder was JACCE! The barista you liked! This was the most horrifying situation you've ever been in. You regretted dreading that it could have been a wild animal, because it would have been better than whatever this was. 

You could hear shuffling noises behind you, certainly him trying to put his junk back into his pants as fast as possible.

“Hey w-wait.”

When you turned to face him, his expression was still stuck in this dazed state of the aftermath of cumming. Like clockwork every time he took a step forward you would step back.  

“Y-you weren’t… supposed to see th-this.” He breathed out like he ran a marathon, “let me ex-explain before doing anything… p-please.” 

Jacce looked down at your hands before looking back at you. You didn’t answer but didn’t make a move either. The man took that as a sign to continue. 

“I… I know what it looks like… A guy that you barely know, touching himself in your closet… in your house…” He hesitated at the last part, “but I’m not a creep! I-I did this because I love you!”

Love me?! You had noticed before that he gave you more special treatment compared to other clients… but you never expected this! You felt your body getting weaker, as if you were about to faint from the stress. 

“Are you… going to hurt me?”

Jacce's expression seemed to drop at the question, as if he was heartbroken that you thought he would do such a thing. This was not going as planned and he hated himself for it. You weren’t supposed to find him in your closet. You weren’t supposed to see him like this. 

“I could n-never hurt you! I love you!” He was speaking with conviction, “I just want to be there for you! To serve you like you deserve… If anything you should be the one hurting m—”  

“What are you talking about?!” You cutted him short in a panic, “I don’t want t-that!”

“What!? B—But I can be so good for you!” His voice raised slightly in desperation,  “most guys are too stupid to even split the house chores! I'm ready to do everything for you!”

You stepped back while he kept walking forward. He was so absorbed in waves of emotions to notice the fear in your eyes. He gripped his shirt, his hands trembling and tears forming in the corner of his eyes. 

“I would NEVER take you for granted! I would be the most attentive and obedient person in your entire life!” His entire body was now shaking violently, “I don’t even have to be your boyfriend, I can be your pet!” 

You didn’t know what to do. Your brain was going thousand miles an hour, making it near impossible to settle on something. While trying to think clearly, you also had to focus on what he was saying. He kept going on and on about the fact the he wanted to… serve you. What if it was true and not just excuses to make himself look less bad? 

You decided to test your luck. It's not like you had another choice. Jacce was taller than you and getting him more agitated was not a good idea. You builded up all the energy you had left and talked over him in an authoritarian tone. 

“Sit down against the wall.”

And he did. 

All the panic that contortionned his face had completely disappeared, replaced by an expression of anticipation. He looked sincere about his intentions… but you couldn’t totally believe him just yet. The fear in your guts was still present, but it was slowly being overshadowed by something else. Your mind kept wandering back to the whimpers he cried out while touching himself and how cute he looked all desperate. You could sense the familiar sensation creeping between your legs the longer you looked down at him. Jacce seemed to be also stimulated by the turn of events, because he quickly placed his hands between his legs, not wanting to blow up his small chance with you. This pose gave him an even more submissive look, which made you go crazy. 

What if… maybe we could both take advantage of this situation. 

You were indeed craving for someone like this. Until now you could only find them in fiction and even then it was hard to dig them out in the sea of dominant love interests. Jacce would get your attention and you would be able to feast upon the site of his patheticness. You were definitely twisted to consider this outcome about a man who broke into your house, but it’s not like you would be doing anything wrong. It's your house so your rules on how to deal with intruders. 

“Let me see what's happening between your legs.”  You tried to keep the confident facade as you spoke. 

Jacce's shoulders jolted a bit in embarrassment, but he did reveal the tent in his pants. He looked so disheveled with his flushed face and his coat lazily falling off one his shoulders. So hot. 

“Do you want me to make it better?” Your voice was dripping with such honey, that you were even shocked by it. 

He nodded frantically. Consent was something crucial and he had just gave it to you with indisputable enthusiasm. 

You got down on your knees to get better access to him. You reached your hand out for his bulge, caressing it, which made his body tremble in anticipation. You unzipped his pants and slightly pulled at the rim of his boxers. His erection sprong out, finally letting you have a good look at it. His dick was 6.5 inches, the foreskin pulled back to reveal his pink gland, now on the verge of turning red. The tip was crowned with little pearls of precum, some of them sliding down his shaft like water drops on a car window. It made your mouth salivate just by thinking of wrapping your lips around it and admire his face contorted in pleasure. 

Jacce was clearly trying to stay quiet, but when you spat in your hand, he couldn’t help but whimper at the thought of what was going to happen. You rubbed your palm on his tip, which made him buck his hips, before wrapping your fingers around it. Your thumb was barely reaching your index finger and that warmed your lower half even more. The idea of something like this stretching your inside was so enticing.

“T–thank y–you… Haah… I’ll be so so good to you, I promise.” 

Jacce leaned in, clinging to the front of your shirt. At last he was feeling your divine touch. A part of him still couldn’t believe the turn of events. He imagined that you would have at least tried to hit him or something. But no, there you were, willingly giving him a handjob like a merciful master. You squeezed the base of his shaft, admiring the precum oozing out of the tip. You started to stroke him at a medium pace. Surprisingly, his voice was more soft spoken than what you expected. He was murmuring needingly into your ear while his drool stains your clothes. Jacce was still sensitive, since he had already cum not too long ago, causing him to swallow back cries multiple times. 

“If you want me to continue you’ll have to answer some questions, ok?” 

You felt like you were babying this grown man, talking to him like that. But he didn’t seem to mind, since he nodded without a complaint. Your grip started to loosen up tho, since that wasn’t a satisfying answer. 

“Use your words or I’ll stop making you feel good.” 

“I’ll–I’ll answer!” He whined.

“Good job.”

He shivered at the praise. That’s what he had dreamed of hearing from you for months. You picked up the paste again, pumping him harder. His head fell back as he unconsciously reached one hand out to his hidden collar. You were taken aback at the sight of it. How depraved is this guy!? Without thinking, you placed your index and middle fingers in the loop and tugged at it, making him moan like never before while jerking his head back up. You were pretty sure he almost came just from that. 

“First question… How long have you been stalking me?”

“I st–started five months ago Mmm-Ahh… ” He sobbed, it was so hard for him to speak, “Y-you were always so n–nice to me when you N-gh came into the coffee shop. I wanted to kn-know more.”

You’ve been going to that place for about a year, so at least he hasn’t been doing it for that long. You were a bit taken aback that you never suspected anything though. This guy has been either really good or very lucky until now. 

“Do you break into my house often?”

“N-no.”

You abruptly stop touching him, forcing him to speak again.

“I–I swear! I only did it six times!”

He arched his back and whimpered, urging you to stroke him again, which you happily obliged. It was hard not too! 

“P-please u-use me, use me, use me! I want to be your dumb ngAhhh little puppy…” 

The words were spilling out of his mouth with pure urgency and he bucked his hips against your palm uncontrollably. All clear signs that he was close to release. You couldn’t count the number of times you fantasized about turning someone into such a mess, but now that you were experiencing it, your simple imagination was nothing compared to the real thing. Your own self control started to waver the more it went on. Jacce knew that he was about to cross his limit as well, closing his eyes shut, preparing himself. But the grip around his cock loosened, until it completely disappeared. He whined and moved his hips, searching for the touch of your warm hand again. 

“W–why did you stop? I–I told you what you wanted to k-know!” 

You didn’t answer, only looking at him with an indecipherable expression. All the moans, whimpers and other noises he let out, made you so horny that it was becoming too much to bear, but you knew it would make him way too happy to be used to make you cum. You couldn’t let him release either. He didn’t deserve it, not yet anyway. 

“I’m not letting you cum.” 

“Wh-what!? W-why?!” He complained again. 

“You broke into my house and stalked me for five months.” You swiftly got on your feet, “bad boys don’t deserve to ejaculate.”

Bad boy was like the last nail into the coffin for the pathetic mess. In Jacce’s top ten of the worst things you could say to him this one was pretty high. Small tears rolled down his cheeks as a result.  

“You… you’re right… I’m sorry.” He sniffed.

You did feel a little bit bad for making him cry and wanted to fuck him dumb too. No, not tonight. You had to hammer that in your brain to resist your desires. You decided to at least help him a bit before kicking him out. 

“Let's get you cleaned up.” 

“N-no! I–I’m supposed to be the one to–to take care of you.” he whined.

You gave him a stern glance, which shut him up instantly. You came back with a bottle and a wet towel in hand, crouched down in front of him and handed out the water. He took it, chugging it halfway in one go. 

“T-thanks, you’re so nice to me… even when I don’t deserve it.” He whispered, looking away with a subtle smile on his lips. You could sense that, despite his guilty look, he was celebrating this whole situation on the inside. 

With the towel you cleaned off his cock, still covered in a mixture of your spit and his cum. Jacce was looking at you like a puppy who made a mess and was watching his master taking care of it. His breath was getting heavy again and you could feel his cock twitching through the towel. He was totally getting turned on at how gentle and attentive you were to him. This had transformed into the perfect domestic fantasy in Jacce’s twisted mind. 

“I’ll help you to the door if you think your legs aren’t strong enough yet.”

“I thought you accepted me! Can’t I stay!?” 

“I haven’t made my final decision yet.” You crossed your arms,“if you really are a good boy you will let me think about it.”

Hanging over his head the possibility of being yours was enough for him to accept your request. He didn’t even consider the fact that you could call the police the second he leaves. Besides, the fact that you decided to touch him, instead of all the other decisions possible, was making him a bit more confident. After helping him up, you opened the front door and waited for him to leave. Jacce stopped, now the roles were reversed with his figure overtowering you. 

“You promise to think about it?” He whispered anxiously. 

“Yes, now please get out.”

He nodded and you watched Jacce for a bit to make sure he was really leaving, before closing the door. You looked down at the spot where the desperate man was previously sitting. You could feel your guts twist again, urging you to satisfy the heat between your legs. You sighed as you went into your room. The dirty audios you used to listen to were definitely not going to be enough to satisfy you anymore. 

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I love nothing more then making a reader who is horny for the yandere too 😌

Link for the chapter on Ao3

Here is an other old sketch I made for this chapter back in 2023!

[ilium-ilia]

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Three: leave me panting on the kitchen floor like a dog begging for scraps

tw: smut, scenting, scent intox, intense first time heat, fingering, creampie, breeding kink, scent gland playing

By some miracle, Simon manages to get you to sleep through the first night of your heat. 

It doesn’t come easy. You wake often in fits, whimpering and writhing as you try to pry yourself from the nest for no discernable reason other than the fact that you’re uncomfortable. Itching from the inside out. Stuck within your own wretched skin. Sweat glues the two of you together as he holds you back, not that it takes much effort. You’re weak. You give in easily at the mere weight of his forearm across your torso and quiet shushing against the shell of your ear. 

The only thing that truly quells this discomfort blossoming in you seems to be his scent. Thick hormones—a near paralytic. For hours he lies next to you with his palm cradling the back of your head as he keeps your face pressed against his neck where the secretions of his scent is most potent. You nap like a baby when he’s got you like this. Quiet, and drooling as if you’re starving for a taste of him. 

A few hours in, you almost rouse. Somehow during his own sleep, you’ve managed to turn away from him. Back against his chest, face in the sheets—he wakes at the sound of your groan. Thick and caught in your throat like phlegm, he snaps awake as if it’s an alarm. Panicking, he grabs the first article of his clothing he can find within the nest and shoves it against your nose as if to gag you. It knocks you out cold as if it’s chloroform and not the mere scent of him. 

When Simon notices that it’s a pair of his boxers, he thinks he ought to switch it out for something less degrading, but the way you mindlessly nuzzle into it with a sigh warns him he shouldn’t. 

Dawn breaks over the house in pale silver. A storm is brewing. Downright angry with thunder humming in the distance and light rain already spitting against the window panes. When he notes that you’re still fast asleep, Simon does his best to slip out of the nest unnoticed. Careful, strong limbs guide him over your body until he’s steady on the floor. 

It’s hard to fight his own instincts as he looks down at your curled form, and he can’t pretend as if your scent isn’t intoxicating. All things soft that follows brutality—blood after a laceration, gauze on wound, a shuddering breath from a punctured lung. Your hand begins to stretch in your sleep, fingers unfurling before curling into the mess of blankets and clothes. The sight makes him dizzy; forces all the blood in his body to flow where it knows he needs most. 

Swallowing, he strips his shirt off of his torso before placing it on top of his boxers, gifting you his fresh scent before he leaves the room. 

If he had known your body was about to spring such a brutal heat upon you, Simon would have prepared better, and a part of him is a bit frustrated that he wasn’t able to pick up on the scent. He stares at the sparse contents of his fridge with pursed lips. For half the night you’ve been sweating, overheating, and damn near combusting. Body thrown into overdrive, forcing your mind to undergo something you’ve never had to experience before. You’re using up too many nutrients. You need food. Water. And, of course, the obvious. 

Simon snatches up a half finished packet of bacon before turning the stove on and shoving bread in the toaster. He rummages through his pantry in search for more protein. Nutella, or peanut butter—something with calories, something that’ll fuel the two of you with enough energy for what’s about to take place. 

The bacon is halfway done when an inconsiderate clap of thunder shakes the house. Every wall rattles around him, and he wrenches his eyes shut as he holds his breath, hackles raised. It isn’t long before he picks up the faint sound of your feet trudging down the hallway. 

“Simon?” He can tell from your voice alone that you’re already dehydrated. Each syllable cracks in your throat as you walk up to him with mist in your eyes. “Come back to bed, please.” 

And he wants to. Oh, how he’d sweep you into his arms and lay you back in your nest and shove his cock into your pussy as many times as you need—and he will, in due time. But right now the drive to take care of you is stronger than something as debauched as that. 

“Not yet, baby,” Simon murmurs. He stifles your pout with a gentle caress of his thumb against your cheek. “Gotta get some food in ya, first. Grab a seat, I’ll be done soon.” 

You don’t wander far despite his prompting. Wobbly, unstable knees give out beneath you and he finds you sitting on the kitchen floor next to him as he continues to cook. Bacon grease pops and sears the bare skin of his chest, but it’s easy to ignore the pain when you’re clinging to his leg. Hands wrapping around his thigh, forehead rolling back and forth over his hip. 

It isn’t long before you begin to wander. Nose prodding against his crotch, Simon feels himself harden within an instant. He does his best to push it out of his mind as he sets a plate for you, but the audible sounds of your inhaling leaves his mind spinning. It only worsens when your lips fall apart to press against the band of his joggers in an open mouthed kiss, wanting tongue already darting out to wet the cotton. 

“Sweetheart,” Simon sighs. He places his hand on the crown of your head, prompting your neck to crane back to look at him. Everything about you is wet—your cunt, your eyes, glistening tears on your cheeks, sweat coating your throat, all failing to douse the fire churning within you. “You gotta eat.” 

“I don’t wanna eat.” You’re getting bratty now. Whining with your brain telling you to devour one thing, and it certainly isn’t food. Trembling fingers curl into his joggers before you yank, sending the band pulling past his hip bone. “I feel worse. I just—everything is so foggy. You said you were gonna—Simon you said—you were gonna take care of me.” 

He steadies both your body and attitude with a soft grip on your jaw. The movement silences you immediately, and all you can do is stare up at him as he clicks the stove off and retrieves your breakfast with his free hand. 

“Poor little ‘mega thinks she’s got this all figured out, yeah?” He tilts his head to the side as he leans forward; nothing but a curious dog. “But you don’t, do you sweet girl? That’s why you need me. Need your alpha to take care of you, don’tcha?” 

Simon slinks low enough until he’s on the ground next to you, plate of food on the floor to his left while his legs sprawl out. When his thighs part, the straining bulge in his pants is glaring. Growing ever rounder, more firm, damn near throbbing through the fabric—it’s hard to tear your eyes away from the sight when he pats his lap. 

“C’mere sweet girl. We’re gonna eat.” 

He situates you until you’re between his legs, back pressed against his chest and head rolling against his shoulder. Simon feeds you by hand. Slowly. Salted pork, buttered toast—it all presses past your lips until every crumb is in your mouth. Though your whimpering hasn’t stopped, your kvetching has. Jaw too busy chewing, biting through flesh, retaining the energy he knows you’re going to need. 

While one hand feeds your mouth, the other feeds your cunt. Shoved past the band of your panties, Simon’s fingers swirl around your clit effortlessly with the wetness that’s accumulated over the countless hours. You’re impossibly firm, tender skin perking up nice and pretty just for him. Every now and then he slips a finger into your hole just to feel the way your hips jump and writhe. 

“S-Simon,” you gasp. 

“Less talkin’ and more eatin’ baby.” He brings the last half of toast up to your mouth where you gingerly take a bite, incisors hardly stealing more than a nibble. 

“B-But I’m—you’re—everything feels weird like… like tight and… fuzzy…” 

He knows exactly where this is going. It’s been growing for the last few minutes in the twitching of your legs, nerves misfiring, muscles contracting, a flood of spasms waiting to erupt. Before he lets that happen, he presses the last mouthful of toast into your mouth and waits for you to swallow before his fingers begin to pick up their pace. 

“Yeah? What else, baby? S’it feel good?” Simon prods—playing with his food. 

All you can do is mumble something hardly coherent as you nod. Back beginning to arch, hips levitating off the floor, heels digging into the hardwood—you shatter with a squeaking groan. Taut thumbs curl into his thighs where you hold purchase to keep yourself steady before you’re panting and gasping as if you’ve already sucked all the air from the world and you’re still hungry for more. 

“Atta girl, there she is. Wasn’t so bad, was it? Eatin’ all your food like a good pet.” Once your breathing has calmed down a considerable amount, he raises his hand to your mouth where his fingers are still stained with bacon grease and crumbs. “Be a doll and lick me clean.” 

You follow his order with a gusto he didn’t expect you to muster after he dismantled you like this. Taking his fingers into your mouth, you suck each and every one of them clean, all the way down to his thumb. When he raises his other hand away from your sex, your jaw falls slack, waiting for him to ask you to do the same, but he only chuckles. 

“Nuh uh, this treat’s for me, sweetheart.”

Tight muscles begin to melt beneath his touch as Simon’s hands wander over your body. Heat still emanates out of you as if you’re a furnace, but he notes how the perspiration isn’t as thick anymore—which could either be a good or bad thing. He hums something about needing to clean up before he slips out from behind you. With all the strength sapped from your body, you do not wander off, but instead lie on the floor with your cheek pressed to the cold ground. 

Rain slaps violently against the window as he begins to wash up. The food he had made for himself has gone cold, but he shovels it into his mouth before disposing of the grease and soaping the plates and pan. Thunder purrs overhead and Simon thinks about how perfect everything is. You, here where it’s safe as this storm rages on, hidden deep in his den where not even the elements can lay a hand on you. 

Simon’s drying his hands off by the time he turns back around to check on you, and that string that tugs at his navel nearly forces him to pounce on you. Knees digging into the hardwood, rump raised high into the air while your face stays flat on the floor—your hands are between your thighs and he can see everything. How you desperately try to move the soaked gusset of your panties to the side, the way your fingers pitifully press into your hole, palms pressing at your cheeks, spreading yourself wide for him. 

“Too empty,” you cry. “Simon, i-it feels wrong; please fix it, fix me, I can’t…” 

He’s on his knees behind you in an instant. Hands ghosting over your lower back, kneading into the tense muscle before his fingers slip beneath the band of your underwear. You’re swaying with his movements, unsteady even as you’re nearly laying. Jasmine wafts in the air and his eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull. 

“Need your alpha’s cock, is that it sweet girl?” he asks. Simon tugs at the fabric and yanks them past your hips until there’s nothing covering your sex. He can see her in all her quivering glory—glistening and clenching. Waiting. “C’mon, what do you need, baby?” 

“You!” Your response leaves in a near shriek, only to die off to a susurrus. Then, your swaying tenses. “My… my alpha?” 

“Yeah, your alpha, baby,” he nods. 

“My alpha. I want it.” 

You’ve waited so long, and been such a good girl about it. Laying pretty for him in a nest strewn in his bed, waiting by his feet as he cooks, came so sweetly on his fingers—he cannot deny you this. Simon shoves the waistband of his joggers down and grunts at the way he springs free, cock bobbing as he tenses before he takes it into his hand. Warm metal greets his palm as he lazily strokes himself, squeezing precum free from his tip so he can wipe it off on your cunt and chuckle at the way you jolt. 

A sob escapes your throat when he pushes in. You stretch so well around him, pulling him in and forcing him to stop once you’ve swallowed the head of his cock. You’re panting, fingers curling into your palms, nails digging into the flesh, knuckles tapping against the floor as your feet begin to kick. 

“Easy baby,” Simon says through a hiss, grabbing your hips for his own stability. 

“More, more please, I can’t- too empty, Si, too empty,” you babble. 

He’s impressed at how easy it is to shove the rest of himself in. Not even his frequent lays before this could ever take him as well as you do now, and he has to bite back the murmur that bubbles in his chest. This is proof. Your scent—sweet and tender in the way death always is—how you’ve so easily wrapped him around your finger, consumed every thought—his mate. His omega. 

That tender spot on the side of your neck looks tastier by the minute. 

Simon’s pace is quick—you won’t accept anything less. Whimpering every time he attempts to give you a break, begging for more, refusing to let him treat you as if you’re delicate; he relents. Fingers curling into your hips, broad thighs slapping against your own, sending sharp claps echoing throughout the empty kitchen; it’s raw. Pure and unadulterated. 

It’s frustrating how fast his orgasm approaches, but he can tell by the kicking of your feet that it’s exactly what you’re wanting from him. To be full not only of him, but everything he has to offer. You’re begging now. Incoherent rambling hits the floor as your head lowers as if in prayer. All Simon can do is hold on to the fat of your ass as he watches the way his cock plunges into you, wetness glistening along the back of your thighs as you soak him to the very bone. His jaw clenches, teeth creaking, diaphragm spasming—

A strangled sob leaves your throat when he comes. He’s twitching inside of you, half sheathed but still filling you up properly with all the spend he has to offer. With narrowed eyes, Simon witnesses the way his knot swells just outside the entrance of your pussy and he growls. It hurts. Too much pressure and not enough counterweight to squeeze him tight—the tender skin bulges and reddens. Cursing, his palm slams against the cabinet as he grinds into you, but it’s useless to offer any reprieve for his aching knot. 

Once you’ve caught your breath, he finds you finally looking back over your shoulder. Neck craned, hips rolling—it isn’t long before you’re pouting. Dazed, Simon doesn’t realize the way you’re pulling away from him until it’s too late. You rock back into him, body colliding with his knot in a way that makes him growl. Instinctively, he reaches a hand for the nape of your neck before he presses hard, forcing your chest to the floor, leaving you squirming. 

“None of that,” Simon warns. 

“You didn’t give me your knot,” you whine. 

“You’re not ready for that yet, baby.” His weight forces you to collapse until you’re flat on your stomach, legs straightened with his thighs forcing them apart. The fear of being crushed ought to scare you, but all you do instead is moan. “Too much at once for a sweet ‘mega like you.” 

Hips still wiggling, you attempt to shake your head as best as you can. “I can take it! I need it, need you so bad Simon, you’re so- you’re so mean.” 

“Mean?” He can’t help but chuckle at that. “No baby, I’m takin’ care of ya. Just like I said I would, yeah?” His grip loosens on the back of your neck, but his thumb begins to wander to that quivering gland. You tense, body ready and eager; your head tilts to the side. “I’ll give you this knot nice and proper later, yeah baby?” 

You wiggle in defiance. “I can’t wait, Si. I don’t wanna wait.” 

“You can do it, sweetheart. I know you can.” 

Without warning, his thumb digs into the side of your neck where the skin of your shoulder meets your throat. Your mouth falls open but a sound doesn’t escape you for a long moment until a moan eventually bleeds out between your lips. Soft gland pinched by his nail, every inch of you begins to tremble. Cock still shoved inside of you, he feels the way you come just from that mere touch—that feigned bite that he knows your brain craves primally, but is unsure if it’s what you truly want. 

Simon’s eyes close as you squeeze him in rhythm with your orgasm and he doesn’t loosen his grip until you’ve gone truly limp beneath him. Perspiration coats your face but that doesn’t stop him from leaning down to kiss your cheek. 

“You’re drinkin’ some water, then you’re gonna nap, yeah?” It’s not a question, but rather a preordained series of events he knows you need. 

The fight has been drained out of you—for now—and you nod with a sigh. “Yeah, okay.” 

It takes several minutes to get you back into the nest you so meticulously put together on his bed. Pulling out of you, Simon sits on the floor next to you as he rubs your back until the strength returns to your body, but even then your knees are nothing but jelly, and he has to guide you to the room with an arm wrapped around your waist. 

You settle into the plush sheets and mess of his clothes so nicely, having already carved out a space for yourself. He lets you rest for only a moment before he’s cupping your chin and pressing a water glass to your lips. Half of it spills out of your mouth. Soft streams dribbling down your chin, wetting your chest—you hum at the way it cools your feverish skin. 

Simon hardly has time to settle into the nest next to you before you’re winding up again. Hands pawing at his chest, nose nuzzling against his flank, mouth wandering too far down for his comfort—he has to cradle your face into the side of his neck to even temporarily sedate you, but even then your wiggling persists. He attempts to satiate you by jamming his thigh between your legs to allow you to grind against him, but if anything the stimulation only works you up even more. 

“Is it time for more?” Your question is so saccharine his teeth ache at the thought of biting into something so sugary. 

“Not yet, baby, you need to rest first,” he gently reminds. 

“No, it’s okay, I’m ready.”

He chuckles. “No you’re not.” 

You attempt to look up at him but he refuses to let you rip your face free from his neck, so instead your hips begin to rock more violently. Naked clit sliding along the fabric of his joggers, he can smell the wetness. Brine and cum, flowers and blood—his growl emanates low in his chest. 

“But I want you. I want- I want everything, Si,” you whine. 

“Everything?” 

“You, and—oh everything. Your babies, I wanna- I just- it’s too much, I just need it, I know I do.” 

Electricity shoots through his brain at that. Your babies. Everything short circuits as your hips continue to rock and grind, stomach dangerously close to the growing desire separated only by the cotton of his trousers. His knot is still angry—frustrated at being ignored—but your talking has him riled up again. 

“You don’t want that, baby, that’s just the hormones talkin,” he murmurs. 

“Yes I do,” you huff with a challenge. “I can… smell it. It’s so strong. You. Your scent. Fuck, it’s so good. My alpha. My alpha, and I’m your omega, you said it! You said it! You can smell it too.” 

He can’t tell what’s worse—your rambling or the fact it’s making so much sense. Puzzle pieces falling together, intersecting lines pulling taut, dragging him towards this fantasy. Images of you, plump and round with his kids haunts his mind and he finds his heart freezing at the thought because fuck why does that sound so good? So delicious? 

“My alpha… my mate… want you to fill me up, wanna have your babies, wanna—oh—be all yours a-and… f-fuck…” 

Legs tightening around his thigh, fingers digging into his arms—your orgasm catches him off guard as your hips stutter to a stop. Though your words are now lost, Simon feels them echoing around in his skull, bouncing off the bone and burrowing straight through the grey matter of his brain. It’s a dangerous seed. Quick to germinate and root until all rational thought is snuffed out. 

His only saving grace is that you’re riding out your high and melting in his arms, temporarily satiating you. Holding you closer, he takes a deep breath with his nose pressed against the top of your head while he attempts to ignore the sticky parchedness of his canines. 

“Try to get some sleep, baby,” he urges before you can regain your energy again. 

You grumble against his throat. “I’m not tired.” 

“If you get some rest, I’ll knot you properly when you wake up.” 

At that, you perk. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

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[allhailbuckybarnes]

the love confession

summary: bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try ;)

warnings: fluff/smut, longing, pining, some use of y/n, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, dirty thoughts, tension, body worship, bob is down bad, bob is a MAN, you are just as down bad, yelena is number one supporter, idiots in love, confusion, jealousy, a pinch of angst, just playing: so so much angst, possessive bob, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, reader gets hurt badly (more on that later), bob is not okay, fear, love, please just kiss alr you two

monday (chapter one)

Bob wakes up early this morning. Rolling over to take a drink of water. His first thoughts, as always, are about you. Your hair in the morning, what you were doing, if you had already fixed your coffee. He throws on sweats and a t-shirt, stumbling around so he can see you sooner. A sticky-note on his door read:

“BOB- do not forget, therapy on Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30 pm!! DONT MISS IT AGAIN! - ur fave :)”

He smiles dumbly and walks out, shutting the door behind him. As he enters the common area near the kitchen, he sees you wondering around the cabinets. He smiles, there you are. You looked as if you were about to burn the kitchen to the ground.

“What’s up?” He asks, settling behind you and sitting on the counter.

You groan, slapping your hands to your forehead and running them down your face. “Bobby, I swear to god if Walker eats my cereal again, I’ll cut his dick off and feed it to Yelena’s rat thing,” you grumble.

He laughs out loud, “Oh cmon now, you can’t do that to Yelena’s guinea pig. Besides, I have a secret stash, just for you.” You flip around, gripping his shoulders in a very serious stance, eyeing him. “Bobby. You. Are my hero.” His smile falters slightly at the closeness of your faces. What feels like a minute passes as he stares at your lips. He can just barely feel your breath on his chin. You’re too pretty.

You remove your hands, “well? Lead the way!” He grins again, hopping off the counter and showing you the faulty crack between the fridge and microwave, “tada!" He waves little enthusiastic jazz hands at you, handing you the box. You smile, a big, beautiful smile, and slap his shoulder.

“I’ll have to keep you around I suppose Robert Reynolds.” His name rolls off your lips like sin. He rolls his eyes to mask the tightness in his chest, “sure Y/n, sure.” You mock a pouty face and he laughs.

You giggle and stroll over to the bowls, a pep in your step at the promise of your favorite cereal. Bob had thought of you again, it made your ears and cheeks burn red.

He was always extra thoughtful of you, whether that meant your snacks were always stocked, your dishes were the first he worried about cleaning, or the way your stories always seemed the most interesting to him. You always thought it was just him being mindful of your sensitive feelings.

Little did you know, he was trying to show you everything he felt for you in every glance, action, and gesture. To everyone around you it was obvious. The rest of the team had pools on who would finally have the balls to tell the other first. Neither of you did, it seemed.

~~

Eating your cereal together, you don’t have to say much. Each other’s presence is enough. Bob mindlessly made your coffee just the way you liked it as you prepared the cereal bowls. It was clockwork, it was normal. Some might even say it was domestic.

You relay your plans for the day to Bob, “I need to workout, seriously. Even though I’ve got the same serum you do mr. god, I swear my bones are aching. Also, I was thinking about going to the bookstore, do you want to tag along to either place? I was thinking it’d just be us, almost like a da-…” you cut yourself off, mortified.

You often didn't think as you rambled, always just speaking your mind. It's not like you two hadn't hung out before... but it had always seemed coincidental, the right place at the right time. You had never asked him with the intention you had just now. Or almost asked...

Bob sputtered: did you want to go on a date with him? No, that’s not possible. You just saw him as a friend. His cheeks turned pink. His body felt on fire.

“Wow okay, I’m not offended at all,” you quickly reply at his reaction, taking your bowl to clean it. You frown, goddamn it. I pushed too much. He doesn’t see me like that. Stupid! Your heart pounded in your chest.

“No, wait what? Y/n, of course I want to go with you.” He chases after you, grabbing your wrist, taking the bowl from your hands slowly, and rinsing it. Your lip pulls to the side, “it’s okay if not. I just thought it would be something we would both enjoy. I had a book recommendation lined up and everything, but I didn’t even ask what your plans were, I'm sorry...” Bob put a hand on your shoulder, “hey, you’re starting to sound like me, quit it,” he smiled. “I always want to hang out with you Y/n.”

Your halfway serious grin returned and you punched him in the shoulder. “Then don’t almost spit up next time! You had me worried I overstepped a boundary in our heart warming friendship.”

Not that word again. Both of you cringed in your mind at the thought of just being friends. Neither of you wanted to just be friends. Bob smiled anyway, "You could never overstep. You know that, right?"

Your smile lessened at his tone, and you touched his shoulder again, grazing it with your hand, a serious look on your face. "I know."

It was a silent plea for physical reassurance. You often thought about curling up to Bob, taking your worries and your fears, and letting him take over. He always talked to you first about nightmares, he always held you then, in the quiet of the night. It was always innocent. That was an easy conversation for you to have together, having gone through the same trials. He just got you. You pulled away.

It meant everything to Bob that you touched him.

~~

You were sweaty and tired, training had worn you out. The sparring with John took way too long, so you ran back to your room to shower and change quickly. Stepping in, the hot water washed away all the physical exhaustion, but the mental side never truly went away.

You just simply had too much on your mind. Everything with Bob, constant life-threatening missions, the pressure of the press, your serum trauma. It was always so much to carry.

It would help if you had someone to help you carry it, but the one person you want is your best friend.

You couldn't mess that up, you wouldn't lose Bob. Just the thought of scaring him away by your feelings kept you from telling him the truth.

That you wanted him. That you pictured it, everything with him. From date nights, to lingering touches, to a home, all the way to wrinkles.

You step out, drying yourself off. Maybe one day, when things calm down. When Val isn’t breathing down your neck constantly. When you have more control over your emotions, over your new powers. You would tell him.

Putting on a sweatshirt and shorts, you throw your hair into an easy style, curl your lashes, put a little extra effort into your makeup and jewelry for the ‘date,’ and head down to meet Bobby by the cars.

You take the elevator, staring and dreaming of how to make it known that you like Bob, knowing that you wouldn’t dare. But just his company was enough for know.

Bob is leaning against a Cadillac, waiting for you when you walked up. He looked up from his phone, “Oh hey! Um... Wow, are we only going to the bookstore?” He swallows.

You look down at your outfit, “yeah? I’m only wearing sweats.”

Bob chuckles and runs a nervous hand through his hair, “well, it’s just. You look good—um. You always look good.”

You smile on instinct, blushing hard. “Thank you.” He leans forward enough to brush a stray piece of hair away. Every touch felt electric, wanting, right. You leaned into his touch. A slam of the door behind you both startled you, Bob dropping his hand.

Alexei greeted each of you with a hug, running up and yelling, “EYY! My favorite Avengerz.”

You each pat his back awkwardly and greet him. He grins, “finally going on a date? I told you Bobby, she’s a good one.”

Bobby looked stunned and blushed firmly, staring at his feet. You quickly cover, patting Alexei's shoulder and pulling Bob towards the car, “no, no Alexei, we’re just going out. Thanks for the compliment though.” You would never assume anything. You murmur, "I'm sorry" to Bob as you each get in. He assures you it's okay. You know better.

With a reaction like that from Bob, you felt grounded. Back down to Earth. He didn’t want you like that, he cared about you, but it wasn’t anything more than family- sister and brother. Even thought you dreamed of more, something more like teammates against the world and lovers... you still had him. Robert. That was all that mattered.

Besides, it was impractical.

You understood, it was a dangerous risk to fall.

Each of you stayed silent on the drive to the bookstore. Bob had let Alexei's words get to his head and it was obvious. You had noticed, and spent the entire drive trying to find the right words to comfort him.

When you parked, Bobby went straight for his seatbelt, but you stopped him. "Hey, I know what he said bothered you. But I appreciate you coming anyways."

His eyes squinted and he looked frustrated, "it's just... that's not how I wanted things to go. Not how they should go," he painfully admitted. Your heart winced at his words, of course that isn't how he wanted it, he doesn't want that. Why can't I just accept that.

"Let's just go inside, yeah?" You ask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside your head. He looked at you. For a beat, words you wish each other would say, hung in the space between you. The only thing holding you back was yourselves.

~~

The bookstore was quiet, slow, and steady. Each aisle was littered with old, new, torn, and worn books. You had already found a poetry book on your tbr list and immediately added it to the stack you each had compiled. You would swipe Val's card on your heart's desires any day of the week. She deserved it.

The tattered books you held reminded you of each person on the team.

A pristine covered novel, with poorly hidden rips and markings inside - Walker

A short, honest, and used memoir with a broken spine - Ava

A thick, very beaten book, which you couldn't tell if it'd been well loved or torn apart on purpose - Bucky

A gleaming fiction of a story of glory which ended in disappointment - Alexei

A series book, contained to its beaten holder with its fellow victims who had all been through beatings together, torn apart - Yelena

A hopeful manuscript with dried tears on it's pages, not yet finished - Robert

And you, a soft cover, written over in ink and tears, full of empty meaning, alone.

You needed a drink.

After your selections, you checked out, the cashier seemingly satisfied with the absolute library you were taking home, gave you a free tote to haul them in. You and Bob always shared books, so there was no reason to split them into piles. You would read his margin notes, and add yours nearby.

Bobby seemed off on the ride home. He obviously had something on his mind. You silently willed for the words Alexei had said to roll off his shoulders. The more it bothered him, the more worried you became about your feelings.

They could become a real problem if you didn't shake them. If you couldn't let go of this, then it would effect your work, your safety, his safety. It could not get to that point.

It was time to end your crush on Robert Reynolds.

God you have no idea what you'e doing.

~~

Dinner was good. Yelena made something with pork and stew, her own recipe. It was delicious, but dinner had been ruined for you when Bob turned in extra early, blaming it on his desire to read a new book. Your unhappy attitude had been noticed fairly quickly. But nobody dared say anything.

You retreated to sulk on your own soon after dinner. Passing Bob's door and opening your own, you heard the shower on. You two had to share a bathroom, which connected your suites. Sometimes, it was torture when you'd accidentally almost see him naked.

Lord had the serum been kind to him. His body looked amazing, he was the rugged, but subtle kind of ripped. The freckles across his chest made you want to tear him apart with your lips. His veins, leading down to his long fingers, made you want to be fucked stupid with his hands choking you. It was embarrassing, but it was true.

You laid in bed with a book in your hands, carelessly reading the same lines over and over again, willing your head to focus. But you couldn't, you needed to talk to Bob.

After abandoning the book, you stood, trying to convince yourself to be brave. To face what you felt.

You knock on the door on his side of the bathroom, and after he mumbles, "One sec!" You hear a tumble and a small curse. He finally opens the door a crack after a minute. "Yeah?" He croaks, his hair a mess. He looks sweaty, has he been working out or something?

"I'm sorry if I interrupted, we can talk tomorrow," you quickly whispered, and turn to go. He catches your wrist, "no wait."

His hand was sweaty, almost moist. You looked down at the contact. Bob's adam's apple shifted up and down as he swallowed the tension. "I, I should apologize," he speaks lowly.

"I was so quiet, I had to have made your head spin. I was just thinking about what Alexei said, and I-" You interrupt bringing your hand to his cheek, "I get it, I knew that's what it was."

Bobby's brows furrowed, and his mouth opened to speak, but he hesitated. Why were you avoiding his opinion so much? Had he upset you? Why were you touching his cheek and not fucking kissing him with those lips. He wanted you. You dropped your hand, so he pulled you in for a hug. God this is too friendly, you both thought.

"Listen, if I hurt you by my reaction it was not meant. You know that I care... about you." He whispered, his lips barely grazing your hair. When had you changed the scent of your shampoo? It was incredible. Fuuuuuck.

You didn't dare meet his eyes, keeping your face buried in your friend's neck. But a soft hand guided your chin, tilting you up to meet his eyes. "You get some sleep, and we'll figure it all out tomorrow, mkay?" He strains. Your touch was too much after his previous activites. His cock was gonna burst. You nod, slowly, and your eyes flicker down to his lips for a second.

That split second made Bob so hard it hurt. He brushed a piece of hair back behind your ear, and you silently retreated to your room, stunned and wet as hell.

Each of you laid in bed, restless, thinking the same thoughts.

What the fuck.

I want her

I'd fuck him right now

Maybe tomorrow. But for now, you each needed sleep.

Bobby dreamt of your new shampoo and you mouth around his cock. You dreamt of his hands around your throat again, and a wrap-around porch with his hand in yours, reading books.

For now, you were each content.

~~

tuesday (chapter two)

[cameronsbabydoll]

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER TWO

WARNINGS — terminal illness, emotional neglect, loneliness, miscarriage (implied), blood, coughing up blood, emotional abuse, isolation, depressive themes, ambiguous self-harm/suicidal ideation

you measure time by the spaces rafe leaves behind. a dented pillow, a half-empty coffee mug, the echo of his keys as he slips out before dawn. it’s been eight days since he touched you, not the hurried brush of his fingers but the kind of touch that sees you, holds you, knows you’re there. you lie awake, the mansion’s glass walls catching the first light, and trace the ache in your chest. it’s not just the cough, though that’s there too, sharp and wet, a secret you keep in folded napkins and rinsed sinks. it’s the loneliness, a weight that settles deeper each morning he doesn’t look at you.

you rise, your bare feet cold on the marble, and move through the house like you’re borrowing it. the air smells of jasmine, the diffuser rafe bought because it was “modern.” you pause at the garden door, the forget-me-nots drooping outside, their blue petals curling like tired hands. you want to water them, to kneel in the dirt and feel something alive under your fingers, but your body protests, a dull throb in your bones that wasn’t there last month. you cough, quick and quiet, into your sleeve. a speck of red stains the fabric. you fold it over, tuck it into your pocket, and tell yourself it’s nothing. you’re fine. you have to be.

you dress for the country club, a soft blouse, a skirt that sways when you move. your nails are coral, chipped at the edges, the color rafe once said he liked, back when his eyes lingered. you don’t fix them. you slip the silk robe—the one he bought, still tagged—over your shoulders while you choose your earrings, then fold it back into the closet. it’s too delicate for today, too fragile for the wives who’ll smile without meaning it. you drive, the city a blur of steel and glass, the radio silent because you can’t stand the noise.

at the club, the wives are already there, gathered on the terrace, their laughter bright and brittle, like champagne flutes clinking. they smell of rosewater and money, their bracelets catching the sun. “you’re here,” one says, her voice dripping with warmth that doesn’t reach her eyes. another tilts her head, squinting. “you look... quiet today.” you smile, the one you’ve practiced, and say you’re just tired. they nod, their attention drifting to their phones, their wine, their plans for aspen. you sit, your iced tea untouched, the glass sweating onto the tablecloth.

they talk about their lives—new cars, charity boards, their husbands’ latest triumphs. you listen, your hands folded, your chest tight. you cough, soft, into a napkin, and check it when no one’s looking. a faint red smear. you ball it up, slip it into your purse, and sip the tea, the cold burning your throat. one wife mentions her daughter’s recital, her voice soft with pride. you think of the baby shoes, hidden in a box labeled winter coats. you never told rafe you were pregnant. you never told him you lost it, alone in the dark, the blood warm and final before you scrubbed it away. he was in chicago that week, closing a deal. you didn’t want to bother him.

you leave when the conversation fades, the wives’ goodbyes as fleeting as their smiles. you drive back, the mansion looming like a mirror, reflecting everything but you. inside, you don’t go to the garden. you don’t set the table. instead, you pull a cookbook from the shelf, one you bought years ago when you thought you’d be the wife who made things perfect. you flip to a recipe for lemon tart, something rafe loved when you were dating, when he’d kiss your mouth and taste the sugar on your lips. you bake, your hands steady even as your lungs burn. you grate zest, whip cream, measure sugar until the kitchen smells sharp and sweet.

you don’t eat the tart. you cut a slice, set it on a plate, and leave it on the counter, the fork beside it, glinting under the pendant lights. you sit at the island, your blouse still crisp, your hands clasped, and wait. the clock hums past eight, then nine. your cough comes again, harder, and you press a dish towel to your mouth. the blood’s thicker now, a clot that stains the cloth. you fold it, hide it in the laundry, and rinse your hands until they’re clean. you don’t look at the sink. you don’t want to see.

rafe comes home at 10:53 pm. you hear the door, the rustle of his coat, the low curse when he trips over the rug. you stand, smoothing your skirt, your smile soft but fraying at the edges. he’s in the kitchen, his tie undone, his eyes heavy with whatever he’s carrying. “you’re up,” he says, glancing at the counter. “what’s this?”

“lemon tart,” you say, your voice thin, like it might break. “you used to like it.”

he looks at the plate, the slice untouched, the fork waiting. “huh,” he says, and picks up the fork, turning it over like it’s a puzzle. “long day. not really in the mood.” he sets it down, the metal clinking against the porcelain. your heart sinks, but you nod, like it’s fine, like it’s always fine.

“you okay?” he asks, his eyes skimming past you, already reaching for his phone. “you seem... i don’t know. off.”

“just a long day,” you say, the words a reflex, your hands trembling behind your back.

he steps closer, and for a second, you think he might see you, might notice the way your shoulders curve inward, the way your breath catches. instead, he leans down, presses a kiss to your hair, light and fleeting, like he’s brushing dust from a shelf. “get some rest,” he says, and he’s gone, his footsteps climbing the stairs, leaving you in the kitchen’s glow.

you don’t clear the counter. you leave the tart, the plate, the fork, like a still life no one will paint. you walk to the living room, the glass walls cold against your palm, and curl into the armchair, your knees tucked under you. you think of the wives, their laughter, their lives that don’t touch yours. you think of the garden, the forget-me-nots you didn’t water. you think of rafe, upstairs, his phone glowing, his kiss already fading from your hair.

you cough, soft, into your sleeve, and don’t check it. you don’t need to. you know what’s there. you pull a throw blanket over your shoulders, the fabric heavy, and stare at the city lights beyond the glass. they pulse, alive, while you sit, untouched, unseen, a bruise blooming where no one looks.

you close your eyes, your breath a whisper, your heart a distant drum. you dream of lemons, their rind bitter on your tongue, and a hand that never reaches for yours.

[dozybeez]

Spin For Me (Pt. One)

She’s the quiet girl in class with a secret life after dark. He’s the campus heartthrob who’s used to getting what he wants—except her. When a class project forces them together, buried truths, blurred lines, and undeniable tension threaten to unravel everything they thought they knew.

→ part two

pairing: college au! kim mingyu x exotic dancer f!reader

word count: 2.3k

content warnings: slowish burn, eventual smut, lap dances, adult club setting, derogatory language toward sex workers, internalized shame, emotional distress, subtle? size and innocence kink. MDNI

authors note: in no way do I think I’m a good writer. I wrote this a while ago just for self indulgence and decided to post it for fun, so please understand.

songs for this chapter:

- Change (In the House of Flies) by Deftones

- Robbers by The 1975

- That Funny Feeling by Phoebe Bridgers

The lecture hall smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and cheap coffee. It buzzed with that mid-semester kind of tired—hoodies tugged over faces, headphones in, eyes on the clock instead of the slides.

You weren’t invisible.

Not in the way people usually meant it.

You were seen—just misread. Easily boxed in, easily ignored. In lecture halls filled with raised hands and loud, overconfident voices, you were the person in the back row with your hood pulled over your ears, black flats tapping lightly against the floor while you took neat, quiet notes.

No one looked twice. And if they did, it was only to borrow a pen.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

Until Kim Mingyu walked into class ten minutes late.

The door swung open like he owned the place. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the cloudy forecast and a white tee stretched across his chest like it was tailored just to show off how broad and well-built he was. That half-grin had made him the most followed student on campus—15K and counting. He had a height that forced anyone to lean around him just to see the board whenever he was in a row in front of them. He gave the professor a lazy nod and ignored the dozen girls who immediately perked up in their seats as he dropped into the chair beside you like it was nothing.

Like you weren’t already trying to disappear.

You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him look at you.

“Group project presentations,” Professor Norris announced, clapping once to pull focus. “Partners are posted. No trades. Don’t ask. You have three months.”

Your stomach sank before you even looked.

A rustle of movement. Groans. Whispers about how unlucky they were not to be matched with Mingyu.

You flipped open your laptop to check the pairing list and whose name resided in the spot next to yours.

Kim, Mingyu

No.

No no no.

You felt him turn toward you the second he saw the same list. You couldn’t even process how he was able to match your name to your face, never having interacted with the campus heartthrob before.

“Looks like it’s you and me,” he said, smiling wide like it was good news.

You didn’t return it. “Great.”

No giggle. No flip of your hair. No “Oh my God, I totally follow you on Insta!” like the girl in front of you had said during the last class lecture. You just stared back at your laptop like you weren’t next to the most popular guy on campus. Like you hadn’t seen his face on flyers, tagged in party pics, or shirtless in more thirst traps than you could count.

Something in your tone made his smile falter—just for a second. But then he laughed like you were kidding, like you couldn’t possibly mean it.

“You free after class?” he asked. “We can talk through a game plan.”

You closed your laptop slowly. “I have work.”

“Okay, then maybe—”

“I’ll email you.”

And with that, you stood, shoved your laptop into your tote, and slipped out the side exit before the rest of the room even processed the assignment.

⸻

Mingyu stared at the empty seat you’d left behind.

It wasn’t that people didn’t say no to him. It happened. Sometimes.

But they didn’t say it like that.

Like they’d already decided who he was.

He scratched the back of his neck, still watching the door you’d walked out of.

⸻

The library study rooms on the second floor were always just a little too warm.

Mingyu tugged his sweatshirt over his head and dropped it onto the empty chair across from him. Underneath, his designer top showed his shoulders too well. He wasn’t trying to show off—well, not really—but he also wasn’t apologizing for it either.

You walked in exactly two minutes late. Oversized black hoodie, hair up in a messy claw clip. Your flats were silent on the tile. You didn’t look at him as you sat down.

You pulled out a worn spiral notebook instead of a laptop. Mingyu blinked. “Going analog?”

“It doesn’t die on me.”

He opened his laptop. “Fair.”

Silence. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, uh… should we just start with the topic?”

You didn’t answer right away. You were flipping through the first few pages of your notebook, all neat handwriting and annotated margins. When you finally glanced at him, it was like you’d only just remembered he was there.

“I already picked one,” you said. “You can veto it if you want.”

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Taking charge, huh?”

You stared.

He threw his hands up. “No complaints. What is it?”

“Emotional repression and memory retention.”

Mingyu blinked. “That’s… intense.”

You shrugged. “It’s Psych 3023.”

“I was thinking something lighter. Like social media attachment.”

“You mean influencers?”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a dirty word.”

You didn’t grin back. “Isn’t it?”

Mingyu let out a soft laugh. You were sharper than you looked. He wasn’t used to that. Most people talked to him like he was a golden retriever with a ring light. But you? You looked at him like he was a pop-up ad you didn’t remember clicking on.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go with yours.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

You narrowed your eyes. He noticed—again—how big they were. Soft, doe-like. You blinked twice and looked away, like you were annoyed you’d been caught looking at him at all.

“Fine,” you muttered, uncapping your pen. “We’ll split the research. Half each. Meet again Friday?”

“Works for me,” he said, folding his arms behind his head. “Your place or mine?”

You looked at him flatly.

“Or the library,” he clarified with a grin.

“You’re not funny.”

“I kinda am.”

You stood before he could finish the thought, already packing your things. “Friday. Four. Don’t be late.”

He watched you walk out again. Same way you had in class—fast, focused, like you couldn’t wait to get away from him.

Mingyu let out a low breath.

He was used to people liking him right away.

But you?

You didn’t just not like him—you looked at him like he was a disappointment you’d already predicted.

And for some reason… that made him want to try harder.

⸻

You had two hours before your shift started. Enough time to switch.

Your dorm room was small and cluttered—textbooks in one corner, a makeup bag you rarely touched sitting unopened on the dresser.

The two-piece was already laid out on your bed. Pale pink, almost childish, with a satin ribbon tying across the back of the top. It looked like it belonged to someone with gum in their mouth and sparkles in their hair.

You pulled it on in silence.

You tied the ribbon. Adjusted the straps. Then you sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the mirror while you tied your notorious soft satin half-mask with little black lace trim.

You blinked slowly at the person staring back.

Fawn blinked back.

⸻

At Club Indigo, Fawn didn’t have to speak unless she wanted to. The lighting was dark—deep cherry reds and pools of purple. You took your time stretching backstage, your body moving to the low pulse of the music already spilling out from the main room.

Your name was on the lineup—third from the top.

You didn’t strip. Never had. You didn’t even give private dances. That was the rule. That was how Fawn stayed safe while working in your college town. Mentally and physically.

You danced.

And when the first notes of Deftones’ “Change (In the House of Flies)” echoed through the room, you stepped onto the stage, barefoot with light delicate steps, and climbed the pole.

Above the noise and lights and breathless stares, you finally felt in control.

⸻

The library smelled like burnt coffee and printer paper. You were already regretting agreeing to this study session.

Not because of the material—but because Mingyu had an undeniable way of drawing attention just by existing.

The tall ones always did.. and the ones that had faces like Kim Mingyu.

He sauntered into your corner of the library a couple minutes late, hoodie bunched at his elbow, still somehow managing to look like he’d just stepped out of a photoshoot. His laptop was tucked under one arm, headphones tangled in his fingers, and two girls from across the room immediately perked up when they saw him.

You pretended not to notice.

He spotted you and smiled, bright and lazy. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, collapsing into the seat beside you. “Had to walk a friend to class.”

You nodded without looking up. “We’re already behind on the lit review.”

“Always so serious,” he muttered, pulling out his charger.

Another girl drifted by your table—a blonde in a tennis skirt who paused, leaned down, and touched Mingyu’s shoulder like she had every right to.

“Hey, you still coming Friday?”

You didn’t look up.

Mingyu glanced at you briefly before answering. “Probably not. Got a thing.”

“A thing?” The girl smiled, tilting her head. “You ditching me again?”

He laughed, low and polite. “Work. Group project.”

She blinked down at you like she hadn’t noticed you until just now. “Oh.”

You just kept typing.

“Good luck then,” the girl said after a moment, her smile fading, before walking away.

Mingyu sighed and leaned closer. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“The plague of being stupidly charming.”

You shot him a deadpan look.

He grinned. “Kidding.”

You didn’t smile, but you also didn’t tell him to shut up. Small victories.

⸻

That night, you sat curled up at your desk, the glow of your laptop the only light in the room.

You’d just finished editing a short pole routine—a slow, eerie clip to “Robbers” by The 1975. Your grip was clean. Your spins, effortless.

You wore a mask in the video, just like always. Your hair swayed over your bare shoulders like curtains.

You uploaded it to your Tumblr. Two hundred thousand followers. Dozens of reblogs in seconds.

You closed the tab before the notes could start piling up.

This part of your life—your secret Tumblr, the masked Fawn, the quiet kind of fame—none of it existed outside of your laptop.

You went to bed in an oversized T-shirt and socks, not checking your phone.

⸻

The study session was, miraculously, productive.

At least until you hit a new section, and you leaned forward to help explain the concept to Mingyu, only to realize Mingyu’s arm was stretched across the back of your chair.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really. But he was close—close enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t even looking at you, just staring at the screen, listening with his brow furrowed like he was genuinely trying.

Still. You scooted half an inch away.

“You always do that?” he asked after a while.

“Do what?”

“Lean away whenever I move.”

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You just did.”

“I just—” You paused, frowning. “You’re tall. You take up space.”

He smiled. “So it’s a spatial issue.”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

A pause.

Then, under his breath, he added, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone so easily flustered.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pink.”

You shut your laptop a little too hard. “We’re done for today.”

⸻

Back in your room that night, you pulled your laptop into your lap, opened a private browser tab, and typed in your Tumblr handle.

Your latest video had almost 60,000 notes. Just you, in your usual black ruffle set, spinning slowly on the pole in a dim-lit studio. The mask covered most of your face, and your hair was down, hiding the rest.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just movement. Art. Mood.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then closed the screen.

⸻

Mingyu liked the campus café in the morning because no one expected him to talk.

He kept his sunglasses on and his hood up as he leaned over the counter. “Two sugars, no cream.”

The barista nodded—she already knew.

He’d barely sat down when the bell above the door jingled again.

You.

You were in your usual morning armor—giant hoodie (navy this time), jeans cuffed at the ankle, and mary janes. A spiral-bound book was hugged to your chest like a shield. You didn’t look around. You didn’t see him.

He almost didn’t say anything.

But then again… almost wasn’t really his style.

“You stalking me?” he asked casually as you approached the counter.

You flinched. Just slightly. Then rolled your eyes. “God, do you live here?”

“Only when I’m hungover or avoiding the gym.”

You ordered tea—no milk, no sugar—paid in exact change, then turned and caught him still watching you.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t peg you as a tea person.”

“And I didn’t peg you as a person who reads.”

Mingyu clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Ouch.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face. It was tiny—barely there—but it was the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t a wall.

He tapped the empty chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. We’re supposed to be friends now.”

“We’re not.”

“Okay. Co-researchers?”

You hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I won’t ask about your tragic backstory.”

You rolled your eyes again, but you sat.

You sipped in silence for a while. Outside, campus was already coming alive—groups of girls in tennis skirts, someone skating by with a speaker, a guy on a bike nearly running into a recycling bin. The usual.

Mingyu noticed your eyes flick to a group of laughing students by the window. You looked at them like they were a movie you’d already seen too many times.

“You don’t hang out much, huh?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t like noise.”

“That’s probably why you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You just don’t like me.”

You met his eyes then. “You’re loud. And everyone’s always looking at you.”

He tilted his head. “And that’s bad because…?”

“It’s not bad,” you said slowly. “It’s just… everything you do seems like it’s for show.”

That caught him off guard.

You went on before he could respond. “You know how some people walk into a room and it feels like they’re trying to win something?”

Mingyu blinked. “You think I’m trying too hard?”

“I think you’re used to being liked,” you said simply. “And when you’re not, it bugs you.”

You picked up your tea and took a sip, calm as ever.

Mingyu just stared. He wasn’t used to being read like that. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But he was sure of one thing: you saw through people like glass.

And now he was dying to know what else you’d see if you actually looked.

⸻

[p-seduonym]

Switched At Birth (Part Ten)

A/N: Not crazy about this chapter but I wanted to get something out for y'all. Enjoy, if you can.

Taglist: @von-jour, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @kenyummy, @bunniotomia, @ch1cky-093, @toxicthotsyndrome68, @cynniee, @icefox8155, @eyeless-kun, @c4xcocoa, @ed15fashionista, @yourtypicalhuman09, @fightmebissh. @tsuniio, @fantasyhopperhea, @type-ink, @dirtydiavolo, @colorfulgardenerduck, @seemeee3, @ironsaladwitch, @yumeravenclaw, @jjsmeowthie, @snowy-violet, @wizzerreblogs, @ratterpatter, @gremlin-dumpster-fire-art, @anonymoustext, @a-heavenly-hell, @holderoflostmemories, @ilovecoffe0, @presleyamos, @lordbugs, @shyenemyperson, @adrakeshoard, @sadeem575, @nebsisdead, @moon0goddess, @inayouboo, @alleakimlala, @bellslovemachine. @kore-of-the-underworld, @justafank

Yandere!Batfam X Switched! Fem! Reader X Yandere!Wayne!OC

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Stephanie blinked. “Uh… hey. Is that Melissa?”

Cassandra gave a slight nod.

There was no mistaking her—Melissa Wayne, in a pink sundress and flats, stepping gingerly onto the sidewalk as if the world might bruise her. Her fingers clutched a canvas bag, nails buffed to a shine. She looked softer than usual, yes, but it wasn’t her that held Cassandra’s attention. 

It was the girl behind her.

You walked next to her, heels clicking, oversized sunglasses perched high, lips slick with gloss and curved in a smirk. 

“Wait…” Stephanie leaned in. “That’s the girl from those photos, isn’t it? The one with the bike?”

Cass tilted her head. The way you stood close to Melissa, how Melissa angled her body ever so slightly toward you. The way your hand—gloved in mesh—barely grazed her back, guiding her forward. Protective. 

You laughed at something Melissa said, tossing your head back, and even from across the street, it rang false.

“I don’t like it,” Cass muttered.

Stephanie arched a brow. “Like what?”

“They’re hiding something.”

As if hearing her across the street, you suddenly glanced their way. For a heartbeat, your gaze met Cassandra’s dead-on.

Cool.

Amused.

Unbothered.

Then you turned your attention back to Melissa, leaning in closely to her ear and whispering something, all with that smirk that made you seem privy to some secret knowledge.

Cassandra’s jaw tensed.

“Okay, that was weird,” Stephanie muttered, half to herself. “You think we should follow them?”

Cass didn’t answer.

But she was already moving.

The heavy glass doors of Étoile, Gotham’s most exclusive spa, opened wide to the two, closing with a soft hiss once you passed the threshold.  The air was cool on the inside, brisk and clean, with the idle traffic of Midtown being silenced by the soundproof glass. The perfume of fresh-cut flowers filled the room, wafting from the many large, ornate vases decorating the lobby.

Mel seemed to be taking in the sight of a new place, but you strolled to the receptionist desk without any qualms, almost leaving her behind in the process. As she stepped cautiously behind you, you addressed the woman at the desk with an instinctual smile gracing your face.

“Bonjour” you greetd playfully yet with a practiced elegance, resting your manicured fingers lightly on the edge of the marble desk. “We have an appointment under Wayne.” The way you said it was light, airy—but deliberate, like you expected the name to open doors. 

Because you knew it would.

The woman was already typing when you approached but paused at the name. She looked up from the monitor to take in the sight of you. Your hair was tied up in an updo and you pushed your sunglasses to rest on the slope where your head met your hairline. With them out of the way, she could see your eyes. Your makeup is bold, but not vulgar, with thick lashes framing a surprisingly sharp and steely gaze.

“Wayne?” She repeated skeptically.

“Yes, of course!” You chirped without, unfazed, and called for Melissa without turning from the woman. “Mellie, come here we need to check in!”

She blinked and walked over, tugging at the strap of her canvas bag. “Sorry, I’ve just never been anywhere with...this many orchids. Do they change them every day?”

You gave a soft, musical laugh—just enough to be polite, not quite enough to be sincere. “I imagine they do. Presentation is everything in places like this.”

“Feels like a lot of work for something that dies in a week.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow at that, and you tilted your head, amused. “Some things are worth the effort, even if they’re fleeting. That’s the whole point of beauty, isn’t it?”

Melissa shrugged, her voice low but genuine. “I guess I always thought beauty was the stuff that lasts.”

You smiled, indulging, like when a child asks one too many odd questions. “Well, you’d know about beauty”

Melissa blushed slightly, but her facial expression didn’t shift too much.

Tickled pink, you tittered softly, “You’re a gem for bringing me here, Really thanks for indulging me.”

“I-It’s nothing. I just wanted to thank you for the dress.” Melissa responded.

“Hey, is that Melissa Wayne–”

“Who’s that with her–

“You don’t know? She’s–”

“The one in from the pictures–”

The whispers filled the lobby, but neither of you reacted to them. Or to the sound of the door opening once again.

But Melissa did flinch and turn towards the voice that called to her from the entrance.

“Melissa?”

You followed her line of sight and saw them standing in the doorway. A blonde haired girl and a dark haired girl.

Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain, your mind supplied immediately.

Perfect.

Melissa blinked owlishly, but you smiled prettily. “Oh, are these some friends, Mellie?”

“K-Kind of. This is Stephanie. She’s a family friend.”

“Oh, you’re Steph! It’s so nice to finally meet you.” You said in excitement.

“What? She talked about me?” Stephanie joked with a smile.

“It’s hard not to. I heard you’re practically Bruce’s daughter” You answered, seemingly without a second thought.

“Uh, wha–”

“So you’re Cassandra then? Mellies’s sister?”

“Yes” Cassandra answered cautiously, but you were unbothered.

“It’s so great to meet you!” You took a step forward and Cass found herself almost flinching too.

You took her hands in yours and smiled radiantly, “You’re soo lucky. I’m jealous. I wish I had a sister like Mellie”

She just stared at you as you let go and turned back to Melissa. “Hey, is the appointment just for the two of us? Maybe we could all have a little girl’s spa trip?”

Melissa timidly mustered up a “I’m n-not sure, it’s up to them really–”

“We’d love to,” Cassandra said firmly, ignoring Stephanie’s inquiring look. 

And as you turned in bubbling excitement to Melissa, chattering away, Cassandra took a step back to consider you both. 

Melissa was always there in Wayne Manor—but in the same way as the portraits lining the hallways: ever-present, quietly decorative, and rarely worth a second thought. It wasn’t that Cassandra disliked her. Not exactly. She just… didn’t think about her. Not unless she had to.

But when she did, Cassandra was left somewhat on edge.

Melissa was a timid girl. Meek and quiet, but not enough to completely disappear. She answered when spoken to and remained silent when she wasn’t. Enough to be considered but not enough to be distinct. Shuffling too and fro, staying just outside the peripheries of one’s sight, she was always hunched in like a dog that had been chastised a bit too roughly.

Yet there was one thing about her that always caught Cassandra’s attention.

Her eyes.

Big, glassy things—always shimmering, like she was a breath away from crying.

But then...

Cassandra’s gaze slid to you.

There was always something else behind that softness.

A glint.

Not sorrow.

Something meaner.

A/N: I was also inspired slightly by Socialite Batsis (also by the lovely @luludeluluramblings) so I wanted to lean into a little. Sorry if it came out of nowhere, but I promise it'll make more sense in the future. Hope you stick around!

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (6) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture, mentions of injuries, bucky breaking down, flashbacks

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: hi darlings! it's insane how we have reached chapter 6 of this series! i have had the best time writing it 💓, i have so much to be grateful for and the support and love from you guys is one of it 💌 i love you guys, and please stay safe out there!!

series masterlist

You didn’t know how many hours it had been. The light hadn’t changed, just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere behind you and the pulse of your own blood ringing in your ears.

Your head ached, dull, slow, like the aftermath of being slammed too hard into a wall. Which, frankly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Your arm was the worst of it. A jagged gash tore down the outside of your forearm, raw and throbbing, dried blood cracked in thick, rust-colored streaks across your skin. 

Your lip had split too, probably from the backhand that sent you sprawling earlier, and it kept bleeding every time you swallowed. 

Every blink felt like your body was reminding you of something new that hurt, bruised ribs, a stiff shoulder or a swollen ankle from being dragged across the concrete floor.

But it wasn’t the pain that scared you. It was the silence.

No voices, zero footfalls. Just the occasional creak of metal above, the shift of the building settling like a creature breathing heavy in its sleep. It left too much room for your mind to wander. And it wandered exactly where you didn’t want it to.

To him.

It was stupid, really. He wasn’t here. And you couldn’t afford to be sentimental right now, couldn’t afford to lean into memory like it might bring him back. But the quiet made it impossible to stop the flood.

You thought about Madripoor, the alley where the rain had slicked the pavement, mixing with the sharp scent of neon-lit rot and the metallic tang of blood lingering in your mouth. 

Sam’s voice had echoed in the background as you and Bucky locked into another one of those fierce arguments. 

He’d been so damn close that night, angrier than usual, and it rattled you, because beneath the fury, beneath the sarcasm and snarl, there was something else flickering in his eyes.

You closed your eyes for just a second, just long enough to stop seeing the rust-stained floor pressing against your vision. 

And then your mind betrayed you, drifting back to that night—the heavy downpour swallowing sirens whole and leaving the streets slick with oil and neon reflections.

The alley behind the bar smelled of cigarettes, rot, and far too many secrets, the ones that the city-state. And it didn’t help that you were pissed, furious in that sharp, fiery way that didn’t quite reach your voice.

“You didn’t need to show up,” you snapped, voice low but sharp, pacing toward the exit. “I had it handled.”

Bucky’s boots echoed behind you, steady and sure. “You think sitting in a snake pit with three armed super soldiers and no backup counts as ‘handled’?”

You whirled around. “I was buying time. And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

He didn’t flinch. Just stared with that flat, tight-lipped expression—arms crossed like he was holding himself back from snapping. 

Maybe from strangling you. Or perhaps himself.

“You went in with no weapon, no eyes, no exit plan. That’s a fucking death wish.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on suicidal choices,” you shot back. “You were seconds from throwing yourself off a rooftop last mission.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you decided it was?”

Sam finally caught up, muttering as he pulled off his comms. “I swear, if I have to break you two up again—”

“Stay out of it,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Die mad.”

He stalked off, clearly done.

You turned back to Bucky, whose jaw was ticking like a timer.

“Why are you even here?” you asked, bitterness thick in your throat. “You don’t trust me. You don’t even like working with me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You laughed, dry and bitter. “I see the way you look at me Bucky, like I’m some ticking time bomb, waiting to blow up and ruin your perfect mission.”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t think you’re a time bomb.”

“Then what am I?”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard.

You stepped closer, reckless fire rising before you could stop it.

“You hate that I don’t take orders. You hate that I talk back. You hate that I make my own calls. But most of all—” you paused, catching the flicker in his eyes “—I think you hate that you care what happens to me.”

He said nothing. Denied nothing.

Just stood there, rain dripping from his hair, his chest rising slow beneath that worn black jacket.

The silence between you stretched tight—like a wire waiting to snap.

Then, as if the universe needed a release valve, Sam called out from down the alley.

“You’re either about to fuck or kill each other, and either way, I’m not gonna be here when it happens.”

You looked away first.

Back then, you always looked away first.

You shouldn’t be this cold.

The room wasn’t freezing, but your body had long since stopped registering temperature. Hours ago, maybe. Or maybe it was the steady drain of blood, or the dull ache crawling through your bones like a warning. Or perhaps it was what happens when adrenaline finally fades, and fear slips in to claim its place like a shadow that won’t let go.

You pressed your back hard against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to will yourself to breathe. 

One slow breath in. One measured breath out. Again. 

Your arm throbbed with each heartbeat, a relentless pulse of pain and warning. Your throat felt like sandpaper. Your lip cracked every time you moved it, raw and bleeding beneath your teeth.

Still, you bit down.

Just to remind yourself you were still here.

You didn’t cry. You never cried.

But your vision blurred, edges wavering, not just from the pain, but from something darker. Something that seeped into the spaces between your thoughts. You told yourself it was temporary. That it would pass, that someone would come.

That he would come.

And yet, the silence stretched, long and merciless, like a taunt.

You tried not to think about him. You really did. But your mind had other plans, a cruel reflex it had learned to torture you with.

Bucky. The walking contradiction. Callused hands, haunted eyes. The man who never gave you straight answers—god, you hated that—but somehow always had your back in a firefight. The man who fought like he had no intention of surviving, but looked at you like maybe you were the reason he wanted to.

You hated him, sometimes.

Hated the way he made you feel. Hated that even now, bruised, bloodied, tied up like some corpse no one would mourn, you weren’t thinking about escape. 

You were thinking about him. And Madripoor.

And that look in his eyes when you told him you hated that he cared—like you’d cut past the walls he built, like you’d found a part of him he never meant to show.

You were never supposed to let it get this far.

This complicated.

You were soldiers. Operatives. Hell, maybe even tools, some days. You didn’t get to feel. Didn’t get to long for things, or people. 

And if you did, you certainly didn’t get to hold on.

But something in you had always pulled toward him.

The glances that lingered just a second too long. The arguments that dragged on for hours, always burning hotter than they should have. The way your hands brushed once during a stakeout—and how you both froze, like it meant something only the two of you understood.

Maybe it did.

But that night at the club, the one you never let yourself think about—was proof enough you were wrong. That maybe he had wanted you once, but only like a man wants something he can’t afford to keep.

A complication.

That’s all you were.

And complications always get left behind.

You curled your knees up, or tried to, but the chains held you tight. Your wrists ached. Your ankle swelled again. The cold metal bit into your skin like it was reminding you of a cruel truth.

He’s not coming.

You flinched as if someone had spoken the words aloud.

But even through the bitterness, the fear, the half-buried rage—there was a stubborn, foolish part of you that refused to die. 

A quiet voice whispering: He will.

He’d find you, he had to. Because if he didn’t, if this was the end, then all those stolen looks, those late-night talks, every time his voice softened when he said your name… they would mean nothing.

You couldn’t accept that. You wouldn’t.

So you sat there. Bleeding. Shaking. Not knowing how much longer you could hold on. And you whispered into the silence, just once:

“Please.”

Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Just enough for your own breaking heart.

The silence had wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

Not a balm, but a fucking shroud, smoke curling in your lungs, seeping into your thoughts, pressing down hard and too close. You barely registered the sound at first. 

The low creak of boots scraping against cold concrete. Heavy and measured, slower than the usual rhythm of the guards. Not lazy, deliberate. Hunting.

You didn’t look up.

Not until the voice came, slicing through the dark like a blade.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

Your jaw clenched until your teeth ached.

Andrei.

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the cruel smirk twisting every word like a noose tightening around your throat. But you lifted your head anyway, because you wanted him to see you—bruised, bleeding, but unbroken. 

“Don’t call me that,” you rasped, your voice raw and ragged.

He clicked his tongue, stepping closer. 

The overhead light buzzed faintly, catching the glint of the blade at his hip—just decoration now. But a promise all the same.

“Why not?” he mused, voice cold. “Is that what Barnes calls you?”

Your breath hitched, just for a moment, a stutter in your defenses.

But that was all it took.

His eyes sparked, grin widening like he’d just found your pulse under his thumb.

“Oh,” he drawled slowly. “I hit a nerve.”

You said nothing.

“Shut the fuck up,” you ground out, voice low and trembling.

He crouched before you, settling on his haunches with lazy menace, as if time was his to waste. His gaze roamed your battered face, tracing every cut, every bruise, every flinch like a collector admiring his prized possession.

“I knew it,” he whispered, dark and certain. “There’s something going on between you two. Saw the way he looked at you.”

He leaned closer, and your skin crawled.

“Men don’t look at women like that unless they’ve fucked them,” he murmured. “Or they want to.”

“You know nothing,” you spat.

Andrei chuckled low and ugly. “Don’t I?”

He leaned in further, close enough for you to smell the sour rot on his breath—thick with blood and decay.

“I know exactly how men like him fall apart. Silent types. Repressed. Loaded with guilt, nowhere to put it, until you walk in, and suddenly, they’ve got something to hope for. A reason to live.”

You didn’t move.

“I know he’s coming,” Andrei said softly, voice almost cruelly gentle—as if delivering a death sentence. “Right now, he’s probably tearing through half the fucking island to find you. But it won’t matter.”

He tilted his head, smile sharp and dangerous.

“Because by the time he gets here, you’ll be nothing but pieces.”

Your stomach twisted cold.

“I’ll send him your hand,” he said, voice low and hungry. “Maybe your face. Something personal. A reminder. And when he breaks, I want to be there to watch.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You choked on the horror, on the truth. The part that scared you most was that he was right.

He saw it. He knew.

“That’s the thing about men like him,” Andrei murmured, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, cold as death.

“It’s not the blood that ruins them. It’s the love. One taste and they’re finished. And you?” His fingers trailed down your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re the one thing that still feels human to him.”

You flinched. Couldn’t stop it.

He smiled wider, satisfied.

“He’ll fall apart for you. We all do fall apart for someone, eventually.”

Your eyes burned. Salt stung your cracked lips. 

Your hands trembled—was it pain, fury, or pure fear? God, you didn’t know.

“Sit tight, princess,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt. “We’ve got time. And when you beg, I’ll make sure he hears it.”

He turned away, boots clicking steady and cold as he walked toward the door. You didn’t realise your wrists were shaking until the chain rattled harshly against the floor.

Didn’t notice the tears slipping down your cheeks until they smeared red across your jaw. You pressed your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Tried to steady your ragged breath. Tried to forget his words. Tried to forget how terrifyingly close they had landed to the truth.

And somewhere, quiet, a faint crackle sparked beside you.

The room was dark, the only light a cold, steady glow from the mission monitors. The comms had been dead for hours. Static. Nothing but endless white noise choking every channel.

Until suddenly it wasn’t.

A faint crackle flickered through the feed. Then the signal surged, sharp, raw.

And a voice came through.

Not yours. His.

“Well, well. Still going strong, sweetheart?”

The air in the command center snapped taut, like a wire pulled taut.

Yelena’s spine straightened, eyes narrowing. John’s hand froze, gripping his weapon so hard his knuckles blanched.

Then your voice—weak, fractured, barely there.

“Don’t call me that.”

What followed unravelled like a nightmare they couldn’t wake from. Andrei’s voice slithered through the silence, every word soaked in venom. Cruelty dripping like acid, threats laced with dark promises, taunts sharp as knives. 

Your breath hitching in the void. And then that suffocating silence—when you couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight back, couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

The room held its breath.

Not a single soul dared to make a sound.

Until the line cut—sudden, final—like a door slammed shut on hope.

And then—

“Bucky.” Walker’s voice cracked, low and uncertain. “What the hell just—”

“Not now.”

Bucky’s voice sliced through the room like a blade—cold, hard, utterly dangerous. A sound so stripped bare of humanity it sent a chill down every spine.

He didn’t meet their eyes.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone.

“I need to find her.”

Time had stopped making sense.

You weren’t sure if it had been minutes or hours or longer. The pain had dulled around the edges, but not in a way that felt like healing, more like your body was giving up on trying to warn you. 

Your arm had gone numb, the gash now sticky and crusted, and your ankle throbbed with a rhythm that made your teeth grind. The cuffs had dug in so deep you were starting to forget where your skin ended and the metal began.

Your head lolled forward, neck too weak to hold it upright. Everything was slow, too slow. You knew your body wanted to sleep, to shut down. You could feel it in the way your thoughts came slower, heavier, like each one had to fight through sludge just to surface.

You didn’t let it. Not yet. Not until you knew whether anyone was coming.

Then—something changed.

It was small at first. A shift in the air, a pressure drop. Then sound. Distant. Muffled. Not like before, not the bored shuffle of guards or the occasional metallic clang of a pipe. A thud.

A yell, fast, panicked, in Russian.

Then chaos broke loose.

Gunfire sounded out.The staccato burst of automatic fire ricocheted off the concrete walls, each shot a heartbeat too close. Screams followed. The sound of boots pounding, frantic shouting. Someone was giving orders and someone else was begging not to die.

Another blast, louder this time. Close enough that the ceiling dust rained down over your shoulders in pale, choking clouds as smoke curled under the door. 

You coughed, blinked against it, tried to focus.

A body slammed into the wall outside with a sickening crunch. The whole frame shook. You barely flinched.

Then silence. Just for a breath.

Two.

BANG.

The door exploded inward. It didn’t open — it shattered, splintering off its hinges, crashing against the wall like it had been blown in by sheer force of rage. The smoke parted.

And then—

A grunt followed. Then the wet crunch of bone, maybe a nose, maybe a rib, before another body hit the floor with a shriek.

Andrei.

He was still conscious when she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back with a snarl in her throat, screaming curses.

But you didn’t see her. 

You saw him. Bucky.

His silhouette filled the ruined doorway, broad shoulders heaving, blood soaking his knuckles. His eyes found yours instantly, like they’d been looking for nothing else. Something in your chest gave out.

He moved before you could blink. Dropped to his knees beside you with a force that rattled the floor, his breath hitching as he saw the cuffs, the blood, the state of you. His fingers reached out, not shaking, but fast. 

Desperate.

“You came,” you whispered. It was barely a sound. Your throat couldn’t manage more.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Just took the chain in his vibranium hand and snapped it in a single twist. Like it offended him. Like it had dared to touch you.

His other hand cupped your cheek. Rough palm, stained in blood, but careful. Too careful.

“I would never leave you,” he said. His voice sounded destroyed. “You hear me?”

You nodded — or tried to. The motion sent fresh pain shooting down your spine, and you winced when his thumb brushed too close to the gash on your arm.

“Shit,” he muttered, pulling back, his expression twisting. “You’re hurt—god, you’re bleeding—”

You pushed yourself upright instinctively, but your legs crumpled beneath you.

He caught you before your body could even register the fall. One strong arm under your knees, the other braced at your back, pulling you in against the solid heat of him. 

You sagged into it. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

He held you like you were made of glass and grief.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his mouth pressed to your temple. “Sweetheart. Please. Just—stay with me, okay?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your eyes were already sliding shut. It felt good. Too good.

But you heard him. Somewhere in the thick, dark fog, you heard him.

A voice echoed down the hall you vaguely recognised as Alexei’s.

“Medics coming! Bob sent them, they on their way!”

You heard movement, footsteps, the clatter of gear being thrown open.

But none of it touched you.

Just him.

Just his arms—iron around you, just the sound of his voice, low and unsteady, raw with something that sounded like pleading, vulnerable in a way that didn’t belong to him. 

Bucky didn’t beg. 

Not for anything, not until now.

Andrei didn’t land so much as collapse.

Yelena dragged him by the hair, his boots scuffing uselessly behind him, his mouth leaking blood and broken teeth. He was whimpering now, his face a wreck, nose bent sideways, one eye already sealed shut, his jaw swelling beneath fresh bruises.

She kicked a chair into place with a metallic screech.

Then she shoved him into it, still gripping his hair, the other hand already reaching for her blade.

“Sit,” she said, almost gently. “Or I’ll start with the knees.”

He spat something in broken Russian, garbled, half-conscious.

Yelena crouched beside him, tilting her head like a curious animal.

“You want to speak my language?” she murmured. “Good. Let’s begin.”

John stepped through the busted doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, kevlar stained with blood and dust. 

“Well,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d save me a seat.”

Yelena didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the man trembling before her.

“Do you know what they say about us Russians, Andrei?” she asked, voice low and smooth. “We don’t bluff. And we don’t rush.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers. The blade caught the light like a smile.

“We enjoy this part.”

Andrei was shaking now, hands twitching against the arms of the chair.

“Please,” he stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t have to?” John echoed, tone flat. “You talked about cutting her up. Mailing bits of her like fucking party favours.”

“I didn’t touch her—” Andrei gasped, shrinking back as the blade kissed his cheekbone.

“You talked,” Yelena snapped. “That’s enough.”

“Please—please—I'll give you anything! Names! Locations! Passwords! Just—don’t.”

Yelena stood. 

“You’ll scream a lot more before I believe you.”

The hallway still echoed with the aftermath—the stench of smoke and blood, the groans of men who wouldn’t be getting up again. But Bucky didn’t hear any of it. All his attention was on you, unconscious and limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and fragile, barely there at all. 

Your blood soaked through his shirt, warm and wet and unbearably real in a way that made it impossible for him to let go. He’d seen a hundred bodies in his life, carried them, buried them, mourned them even, but this was different. 

This was you.

“Hey,” he whispered, gently brushing the hair back from your face. “I’ve got you. You’re okay now, alright?” But there was no response. Only the faintest rise and fall of your chest. His heart clenched tighter.

Then, footsteps came, fast and urgent, breaking through the quiet. The medics burst through the broken doorway, gear strapped to their backs, already pulling gloves on in practiced motion. 

Bob had sent them, air-dropped in as soon as the comms had flickered back to life.

“Where is she?” one shouted, spotting the blood staining Bucky’s shirt. Another knelt down hard beside him, voice sharp and commanding: “We need to lay her flat. Sir, you need to let go.”

Bucky didn’t move.

“She’s losing too much,” the medic said, unzipping his pack. “If we don’t start now—”

“I said I’ve got her,” Bucky snapped, but the crack in his voice betrayed how close he was to breaking. “I’ve got her.”

“Sergeant Barnes.” A third medic stepped forward, calmer, firmer, more steady. “We’re here to help her but you need to let us do our job.”

His jaw clenched. He looked down at your face, eyes closed and skin pale, almost translucent in the harsh light. 

He could still feel your heartbeat against his chest, faint, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. Slowly, painfully, he eased you down, as if touching you might shatter something fragile inside him.

He stayed by your side as they worked, one hand still curled protectively around yours. His fingers trembled, but he didn’t let go. “Blood pressure’s dropping,” one medic called. “Tourniquet, now. Apply pressure on that arm.”

“Start an IV line,” another added urgently. “We need fluids in her, fast.”

The voices blurred into static, fading at the edges of his awareness. He couldn’t focus on anything except you. His eyes locked on your face, trying to imprint every detail. And suddenly, memories flooded in, sharp and vivid.

It was late, Madripoor again, somewhere between missions, you had found a rooftop no one else knew about, and he’d followed you there without thinking. 

You were sitting on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like the world couldn’t hurt you unless you let it. 

He hated it. And envied it.

“I ever tell you what scares me?” he asked quietly, voice low and unexpected.

You looked at him, that little tilt of your head full of curiosity. “No.”

He paused, searching for the words. Then said softly, “That Steve was wrong about me.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t comfort him, you just looked at him, steady and unflinching.

“Steve was wrong about a lot of things Buck,” you said simply. “But not you.”

That was it, no dramatic pause, no grand gesture. Just that, and it lodged somewhere deep inside him, deeper than he knew what to do with.

Back in the present, one of the medics spoke again, snapping him back. “We’ve stopped the bleeding. She’s stable, for now. But we need to move her.”

The brunette nodded, barely.

He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Bucky remembered that night.

You had been drinking something awful, street vendor liquor in some unlabelled bottle, still warm from the sticky heat of Madripoor.

He didn’t drink much, his enhanced body processing alcohol faster than most—but you were already halfway through your second when you shoved the bottle into his hand and teased, “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood,” he muttered, taking a casual sip, unfazed by the burn that would have floored most people. You laughed harder.

You were sitting across from him on the rooftop ledge, your boots swinging lazily over the edge, the city flickering like a living thing beneath your feet. The humid air smelled of exhaust and ocean salt, thick and heavy, buzzing softly with neon hums from the streets below. 

You looked at home there, unbothered, untouchable, moonlight casting silver across your skin, lighting the sharp planes of your cheekbones, the slow, easy curl of your smile.

He couldn’t stop watching you. It struck him then, suddenly, how long that had been happening. How his eyes found you in crowded rooms before he realised, how his footsteps began matching yours without thought, how your voice, even when teasing or mocking, cut through the noise in a way no one else’s ever had.

It hadn’t hit him all at once. It crept in. 

A glance that lingered too long. A silence too full. 

The way his chest tightened when someone else touched you, when someone else smiled at you. 

But that night was different. That night was when it finally clicked. When he could no longer deny it.

You asked him a question, one of those late-night things you tossed at him when the city was quiet and you felt like neither of you were more than ghosts sharing space.

“If you hadn’t gone to war,” you said, chin resting in your palm, “what do you think your life would’ve been like?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Before Hydra. Before everything. What would it have been?” you asked softly. “A normal life. What would you have done?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how. It was like asking a shadow what it would do if it had a body. You didn’t fill the silence. You let it hang. You gave him space to sit with it.

Finally, he said, “I think I would’ve married someone.”

Your brows rose, not in surprise at the thought but maybe at the fact he’d said it at all. 

He swallowed, thickly. “I used to want that, a family. Something quiet, someone who looked at me like I was enough.”

You nodded. “You still want that?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t know if I get to.”

That was the truth, the brutal, naked truth. Deep down, beneath the soldier, beneath the missions, beneath the man who’d learned to live without wanting—he didn’t believe he deserved anything soft.

Then you said it. “You do.”

Two words, soft and certain, no hesitation.

You weren’t trying to comfort him, you weren’t trying to fix anything, you were just telling him something you believed.

He looked at you. 

The shape of you, perched so close. The tilt of your mouth, the stubborn glint in your eyes. You were always so sharp, so reckless, so much—and yet here you were—quietly offering him something no one else ever had.

Not pity. Not forgiveness.

Belief.

And in that moment, something split open in him.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, he couldn’t.

But the thought slammed into him like a punch to the ribs.

It’s you. It had always been you.

You were the one who made him believe there was still something good buried beneath all the wreckage, something, someone worth saving, even after everything.

The only person who could see him clearly, scars and sins, silence and violence—and not turn away. You didn’t flinch at the soldier. You didn’t fear the monster everyone ran from. 

And somehow, impossibly, you still saw the man, you saw him. He’d fallen in love with you long before he admitted it to himself.

But that was the moment he knew, and it scared the hell out of him.

Because love wasn’t safe. It wasn’t calculated.

It didn’t fit in mission reports or debriefings or the kind of life that came with blood on your hands and a kill count longer than your memory.

Love meant losing. Risk. Vulnerability.

And yet— When you looked at him that night, just a glance across the rooftop, city lights burning behind you, he thought, If she asked me to run, I’d go.

No hesitation, no questions.

Just go.

But you didn’t ask, you just leaned back on your hands, looked up at the sky, and let the silence stretch again.

Comfortable. Easy.

And he stayed beside you. He always would.

Even now, with blood on your skin and too many wounds to count, even now, he was right here.

Because there was never a world where he wouldn’t be.

Not for you.

Bucky sat there beside you, watching your chest rise and fall under the thin hospital blankets. Each breath came a little steadier than the last, a fragile rhythm in the quiet room. The dim light cast soft shadows across your face, revealing the faintest hint of color returning to your cheeks. 

Despite the stillness, every tiny movement felt like a victory, a quiet reassurance that you were still here, still fighting. He didn’t take his eyes off you, as if letting his gaze linger could somehow keep you tethered to the world.

And quietly, almost without realising it, as if the words slipped out on their own, he whispered it aloud for the first time.

It wasn’t an attempt to draw you back or demand a response. It was something raw, something vulnerable, carried on a breath that felt too fragile to hold inside any longer.

“I love you.”

You didn’t stir.

No flicker of recognition, no small smile to answer him. Just the steady rise and fall of your chest, the shallow rhythm of your breathing. But he stayed anyway. He remained rooted beside you, unwilling to leave or break the fragile connection you and him shared in that moment.

Just in case you heard him.

a/n: i am also proof reading chapter 7 and i am so so excited for you guys to read it! i am kinda sad this series is coming to an end :") and i hope you guys have enjoyed it so far!

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