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buckets-and-trees · 15 days ago

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What's a Little Sex Pollen Between Neighbors?

Characters/Pairings: soft dark Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 7.8k Summary: Your super soldier next door neighbor puts some of his old skills to good use. (Unspecified post-Endgame Bucky)

Content/Warnings: SEX POLLEN-DRIVEN DUBIOUS CONSENT; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; alternating POV sections

Notes: This is my week WEEK SIX submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "please, I need help" and sex pollen.

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As the Winter Soldier, they made him master many skills, including branches of chemistry specifically so he could create compounds necessary and advantageous to fulfilling and expediting his missions. He was so good he even helped develop some of the compounds used by Hydra and in The Red Room.

It had been years since he’d applied the long dormant skill.

But it had also been a year since you moved in next door, and he was tired of waiting.

You were so sweet, so good, and he would treat you so well if you were his.

And you were so deserving.

You ought to have someone dote on you, take care of you. You were fiercely independent, fully capable, but you shouldn’t need to be.

He was more than willing to take care of you. He always insisted it was no trouble to hold a door open for you, to help carry your groceries, to pick up your mail when you were out of town, to help you put together the table you ordered online when it was delivered. Not only was it no trouble, he liked doing those things for you.

He wanted to do more.

He heard you late at night with your vibrator.

He could give you so much better.

How many times had the super’s wife said to him what a sweet couple the two of you would make?

What was the harm with hurrying you along into something he was so sure you wanted with a little sex pollen?

Before he’d been The Winter Soldier, the efficient and essentially untraceable assassin for decades, he’d been a damn good soldier as Bucky Barnes. He was still an asset now whether he was consulting or going into the field. Constantly valued for his keen mind.

Why shouldn’t he use his expertise and strategy now?

It was just traces at first. You hardly noticed.

There’d be the odd moment when you hesitated in a sentence, blinking, eyes glossy as you lost your train of thought. That little fluster was delicious, but not enough. He watched you closely, reading the microexpressions that drifted across your features: confusion, a tiny flicker of heat, embarrassment you squashed down. You’d shake your head briskly, recenter yourself, and apologize with a laugh he could tell was forced.

And he always smiled warmly at you, but inside, it was with the energy of a satisfied smirk.

It was working.

He made minute adjustments. Ratcheted the levels up and down, spiked your mail with just enough to make you breathe deeper when you opened it. He traded in your regular coffee beans for a new bag from the “cool indie shop on the corner,” slipped the powder into the grounds. It was a delicate balance: he never wanted you to feel sick, just hungry. Desirous. Needy.

Once, he heard you through the wall, weeping with frustration. He’d never heard that in your voice before, and it made him burn with satisfaction and anticipation.

But he was always successful in his missions because of his expertise, his ability to gage proper timing.

He struck early, before the city could shake off its Saturday morning haze. Heat already radiated from the bricks, the kind of July swelter that made people yearn for lemonade and picnics and pools. He moved in darkness as much out of habit as necessity, crossing the handful of feet between your fire escape and his with the ease of a man who’d spent too many years navigating roofs and ledges and the soft places between shadows.

The mixture was clear, almost invisible, but he applied it in a glistening line along the edges of your window frames, working methodically. His hands did not shake.

He returned to his own apartment and pulled up the port he’d developed to control your HVAC system, and shut it down just before he knew you were typically up and stirring around on a Saturday morning.

And then he waited.

By 8:37 a.m. your apartment was growing warmer than usual, and you woke with a slick hairline, a sheen of sweat over your skin. He watched you from the camera he installed as you slipped out of bed and down the hall. You pawed at the digital thermostat first, muttering under your breath, but only the error message blinked back at you: HVAC ERROR. CALL MAINTENANCE. You let out a laugh, brittle and bitter, and trudged to the windows, pushing up the panes to at least get the fresh air. You left every window open, desperate for a through breeze.

You braced your palms against the sill and he could see the relief already blooming in your posture as the pane slid open. The breeze was gentle but constant, carrying with it the faintest hint of the compound’s sharp, metallic sweetness. It was immediate, the way it worked instantaneously: you inhaled, unaware, then blinked rapidly. Your jaw slackened for a fraction of a second, mouth parted in an unintentional invitation. Your hands lingered on the window frame, before you pulled them back and wiped one over your brow, while the other went to your chest, and no wonder since he assumed that you’d be feeling an uptick in your heart rate.

And now, he would wait.

He watched you pad into your little kitchen, tugging at the hem of your sleep shirt. You filled the kettle, set it on, and stood at the counter, hands fluttering as if you’d forgotten what to do with them. You took a breath—he could see the shudder of your shoulders—then craned your neck, face tilted to the open window, and inhaled again, a long, greedy drag.

Inside a minute, you began to fidget. Your thighs pressed together, then parted, then pressed again, the rhythm building. Your head tipped forward, eyes closing as you gripped the countertop, knuckles going white. A slick little shiver wound through you. The kettle whistled, shrill and out of place, and you startled so hard the mug tumbled from your hands, landing on the floor with a muted thunk.

Bucky chuckled.

This was going to be fun.

You were not, generally, this unbalanced. You could ride out a wave of sexual frustration for weeks, even months, and never let it show in your polite smile or the hand you’d lend to old Mrs. Lopez on 5B with her packages. You had learned to live with your little obsession with your neighbor Bucky Barnes in the same way you’d learned to ignore the drip in your bathroom sink: a low-level, constant irritant, a fixture of your life that you could, with sufficient self-control, simply tune out.

It was only a quarter past nine in the morning and you were already panting like you’d just climbed six flights in July, not merely rolled out of bed. Something was wrong with your body. Not sick—more like your skin had outgrown you overnight, every inch of you thrumming with an ache that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with need.

Because as bad as the heat was, you’d woken up at 3:21am, rolled onto your stomach and pressed your thighs together and rocked your hips, humping your mattress to no avail. It was as unfulfilling as the dream you’d woken up from, a dream featuring your neighbor Bucky Barnes pinning you in place, fucking you so well, so close you could taste the climax, only to have jolted awake, desperate and empty.

Now with no AC, it just figures that the universe would align for the worst day of your sexual frustration to peak when your AC went out.

You had lived through enough New York City summers to know the heat would try to kill you, but you’d never expected it to go for the slow, erotic smother instead.

Great. Now your brain was writing romance copy.

You took a cold shower, or as cold as the pipes allowed, and stepped out feeling more feverish and frustrated than ever. After that you stood in front of the open fridge for several minutes, eating string cheese in small, desperate bites, willing the chill to transfer from your tongue to your bloodstream. It didn't work. Cold air kissed your shins momentarily, but it was already evaporating.

Your phone, sticky with sweat, offered no solutions. The building super had already responded to oyour texts, but with the city-wide sweltering temperatures, he said it was going to be difficult to get someone to come look before Monday. You scrolled through social media, found only posts about the heat, people frying eggs on their windowsills, and, for some reason, an uptick in thirst traps. You slammed it facedown on the kitchen table, stood there, and considered your options.

Maybe you would have to resort to leaning on your own personal thirst trap and endure the torture.

Look but not touch.

As always.

You jogged your memory for Bucky’s likely status. His AC always worked, a source of neighborly gloating he pretended to feel sorry about. You’d seen him on the fire escape last night, watering an improbable pot of basil, so he hadn’t left for one of his mysterious, week-long trips.

You counted on him to be up, and you counted on him to be kind and neighborly. How many times had he said to let him know if you needed anything?

You slipped your feet into flip-flops and padded across the hall, the chill of the corridor almost pornographically relieving. Ignoring the urge to just lie down in the communal patch of coolness, you knocked. Not politely, but as un-desperately as you could manage.

His door opened before the second knock. He wore an old t-shirt and gym shorts in the way of a man who didn’t expect guests but was always ready for them. He grinned, broad and easy, and you wanted to slap it off his face or maybe—maybe—sink your teeth into the soft underside of his jaw, alternate violence and adoration. If it weren’t for the white socks on his feet, he would have been wholly unapproachable. He blinked at you, a little surprised, before his expression softened in recognition.

His blue eyes slid from your face down the length of you—bare-legged, sweat-sheened, half-dressed. If he noticed how untethered you looked, he didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe, forearm braced above his head, a little smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, voice just hoarse enough to sound like he, too, had just woken up. “You okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. No, you were not okay. “Yeah, no, my AC’s dead. Reuben says maybe Monday.”

“Damn. That’s rough.” He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, you can cool off in here. It’s like an igloo compared to the hallway.”

You tried to say “thanks” but it came out thin and breathy. You hesitated in the threshold, pulse hammering in your ears, palms sticky. You were acutely aware of every inch of your skin and the patches where your tank top clung and stuck to your warm skin. You kept your arms tight at your sides and followed him in, trying not to look too hard at the wide set of his shoulders and the deliciously lived-in swoop of his hair.

His apartment was frigid. A gasp left you, startled, as the coolness curled around your ankles and up your shins, relief so sharp it tasted almost like salt. You braced a hand on the wall, felt your knees threatening to buckle for a whole, embarrassing second.

Bucky closed the door behind you and put a hand in his pocket, rocking his weight once up and back on the balls of his feet. As you adjusted to the temperature, your brain came back online, time stretching out but your thoughts not clearing so much as multiplying, all scrambling around the same basic theme: need.

Every little physical sensation felt magnified and weirdly erotic—Bucky’s clean-laundry scent, the chill bristling your nipples, your own rapid breathing, every sound echoing in his silent apartment.

Bucky peered at you with gentle concern, vaguely amused, like he could hold both those things in his expression at once. “You want some coffee?” he offered, casual, normal.

“Only if it’s iced,” you answered, following him into the kitchen.

You perched at his breakfast bar, gripping the edge, trying to appear unbothered. Up close, the scent of his skin and aftershave filled the air, a dizzying magnetism that was entirely unfair. You shifted, restless, gnawing the inside of your cheek.

Bucky moved with measured, assured movements behind the counter, opening a cupboard for glasses, filling them from a pitcher of cold brew. You couldn’t help but follow the flex of his forearm, the way his veins pressed up beneath the thin skin, the way his hands dwarfed the glass when he reached to set it in front of you.

His close proximity, the press of cold air from the vent above, the frisson of want that kept pooling in your belly and lower—god, was there anything left of you but need, at this point? It was getting hard to think, and you had to grip the glass hard to keep your hand from trembling. The iced coffee gave you the jitters. Or maybe it was just him, and the way he looked at you—just for a second, a slip out from behind his affable neighbor mask. It made your skin flare with fresh heat, the want sharper now for the momentary suggestion that maybe he knew exactly how ruined you felt by him.

He didn’t sit, just stood at the other counter a few feet away, tilting back his own glass.

He watched you over the rim, unhurried, eyes steady and watchful, and you thought, briefly, incoherently, that if you didn’t put something else in your mouth besides ice, you were going to say something reckless and humiliating. The coffee wasn’t helping at all. The caffeine sharpened your need, made it into a nervous, electrified ache, made you more aware of the incessant want.

“How’s your week going?” he asked, mild as ever. His voice was a low vibration, something pleasant you wanted to crawl inside.

You tried to recall anything that had happened since Monday, but it all seemed distant, unrelated to the desperate present. “Um. Work’s a lot,” you said, then, quickly, “How about you?”

He waited a beat, as if debating whether to give the default “fine” or to try for something more interesting. “You know. The usual. Little consulting, some paperwork, surveillance for an old friend. Watered the plants.”

There was a small silence. When you spoke, your voice was tight. “Your place is always freezing.”

He shrugged, a smile tugging the edge of his mouth. “Just lucky for once, I guess.” He was looking at you—really looking, with that steady, disarming focus of his, like he was cataloguing everything from the way you shivered to the fact that you couldn’t seem to unclench your legs. “You can hang out as long as you want. I’ve got snacks, TV, whatever you need.”

You needed something, and it was not TV.

But you had worked so hard to manage this—all your strange, out-of-joint attraction to Bucky, your embarrassing daydreams about what it would be like, the impossible softness that sometimes came over his face when he listened to you talk. You knew it was only the pheromones, the chemical trick of proximity that had you feeling so desperately out of control.

God.

He was just being the nice neighbor and friend he always was, and here you were actively fighting some itchyearndesperateneed to fuck him.

Maybe it wasn’t the heat or the coffee. Maybe it was just you, and the unsolvable, hungry problem of wanting him.

You finished your glass with a gulp that left your throat sore. The chill bloomed through your veins, hitting the heat in your core and swirling the want into a sharper, thinner line that tethered you, drove you. You wiped condensation from your lip and found Bucky staring at your mouth. You caught him, or he let himself get caught, because he didn’t look away—he watched, and then, slow and unapologetic, he smiled.

You could feel the edges of yourself getting fuzzy, your boundaries dissolving in the cold and the ache. His name was a bell in your head, a reflex: Bucky Bucky Bucky. You wondered what it’d be like to say it while he was inside you. Or after. Or never.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, but he came closer, leaned over the counter, invading your space as if he knew you weren’t, as if he needed to be sure.

Instead you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little, uh, loopy from the heat.”

His gaze flicked purposefully down your throat, over the pulse jumping there, then back up to your face. “Don’t apologize,” he said, softer than before, which made it worse. “It’s not your fault. Heat’s a killer.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was so thin it hurt. “Is it weird if I jus sit here for a little?”

“You sure you’re okay? No fever?” he asked, his eyes on the exposed column of your throat as you swallowed.

You shook your head and then realized that wasn’t entirely true. “I don’t know. Kind of feels like it.”

“Want me to check?” His question was so innocent you almost missed the note beneath it, the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “Had to pick up some medical skills in the field. Got really good at feeling foreheads.”

Some combination of mortification and anticipation made you pulse all over. But you wanted the excuse—needed the contact.

“Sure,” you managed, low and hoarse as you scooted your stool a few inches closer to the counter.

He reached across the bar, his cool metal fingers a sharp relief, thumb feathering just under your jaw, palm broad and hot against your cheek. You wanted to press into it like a cat, you wanted to be ruined by it.

He drew in a breath, slow, deliberate, as if he were inhaling more than just your scent. His thumb brushed the hair back from your forehead, and his skin was so much colder than yours—you tingled where he touched you, the contrast as intoxicating as his closeness. “You’re burning up,” he said, with a gravity that made it sound like it was your fault and also exactly what he wanted.

You must have made some noise, some keening thing, because he chuckled, low in his chest. “You okay?” he said again, but this time, not moving back, not letting go.

It wasn’t the move of a guy checking for fever in a platonic way, not really—the way he cradled your chin, thumb brushing over your face, was too familiar, too practiced. His callouses rasped against your skin, a roughness you liked maybe too much.

He started to draw his hand back, and your own moved lightning fast to catch his wrist and bring his touch back to your face. “I…”

“Yes?” he asked, infuriatingly patient.

“Please, I need help,” you whimpered.

The words hung between you, unbearable. He held there, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You stayed, rooted, nails warm on the metal of his wrist, breath short and staccato.

He ducked his head just a fraction, eyes still on you, as if waiting for more. “What kind of help?” he asked.

You couldn’t say it. Not outright. Your grip on him was enough, maybe. You hoped. You hoped not. It trembled out of you: “I don’t know. I just—” You let go, finally, as if releasing his wrist would break the spell. Instead the ache in your palms was replaced instantly by the ache everywhere else.

“You can ask me anything,” he said, as if the answer was simple. You felt the tenderness in the way his hand returned to cup your cheek with unexpected gentleness, thumb stroking along the apple of your cheek, cooling it, coaxing you to keep going.

You shuddered, half in mortification and half in surrender. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you managed, voice high and thin. “It’s not just the heat, I swear, I just—” You pressed your thighs together, pulse jackhammering. “I can’t even think.”

His smile softened, the smugness replaced by something darker, intent. “Hey,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s okay. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, feeling the flush climb to your ears. “Of course I do.” Because you did, more than you’d ever admit. If you didn’t, you’d never be here, letting him touch you, letting your body confess the truth your voice couldn’t find.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, so steady, so direct it made you dizzy.

You tried to answer, but it caught in your throat, a wordless plea. Maybe the problem wasn’t just the heat. Maybe the problem was that your body had been braced for so long against this tidal pull; now it was finally time to give in.

You pressed your thighs together, yet again, and his eyes dropped to the movement immediately.

Then he leaned in, crowding your space, his presence as immediate as the frozen air and the thump of blood behind your ribs. You held your breath, and when he spoke, the words ghosted over your cheek.

“Let me help,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You nodded, and it was like the cord inside you snapped. He moved so fast, so fluid, that you barely registered being turned—his hands a gentle but unbreakable grip as he rotated you on the barstool, so your knees faced him directly. His palms, one human and one metal, slid up your thighs, thumbs stroking the inside seam, and he sunk to his knees in front of you, the nearness of his face a gravitational force.

The world funneled down to the place where his hands pressed, and you realized he was holding you apart. Not obscenely, not yet, but enough that you were completely open to him, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the flush, the damp.

You made a soft, startled sound—the kind of sound that would have mortified you any other day, but now just seemed like a necessary release valve. The edge of the counter pressed into your back, bracing you, and there was nowhere to look but at him.

He glanced up at you, eyelashes impossibly dark, the blue of his eyes cool and unhurried as the rest of him. “Is this what you need?” he asked softly, one thumb circling closer, not quite touching you where he must have known you needed it most.

“I—” You gripped the counter as your own breath left you high and bright. “Yeah,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yeah. Please.”

Something old and hungry flickered in his eyes; for a second, it was like witnessing a mask falling away, exposing the pure, adoring greed underneath. He nodded, almost formal, and then both his hands bracketed your hips, holding you steady on the stool.

He started at your knee, a glancing scrape of blunt nails and calloused knuckles that sent shivers up your thigh. He traced the seam of your shorts slowly, as if there was all the time in the world, as if he wasn’t about to devour you.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, even as his mouth hovered over the thin cotton barrier. He ghosted a breath across the damp spot he found, and you lost all chance of composure. There was no longer any you, only some open, yearning thing perched on a stool, barely holding itself together. He thumbed the edge of your shorts aside just enough to press against you directly, the heat of his mouth and the shock of his cool fingers alternating in a way that broke your sanity into a thousand flickering, animal senses.

You grabbed at his hair without even meaning to, the urge so primitive it felt like a survival reflex. He hummed appreciatively at the contact, as if you’d pleased him, as if you were doing him a favor by yanking his mouth closer to your cunt. The sound vibrated through you, under your skin, rattling your bones. You tipped your hips, your nerves on fire, and his tongue licked a slow, deep stripe from your inner thigh up, not touching your clit, not yet, just lavishing the tender skin in a way that felt almost teasingly reverent.

You made a strangled noise, one part protest and one part plea, and Bucky’s hands tightened ever so slightly, anchoring you. He mouthed softly at you through the cotton, kissing and tasting like he had planned this moment, fantasized about it, orchestrated it down to seconds.

“God, Bucky, please—” you heard yourself say, shame gone, language stripped down to pure imperative.

He obliged, finally, dragging the fabric aside with both thumbs and kissing you directly, a cool blast of breath ghosting over your slick heat before his tongue pressed flat and broad against your clit. The relief was so acute you almost sobbed, hands convulsing where they tangled in his hair. You heard the low, satisfied growl in his throat as he set in, slow at first, until your hips bucking.

He didn’t tease, not in the sense of withholding; he controlled the pace only so you wouldn’t go off too soon, so you wouldn’t lose yourself before he had you in exactly the state he wanted. He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking up and down, pinning you gently but completely, and sucked softly at your clit, laved it, flicked it until you heard yourself choking on a sob. Your hands curled into his hair, desperate for more, for anything, and he let you grind against his mouth, so attentive that he’d match every desperate movement with the exact pressure you needed.

It was embarrassing how quickly you came, shameful and glorious at once. You still had enough self-awareness to gasp his name in something like apology. “Bucky, Bucky, ah—fuck, so close.”

He growled, mouth pressed to you, and angled his tongue just-so, and the orgasm hit with staggering force, a white-out that blitzed your vision and stole any words from you. He didn’t stop. He held you through it and past it, swallowing down the shudders and the desperate sounds you made, like he’d known exactly how this would unfold. When you came down it was only because he let you, retreating from your cunt with a last, obscene kiss to your inner thigh.

He stayed on his knees as you caught your breath, looking up at you through the mess of his hair with a carefulness that could almost have passed for concern, were it not for the dark, starved edge to his gaze.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked, voice warm and hoarse, a dangerous temptation.

You shook your head before you realized what you were doing. The need was still there, louder if anything, a metabolic demand your body had never known before. The aftershocks of your orgasm didn’t blunt it; they just made you more sensitive, skin electric, greedy for any touch. The taste of his name was still burning on your tongue.

“I don’t—” You tried to get your breath, but every inhale was a plea, an invitation. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It sounded like a lie as soon as you said it. You did know, and so did he; the only thing you didn’t know was how far either of you would let it go.

Bucky’s hands slid up your thighs, palms broad and possessive suddenly, not the gentle friend but a man answering a hunger of his own.

He rose in a single uncoiling, smooth and predatory, and you found yourself wanting to press back, to get some space, but you didn’t want space—what you wanted was to be pressed under him, to feel the full weight of him locking you down, holding you together.

He didn’t say another word, just bent and swept you up. His hands were careful, but the grip was decisive, one arm braced under your ass, the other curling around your upper back so your body instinctively folded against his chest. You clung to his shoulders, dizzy from the abrupt motion, but he was already hauling you past his kitchen, navigating the hall with a single-minded purpose. In the living room he set you on your feet behind the couch, spun you so you faced the window, city sun slicing in through the blinds and painting stripes over the room.

He nudged you forward until your hips bumped the cushion, then planted his hands on your waist, pressing you down in a gentle but unmistakable command. You braced your palms on the back of the couch, arms locking to hold yourself upright, the cool leather shivery against your bare thighs. His breath ghosted over your shoulder as he leaned in, mouth at your ear.

“You’re desperate for me to ruin you, aren’t you, pretty girl?”

His tone was so wicked, so knowing, that you felt your knees threaten to buckle. Before you could respond, Bucky’s hands slid down, splayed wide over your hips, and then he used a foot to nudge your legs apart.

The movement was so natural, so certain, that you obeyed without thinking, planting your feet wider, arms braced. Your shorts were still tangled around one thigh and even that didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the way his hand slid between your legs and the sound you made when he did. He pressed the heel of his palm right to your cunt, pushing up against the fabric, feeling exactly how soaking, how frantic, you were for him.

Bucky made a low, appreciative noise, and you could feel the shape of his cock, hard and urgent, as he moved in closer behind you. He raked his thumb up your spine and you arched for him, made yourself an offering.

There was a trembling pause as his hands found the elastic, hooked under it, peeled the shorts and your underwear down in a single, devastating motion. He left them tangled around your knees, a shackle you could feel, and then he was there—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the shape of him, hard and insistent, through his gym shorts.

You heard the rustle of his clothes behind you, the elastic snap of his waistband, the uneven jolt of his breath. You tried not to turn back, to break the spell, but his hand fisted gently in your hair, holding you forward, not cruelly but as if he worried you might float away from him. You felt the graze of his knuckles against the small of your back and then the soft, heavy head of his cock against your inner thigh, thick and achingly hot. You made another helpless sound, impossible to disguise as anything but want.

You half heard him whisper, “Good fucking girl,” and it was more grounding than anything—the way he said it, not for praise but as a pure statement of fact, as if you’d always belonged to this moment.

A heartbeat later you felt him line up, one broad hand bracing your hip, the other guiding himself between your legs. He slid in slow, first just crowning the tip, then a steady, unhurried advance until you pulsed around him, all the breath knocked out of you. He was big, God, he was fucking huge, and you felt every inch of him, slow and relentless, until your body gave up its resistance and let him in all the way.

You choked on a sob and he stilled, letting you adjust, the metal of his hand biting into your hip in an anchoring grip that kept you from collapsing. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, feather-light, before rolling his hips forward, testing. The drag was so exquisite, so sharp, that your eyes filled up and spilled over before you understood you were crying. It didn’t feel sad or even humiliating; it felt like relief, like every nerve in your body finally tuned to the right frequency.

“There you go,” Bucky murmured, and the silk in his voice slid down your spine. “Let me take care of you.”

You arched back into him, jaw gone slack, and he took the cue, holding onto your hip with steel precision as he drew out, then thrust in to the hilt. The both of you made sounds then—animal, necessary, a tangled braid of shameless arousal. You were seared open, body and brain in ruins for him, and Bucky’s every move felt designed to keep you right at the rawest possible edge without letting you tumble off. With each slow, grinding thrust, he’d flex his fingers into your skin, and you were glad for the force. Otherwise, you might have rocketed apart.

He fucked you like he had nowhere else to be for the rest of his life. Each pass in and out was deep, so deep you saw stars, and he bit down on every gasp and whimper you made like treasure, hoarding them, making sure there was nothing you could give that he wouldn’t take. When you shuddered, he braced you. When you tried to hide your face in your arms, he made you look out the window.

“Imagine how wrecked you look if someone could see you like this, how good you are, how pliant, how utterly fucked out and feral for me.”

You could only groan beneath him.

But that wasn’t good enough.

“Because you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you managed to gasp.

“Fuck yeah, you are. Should film you next time so you can see.”

And that promised sentiment or threat or blessed assurance of a next time only barely registered in your head.

You felt the shape and girth of him everywhere, not just inside you but in your fingertips and jaw and even your toes, curled white-knuckled against the plush carpet. It felt like a breaking-open, a shudder that rattled the cage of rib and skull and emptied you in the best way. After the first spasm hit, it didn’t really stop; it just crested and broke, and then again, and again, as he drove you relentlessly through every aftershock.

Your throat was raw from the sounds you made, but you didn't care. Let the whole damn building know, let the heatwave carry it down to the street—anyone who heard would only know what you’d always suspected: that you were made, and remade, by the hands and cock of James Bucky Barnes.

He came with a groan that sounded like it had been torn up from the pit of him. You felt it, impossibly deep, an anchoring warmth at your core. He didn’t pull out right away, just pressed you down and into the couch, his breath ragged against your shoulder, sweat mixing with your own. The sun striped you both, pale and blurred, in the window’s glare. He cupped your waist, held you like he was scared you might disappear. The sound of your pulse was everywhere, in your mouth, your cunt, the tips of your fingers.

Eventually he eased out, then tossed you gently over the back of the couch and onto its cushions, hoisting himself immediatle after you, and settling between your thighs.

You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, he cupped your jaw in both his hands, and you met halfway in a kiss. Slow, charting, but eager to map, to pour into each other.

You should be spent, you knew that, and yet there was still a flickering need for even more, and ultimately you couldn’t keep from squirming your hips up beneath him like a bitch in heat.

Bucky growled but grinned against the crook of your neck. "Already? Thought I wore you out." He was half-teasing, half hopeful, and all of it made you ache more.

You panted, little strains of whimper leaking out as you shifted beneath his weight. "It's not—" You couldn't catch your breath. "It's not gone."

He drew back enough to see your face, the marvel and hunger written in every line of him. He was giddy on it now, drunk on you, the endlessness of your need. His thumb traced a path under your eye, along your jaw, a tenderness just as striking as the force when he'd bent you over the couch.

His hand was already sliding down, finding the tremor in your thigh where you'd hooked your heel into the small of his back. “C’mon, pretty girl, take what we know you need.”

He was still hard, not as superhumanly so as thirty seconds ago, but the evidence of his stamina pressed hot and thick against your thigh. The animal edge to his smile dared you to test him. So you did.

Your hand slid down between the bodies, still trembling, and guided his cock back home. Then you canted your head up, eyes wide, mouth open to him even before he took it. The kiss was deep and viscous as he slid his thick length back into you.

“You gonna let me fill up this tight cunt all day?”

Your head fell back, the surrender automatic. “Yes,” you managed, “please, Bucky—just—”

He didn’t give you time to finish the thought before he buried himself again, the shock of it so perfect you clenched hard around him, a plea and a welcome and a thank you all at once. You couldn’t believe there was anything left in you to give, but every stroke proved you wrong, dragged up a new, desperate need that was only satisfied by the relentless rhythm of his cock and his hands and the way his mouth fixed on you, starved.

He took you harder this time, body layered over yours on the couch, arms caging you in, fists in the cushions, the infected animal in your belly delighted to be conquered. The slap and drag, the obscene wet noise of your bodies meeting, should have been mortifying, but you couldn’t care less. All you could think about was the way he felt inside you, the fullness.

You fucked up into him like it could ever be enough, like you could reach the end of it, but all it did was ratchet higher the more you got. Illogical. Perverse. You wanted it so bad you felt like you might splinter from it.

He kept his eyes open, watching your every twitch and lost syllable, and when he spoke, it was a benediction and a dare all at once. “That’s it,” he cooed, “—take it, sweetheart, take every fucking drop.”

This man who you’d pegged as your polite, kind, helpful, funny neighbor, a gentle giant, a friend but not possibly interested in anything more… how could you have been any more wrong about him? It seemed his need was as insatiable as yours, as rough as yours.

He braced a hand on your ass and fucked into you so deep your vision actually blurred, and you had a moment of floating, refracted through heat and sensation, no thought in your head but the total occupation of Bucky’s cock and Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s words, which were now a white-noise loop of fuck, that’s so good and look at you and you greedy little thing.

You lost count of how many times you came, whether it was three or four or one long endless melt that crested and crashed and kept cresting again. Each time you clenched harder, he grunted, all approval and gratitude, like you were thriving on the mutual destruction. The only thing that finally stopped him was the way your body seized under him, shaking with exertion, whole frame slick with sweat and blown wide open—and even then, he only slowed to kiss the tears off your cheek before pumping in shallow, locking thrusts, filling you a second time.

He rolled and shifted so he was below and you were arranged on top of him, cock still inside you, and petted your head and back, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

But somehow your body still wasn’t done. The pitch of wasn’t as feverish, but you still ached for more, and you shifted, pressing your hands firmly onto his chest and pushing your hips back.

He growled and grinned up at you in approval, letting you take the pace, lazy hip rolls and shallow thrusts, like he was content to be used if only you’d keep him inside your cunt.

"That’s it, baby," Bucky murmured, hands cupping your hips in living brackets of steel and warmth, "workin’ it all out of your system, huh?" He let you ride him at your pace, let you grind and flex and arch your spine in a slow, deliberate torture, as if the last hour hadn’t emptied you. He watched the place where you were joined with worshipful fixation. Sometimes his hands drifted up your plump sides, moving over the sweat slicking over your ribs, sometimes they hovered beside your tits, thumbs circling the soft underside without quite squeezing. He wanted you to take, to use.

It was so much. The room, the man, the way your senses flattened and then sharpened around only the pressure and friction, the molten bracket of his thighs under yours. You could feel the outline and density of him in your gut, could feel the part of him inside you as an ache in your own bones.

Your hair stuck to your face, skin flushed and slick. You looked down at him, saw the blue of his eyes gone wild with something that wasn’t just lust but an infatuation so raw it jolted you harder than any thrust. You felt gorgeous and filthy and alive.

You braced your palms on his chest, the sweat-slick warmth of him grounding you to the world, to the precise coordinates of this couch, this apartment, these four walls where everything inside you had been rewritten. You rolled your hips, slow at first, test-driving this new sense you’d grown this morning. Each drag, each grind made the both of you moan, made his jaw go slack with admiration and something wild behind it.

“You look so good like this,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands continued to wander, kneading your waist, your ass, committing every detail like a man who’d been in a famine so long he didn’t trust that the feast would last.

You uncurled from his chest and sat up, knees braced against the outside of his thighs. The angle changed everything—it let you drop down with gravity on your side, and the sudden invasion made you gasp, then laugh a little at the reckless power of it.

“Didn’t know you had this in you, pretty girl,” he said, eyes bright with admiration and a little awe, as your bodies met again and again. You shuddered, every nerve ending tuned to the raggedly sweet friction. You braced one hand on the couch back for support, the other pressing his chest flat to the cushions so he couldn’t move, so you could wring every last drop out of him.

He let you, his hands only guiding, though you could feel they itched for more, alternately cupping your ass and tracing the slick line along your spine. He never looked away, and you couldn’t either, not really. Part of you was afraid if you stopped, you’d never start again, that all of being alive was compressed into this blinding, needy cycle, the slow slide up, the brief gasp at the crest, the smashed-together bodies and the static-burst of coming apart.

You both dissolved into it, rode out the rhythm together, a storm system of skin and sweat and salt air. You wanted to memorize every flicker in his face, the way his jaw tensed when you clenched around him, the soft snarl of delight when you scraped your nails up his stomach, the groan from somewhere ancient when you rocked down, hard, and took him to the hilt. Like this, you were animal and angel at once, an ache shaped just for him, every ounce of pain and pleasure remade as a message to Bucky that he could have you, all of you, if only he asked.

This time when you came, it was a slower surrender, a low-voltage tremble that climbed your spine and made you shake all over. You fell forward onto him, collapse and comfort in the same gesture, and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, rocked you gently even as you whimpered from the aftershocks. He kissed the top of your head, and it was tender but also bespoke a possessiveness that you felt curl happily inside you.

“That’s it,” he crooned, lips against your hairline, “breathe. You did so fuckin’ good.” His hands swept over your back, grounding you, stoking the heat that was already beginning to spark again in the depths of your belly. You wanted to fight it, or at least express some normal human embarrassment at the way you’d let yourself melt into a horny puddle in your neighbor’s arms, but the pleasure sparked with every breath and touch, making defiance impossible.

It was fortunate that this man was a super soldier and could give you what you needed.

You wondered how many times you would come before you burnt out completely, or if you’d just fuse into something new, a singularity of slick and want and Bucky’s name.

Bucky knew he could see you through all of it.

He looked forward to being the conduit you found your relief in since he was the architect of this sweet, filthy, exquisite destruction.

And he couldn’t imagine that this brain-altering type of experience wouldn’t yield him exactly what he’d been waiting so long for: you, surrendering to him completely, admitting there was more than neighborly friendship between you, content and eager to finally be his.

The chemicals would burn out of your system in a few more hours, and then he’d take such good care of you in your recovery. He’d keep the AC off in your apartment so he could coax you to accept his invitation to stay all weekend.

He was sure two days was all he needed to secure you forever.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #female reader #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #hotbuckysummer2025 #tw: dubious consent #tw: dub con

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moon-fics · 2 months ago

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Pool Day

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: The team decided to request a pool, not thinking it would be made. Now, they have a pool.

A/n: Ugh! I love a good beach/pool episode! But this time, the relationship is established.

When Valentina asked if there was anything the team wanted in the tower, she meant like a training simulator or a chef. So, when Yelena spoke up, saying she wanted a pool, everyone backed her up. No one expected Valentina to actually go through with it because she didn't like them.

So, when Valentine announced the pool was done, everyone was flabbergasted. They were most astonished by the fact that she built it outside where the sun could be enjoyed. However, she said that was the last unnecessary request she'd be entertaining.

Of course, when the first day of summer rolled around, the pool was not forgotten.

---

You sit at the edge of the pool with your legs under the water. You're thankful you had time to buy a new swimsuit. It wasn't the best one you could find, but it'll do.

Yelena has found interest in sleeping on one of the floats. She's knocked out as the float hits one of the walls of the pool. Meanwhile, John is in the shallow area drinking a fruity smoothie. For the most part, everyone is relaxing for the first time in a while.

You sense a presence behind you and immediately turn. You're far too late, as two pairs of hands shove you into the chilly water. Your entire body is submerged, and water enters your nose. You pop out of the water, coughing and wiping your nose.

When you finally look up, you see Alexei and Bob standing where you were sitting. Alexei is hands on knees laughing and pointing at you as if he's pulled off a master prank.

"Is the water nice?" Bob asks. He holds out his hand for you to take. Even after shoving you into the pool, he's still kind enough to pull you back out. You should just take his hand and be thankful for the refreshing dunk. You aren't that type of person.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know?" You grip his forearm and yank as hard as possible. He doesn't take a lot of effort to pull. The splash from his fall wakes up Yelena, who lifts her sunglasses as Bob pops up from the water.

"'Ey, I don't want any rough housing," She points at you and Bob with a raised eyebrow. "Don't wake me again," She warns and puts her sunglasses back on.

The moment Yelena is back to resting, Bob's arms wrap around your waist. His head rests on top of yours, and water drips from his chin to your nose. He creates a sort of shade over your face to block out the sun.

"I could get used to this," You keep your voice down. Bob hums in response. He sways both of you carefully while he enjoys the closeness. "Did you swim a lot in Florida?"

"Oh yeah, like, every day." He nods without hitting your head. He relinquishes his hold on you and spins you around to face him. "It was either the pool or the beach. I preferred the beach because when the wind is strong enough, the waves get super high."

"That sounds fun," You say. "We should have asked for a wave pool, too." You laugh. Maybe you can suggest it to Valentina as a way to train for water-based threats. Though you doubt she'd accept that answer.

"The last time I was in a wave pool, I got kicked in the head three times," Bob chuckles. His hands move to rest on your waist to keep you near him. "I'm pretty sure they should be banned for how dangerous they are." His face becomes serious as he thinks.

"Oh, you can't handle some waves?" You tease. You already have something in mind and begin floating away from him. His brows furrow, and he watches you get a few feet away. You wind up your arm and roughly glide it across the surface to create a small wave.

It drenches Bob once again, but once the splash clears, he's gone. Before you can react, his hands are on your legs. He efficiently drags you under, but cradles your head before it hits the floor.

You open your eyes, but the water makes everything blurry. All you can see is Bob's outline as it gets closer. His hands cup your face, and his lips press against yours as gently as possible. The kiss only lasts a few seconds due to a lack of air, but those seconds are like a treasure. His lips are all you can feel as your senses are blocked by the water.

When you emerge, you gasp for air, but he doesn't. You chalk it up to him having more experience in bodies of water than you.

Once you catch your breath, he calls your name. You look towards him only to be hit in the face by water. He forgets how strong he is and gets Yelena and John wet.

"Oh, come on!" John groans. He holds up his half drank smoothie that now has chlorine water in it.

"Ok, that's it! No more pool for you two!" Yelena shouts.

#bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds fanfic #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #bob thunderbolts #the thunderbolts*#thunderbolts*#lewis pullman

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jungwnies · 3 months ago

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f1 grid | juno positions

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : every driver and which juno position from sabrina carpenter's tour suits them >.>

୨ৎ : genre : suggestive... kinda smutty idk (i don't really write smut anymore so this is a rare one...) obv some are the same positions.. i couldn't sit through an 8 minute video of all the juno positions LMFAO ୨ৎ : tws : suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 597

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i couldn't help but post this so soon LMFAO it was such a fun request i couldn't leave it sitting there waiting to be queued ... too good ty anon <3

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen - standing doggy no time for nonsense, just efficient execution. aggressive, locked-in, and somehow still makes you feel completely taken care of. terrifyingly good at everything, including this.

yuki tsunoda - cowgirl tiny menace. gives full chaos and control. jokes around, then ruins you. he’s in charge, not you. don’t be fooled by the baby face.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell - legs up missionary textbook performance, but with precision and tenderness. prepped for this moment like it was a championship strategy. probably asks if you’re comfortable mid-way through.

kimi antonelli - bridge young but scarily talented. pulls it off like it’s nothing and casually shrugs after. doesn’t even realize how hot he looks doing it.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc - reverse cowgirl quiet in interviews, dramatic on the radio. gives you “hopeless romantic who pretends not to care” energy. lets you take the lead but still makes it cinematic somehow.

lewis hamilton - spooning luxury. candles. playlist curated to the vibe. everything is intentional, soft, and meaningful. says “i got you” and means it.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris - ballet dancer starts off laughing, then surprises you with full performance energy. twirls you around like it’s a rom-com, then bites your neck for fun.

oscar piastri - tucked missionary he’s calm, quiet, and absolutely calculated. very into the technical details. doesn’t make a fuss but has you clutching the sheets like ??? how???

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso - squatting cowgirl age is just a number. balances like a yoga master, keeps eye contact, and somehow turns it into a motivational speech halfway through.

lance stroll - one-leg-up missionary chill, not flashy, but shockingly good at this exact position. leans into it casually. acts like it’s nothing but has you seeing stars.

ʚ・williams

alex albon - kneeling oral sweetest boy alive. loves making you happy more than anything. says “tell me what you like” with the softest voice. gold star giver.

carlos sainz - doggy classic. passionate. in control. the man thrives under pressure and it shows. focused, intense, and somehow turns this into a performance worthy of applause. probably whispers something in spanish that short-circuits your brain. makes you feel like it was your idea the whole time.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman - one-leg spoon baby boy energy. tries his best. a little shy but committed. accidentally makes it romantic. 10/10 would comfort you with snacks after.

esteban ocon - missionary starts off shy, but the moment kicks in and suddenly it’s like he’s been rehearsing this in the mirror. soft-spoken, maybe even a little awkward beforehand, but he’s determined to prove himself. will absolutely debrief the whole experience afterward like it's a post-race interview.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson - splits unsuspecting menace. looks like he’d hesitate, then surprises you with flexibility and full commitment. asks afterward if he did good. he did.

isack hadjar - the arch absolutely shows off. confident, slightly cocky, but backs it up. makes eye contact while doing it and smirks when you blush.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly - reverse cowgirl he’s not doing the work — you are. but he’s there for the view, hands behind his head, sunglasses still on indoors. makes smug comments the entire time like, “yeah, just like that.” fully vibing while somehow still running the show. would wink at you mid-movement and say something unhinged in french.

jack doohan - cowgirl confident in theory, flustered in practice. lets you take the lead but lowkey panics when you actually do. tries to act chill but you can literally feel his heart pounding through his chest. afterward, he’s all pink-cheeked and smiley, like “that was great… did I do okay?” you reassure him. he did amazing.

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4dbeingguide · 1 year ago

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11 tips from a master manifestor.

y’all have been loving my first post and it’s really encouraged me to come back. this time i have 11 tips for you! i would’ve really appreciated a post like this when i was a beginner so i’ve decided to make it for those who may also be starting with their journey. actually it doesn’t matter where you are on this road, this is supposed to help everybody, including master manifestors (yes, sometimes doubts cross our minds, we just know how to deal with them)!

there is a lot of repetition as there are some concepts i want to emphasize on. excuse any grammar errors. let’s get straight to it!

stop giving a fuck about the 3D. that is absolute (as in, don’t check it, don’t wait for anything from it, don’t let it get to you). just stop. i have a post over here that will really help you in doing so (and no, it isn’t me cursing at you while ordering you to stop. it’s me having a discussion with you and listening to your doubts while refuting them and i also back it up with scientific sources).

acknowledge that you already are a master manifestor. you’re already where you need to be. don’t let the illusion that is the 3D tell you otherwise!

if you see a piece of manifestation advice that rubs you the wrong way then simply act as if it’s false and doesn’t apply to your reality. you make the rules.

speaking of rules, make yourself some manifesting rules that dictate that manifesting is effortless and instant for you. don’t settle for less.

keep a success story list (and yes, you can put stuff that you’ve assumed that hasn’t appeared in the 3D since the 4D is the only reality) so that you can use it to reaffirm your belief in the law if you ever doubt it.

never seek approval from the 3D for ANYTHING. it is an ILLUSION. your 4D/mind/assumptions are the OBJECTIVE reality. this also applies to the state of waiting and wanting. why do you want to wait for the approval of an illusion? and what are you wanting when it’s already here?

the 3D is not your enemy and it is impossible for the 3D to reject your manifestation. the bitch is inanimate lmao. have you ever walked in front of a mirror and had it tell you “i’m not gonna reflect right now”? i’m sure the answer is no. the 3D works the same way. it EXISTS to reflect our assumptions. that’s its entire purpose. it is nothing but an illusory perception of our 4D. it actually obeys you down to a T. i was gonna say it’s your pet but pets are actually alive and autonomous, the 3D isn’t. the 3D just an inanimate illusion. your business is in the 4D. that’s where you live.

you don’t need a technique. to manifest, all you have to do is assume you have it or enter the state of having it. techniques simply exist to help you do so (that’s why we affirm/visualize/etc. that we have it) but you can do it directly. that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use them. do what feels most natural to you. do what is the most efficient when it comes to making you fulfilled (not what gives it to you fastest in the 3D. remember, it’s an illusion).

you shouldn’t care if the 3D will give it to you or not. the 3D is an illusion, remember? a simple way to get yourself to put your eyes on the 4D is saying something to the effect of “this 3D/physical world isn’t real/is an illusion, the 4D/mind is the only true reality, i live in the 4D and thus all my affairs are there and not in the 3D and this is what the 4D is saying: (insert manifestation)”. seriously, all your affairs are in the 4D. you’re 4 dimensional.

when doubts persist, reading rants and banging pots and pans might help sometimes but sometimes you just have to sit down with yourself and have an internal dialogue. you’re human (probably 🤔 just in case you’re manifesting otherwise as you read this, and yes it IS possible). hear what your doubts have to say in full (don’t buy it though) and debunk them calmly and civilly.

limits don’t exist. imagination is the only reality. if you can imagine it then it can happen unless you say it can’t.

if you liked this post, make sure to check out my post here!!! in it i elaborate on how to deal with doubts. have an amazing day 🫶

#law of assumption #loa blog #loassumption #master manifestor #neville goddard #manifestation #loa tumblr #loa success

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rafecameronssl4t · 7 months ago

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Saving Grace || CEO!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: When Rafe Cameron’s infamous temper threatens to derail the entire office, his wife is called in as the only person who can bring him back to earth.

Warnings: none!

Word count: 2,051

MASTERLIST

Rafe Cameron could be described in many ways: arrogant, sharp-tongued, perpetually stone-faced, and infamously hot-headed. His temper was a ticking time bomb, always moments away from detonation. It didn’t take much to set him off—a missed detail, an oversight, or even the wrong tone of voice—and once his mood soured, it had a ripple effect on everyone within his orbit.

If Rafe was in a foul mood, the entire office braced itself for the storm, knowing they’d bear the brunt of his frustration. Productivity stalled, morale plummeted, and an oppressive tension hung heavy in the air. No one dared to ask if he was okay or offer to fix the issue—it was simply understood that his temper had to run its course.

But there was one person who had mastered the art of disarming the bomb: his assistant, Rachael. If anyone in the office had something to say about Rachael, it was that she knew Rafe Cameron far too well. She had an uncanny ability to read his moods and an arsenal of strategies for defusing them. Most importantly, she understood the one surefire way to calm Rafe down: his wife.

The woman who he worshipped the ground she walked on, mother to his children, and the only person Rafe Cameron seemed to hold above all else. No matter how irritable or unapproachable he became, the mere mention of her name was enough to shift the atmosphere. So when Rachael watched one of her coworkers stumble out of Rafe’s office, barely holding back tears, she knew it was time to intervene.

Her sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the nervous glances exchanged between staff members who were all too aware of the storm brewing behind Rafe’s closed door. Without missing a beat, Rachael grabbed her phone, dialling a number she had memorised long ago. As the call connected, her tone softened—a stark contrast to the sharp efficiency she displayed in the office.

“Hi, Mrs. Cameron,” she began, her voice carrying a mixture of urgency and familiarity. “I hate to bother you, but it’s one of those days. If you’re free, I think a quick word with Rafe might do the trick.” She paused, listening intently before smiling to herself. Rachael didn’t need to explain much; Mrs. Cameron always seemed to know exactly how to handle her husband.

And while the office might dread Rafe’s infamous outbursts, Rachael found comfort in knowing there was someone who could bring the man back down to earth. She let out a small sigh of relief when she heard your calm, reassuring voice on the other end of the line. “I’ll be right there,” you said, your tone steady but with a hint of warmth that was reserved for conversations about your husband.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your car keys, slipping on a pair of heels as you prepared to leave. It wasn’t the first time you’d been called in to play peacemaker, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Rafe’s temper was legendary, but you knew how to navigate it better than anyone else. You’d seen him at his worst, the raw edges of his frustration and anger, but you also knew the softer side of him—the part that melted when you walked into a room, the man who looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

As you slid into the driver’s seat, your thoughts briefly flickered to your children, safely at home with the nanny. You didn’t want to leave them, but you also understood that Rafe needed you. He might not admit it outright, especially not in front of his staff, but the subtle ways he sought you out after a rough day spoke volumes.

As you walked toward your husband’s office, the energy in the space shifted noticeably. Heads turned, relief washing over faces that had been tense just moments before. Hushed whispers followed in your wake, employees murmuring their gratitude for the one person who could tame the storm that was Rafe Cameron. Even without uttering a word, your presence commanded respect—graceful yet undeniably authoritative.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you, Mrs. Cameron,” Rachael said as she stood from her desk, her tone filled with a mixture of hope and exhaustion. “He’s in his office, and he’s miserable in there.” You glanced through the glass wall into Rafe’s office. Rachael hadn’t exaggerated—his frustration was palpable. The furrow of his brow, the tight set of his jaw, and the restless movements of his hands screamed of a man on the verge of losing his patience entirely.

You offered Rachael a small, reassuring smile before making your way to the door, your heels clicking softly against the polished floor. You didn’t bother knocking—Rafe hated formalities when it came to you. The heavy sigh he let out at the sound of the door opening was immediate. His eyes remained locked on the papers scattered across his desk, his tone sharp and cold.

“I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you stepped inside. “Does that include me?” you asked, your voice sweet and smooth, cutting through the tension. Rafe’s head snapped up at the sound of your voice, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. Instantly, his rigid posture softened, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.

The frustration etched into his features melted away, replaced by a look that could only be described as unguarded affection. Just your presence had the power to undo him. Without a word, Rafe reached behind his desk and flicked a switch, causing the glass walls of his office to turn frosted, granting the two of you privacy. His voice softened, tinged with genuine curiosity and concern.

“What are you doing here, baby?" You walked around his desk, your movements fluid and deliberate, and Rafe turned in his chair to face you fully. Standing in front of him, you saw the shift in his expression—the hard edges of his day crumbling as he looked up at you. And there it was, the look that never failed to steal your breath.

No matter how difficult or frustrating his day had been, Rafe always looked at you like you were his entire world, as though you hung the moon and stars just for him. In his eyes, there was nothing but pure, unfiltered love—a stark contrast to the icy exterior he showed everyone else. You leaned down, your fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as you pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

His shoulders visibly relaxed at the familiar touch, the tension from his day dissolving. “You’re scaring your employees,” you teased softly, your words accompanied by a light chuckle as you straightened up. Rafe let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes. “They’re ridiculous,” he muttered, his tone laced with both irritation and amusement.

“They’re terrified,” you corrected, folding your arms and raising a brow at him. “I saw one of them practically in tears.” Rafe groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not my fault they can’t handle a little pressure.” You gave him a knowing look, stepping closer and resting your hands on the armrests of his chair, effectively boxing him in. “Rafe, you can be a little… intense,” you said gently, your eyes locking with his. “And by ‘a little,’ I mean a lot.”

His lips quirked into a smirk, his hands instinctively finding your waist. “You don’t seem scared of me,” he said, his voice dropping into a softer, almost teasing tone. “That’s because I know the real you,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “The one who spoils me, reads bedtime stories to the kids, and eats all the burnt pancakes I make without complaining.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest. “You know I love those burnt pancakes,” he murmured, tugging you closer until you were practically sitting on his lap. “Hmm,” you hummed playfully, trailing your fingers along the lapel of his blazer. “Maybe I should remind your staff that under all that brooding, you’re just a big softie.”

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, though his smirk betrayed the emptiness of his threat. You laughed softly, pressing another kiss to his lips before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Then maybe try to be a little nicer? For me?” He sighed, feigning reluctance, but the way his hands tightened on your waist betrayed his surrender. “Fine,” he said, his tone mockingly begrudging. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” you said with a satisfied smile, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “Now, why don’t you take a break? Let me help you relax before you scare anyone else.” Rafe’s smirk softened into a genuine smile, the love in his eyes shining brighter than ever. “You really are my saving grace,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

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that-one-girl2020 · 13 days ago

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Your writing is phenomenal! I'm neck deep in characters I've never watched the movie for!😭 I'm not sure if requests are open, I couldn't find anything abt, so if you don't take requests, feel fre to ignore tho lol!

In the main story, I remember when Y/N was scratching at her scars, and the Saja Boys comforted her. Could you maybe do something about the girls finding out about that later on? I think it'd be a nice angst to fluff with them since they're working on building the trust/bond back(and it gives them more reasons to feel guilt bc the poor girl was self harming and she couldn't even go to her sisters abt it).

Again, feel free to ignore this! Your writing is great! You're great, so please don't go bald!💕

Old Scars

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: Aww, thanks! I do my best to make sure all the characters get the love and attention they deserve, lol. I promise I won’t go bald! For any new readers, go check out my short series so that this actually makes sense! This one is definitely the shortest and simplest so far.

Synopsis: Your debut is fast approaching and you are kind of stressing out. Huntr/x and the Saja Boys all schedule a day to hang out to try and help you relax, but you end up falling back onto old habits.

CW: Self mutilation (scratching), angst and then comfort.

Please do not copy my work to another platform or plagiarize my content.

Word Count: 1.0k

Master List

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, Abby = Kwan)

Your debut was coming up and you were stressed—to say the least.

You were excited to debut, to perform on stage—of course you were, it has been your dream to perform since you were little—but with your debut, came so many expectations. You had already been teasing your debut on your social media, so has the company on their official socials, and already so many people had so many expectations of this new up and coming solo artist being on par with Huntr/x.

The nine of you were at the tower, spending time together to try and get you to relax. Both groups were worried about you, especially as more of your time was taken up by preparations for your debut. They were excited for you, but they were also worried by how stressed you were getting as the date loomed closer.

Jinu was sitting on your right, his hand massaging the back of your neck. Rumi was sitting on your left, her head on your shoulder as she focused on the movie playing, Ponyo. Jum was laying across your laps, snacking on some candy and feeding one to you every now and then with his head in your lap. Chungae, Kwan, and Mira were sitting around the coffee table, playing an aggressive game of Uno. Hyeon was sitting with Zoey who had her tongue poking out of her mouth in concentration as she painted the quiet man’s nails.

Your mind couldn’t focus on the movie. It was racing with all the things you still had to do for your debut. Perfect the choreo, make your requests for the space, talk lighting and effects with the team, finish recording and editing ‘Play With Fire,’ schedule interviews and appearances, okay merchandise designs. It was a lot and you couldn’t help but fall back on old, bad habits.

Mindlessly, you started scratching at your arm, opening some of the scabs that were almost finished healing. You didn’t notice this though, and even if you did, you were too lost in your anxious thoughts to stop yourself efficiently.

“Hey,” Jinu’s gentle voice shook you from your thoughts and he took your hand in his, “Do you need something to fidget with? I have bandages with me too,” He told you softly. He hadn’t seen you scratch since the defeat of Gwi Ma, but he still kept things to help you if he ever saw you becoming stressed and scratching out of anxiousness—small fidget toys and gauze to wrap your arms so you couldn’t hurt yourself too badly.

Jinu’s soft voice caught Rumi’s attention as well, “(Y/n)!” She gasped, grabbing your arm and looking at the opened scabs, red marks, and faint scars, “What are you doing?!”

And then suddenly everyone was looking at you. Zoey shot up to come over as well, looking at your arm with worry, “Oh, (Y/n), what happened?”

Even Mira was looking with concern.

You shrunk into the couch, shame making your face burn and your eyes flickering amber with the spike of your emotions. The boys quickly closed ranks around you, Jum sitting up and getting between you and Rumi. Hyeon pulled Zoey back gently and placed himself in front of her so she couldn’t get closer to you. Chungae and Kwan joined them and filled in the gaps. It wasn’t that they were being malicious or thought that the girls would intentionally hurt you, it was just instincts that they moved to protect you when they saw you getting overwhelmed.

“What…?” Rumi blinked, confused by the sudden turn of events.

Jinu was already taking out some bandages and shoving a fidget toy in your hands. You gave him a small appreciative smile that he returned softly, pecking your nose to make you giggle. You looked at your sister, “I’m fine, Rumi. It’s just… a stress response,” You shrugged at her weakly.

“‘A stress response’?” Mira echoed, crossing her arms.

You elaborated slowly, “A bad habit really. I started doing it when I was stressed and even when I try to stop, it’s hard. I do it without really realizing it.”

Kwan chimed in, “We’ve been making sure she doesn’t hurt herself too badly. Especially with how stressed she’s been lately.”

You smiled at them, “Thanks boys.”

Rumi waved her hands, her mind trying to process the information that had just been given to her. “Wait, wait, hold up. (Y/n), how long has this been going on?” Rumi asked you softly.

You grimaced, squeezing the fidget in your hand tighter, your nails digging into the silicone. “Maybe, a few… years…?”

Mira wasn’t taking any of your bull, “And how many years, exactly?”

You shrunk into yourself, your shoulders going up to your ears. “Uhm, I think it started a little bit after we found out I couldn’t connect to the Honmoon…?”

Rumi gasped, “(Y/n), that was years ago! That was when we were kids!”

You grimaced harder, “I know… Sorry…”

Rumi waved her hands, “No, don’t apologize! I should be the one apologizing! I never even noticed!”

Rumi was mentally beating herself up. How could she not have noticed that her sister scratched herself when she was stressed or anxious? To the point where you were injuring yourself? To the point where you scarred yourself?! A few tears slipped from her eyes, her teeth grit and her chest aching. Mira and Zoey were not much better.

She sighed, calming herself down and reminding herself that this wasn’t about her. “What can I do to help?” She asked instead.

Zoey perked up, her face determined, “Yeah, we’ll do whatever you need.”

“Do you want snacks?” Mira offered and Zoey nodded eagerly.

You smiled, the tight knot in your chest that had been weaving tighter and tighter over the past few weeks finally relented. “I don’t really notice I’m scratching so if you do, just give me something to fidget with instead or remind me to bandage my arms so I can’t break skin,” You explained to them. Zoey went as far as to whip out a notepad and take notes for herself. And Rumi was filling her Amazon cart with different fidget toys and even some fidget rings. Mira was the calmest, just taking your words to memory.

Now that you were less stressed, you were able to actually enjoy your time with your boyfriends and your sisters as they gravitated closer to you, soothing you.

“Thank you guys.”

I love you all.

Outtakes:

…

You: *showing the slightest sign of stress*

Jinu: *pulling things out of his fanny pack* “I have eight different kinds of fidgets, bandages, and nail clippers.”

You: *wide eyed but touched* “Thanks…” *takes a fidget*

…

Polytr/x: “We have failed our role as the older sisters…”

You: “Uhm…Zoey’s younger than me…?”

Polytr/x: “Failed.”

…

Bobby: “Uh, why is there a nest of blankets, bandages, pillows, and fidgets in the corner…?”

Polytr/x and Saja Simps: “Can’t you read the sign?”

The Sign: “(Y/n)’s Stress Nest” “Sacred Ground” “Do Not Enter”

Bobby: “Okayyyy…”

Bobby: “Does she need snacks stocked in there?”

(Y/n) Protection Squad: “One of us. One of us. One of us.”

…

Tag List: @brights-place @itmechaosartist @reni502 @chin-chii @cultish-corner @enerofairy @mama-m1na @akariis4snowball @gremlinartstudio @shynotded @shadowmoonlight0604 @omgsuperstarg @neigesprincess @sleep-7372 @hurts-my-brain @kiwibackie @gh0stied3ath @naysha140 @theferretkids @lelantyuu @sexyindependentdowntospendit @hornehlittleweeblet2 @moonymoo1 @moochiwoochi @cheolright @crescent-z @prorpy @mey-archive @cami1qx @nerdalicios @xxsadlovexx @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @blackheart34 @anonymousewrites @scarletrosesposts @justanindiangirl12 @beexboo @tatsuri-zomushiki @call-me-nyxx @queenofviolenceandnerds @randomfan218-blog @jaybbygrl @unholycheesesnack @ocean-mochi @iviorienne @confusedparticle @otakusimp1 @nosbaby07 @fries11 @ri-eveowe @1950schick @libdarkheart @yourjustassaneasiamx @the-bookish-artist @anduinandwrathionlover @eternallyrosyfire @lysira340 @lansy-4 @strayharmony943 @maximumtrashchild @bleufu1 @minepugs @valeriele3 @arieslucy @nisarelle @suzieq1948374 @esposamultifandom

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reallytoosublime · 2 years ago

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sillyquzes · 1 day ago

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you always die before i can say it

cw- Alternate universe!!, hurt/comfort, arranged marriage, some spoilers, tension and angst (?), unprotected sex, manhandling, fingering, cunnilungus, missionary, tummy bulge, aftercare and not proof-read Nd this the first time I'm writing smut 😭

The wedding veil is woven from the highest quality silk, threads harvested from the holy hands of the demigod of romance herself. The gown, ceremonial and stiff, is stitched with prayers in golden ink, the same shade of the chrysos blood.

They say marriage in Amphoreus is sacred, but rarely because of love though. most marriages in Amphoreus are about contracts and mutual gain.

You were chosen to be wed to Phainon, the world-bearing chrysos heir. Your name is etched onto some marble slab right after your birth.

Phainon.

Of course, you have heard of him. Everyone has. Charming, Strong, , Gold-blooded or Cold-blooded, who knows?

And now that man is your damn husband

The word tastes foreign. You’re not afraid. But you are… unsettled. Not because you’re marrying a stranger. That much was always expected. You trained for this, studied noble etiquette, practiced how to kneel without wrinkling your gown. You recited the vows until they bled from your mouth like scripture.

What unsettles you is the way he looked at you when you entered the chamber, like he knew you too well.

Not in the vague, political way nobles know each other through connections and rumors.

But intimately, like he’s seen you smile in private. Heard you whisper. Heard your soft pleas.

You try not to shudder as the officiant begins speaking in the tongue of the sacred titans, and you force yourself to look at Phainon again.

He stands unnaturally still, hands folded behind his back, clad in the suit which complements him a little all too well—obsidian and silver. His eyes, a dull ocean blue lacking the shine of the moonlit waters which you adored, do not move from yours. One can not deny that he is certainly fine asf

You wonder if he’s even listening

Then his gaze lowers to your hands.

You immediately freeze up, feeling the hair on your body stand up and your ears heaten up.

There’s heat there. Brief, scorching. Something in his eyes breaks for a fraction of a second, like a tidal wave threatening to breach a dam.

You remind yourself that this is routine. This marriage is simply contractual. You’re not meant to feel anything.

“Do you accept the terms of this union?” the officiant asks.

You swallow your saliva before finally speaking, “I do.”

Phainon doesn't respond right away. He just stared at you. someone give him brown contact lenses im shivering my timbers

And then, in a voice too soft to belong in a room like this: “I do.”

The officiant nods. Seals it. The pricked golden blood of your now beloved on the contract complements the deep red of yours

(One week after the ceremony)

You hadn’t expected much of him.

No one had told you that outright, of course, but the message had been clear enough in the way your tutors glossed over his personality and emphasized your posture instead. Your instructors spoke of duty, of expectation, of Chrysos' legacy. But never of warmth. Never of affection. And from the few conversations you’d had with Phainon in the first three days of your shared existence when you were teenagers, it had seemed like he was perfectly happy to uphold that cold, crystalline distance.

So you had made peace with it. You’d built the polite mask. The one that bowed and smiled and listened, and never expected him to ask you how your day had been

And for a while, he didn’t.

In those first days, he was distant. Not unkind, but cold in that chillingly efficient way Amphorean nobility mastered before they could walk. He would speak to you only when it was required. Your attempts at conversation—small things, really, like “Do you always rise before the second sun?” or “Do you like this blend of tea?” were often met with vague nods, faint grunts, or complete silence. He wasn’t cruel in those terms. But he wasn’t there. That was even more cruel.

And then suddenly one day, he was.

It began subtly. You nearly missed it, actually.

At breakfast, you reached for the honey spoon and noticed his gaze flick toward your wrist with concern. You thought you imagined it—until he spoke, in the awfully high tone of his

“You’re favoring your left hand. What happened??” You blinked at him, caught off guard. “…I burned my right last night. Just a little. I didn’t think you noticed.”

Well, you accidentally injured your hand by punching the wall in anger, but not that you would ever admit it. The second came later that evening. You were walking through the golden-lit halls toward the library when he appeared beside you—not from the opposite corridor, but from the shadows of a stone pillar. Like he had been waiting, sort of like a puppy waiting for their owner to return.

“I thought you were in the training grounds,” you said, voice kept carefully neutral.

“I was,” he replied. “But then what's the point if I can't flex to my dear wife :(”

You didn’t know what to say to that other than to just stare wide-eyed, feeling the tip of your ears burn and redden up.

But it only got stranger from there.

By the fourth day, you’d stopped being able to move freely through the palace without eventually encountering him. Not in an overt way. He never imposed himself or forced himself on you. But he was there. When you turned down a hall. When you stepped into the balcony garden. When you brushed your hair back and thought about the sun, it was as if the thought itself summoned him. When you briefly mentioned the fact that you like sun, a sun tattoo which you never knew of had been exposed on the crook of his neck with his shirt exposing his well-built collarbones.

You try to rationalize it.

Maybe this was just… politeness. Maybe you had been misled by his initial coldness, and this was the true Phainon. Perhaps, now that the marriage was finalized, he was merely making the effort to play the part of a proper husband.

Maybe. But then you’d wake in the morning to find the curtains already drawn—not by the servants, no, they would never touch your private quarters. It was him. You knew it was him. You could smell his cologne lingering too faintly in the air, like crushed vanilla and sweet tea leaves.

Another time, you mentioned missing the old garden that your childhood estate once had. The next morning, you looked out your chamber window and the entire palace greenhouse had been refitted with the exact same floral arrangements. The blue hydrangeas. The delicate roses. Even the silverleaf vines braided around the arch.

Next morning he greeted you at breakfast now, every morning, with a radiant sort of cheer that felt jarringly out of place in a palace built from marble and duty.

“Did you sleep well?” he’d ask, eyes crinkling as he leaned forward across the table, like you were a childhood friend he hadn’t seen in ages. His tone was lilting, almost teasing. “I heard the second moon stayed full all night. Maybe it blessed your dreams? Or was it the sun that blessed you? :D ”

You nodded, tentatively, unsure how to respond.

He didn’t stop smiling.

Sometimes you caught him just… looking.

You’d be walking through the hall, pacing out your next speech for the council, when you’d glance sideways and see him leaning against a stone column, arms crossed, hair tied back messily like he hadn’t bothered fixing it since sparring with Lord Mydeimos.

He didn’t say a word.

Just watched you. Head tilted. Like you were art worth billions

And then, when you paused, when you opened your mouth to say something, anything—he’d flash that infuriatingly lovely smile and say something stupid like, “Your left shoe’s a bit loose.”

You would blink. Look down. See that, indeed, it was. No wonder you were walking clumsily today. You bend down to remove the unfit shoes from your feet, and then suddenly, he had scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all—like a prince from some ridiculous, overly saccharine romance novel that your childhood handmaid used to smuggle under your pillows in hopes for you to try those tactics with the child Phainon.

“What are you—?! Phainon!”

“Can’t have my wife tripping and faceplanting before council,” he grinned, his voice a mockingly exaggerated whisper as he cradled you in his arms. “That’d be bad for image. What would the old geezers think?” “That I’ve married a lunatic,” you snapped, flustered beyond comprehension. “Put me down.”

“Sure,” he chirped cheerfully, “right after I carry you to the sitting room and get you a new pair of shoes.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“You’re pretty light,” he countered, and you swore to the titans that if he wasn’t your legally-bound husband with an entire planet at his back, you would’ve smacked the smug grin off his face.

well... who says you can't? Your hand pitifully punches his chest, but the only reaction you got was a huge grin from your husband and a sudden reddening of embarrassment from yourself. Your traitorous hands gripped the front of his training shirt, trying to stabilize yourself as you felt the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms. One was wrapped firmly around your back and the other curled under your knees. His skin was sun-warmed, faintly smelling of steel and faint vanilla now.

His muscles flexed with each step. He was so warm, but not in an overwhelming way like the spring sunshine, and strong. Filthy thoughts clouding your mind on what he could do to you with that strength and-

You bit down on your cheek hard. Just to focus on the sting, to stop the swirl of confusion and butterflies and every other damn thing his nearness ignited in you.

“Where did you even come from?” you mumbled, unable to help yourself as your eyes flicked toward the corridor behind you. “You weren’t at my side five minutes ago.”

Phainon just laughed, his stupidly lovely ocean eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m the world-bearer, wife. I show up wherever I’m needed.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your husband.”

That word again.

It didn’t taste so foreign this time.

When he finally set you down gently, like you were carved from glass, he knelt in front of you and began adjusting the fit of your shoes. His fingers were sure, calloused, and surprisingly gentle. He didn’t meet your eyes this time, just focused on the buckle, humming softly to himself. Something old. A lullaby, maybe. One that prickled at the edges of your memory, it felt very similar.

When he was done, he looked up at you, still crouched low.

“There,” he said. “Fit for council now.”

You stared down at him. This strange, strange man. Phainon the golden heir. Phainon the storm-fisted warrior. Phainon your absurd, ridiculous, soft-handed husband.

“…Why are you doing this?” you whispered, voice more fragile than you meant it to be.

“Doing what?”

“This. All of it.” You gestured vaguely at the air between you, secretly hoping that his response would explain and calm the heat pooling down your body. “You never acted like this before. Not when we were younger. Not when we first met.”

His expression changed. Just slightly. The edges of his smile curled inward, softened.

"People change."

He definitely had an ulterior motive.

No one becomes this devoted in a week. Not when, for years, he looked at you like one more duty to be managed. Not when, as a boy, he’d barely spared you more than a nod. People change, yes—but not like this. Not overnight. Not with this intensity. Not with this… unspoken ache.

You narrow your eyes.

He stood slowly, and for once, he didn’t flash that mocking grin. He didn’t deflect. He didn’t tease. He simply looked at you and flashed you a smile again. That same smile that he uses to escape something, how do you know? He would always attempt to use that infamous smile of his on Professor Anaxagoras, but it never worked.

Your throat felt tight. Not from sadness—no, you’d learned long ago how to school that away. But from the quiet, dull ache of inevitability. Of disappointment. Of waking up from a dream you didn’t realize you were having.

“…Right,” you said after a beat. You smiled, small, polite. The kind of smile you’d give a visiting noble who asked too many questions, or a war general trying to barter peace with veiled threats from the other side. A smile that meant nothing but silence. “Of course.”

Phainon tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for more. As if he hadn’t quite expected you to drop it so quickly.

But you did. You had to.

Because asking again would mean hoping. And hope, for you, had always been a mistake.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, watching. The shadows of the hall fell soft against his cheekbones, painting him in that same eerie glow the temple’s moons always cast. He looked like a statue. The one whom you wanted to worship.

And still, he tried to soften it. That stupid, lovely smile.

“Sleep early tonight,” he said eventually, stepping back into the corridor. “Council starts at dawn, and you need the energy to deal with that Wench Caenis.”

You only nodded. You didn’t watch him leave. You didn’t have to. You knew the sound of his footsteps now. The way his boots pressed against the marble. The shift of his weight when he turned. The subtle creak of the door as it closed behind him.

Only after he was gone did you let out a long, shaky breath.

You had hoped for more. That was the truth of it. You sank into the stone bench by the window, watching the wind ripple the garden leaves outside. You stayed there long after the moons had fully risen. Long after the last torch had been extinguished in the main halls.

Not crying. Not thinking. Just waiting for the ache in your chest to pass.

It didn’t.

Because what was more painful than hatred, more confusing than love… was being wanted for the wrong reasons. Being kissed with an agenda.

He knew he shouldn’t touch you. Not yet. Not like that.

Not until the world turned once more, not until he was sure this time would be different.

But Phainon had always been selfish.

That was the truth of it. For all the people who called him the golden heir, the world-bearer, the man of law and legacy, none of them had ever seen the core of him—dark and clawing and desperate. Desperate in a way that didn’t match the cold angles of his public mask, in a way he had buried lifetimes ago.

And yet, there he was again. Standing just beyond the threshold of the corridor, hidden by shadow, watching you sit by the window, arms curled around yourself as if your own skin couldn’t be trusted to hold you. Moonlight wove silver threads through your hair. Your expression was unreadable. You didn’t cry.

You never cried.

Even in death, you never made a sound. Phainon’s jaw clenched. In one life, you had died in an assassination by that wench Caenis. In another, it was that damn black-cloaked moon bastard. And once—once, it had been him. Not directly. But with silence. With neglect. With the hope of avoiding, you would keep you safe. You had died in that life not with blood, but with resignation. With your back turned to him, staring out a window just like this one.

You had always loved windows.

In every life, no matter what, you always stare at the sky.

And he always ended up watching you.

Phainon pressed his back to the wall and exhaled, slow and quiet. His hand drifted to the sun-shaped tattoo at the crook of his neck, hidden once more beneath his collar. He hadn’t intended for you to see it so early. But the moment you smiled faintly at that flower arrangement in the garden, the same ones you used to plant in the old timeline when your hands were still callused and he was too much of a coward to say your name

He showed the sun tattoo to you, for you, it seemed like he showed it to the world. In a way, he is right, though, after all. You are his world

"This time, I’ll keep her alive."

Even if he had to fake the marriage. Even if he had to pretend to fall slowly, like a fool playing at affection.

But it wasn’t pretend, was it?

He was already too far gone.

Even now, he wanted to go back into the chamber. To kneel beside you, brush your hair back, tell you everything—that he had loved you in every cycle, that this life, this union, was the only one he had dared to interfere with directly. That every part of this palace had been reshaped to your tastes because he knew them.

He only wanted to kiss those sweet lips of yours; he wanted to kneel and kiss the inside of your thighs, he wanted to suckle on your clit, he wanted his saliva and your essence mixed all over his face and your thighs, he wanted your thighs to shake, he wanted to suck up all your sounds, all your sweet whimpers and moans and to feel your fingers in his scalp screaming his name.

He wanted to say, "I love you so much, my dear beloved."

But you had always died before he could say it.

But this time, you wouldn’t lift a finger.

This time, he would bear the world so you could rest.

He liked seeing you tired. Not from fear or grief or survival. But from things like reading too long, or laughing too hard. He liked how you tucked your feet under you on the garden bench, how your hair always curled slightly at the temple when you were exhausted, how you never finished your second cup of tea no matter how much you insisted you could.

He liked watching your shadow move through the halls. His hand would twitch toward you when you passed—wanting to reach, to hold, to kiss, and how he wished that those hands would cup the tainted face of his.

You’d been burned before. By versions of him and by his incompotency.

But this him… this one would be perfect for you.

A husband worthy of your trust. A man so attentive, so devoted, that your heart would melt without realizing it. He’d make it seem effortless, so that when you fell in love with him, you’d think it was your choice. Your will. Not something he carved into fate with the blood of a titan. He was patient now.

He collected your empty teacups, examined the pattern of your lipstick against the porcelain, and chose your favorite blend before you could even think of it. When you spoke, he listened. Not just to the words, but the way you breathed between them. The way your fingers fidgeted, the curve of your lips when you were holding back a lie.

He even learned to do that darn puppy plead, just the way you liked. He practiced in front of the mirror.

Because gods, he wanted you happy.

Happy. His happy little wife.

He wanted to see you glow. In this life, he would give you everything that every other life denied you. A garden full of your favorite flowers. Silk bedsheets in your favorite hue. A husband who memorized every line of your face and made you laugh at breakfast and stayed awake through the night just to make sure no bad dream ever reached you.

Phainon had once been a soldier, a role-model, a god-kissed heir of the Chrysos. But all of that meant nothing. Because in every timeline, the only title he ever wanted, the only one that mattered—was yours.

Yours to call. Yours to curse. Yours to kiss. Yours to fuck.

He had lived lifetimes without your love. This one, he would not.

This time, he would coax it gently, sweetly. He would cradle your heart like glass in his hands.

Tomorrow, he’d surprise you with pastries from your childhood province. He knew the exact ones you liked. The honey lemon-soaked marble cake your late aunt used to bake.

Tomorrow, he’d smile again. Tease you. Maybe carry you down another hallway, just to hear you swear at him with fire in your voice and a blush on your face.

You skipped breakfast.

You told yourself it wasn’t deliberate—that you were just tired, that the meetings had run late, that you hadn’t been hungry. But when you passed the dining hall and saw him already seated, waiting and fidgeting with his fingers with a lovesick smile on his face, your heart curled into itself like a fist. And instead of entering, you turned away with your head down, pretending you hadn’t seen.

You still smiled. Of course you smiled. It wasn’t like you wanted a war in the house—gods knew how fragile everything was already—but that smile never reached your eyes anymore. Not the way it did on the wedding day, when everything was still so bright and confusing and painfully hopeful.

No, now it was just… easier. Easier to pretend, easier to nod and say “thank you” when he pulled out your chair or handed you your favorite tea, easier to swallow the sudden knot in your throat when he looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Because that couldn’t be true. It shouldn’t be true.

Phainon didn’t look at you that way before the wedding. You remembered. You knew. Back then, every conversation was clipped and careful, formal even in private. He rarely asked about your day. Never touched you if he didn’t have to. He was dutiful, at best. Indifferent, most days. Cold, sometimes. A contract, after all, didn’t require affection. Just presence. Just heirs.

So what changed?

That question haunted you more than you cared to admit.

Because no one changed this quickly. No one woke up one morning and decided to act like they were in love. Especially not him.

You could see it in the way he lingered near doorways, hesitating like a man too afraid to knock. You could hear it in his voice, softer than silk when he asked if you needed anything. You could feel it when his fingers brushed yours and lingered—just a moment too long to be innocent.

It terrified you.

You’d never been loved like that before. Not truly. And certainly not by someone who had once treated you like another duty, another requirement.

So you did what you always did when something became too fragile. You retreated.

Your walks in the garden changed hours. He’d arrive with that little hopeful gleam in his eye, only to find empty benches and untouched tea. You took to eating dinner in your study under the excuse of paperwork. You made sure your warded doors were properly sealed before bed, a ritual you hadn’t kept up since the first week of marriage.

You didn’t hate him. That was the worst part. If you hated him, it would be simple.

No, it was the not knowing that broke you.

You didn’t want to be a fool who reached out, only to find out later that the warmth was just a tool. That it was manipulation dressed up in affection. That maybe, just maybe, this too was part of the contract—something he was fulfilling for the sake of reputation, or power, or something even worse.

It had to be something like that.

So you started saying less. Moving quieter. Laughing less.

And Phainon… he noticed.

He didn’t push, not at first. He remained gentle. Almost painfully so. Still pulled your chair out. Still offered your favorite cloak when it rained. Still watched you from across the hallway with that same haunted look, like he was holding something in his chest that was too heavy for words.

But he didn’t say anything.

Until one morning, as you passed him in the hallway and offered your usual strained, polite smile, he caught your wrist. Gently. Carefully.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked, voice low and far too sincere.

You blinked, startled. “No. Of course not.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

You swallowed. Your throat felt tight. “I’m not.”

“Don’t lie.” His fingers didn’t tighten, but his gaze sharpened. “You haven’t looked at me in a week.”

You pulled your hand free, stepping back a little too fast. “I’ve just been busy. There’s nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong,” he echoed, voice flat now. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes..they looked like something was splintering beneath the surface.

You couldn’t do this.

You weren’t strong enough to ask what he wanted. Weren’t brave enough to hear him confirm that yes, he was just doing his part. That all of this. this closeness, this softness was just another act to maintain the illusion of a happy union.

So instead, you did the cowardly thing, which Phainon would always do.

You smiled again. And said, “Don’t worry about me.”

Then turned and walked away before he could say anything else.

Phainon didn’t move from the corridor for a long time.

He stood still, hand limp at his side where your wrist had just been. The emptiness there felt sharper than it should have. His shoulders were too tense, chest hollow like a bell that had never been rung. He should’ve expected this..gods, why didn’t he expect this? People don’t forget how they were treated. And he hadn’t exactly been kind, hadn’t been present, hadn’t even been human to you during those earlier years.

And now?

Now he was trying too late. Giving too much, too fast. Like pouring water into a cracked cup, hoping it’d hold.

Of course you were pulling away. Of course you didn’t trust him.

And he didn’t blame you.

But knowing that didn’t make the ache stop gnawing at the edges of his chest, didn’t make the silence at dinner any less crushing, didn’t make the distant smile on your lips feel any less like a dagger stuck under his ribs.

He ended up at the training grounds of Castrum Kremnos. It was empty. Saved for the half-curled figure already there, manspreading in a chair like he’d been expecting him all along. Mydeimos didn’t even glance up from the book he was pretending to read.

"You can read?"

“…You look like a kicked puppy,” Mydeimos grunted, before shutting the book and keeping it on the chair beside him.

Phainon didn’t answer. Just dragged a chair back with a hollow scrape and dropped into it.

The silence stretched between them like a storm cloud. It was ridiculous—Mydeimos wasn’t exactly the ideal confidant. He didn’t provide emotional support. But he was a good advisor.

“She’s avoiding me,” Phainon murmured finally, staring up at the arc of the stars through the skylight.

Mydeimos gave a long sigh through his nose. “Gee. I wonder why.”

“…I don’t know what I did wrong.”

This time, Mydeimos did look over. His eyes narrowed. “You mean besides the years of emotional negligence and emotional distance ?”

Phainon flinched.

“…I didn’t mean to treat her like that. Back then.” He rubbed his face with both hands, voice thick. “I thought… if I kept things distant, it would be easier. For her. For both of us.”

“Easier to keep her from hurting you, you mean.”

Phainon went silent.

“Easier to keep you from feeling anything real,” Mydeimos muttered. “Until you woke up one morning after the wedding and realized you loved her. Congratulations, by the way. That realization only took, what, ten years?”

“I do love her,” Phainon snapped, softer than anger but too raw to be anything else. “I—I love her, I do. It’s not just the contract. Not anymore. I just… I don’t know how to show her. I’m trying. Titans, I’m trying.”

His voice cracked.

And then, quietly, Mydeimos barely caught it—

“…Why won’t she look at me?”

It was pathetic. He knew it was. The great and noble Phainon, reduced to trembling fingertips and broken breath because the woman he loved wouldn’t meet his gaze. Because the only person who had ever made him feel tethered to this world now drifted further away with each day, and he was too late to stop it.

He buried his face in his hands.

“Why did I wait so long?” His shoulders shook. “Why didn’t I say something sooner—before the wedding..before all this, why did I wait until she already stopped believing me?”

For once, Mydeimos didn’t make an immediate retort.

He let Phainon’s sobs and breath escape without mockery.

Then, slowly, gruffly, he reached over and gave Phainon’s arm a small, awkward pat.

“…She probably thinks it’s not real,” Mydeimos muttered, voice lower. “That you’re only acting sweet because it’s convenient. Because the contract’s signed now.”

“I don’t want convenience,” Phainon whispered. “I want her.”

“Then stop treating her like someone you’re trying to win back and start treating her like someone who already matters.”

Phainon wiped his eyes.

“…Do you think she’ll ever believe me?”

Mydeimos sighed again and leaned back in the chair. “You’re gonna have to earn that. Every damn day.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Well, Phainon was now drunk.

Very drunk.

The type of drunk that made his usually elegant speech slur into incomprehensible, soggy babbles. The kind that replaced his usual gliding footsteps with staggering shuffles and dramatic floor collapses. He was lying in the middle of the training grounds now—shirt half untucked, hair a wind-blown disaster, one shoe missing—and loudly reciting what Mydeimos could only assume was meant to be a love poem.

“…And I said—hic—my wife—my beautiful, ghosting wife—she smells like spring and vanillaa!—she—she gives me so mcuh pain :(”

He attempted to sit up dramatically to emphasize the word pain, but gravity had different ideas. His arm flailed out in a sweeping arc and he toppled back onto the ground like a fallen tree. A very sad, very loud, very dumb tree.

Mydeimos stood nearby with his arms crossed, a twitch in his jaw, looking one step away from calling pest control.

“You’re lucky I don’t just bury you in this training pit and call it fertilizer, HKS.” he muttered.

Phainon sniffled. “I tried to write her a letter. A letter, Mydeimos. With calligraphy and metaphors. I rhymed ‘love’ with ‘dove.’ I’m not okay.”

“Clearly.”

“I think—hic—I think she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Mydeimos muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just smarter than you and has a memory longer than a week.”

Phainon lay still for a beat. Then, with the solemn dignity of a man who’d had six glasses of wine and no sense of shame, he whispered, “What if I duel the sun for her affection?”

“You duel the sun, and I’m going to marry her,” Mydeimos snapped.

Phainon gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

“I absolutely would. Out of spite.”

Phainon dramatically flopped again and groaned into the dirt. “She won’t even look at me…” “Because you’re in the dirt. And drunk.” “She’s my moon!” Mydeimos kicked some dust toward him. “And you’re a dumbass.” There was a long silence. Then a quiet, pitiful whimper. “…Do you think she’d at least come to my funeral?” Mydeimos turned, fully done. “I’m going to get a bucket of water and a shovel. If you’re still like this in ten minutes, I’m planting you next to the cabbages.”Phainon wept. Louder.

Dragging Phainon was like hauling a wet velvet curtain that wouldn’t shut up. He clung to Mydeimos’s shoulder like a damsel in distress, rambling into his ear the entire way about how your voice made flowers bloom, how he should’ve memorized every word you ever said like sacred scripture.

“Mydeimos, wait—wait—I forgot her favorite tea,” Phainon whimpered mid-step, only to be yanked forward with zero grace.

“She doesn’t want your goddamn tea. She wants space,” Mydeimos snapped, gripping him by the back of the collar like an unruly pup.

“But I made her a poem, should I recite it again? You didn’t let me finish earlier. ‘Her silence is a blade that cuts my soul—’”

“I will literally hurl you into a lake,” Mydeimos growled, kicking open the gate to your residence.

Phainon gasped. “You wouldn’t. This outfit is imported silk.”

“You’re covered in dirt, Phainon. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Despite his weight and whining, Mydeimos manhandled him up the steps, muttering curses in three dead languages including Kremnoan, occasionally giving Phainon a little jostle when he tried to slump dramatically against every column, sighing like a tragic widow.

At one point, Phainon tried to claw at the ivy near your window and whisper, “Do you think she’s watching me suffer? Maybe she likes it. Maybe she’s a sadist—”

Mydeimos didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a broom resting near the door and whacked him with it.

“OW—WHY—”

By the time they reached your door, Phainon had managed to tangle himself in Mydeimos’s cape, sob three more times, and threaten to write you another letter “in blood, if necessary.” Mydeimos dropped him on your doorstep like a sack of emotional garbage and knocked, hard.

You opened it a moment later, blinking at the sight—Phainon half-collapsed on your doormat, cheeks flushed from wine and crying, mumbling your name like it was both an oath and a prayer. You sighed tiredly but you were shocked aswell.

“…What happened!?” you asked in shock, gaze flicking from your drunk husband to the thoroughly unamused man beside him.

Mydeimos adjusted his gloves, tone the picture of politeness despite the vein twitching near his temple. “Your husband drank an entire bottle of Okheman wine, and tried to fight..dromas."

“…Right.”

You crouched and started dragging Phainon in by his wrists, ignoring his dramatic attempts to cling to the doorframe like he was being separated from his soulmate.

“I said I was sorry!” he sniffled. “Don’t avoid me again, wife—please, I’ll give you my sword, my titles, my soul—”

You would be lying if you said you weren't amused and flustered but you could only mutter, “You tripped over your own feet and cried on a marble bust, calm down"

Phainon whimpered and rolled over onto your hallway rug like a wilted flower.

Mydeimos raised an eyebrow. “You’re…surprisingly good at handling him without violence.”

“I’ve dealt with an unreasonable grandmother,” you replied, brushing hair from your face. “This is marginally worse.”

He huffed—something nearly like a laugh. “He’s been miserable,” Mydeimos said after a beat, voice quieter. “Hasn’t trained properly in a week. Barely eats. Keeps talking about how you won’t look him in the eye.”

You glanced in your room where Phainon had successfully face-planted into a pile of your clothes. “…I see.”

He looked at you, arms crossed, expression softer than you’d expected. “But for what it’s worth—he’s not faking this. He’s a pathetic actor.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the doorframe, rubbing your temple.

“Thank you,” you said eventually. “For bringing him back. For not throwing him into the sea.”

“Wasn’t for his sake,” Mydeimos muttered, before turning away with a wave. “Get some rest. Both of you.”

"Thank you..Lord?"

"Mydei."

"Thank you, Mydei"

“I was going to leave you a letter,” he mumbled, voice thick, slurred. “But Mydeimos said that’s what cowards do.”

“I would’ve preferred the letter,” you muttered under your breath.

You grabbed a blanket. Not out of compassion—at least that’s what you told yourself—but because the idiot was shivering.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Phainon slurred suddenly. You froze. One hand still caught in the blanket.

He blinked at you, eyes glassy and half-lidded, but there was something underneath—something old and heavy and hurting. Something that cut too deep for alcohol to dull out.

“…You don’t need to pretend like you care,” you said quietly. “I know what this marriage is.”

Phainon didn’t laugh. Not this time. He looked at you like you’d struck him.

“You think I’m pretending?”

You said nothing. Pulled the blanket over him and moved to stand, but his hand caught your wrist—clumsy, but desperate.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered.

“Let go—”

“No.” His grip tightened. “You don’t understand. I—I've watched you die.”

You went still, your breath stopped and you swear your hair stood up.

“…You should sleep,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

"Please...(Y/N) p-please... don't leave, you're the reason I'm here, you're the reason I can keep hope in these painful fucking cycles...please.."

And though your heart ached and your throat burned with all the words you didn’t know how to say—you simply pat his back as he falls asleep and walk away to the couch to fall asleep.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

When you opened your eyes, it was morning.

And your first thought was: Why does my pillow feel like it breathes?

Your eyes fluttered open fully, lashes brushing the softness of something warm. The light was gentle, soft gold through half-drawn curtains. There was a weight wrapped around your waist. Another draped over your thigh. And something..no, someone was pressed against your chest, face buried there like you were the safest thing in the world.

“…Phainon?” you croaked.

He didn’t respond. Only burrowed in deeper.

His silver hair tickled your collarbone, messy and unstyled, a far cry from his usual immaculate self. Just the soft, rhythmic puff of breath against your skin and the occasional, sleepy twitch of his fingers curled into your shirt.

You blinked at the ceiling, completely and utterly paralyzed. Not because he was heavy. Not because you didn’t want to move.

But because you didn’t know why he was here. How you ended up in bed with him when you’d fallen asleep on the couch.

You shifted slowly in attempt to leave.

He made a sound. A low, almost pitiful whine

You swallowed hard.

Your fingers twitched where they hovered over his shoulder. You didn’t touch him. Not yet. You didn’t know what this meant.But gods, how easy it would be to give in. To sink back into the warmth. To pretend, just for a moment, that everything he said last night was real. That he wasn't drunk. That this wasn’t something born out of fear of losing you again.

Your heart thudded against your ribs as he breathed in deeper, chest rising against yours, arms tightening.

And all you could do was lie there, trapped in his arms and your own racing thoughts.

Phainon stirred with a soft groan, brow twitching as sunlight nudged at his eyelids. His mouth tasted like regret and cheap wine. His head ached like a bitch because of the Hangover.

But none of that mattered.Because the warmth he’d clung to—the softness pressed against him all night—was gone.

His eyes shot open.

The bed was half-empty. Sheets still creased where your body had been. Still warm.

His heart dropped. His hands clenched the blanket for a breath too long before he sat up, rubbing a hand down his face. He scanned the room like you might be hiding in the drapes or behind the fireplace, and when you weren’t, something ugly and raw twisted in his chest.

Of course. Avoiding him again.

You always leave.

It took him barely a minute to find you.

You were in the study, curled on the couch again with a half-read report in your lap, eyes stubbornly refusing to look his way.

“Why,” he said sharply, standing in the doorway, “are you doing this again?”

You stiffened. Didn't answer. Just kept reading, even though your hands trembled slightly at the edges.

His gaze darkened and something finally snapped.

“I am trying for you..” he said sternly in anger, striding across the room, “and you keep running like I’m some kind of curse.”

“Phainon—” you started, already standing, but too late.

He reached you in three steps and lifted you clean off the floor.

“Put me down,” you snapped, swatting at his shoulder—but it was like hitting a wall of sculpted granite. Infuriatingly warm, shirt slightly wrinkled from sleep, and entirely unmoved by your struggle.

“No,” he said flatly, voice low and tense. “We’re not doing this anymore.”

When he kicked open the door to his room, he didn’t drop you.

Just strode inside, closed the door behind him with a deliberate click, and finally, finally set you down on the edge of his bed like you were the most delicate thing in the world.

But his eyes? They weren’t gentle at all

They were hurt and bloodshot

“You don’t get to vanish on me,” he said, softer now, as if the rage had drained into something heavier. “Not after last night. Not after what I said. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Your throat tightened.

“I watched you die,” he spat, voice cracking, “burning, bleeding, crushed, cursed—every fucking version of you, I buried. Again and again. And this time—this time I thought if I could just—just be better—you’d stay.”

He turned, finally meeting your gaze.

“I love you.”

That broke something in you.

You stood, shaky, hands clenched by your sides. “And what am I supposed to do with that, Phainon?”

“Do you even see how insane this sounds?” your voice wavered, rising, trembling with something you’d buried so long it came out all at once. “You never gave a damn about me before. I was just your responsibility. another name on your list. You barely even looked at me.”

Phainon’s mouth parted, eyes widening. “That’s not—”

“—And now you love me?” you laughed, wet and sharp. “Now you start smiling and acting gentle and calling it love? You expect me to believe that after years of treating me like a ghost in your house?”

Tears burned your eyes before you could stop them.

“I thought—I thought maybe I was just unlikable. Maybe I was the problem. And then you come back from the dead or the past or whatever the hell this is and suddenly you’re devoted and soft and… obsessed. Like you’re playing a part.”

You choked on your breath, finally breaking.

“What do you want from me, Phainon?” you whispered. “Is that it? Is that why you’re acting like this now? Because you want something?”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Phainon just stood there.Frozen. Pale.

His eyes were wide. His hands had fallen limp at his sides. And for once—once—that storm of intensity in him didn’t crackle with rage or passion or conviction.It shattered.And all that was left was guilt. Just Hollow guilt.

“…I didn’t know,” he breathed. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. You just sank back down to sit on the edge of the bed, trembling, your tears hot and silent.

You didn’t mean to hit him.

But your fists were balled up and shaking and they found their way to his chest anyway, weak and desperate. Not hard enough to hurt, not really—but enough to demand he feel something.

Anything.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t flinch, didn’t raise a hand to block, didn’t try to calm you down.

He just let you. And you broke apart there, sobbing into his chest, fists pounding once twice, before they faltered and gripped the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like it was the only solid thing left in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

“I hate you,” you cried into him, voice wrecked. “I hate you, I hate that you ignored me for so long and now—now—you’re just this, like it means nothing. I hate that I want to believe you but I can’t.”

His arms wrapped around you so gently it nearly shattered you all over again.

“I know,” Phainon whispered. “I know. Titans, I know.”

You felt his chin rest lightly on the crown of your head, his breath shaky.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he murmured, words quiet and thick with guilt. “But I need you to know. You deserve that much.”

You just shook your head into his chest, clinging to him harder. You didn’t know if it was to hear the truth or to stop yourself from slipping away again.

“I’ve regressed over a million times,” he said. “Some lives, I remembered everything. Some I didn’t. But the constant. The only constant—was you.”

You stiffened.

"...And you kept dying."

He pulled back, cupping your face in his trembling hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were shining—deep, cerulean blue and glassy with unshed tears.

“I didn’t talk to you after the wedding because I was scared,” he admitted, voice raw.

“Scared I’d fuck it up again. Scared if I said the wrong thing, you’d leave. Or die. Or disappear before I got the chance to… to love you right.”

Your lip quivered, a sob caught in your throat.

“I didn’t ignore you because I didn’t care,” he said, firmer now. “I ignored you because I cared too much. And I thought I could wait. Thought I had more time to… ease into it. To prove myself slowly. But then I saw you giving up on me. And I panicked. I panicked.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking, close enough for your tears to fall onto his cheek.

"I don’t want anything from you,” he whispered. “I don’t want your power, your title, your kingdom—nothing. Just you. I want to learn your favorite songs. I want to know how you take your tea. I want to be the one you go to when your hands are cold or when you can’t sleep.”

You choked on a sound. Something between a sob and a laugh.

"I’m sorry,” Phainon said again, softer now. “For all the times I failed you. For all the lives I was too late. For this life, where I was too scared to look you in the eyes.”

Your breath caught. His eyes searched yours, desperate—like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, like he was afraid you’d vanish between one blink and the next.

And then—Then you surged forward and kissed him

It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t chaste—it was years of grief and longing and anger and guilt, poured into the press of mouths and the clash of teeth. His breath hitched sharply, like he couldn’t believe it was happening. And then Phainon melted.

He groaned low in his throat like a man starved, and his hands slid from your cheeks to your waist, tugging you closer like he physically couldn’t handle the distance anymore. Like he needed you now, in his arms, against his chest, lips bruising his in the best possible way.

"Titans, finally,” he breathed, breaking just for a second before diving back in, hungrier this time. His mouth was hot and urgent and desperate, like he was trying to make up for every stolen second he’d ever lost with you. His tongue slid against yours and you swore you felt him shudder.

He kissed like he was drowning. Like you were air. Like he was the damned luckiest man to ever live because you were here, still here, kissing him back.

You tugged his hair—he gasped into your mouth.

And he just whined.

Don’t leave,” he murmured between kisses, voice cracked open and boyish. “Don’t..don’t ever—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, breathless.

And now you seriously aren't going anywhere

Now you're on your back, thighs trembling and chest heaving up and down trying to breathe when you can as he suckles on your clit, sucking sounds making you whine in embarassment as you feel your cunt getting wetter and wetter.

He pulls away from your sweet cunt to look at you up, and god he looked filthy, your essence mixed with his saliva all over his mouth as he dives in again-

Your fingers pull at his soft silver hair resulting in him whining into your you, the vibrations of his voice making you squeal and shake even more

"Ph-Phai-!" before you could even cry out to him to slow down, he licks a broad stripe up your slit and slides it right back inside where it belongs.

"C'mon baby you can squeal louder than that cant cha?" He says looking up at you from between your thighs maintaining eye contact as his eyebrows as furrowed, god that fuckign tease.

"P-Phainon-?! O-oh Fuc-"

His tongue flexes a little before licking a straight line up your clit and then a Curve similar to that of an opposite c.

And then his rough, calloused thumb meets your pretty little bud before rubbing on it and licking your pussy at the same time. Making you shriek out and both hands fly to your mouth in order to muffle your cries.

You babble out incomprehensible nonsense begging for him to stop being a tease but then this poor guy was too busy between your legs spelling out his name on your swollen little clit :(

Then followed by he spells more letters but you are too drunk on pleasure to even differentiate and identify the letters, and then he ends it with a harsh suck on your clit and leaves it with a pop sound! Causing your gummy walls to clench at the emptiness begging for more stimulation from your husband.

"Good little girl, Tell me baby who's name did i spell out on his pretty cunt?" phainon whispers huskily, voice thick with lust before lightly slapping your abused pussy, looking at you with a nasty smirk.

"Y-yours!..P-Phai!~" Before you could even complete your incomprehensible sentence, he pulls your hips closer to his face and starts sucking on your clit harshly and one finger into your gummy walls

"phai- oh~!! i-i'm sho sensitive!!"

he hushes you and pecks the inside of your thighs before another finger enters inside you and then starts to move in a scissoring motion, making your already shaking thighs to shake even more and clamp shut around his face. Whining and crying out in pleasure

"Such a sweet voice you have beloved" phainon mutters into your cunt, pussydrunk on your slick and scent then reluctantly leaves before kissing your clit goodbye

You cry out at the sudden loss of contact and especially when your were so close, but phainon crashes his lips onto yours and starts to undress himself, first the shirt and then the pants.

He leans in peppering kisses all over your thigh to your belly and then leading upwards as his large calloused hands find the swell of your breasts before starting to play with them, rolling the hard buds of your nipples and then a soft wet muscle wraps around one of them.

Making you arch your back in sudden contact and then feeling the tip of his wet cock slobbering all over your swollen clit.

"C'mon baby you gotta stop moving around, gotta taste you and worship you"

Too bad you can't even protest to that because you're mewling at the nipple assault and your clit getting stimulated at the same time! :( and plus this meanie held your hands up your body, he's too strong.

He watches with dark and heavy-lidded eyes, sucking on your breasts, oh god your belly felt weird- and then right before the climax he pulled away with a cocky fucking grin on his face

"Aw I'm sorry baby were you close?"

You whine out by shaking your legs only to feel a thick sticky head at the entrance of your cunt

"So responsive baby, ahh.. you're dripping all over my cock too?" He pulled away his cock from your entrance and pressed two of his thick fingers back inside, stretching you open as he moved with a devastatingly slow rhythm inside you

"Come for me pretty,, fuckkk" he murmured against your skin before popping a nipple inside his mouth sucking with greed as you finally squeal and cum around his fingers, tears forming at the corner of your eyes with your tongue lolled out and chest breathing raggedy.

"Look at you my pretty little wife...all mine aintcha?~"

He kisses you fiercely without a warning and finally you felt his cock enter you slowly, it felt so good in a painful way

"N-no-!! Phaii..t-too b-BiG~!!"

You mewl out weakly clawing at his chest but he only chuckles before whispering soft nothing's in your ear talkin your through it.

And then he thrusts inside you, making you bounce up and both your legs rest on your husbands shoulder,

"Y-You're too deep in..." You mewl out completely senseless as your breasts and body shake with every thrust this man does. His hips slapping against yours as he lazily smiles at you.

"yeah baby?"

You weakly eagerly nod and then his mouth meets yours, kissing you with need and then

"N-ngh~?!!"

You scream out feeling a hand on your belly, a bulge going in and out of your tummy, your soppy wet cunt making sounds which make you squeal in embarassment but titans... he's huge..

You yelped, as you suddenly were being lifted into his strong muscular arms with ease, his fingers digging into your thighs as you babble and cry whole your back is against his chest.

He pushes you up and down at such a speed that it surprises you and you pathetically clas onto his biceps in a failed attempt to make him to slower. This man is rearranging your insides as you are completely helpless to do anything but to whine, cry and moan out his name. That's your job as his pretty little wife <3 just to feel good for him and let the husband do all the work.

"My pretty wife enjoying herself" you nod instantly ad your eyes were stuck at the back of your eyes and tongue lolled out with a bulge popping up your tummy with each thrust. You look so delirious and hazed being bent in half with your huge, strong husband seems like you didn't mind at all !!

With a loud groan, Phainon let's put of your cunt and releases all over stomach and guides you through your orgasm and lies you down. Kissing your temple, your vision was blank white completely empty before feeling two arms wrap around your waist and a glass of water next to your lips.

You sip the cold water and catch your breath after god knows how long, and look to your left to see a cocky in love phainon staring at you...and the marks which you clawed on him everywhere.

You flush up and hide your face in the crook of his neck before he giggles and carries you to the tub

"You did wonderful baby <3"

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astroxrion · 3 months ago

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How to Get Rich Using Astrology:

Jupiter in Aries

You become wealthy by taking bold, fearless action. Your luck shows up when you jump into new ventures without overthinking. To maximize it, follow your impulses and stay physically active to fuel your drive. Trust your gut to lead you to opportunities—your courage will always pay off.

Jupiter in Taurus

Slow and steady wins your race. You build wealth by investing in long-lasting assets like real estate, luxury goods, or businesses rooted in stability. Your luck comes from consistency—don’t rush. Focus on building practical skills and surround yourself with comfort to stay grounded and attract abundance.

Jupiter in Gemini

Talk your way to fortune. Networking, communication, and versatility are your wealth magnets. You thrive when juggling multiple ideas or projects. Keep learning and sharing knowledge—publishing, teaching, and media can be major income streams. Stay curious, and your quick mind will always find new avenues.

Jupiter in Cancer

Nurture your wealth by creating safe, supportive spaces. Real estate, family businesses, or caregiving professions attract abundance. Your instincts guide you—follow your feelings when making financial choices. Emotional security and loyalty to your vision will naturally lead to long-term success.

Jupiter in Leo

Be the star and wealth will follow. Your creative self-expression, confidence, and charisma attract success. Don’t hold back from showcasing your talents. Performance, entertainment, and leadership roles are your money-makers. Embrace your spotlight—your passion inspires others to invest in you.

Jupiter in Virgo

Details are your gold mine. Build wealth by mastering your craft and monetizing practical skills. Your luck shows up when you organize, refine, and serve others. Focus on health, productivity, and precision to attract consistent growth. Efficiency and helpfulness will always be rewarded.

Jupiter in Libra

Partner up to prosper. You thrive in balanced collaborations, art, and aesthetics. Wealth comes when you build harmonious connections and focus on fairness in business. Style, beauty, and diplomacy can be lucrative—your charm naturally draws in support and resources when you keep the peace.

Jupiter in Scorpio

Wealth comes from embracing depth and transformation. Investments, psychology, and uncovering hidden truths bring fortune. Don’t fear intensity—use your passion to fuel ambitious goals. Face your fears and work through challenges head-on. Your resilience attracts power and financial stability.

Jupiter in Sagittarius

Think big, travel far, and expand your horizons. Your luck shows up when you take risks, explore new cultures, or share wisdom. Wealth grows when you align with your truth—publishing, teaching, and global ventures are key. Keep your spirit adventurous and follow your passion for freedom.

Jupiter in Capricorn

You build wealth through hard work and discipline. Authority and respect are your assets. Structure your goals, stay practical, and climb steadily. Professionalism and commitment attract long-term success. Patience is your power—master the grind, and rewards will follow in time.

Jupiter in Aquarius

Innovation brings wealth. Think outside the box, embrace tech, and build communities. Your luck shows up when you challenge norms and pioneer new ideas. Networking and social causes can be profitable when you stay true to your vision. Share your insights to inspire change—and success.

Jupiter in Pisces

Dream your wealth into reality. Creativity, compassion, and spirituality attract abundance. Follow your intuition and tap into your imagination. Healing work, art, and helping others elevate your life. Let go of rigid plans and trust that flowing with your dreams will manifest prosperity.

Get an Astrology Reading With me : https://www.tumblr.com/astroxrion/784631769533136896/o-my-readings-the-rion-code-o?source=share

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dragonsondragons · 2 months ago

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Part 1 - That Look In Your Eye | You Should Probably Leave series

You make big, bad, Jack Abbot nervous in a way he really isn’t used to. He fumbles his first attempt to invite you to the party, so Dr. Ellis gives him a crash course in how to get the girl.

Word Count: 3.9k

Content: yearning!jack, medical social worker!reader, reader is Jack’s work crush, slow burn, Jack on his #healingjourney, awkward abbot, unspecified age gap, named reader because I dont like using y/n (named her Nel, short for Eleanor. And yes Nel will be friends with Mel)

Read the Prologue! / Masterlist / Taglist

Author's Note: Sorry this took me sooo long to get together! I have the next few parts mapped out well and and mostly written tbh but was struggling so hard with how to introduce their interaction and dynamic in this part. Also, I would highly highly recommend reading the prologue before this part. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

In the Pitt, Jack was seen as a very confident man. He knows exactly what he’s capable of and precisely how to execute it most efficiently. It's one thing unshaken in all his years practicing medicine. No matter how low he’s felt– in war zones, in the pitt– he always stays steady under fire. Words and procedures are tools. He uses them to achieve a goal: keep the patient alive. Be calm, cool, concise.

It's something he learned in combat, that medics aren't just healers and fighters. They are a source of confidence for the whole platoon. They set the tone. A force multiplier. He was supposed to keep a level head and know what to do, no hesitating. If he stayed cool everyone else would follow suit.

He had to to seem confident on the outside, but never let himself feel it too much on the inside. If you feel too confident, you start to forget that there is just one critical moment, one mistake, standing between your patient and death.

Jack couldn't help but feel that way now, like he was one mistake from ruining his chances with you. Deep breath. No ones going to die, he repeats in his head. It's one of the constant reminders he’s had to give himself when anxiety spikes. Another deep breath.

He was supposed to be a confident guy. Asking out the girl you liked shouldn’t be so hard.

But there was a disconnect for him, between what was shown to the world– a self assured master of his craft– and what he felt on the inside. Analyzing every little mistake so that he can be better for next time. Never letting himself feel too secure, always striving for better. Battling between his desires and that loud voice inside, telling him to isolate.

Because of that voice his social confidence was a lot more shakey than his work persona. For the most part he can fake it till he makes it or keep enough distance from people that it doesn't matter. But then there was you, slowly drawing him out of his shell. Bit by bit so that he barely saw it coming until it hit him like a truck. He should have seen it a long time ago. But he likes you and there's no denying it now. He's decided he's gonna try and do something about it, and that requires some guts and smooth talking he’s not sure if he's capable of.

He pulls into his parking space in the hospital garage, yearning for you hard. He worked himself up all the way here and now that it's at the forefront of his brain he can’t resist the urge to be near you.

You’ve got the guts, he tells himself, willing it to be true. Just invite her to the party. Just be yourself? Is that who he wanted to show her? This fucked up guy who can barely work up the courage to ask her one simple phrase. There it goes again; his mind working against him.

He walked in through the ambulance bay, backpack slung over one shoulder. Immediately, he saw you. You were sitting at the hub checking the patient census that had just come into your inbox from the day shift and radiating something bright. Maybe it was just him who saw you as the sun.

Now or never. He walked towards the large central desk and slung his backpack under an inner counter. He leaned down on his elbows behind the computer you worked at, thrumming his fingers against the counter top. “Hey, You.”

His familiar greeting made your stomach flip and you couldn't help but smile. It had been a few days since your shifts had aligned. “Good evening, Dr Abbot,” you hum to him, eyes tearing away from your screen to look up into his hazel eyes.

Suddenly his pep talk to himself in the car flew out the window. With you sitting right before him, everything inside his mind was gone. You sure didn't mind gazing into Jack’s eyes, in fact you enjoyed it, but the silence was dragging on so you broke it.

“Missed you at lunch yesterday. I had to eat with Shen and he would not shut up about a big high pressure weather system moving in or something.” There was a pressure system building in Jack's chest. He wanted to respond but was caught up inside his mind. Missed you at lunch, echoed in his mind. She missed me? More pressure flared.

“Everything okay, Jack?” you asked, head tilting as you looked at him so caringly.

“Huh?”

“Seems like you’re somewhere else right now. And that look in your eyes, there’s something you’re not telling me.” She could always read him like a book.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Got a lot on my mind right now.” He was going to continue to deflect, as usual. But she was already onto him. This was his chance. Might as well just come out with it. “Actually I uh was wondering of yo–” Your pager screamed out through the ED and you looked down at it on your waistband. He deflated.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, dayshift always has them on the highest volume.” You read the message coming in and started gathering stuff from the desk around you. “I have to get going to see this patient before discharge. What was it you were wondering though?”

“Uh… I, um. I was just gonna ask if you, um. Brought your lunch today?” Fuck. He lost all his steam when that pager went off.

“You know I always do.” You were standing up from the swivel chair now. “Same time as usual? Just page me if you're not gonna be able to make it?” He gives you one of his awkward thumbs up with both hands and says “See you up there,” as you turn to go see the patient. You smile back over your shoulder at him.

He leaned down and put his head between his hands on the counter top while chastising himself for his failed attempt at asking you out.

He hadn’t registered Dr. Ellis off to the other side of the hub during this whole interaction, having been so focused on whatever it is between him and you that draws him in. A laugh burst out that snapped him out of his pity party. “What the hell was that, Abbot?” said Ellis, thoroughly amused at seeing a guy like Dr. Abbot who is so typically composure and competence fumble. “You can do a REBOA in your sleep but can’t flirt with a woman?”

He lifted his head slightly and glared. “Who said I was flirting?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t successfully flirting. But it would take a fool not to see that you like her.” He laid his head back down and groaned at that. Despite his current embarrassment, Jack liked working with Dr. Ellis more than most other people. He appreciated her no nonsense approach and deft skills. And the fact that she's not afraid of him. She will tell it to him like it is. He knew that interaction was bad, but if Ellis was confirming… then it was really terrible.

“I don't know, I just… panicked.” How can he stay so calm when someone’s bleeding to death but couldn't do this one thing when faced with you.

“Did you bring your lunch?!” she echoed him. “That was really what you came up with? What were you really trying to ask her?” He hesitated. But Ellis seemed to already know so much about this whole situation. Guess he wasn’t as close to the chest with his crush as he thought. Maybe he should let her give him some advice.

“I’m having a party at my place soon, and I was trying to ask her to come,” he admitted.

Ellis raised one eyebrow. “You're having a party?” She never thought she would hear that come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, I'm having a party for everyone from work, you’re invited. That's not the point. Point is I had my chance and I chickened out.”

“Yeah, you did. You have absolutely no game, old timer.”

“I have game, just… not in that particular instance. I'm out of practice,” he tries to defend himself.

“Clearly. But I can help you with that.”

“She totally can,” Dr. Santos interjected. Santos had been trying out a rotation on the night shift and had just finished up with a patient in curtain 3 nearby. Always the eavesdropper, she tuned in to the conversation between Abbot and Ellis as she had approached the hub. “Dr. Ellis has got mad game, trust me.” Ellis rolls her eyes at the overzealous intern. “Wait–we’re talking about you getting nervous around Nel right?”

“Wha-No. I don't get nervous around Nel.” Both women scoff at him. Jack’s eyes widen and turns to Ellis for a sidebar. “How do you both know about this? I don't want to make this a thing. If she's not into me I don't want her to be uncomfortable at work.” He can't be careless about this, needs to do it right.

“Abbot, be so serious,” she deadpans. “She’s totally into you.”

“You don't know that,” Jack huffs. How do they know if you're into him? He barely let himself know he was into you until therapy earlier today. Santos and Ellis share a look. Santos butts in again, “Dude, it's so obvious. Her eyes literally twinkle when you're in the same room.”

“Don't dude me right now, Santos,” Jack snaps. Do they? Twinkle for him? He hopes so. But he doesn't want to get his hopes up. God, this whole thing is putting him so on edge.

Ellis sees how uncomfortable Jack’s getting and jumps in. “The grownups are talking here, Dr. Santos. Guy over in North 12 needs his bowel dismipacted, go.” As she reluctantly leaves to go handle the literal shit that's been assigned to her, Ellis tunes back into the conversation with Jack.

“She's right though, it's obvious you're both smitten. You’ve just gotta shoot your shot, man.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself at the thought. “What are you planning to say?”

He hesitates. Drums his thumbs against the counter top again. “How about I'm having a party. You can come, if you want.”

“God, this is why I date women. You're useless.”

“You said you would help!”

“Look–that's way too passive. Sounds like you don't care if she comes or not. Women like when you're sincere and confident. Usually that's your forte, but I guess not when you’re nervous about your crush. Try to tune in to that Abbot, ya know, direct and to the point.”

If I say what I actually mean, Jack thinks, it will be ‘I think you're smart and caring and beautiful, and I like spending time with you at work. And more than anything, I’d like to see you outside of this hell hole…preferably…all the time.’ He’s staring off into the abyss now.

“Oh my god, you're so in your head. Just be normal, be yourself! Say Hey, I'm having a party. I would really like it if you came.”

“Got it, yeah. Be normal.”

She huffs at his nervousness. “If you don't grow a spine and ask her out, I will,” Ellis jests, giving him a little incentive.

“C'mon, give me a chance here.”

“She's hot, kind. Seems like a really great person. So you better snatch her up before someone else does.”

—

It was just before 1am when your stomach started to grumble, queuing you that it was almost your normal “lunch” time. You finished up your case note you were working on, grabbed your food from the breakroom fridge, and headed up to the roof.

Lunch with Jack was always a highlight of your shift. No matter how shitty a patient had treated you or how many problems you had encountered that day, sitting with him for just a few minutes always made it feel like you were free of the hospital. Returning to your shift after those moments with him, the fluorescent lights turned softer and long hospital hallways less suffocating.

It happened by accident really, the two of you becoming lunch buddies. You brought your lunch box up to the roof to get some air while you took a break. He was already up there, leaning up against the railing staring out at the city beyond the hospital. He wasn't expecting a visitor, didn’t encounter many others up there, but suddenly there was you. An angel of the night.

When you pushed open the door of the stairwell to see him staring out at the skyline, you remember thinking that this man looked like a beacon high up above the rest of the city, standing steady and sending out a signal. Looking out over the whole city and asking who’s there? Free in the dark of night to admit that he was seeking connection.

From the very first moment, you read him eerily well. And you approached. Because you were seeking the same thing.

You struck up a conversation with him and offered him half of your sandwich. Kept doing so until he started bringing his own food too, usually whatever had the quickest doordash delivery time. He made you laugh with his dry and dark humor. Shared silence with you when you were both too tired to speak, or listened to you ramble about the book you were reading or some movie you had watched. Sometimes he had questions. ____

“Have you ever heard of the Four Agreements?” he asked one night. You picked through some of the Chinese food he had ordered from the 24 hour place down the street, while he took a bite out of the apple you had packed. You chuckle a little at his question.

“Why are you laughing at me?” he asks.

“Sorry– it's just. As someone who works in a mental health bubble, the Four Agreements is like… the bible of self help. And it's a little cliche.”

“You’re calling Linda cliche?”

“Who’s Linda?"

“My therapist. She recommended it."

“Look at you, doing therapy.”

He gave you a little shrug. “Thanks. So I shouldn’t read it? If it's cliche."

“No, no, It could still be useful. Give it a try.” ____

He also surprised you with these bursts of intense vulnerability, sparsed out between his usually more gruff or sarcastic responses.

Whenever he was about to reveal something to you, you could almost see it coming. He would always position himself next to you, leaning over on the railing and facing out over Pittsburg like he was that first night you found him up here. He wouldn’t look in your eyes like he usually did. Would just stand next to you there and focus on some point, far out on the horizon. He’d be quiet for a while, and you would just wait, just being there with him.

____

“That guy we both saw today, the boarder in North 7?”

“Yeah?” you encouraged him to continue.

“I know him. Well not him, really, but his brother. We served together. He lost his brother the same day I lost my leg.” He pulled up the hem of his scrub pants a bit to reveal a glimpse of his prosthetic.

“Oh…Jack. I’m so sorry. That must bring up a lot of old memories.”

“It was a long time ago. Can’t change it now.” He wants to pull away from the exposure he felt at saying this to you. But you draw out something in him. Sharing with you is easier sometimes, and he doesn't know why. It's because he’s falling in love with you and hasn't let himself admit it yet.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt.” You’re always trying to encourage him to feel.

“Yeah... still hurts like hell. Hurts more because I hadn’t thought about Eddie in months, maybe years. I forgot about him.”

You turn your head to face him, frowning. He maintains his gaze on some faraway spot. “You can’t blame yourself for that. If you remembered them all every second of every day you would drive yourself crazy.”

He took a shaky breath in and just nodded. That was as much opening up he could take for the moment. “I gotta go back down there, check on the patients,” he says, letting the voice telling him to run win, for now.

You pause for a beat, trying to replicate his own incessant gaze that would always get you break and look up at him. The trick doesn’t work on its own master. He continues to put that distance between you and stares out at the city beyond the roof, then down at his feet.

“Okay. But just be careful with yourself, Jack. And if you ever want to talk more, I’m here.” You jutted your hip out to bump his, trying to coax him out of his unease, show him that it was okay to open up to you. He stood fully up from the railing, giving you a double thumbs up. That was becoming his signature move with you when he didn't quite know what to say. He kept doing it because it always made you smile. ____

Sometimes his appearances on the roof were just as scattered as his ability to show vulnerability. After times where he opened up you might not see him for days. He would go brood and throw himself into the work to get his mind off the memories, or off of you, when the way you were making him feel scared him a little too much. He would chastise himself for letting his feelings slip out like that. Would convince himself that you didn't want to hear anything about it, no matter how supportive and kind you were whenever he did share.

Deep down he longed for connection, even though he actively pushed everyone away.

Once you found him on that roof, finally someone was pushing back. You would come and find him if he didn't show up on the roof, or send him a message as you were heading up, pestering him to come join you if you could.

And the way you responded to him showing how he felt, admitting what ate at him inside, it started to show him that it was okay to reveal himself. It didn’t make it any less uncomfortable, but still he kept coming back to have lunch with you.

Tonight would be just like any of those other nights, he told himself as he hiked up the stairs to the roof entry. Just be normal.

You were already up there waiting for him when he came through the stairwell door. The light midsummer night breeze blew your hair around your face and he sensed something heavy on your mind. Brooding on the roof was usually his forte.

As he approaches you barely register his presence. He places a hand on your shoulder, which makes you jump and turn to him. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah–fine.” You shake your head and give him a little smile but he sees it's not the kind that you usually flash, the kind that's earnest. He doesn’t push.

“Well, if you weren’t good I would offer some crab rangoons as a pick me up.” He lifts his takeout bag up. “But if you’re fine then you don’t need em.”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the bag from him and dig out the rangoons.

“That’s what I thought.” the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost-there smirk.

You two dig into the combo of takeout and packed food spread out before you. All of his nervousness from earlier in the day had dissipated. Up here, in the dark, just the two of you, he was calm. As calm as Jack Abbot could be these days. He lets himself think about being with you like this in the daytime. Somewhere else, like having a picnic in a park where you would admire the spring flowers and he would admire you with the same reverence.

He had to ask his question, because failing would mean missing that chance.

“You’re looking at me like that again.” you said.

“Like what?” he keeps his gaze locked on yours like if he blinked you would disappear.

“I don’t know. I just recognize that look in your eye.” It's the look I get when I admire you, he thinks.

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking if you go first.” You let out a huff of a breath. “Fine. I just… I guess I’m tired– getting really tired of all the roadblocks in my work. People always need more than I’m able to give them. Shelters are always full or the patient doesn’t meet some eligibility requirement and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You’re doing everything you can with what you have, that’s more than most people. You rock it in there everyday,” Jack responds.

“I know that, in theory. It’s just been harder and harder to believe it lately.”

“Well, I’ll keep reminding you.”

“Okay, your turn.”

He scratched the back of his neck, then forced himself to look at you head on. “Uh, I’m going to have everyone from work over at my place for a barbeque. But I wanted to, uh, make sure that you would be there, with me. And…maybe it will help you decompress from work and everything.” It was as un-awkward as he could possibly make it.

You found his subtle bashfulness cute. It was endearing to bring the steady Jack Abbot to jumbling his words. “I would love to come.” The biggest smile you've ever seen on him spreads across Jack’s face.

“When’s the next Saturday you’re off?” he asks.

“Two weeks from now.”

“Then that's our party then.”

You giggle. “Our party, huh?”

“Well you’re the guest of honor, I decided.”

“Oh, how gracious of you.”

The banter slows, both of you feeling the tension of crossing a new line that you can't go back over. It's quiet for another beat, then Jack speaks again, quietly.

“Ellis is gonna be proud of me for this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“She told me I had no game, earlier at the beginning of shift. I meant to ask you then but got too nervous. So she gave me some pointers.”

That made you blush. You had liked Jack Abbot for a while, but did not want to risk your friendship on making the first move. You didn’t want him to think that your support of him was conditional on him reciprocating feelings. You could see him deeply struggling and cared about him, just wanting to be there for him. So even though you had butterflies tingling in your stomach more and more after each encounter, you tried to keep the relationship as professional as possible. After this– him asking you to come to his party like that, admitting it made him nervous to do so. It finally showed you that you could want more with Jack. That he wanted it too.

It emboldened you, and you reached out to lace your fingers with his. “I like you the way you are Jack. It's okay to be nervous, but please just keep being you.”

He squeezed your hand and nodded his head. “I think I can do that sweetheart.”

#jack abbot fic #jack abbot x reader #jack abott #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot #the pitt fic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt hbo #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #dr abbot fic #dr abbot #doctor abbot #you should probably leave #the pitt #shawn hatosy

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astrofaeology · 2 months ago

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Mercury in the Signs

paid readings | Masterlist

ᡣ𐭩 Please support me by reposting, liking, following me and commenting your placement. Mercury is the planet of communication and rules over siblings. By analysing your mercury placement you can understand more about how you think and communicate.

0º is the degree which doesn't have a coresponding sign assigned to it. It's a fresh new degree and will amplify the themes of the sign that it's in

Aries (1,13,25º) Your tounge is like a spitfire, you have a force that you project to the people you talk to. Your mind is s quick, direct, and often impatient. You speak and think impulsively, valuing honesty and straightforwardness above all else. You're a natural initiator of ideas, eager to jump into discussions and debates, though you may sometimes speak before fully considering all angles. Your communication style is energetic and enthusiastic, often inspiring others with your bold and pioneering thoughts.

Taurus (2, 14, 26°) This placement gives your communication and thought processes a careful, methodical, and useful approach. You take your time and carefully consider the information before drawing well-founded conclusions. You have a talent for breaking down difficult concepts into easily understood terms, and your statements are frequently well-founded and trustworthy. Even though you might be slow to change your mind, once you've made up your mind, it's hard to get rid of.

Gemini (3, 15, 27°) Gemini blessed you with a naturally curious, flexible, and clear mind as Mercury's home sign. You excel in compiling data, having different kinds of discussions, and tying several ideas together. Your writing is clever, flexible, and sometimes marked by a fast-fire delivery. You are a real master of words since you have a great capacity to pick things fast and modify your approach of communication to fit any audience.

Cancer (4, 16, 28°) Mercury in Cancer offers your communication a simple, sympathetic, and usually emotionally charged approach. Your emotions greatly shape your ideas, and you usually interact sensitively and warmly. Your words help to create comfort and security and you are quite good in picking the unspoken subtleties of a conversation. You might communicate best when you feel emotionally linked and safe.

Leo (5, 17, 29°) Your communication approach with Mercury in Leo is confident, expressive, and often dramatic. You value recognition of your ideas and enjoy listening. Often trying to inspire and entertain your audience, you clearly and passionately express your ideas. You can make even the most boring subjects sound fascinating and interesting; you have a natural knack for narrative.

Virgo (6, 18° ) A precise, analytical, and well-organised mind is bestowed by Mercury in Virgo. You are very good at classifying information, processing details, and accurately and clearly communicating. You tend to be a very good editor and proofreader, and your ideas are realistic and focused on solving problems. While sometimes critical, your communication is always well-intentioned and aims for improvement and efficiency.

Libra (7, 19°) Mercury in Libra promotes polite, fair-minded, and appealing communication styles. In your contacts, you seek for balance and harmony, taking into account various points of view before expressing yourself. You excel at resolving conflicts and finding common ground. Your remarks are typically graceful and polite, and you have a natural ability to establish connections and hold pleasant conversations.

Scorpio( 8, 20°) Mercury in Scorpio provides you a sharp, introspective, and frequently private intellect. You explore beneath the surface of topics to uncover hidden facts and motivations. Your communication style can be passionate and direct, and you excel at discovering secrets and asking probing questions. While you may not always express your whole ideas, your words have weight and frequently create an indelible impression.

Sagittarius (9, 21°) Your mind is broad, philosophic, and constantly seeking out new information when Mercury is in Sagittarius. You take pleasure in delving into complex concepts, offering your opinions, and engaging in discussions about more general subjects. Though you may occasionally be prone to overgeneralisation, your speech is usually straightforward, enthusiastic, and upbeat. You love inspiring others with your inspiring ideas and are a born teacher.

Capricorn (10, 22º) Your communication and thought processes will be more methodical, pragmatic, and strategic when Mercury is in Capricorn. You value accuracy and measurable outcomes, and you approach information methodically. You frequently use succinct, authoritative language that is goal-oriented. You have great organisational and long-term planning skills, and you speak with accountability and foresight.

Aquarius (11, 23°) Mercury in Aquarius brings a creative, unbiased, and often unconventional intellect. You enjoy thinking imaginatively, challenging conventions, and examining unusual notions. You frequently speak in an educated, progressive, and humanistic way. You might have a distinct communication style, and you excel at brainstorming and generating novel ideas.

Pisces (12, 24°) Your thinking is curious, creative, and incredibly sympathetic when Mercury is in Pisces. You use emotion and intuition to interpret information, often picking up on nuances and feelings that are not expressed. You can use metaphor and symbolism to make your speech artistic, sympathetic, and occasionally indirect. You are very good at understanding different viewpoints and communicating in a universal way.

DISCLAIMER: This post is a generalisation and may not resonate. I recommend you get a reading from an astrologer (me). If you want a reading from me check out my sales page.

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dreammfyre · 2 months ago

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too sweet ⊹ ࣪ ˖ frank langdon

SUMMARY. You knew Langdon from the time you started your internship at The Pittsburgh. You knew that a working relationship with him was not going to be easy, he was self-centered and had a fixation with pointing out your mistakes until understood that’s his way of teaching. Frank wanted you be the best and let everyone know that he was responsible for making you the star. You didn't know what you were thinking when thought it was a love relationship, it had been years before the connection went beyond work. But it wasn't easy to deal with his unpredictable personality, until you got to see his vulnerable side.

WARNINGS. fluff and soft!langdon. frank x f!resident.

There were days and days in ER. None like the previous one, that was the reason why you chose that specialty, how unpredictable it was, to wake up and have no idea what the fuck could happen. A constant adrenaline rush that wouldn't let rest for a single minute and made you feel alive, in no other specialty were you going to experience living minute by minute not knowing what was about to walk through that door. You loved this place, more than once it ended you and your peace of mind, but for some reason you ended up coming back every day because knew your place was there, and couldn't visualize yourself anywhere else.

ER was something beautiful, unpredictable and destructive.

If you could relate one person to that site, without a doubt the only name that would come to mind is Frank Langdon. Every word you use to describe your work fits him. Unpredictable, amazing, even exhausting.

Your relationship had ups and downs, you both knew it was going to be that way because your personalities clashed even before the first kiss. They both wanted to be right, that was a big problem, however, sex is amazing, it made feel unique among all the people around you. You could say a lot of good things about your boyfriend, he was attentive, intelligent, come on, a fucking genius, he loved you and every day reminded you of that. He has the best memory, remembered every detail about you even when yourself forgot the things you said without thinking.

"You look beautiful in that scrub. Hey, guys have you seen how hot she’s?"

"Frank, what the hell we're working." You replied as pulled on your gloves. An unconscious patient with weak vitals had arrived, but he always had the pep to blurt out comments like that.

"Just telling the truth." He raised his arms, adjusting his gown.

"Right now?" You put on glasses.

"Oh, please, don't fight now." Cassie McKay thought aloud praying to heaven not to deal with the two of you.

"We're not fighting, Doctor McKay." You said injecting an antibiotic.

"I'm not going to apologize." Langdon excused himself.

"I don't need your apology." You said as checked the patient's mouth finding dry mucous and cyanosis around his lips. With your flashlight illuminated his throat, it was closed and that explained the low saturation. "I'm going to intubate."

"I'll assist you."

You nodded immediately, trusted no one but Frank. He passed the instruments following your orders, correcting if necessary even though you had mastered the technique. Langdon was a third year resident about to finish his specialty while this was your second year of residency. However, he looked at you with admiration and attention, your movements seemed fluid although in your head everything was calculated not to make a mistake, Frank really loved that about you, you were the most studious person he knew because were willing to give everything to save a stranger.

"Perfect." He complimented.

"Thank you." You smiled contentedly. Your locks stuck to your face from sweat and your skin glistened under the white lights. "See how efficient you are when you shut up for a while, Dr. Langdon?" took off your gloves and threw them in the trash can.

The door to the room opened, it was Doctor Robby who poked his body out without entering so as not to contaminate the space.

"Road accident in three minutes. I need one of you." He said analyzing their faces, until he pointed his finger at you. "You, come on."

You couldn't refuse or question the boss's order so you took off your implements to get out of there. The patient was stable so there wasn't much else to do but administer medications, test results and wait for a progress. McKay and Langdon were left in charge.

"She's a genius, isn't she?" He smiled as proudly boyfriend.

"I'd tell you that you're too much in love and not thinking with your head, but you're right." Cassie replied sighing as she stitched up the wound on her arm.

"Oh, come on. You know I always have." That mocking, self-centered tone everyone was used to hearing from her. It came so naturally to him that no one knew if he meant it or if it was sarcasm.

"I still don't understand why he noticed you in the first place."

The shift flew by. Hours and hours attending patients, administering medications, receiving results, routine consultations, rounds, evolutions, more medications. The occasional accident. But that had been your perspective, it was a quiet shift that you knew how to handle. There were only a couple of hours left to go home to rest, eat a hamburger that you wanted to buy so badly, you wanted to ask Langdon if he wanted to go to your apartment to spend the night with you or if he preferred to stay at home, but for some reason you couldn't find him anywhere.

You watched the screen above the nurse's station in search of your next case. You put your hands in your pockets and perused the inpatients without finding anything but vomiting and stomach pains. Kind of boring really.

"Come on, Dana. Tell me you have something exciting to me." You leaned against the counter pouting.

The charge nurse looked at you with a smile, she loved seeing you with such enthusiasm, she had never told you but she was glad to work with you.

"Don't you think that's enough variety we have to offer?" she joked with you, you snorted. "Headache, stomach ache and vomiting. Specialty of the house."

"I have energy for something else." You jumped a couple of times in place making her laugh.

Dana leaned on the table imitating your posture, you approached her excitedly, she seemed to be about to tell you a secret by the way she looked around before talking to you so that only you could hear. She lowered her voice to tell you.

"He's not a patient, but I'm sure you can help him."

Frank Langdon's day had been a complete crapshoot. There was no other way to put it, and the worst part was that it wasn't over yet.

He was leaning against one of the ambulances playing with a bracelet you had given him a few days ago, one of your recent hobbies was making bracelets by hand, that was the second attempt which in your own words was complete crap, but Frank insisted it was good work. You told him that if he thought it was pretty he could use it, you never imagined he would.

"Do you still have it?" your voice was a big bucket of cold water. I didn't want you to see him that way, so dull from what you were used to seeing from him.

He lifted his shoulders trying to smile.

"It’s pretty."

"Of course not." You stood in front of him looking at your creation with disgust and disdain. "I can do you one better."

Langdon denied.

"I prefer this one." He pocketed it. "What are you doing here?"

"I haven't seen you for hours, they told me they saw you leave."

"You should go back inside. It's cold and I don't want you to get sick, you become unbearable."

A weak laugh came out of you, the worst part was that it was true, only Frank had enough patience for you to attend to you. Though deep down you felt Frank wasn't being himself, he wouldn't hold your gaze and his voice was serious, straining to hold a conversation with you. He would sigh in moments of silence and play with his hands as he said vague things to you.

"Dana told me what happened." You confessed gaining Frank’s attention completely. His yes widened in surprise not knowing what to tell you about it, his head still processing it. "It's not your fault. You know that."

Langdon looked at the sky that was gradually darkening, ending the day shift, the noise of cars passing by on the street could be heard in the background. He hated this kind of situation, when you came to comfort him by repeating cliché phrases that he also told you when you had a hard day. You knew you meant well, he was just… tired.

"Don't worry."

"Of course I'm going to worry about you." You took his hands between yours. "You can talk to me, I want to listen to you. Frank, things get to you and you don't ignore them, it's not good."

You were right, shit, of course you were. It was his way, keeping everything to himself because it wasn't impossible for him to open up that part of him. It wasn't the first time he had to take a breath before the shift was over, he hated doing that because it meant he couldn't take the pressure anymore. There are just times when he wished he knew the key to never see any person die again, surely all the doctors wished the same thing, a spell that would save every life, cure every disease, something that would take the pain away from the families.

He sighed deeply.

"It sucks sometimes." It was the only thing he could bring himself to say.

"I know."

"He was a kid." He confessed finally getting a weight off his chest, it felt strange to externalize it, but your soft gaze gave him the confidence he needed to converse. "I did everything I could, I know, but I wonder if I should have tried a little harder. I don't know." He ran a hand through his messy wet hair. "Insist."

You swallowed saliva but it felt like a ball of fire burning your throat as it passed. Yes, you loved your job, you wouldn't trade it for the tranquility of dermatology or the constant uncertainty of cardiology, you respected all the specialties, but you were in love with the ER. One thing Robby had told you on the first day of your internship at Pittsburgh was that sooner or later this job would end up breaking your heart, and that you were going to see suffering even in those you loved. He was right, what he didn't warn you about was how bad it felt to see frustration in the eyes of the one you love.

"Do you think you didn't try everything?" your question was direct, almost an interrogation. "Did you do everything you could?"

Langdon looked at you for a few seconds, nodded yes. You stretched the silence as the wind chilled your face. Unexpectedly Frank took a step towards you without saying anything, he rested his cheek on your shoulder wrapping his arms around your waist, you felt him pulling your body closer and you didn't put up any resistance. You took one of your hands to his back and the other to his messy hair, leaving small caresses while he closed his eyes, he was really taking refuge in you, you had become his safe place and where he wanted to return every day, you had not left him alone when everyone turned their back on him and from there he knew he was in love with you. You transmitted to him the peace he was constantly looking for, but you also gave him joy, headaches, a bit of anger when they argued. You were all the intensity he was looking for in perfect balance with the silence, you were that look he was looking for on the other side of the room, you became that person he seeks to make uncomfortable with his jokes because he liked it when you got mad at him. He loved knowing you were going to be there at the end of the day and into the night.

"I love you, you know that, don't you?" He babbled like a little boy. Squeezing you a little tighter against his chest hoping you would never part from him. You just didn't think about what he was saying and let it out.

You smiled, for real this time. Hearing those words from him knowing how hard it was for him to express himself was a gesture you appreciated, more than that, it made your heart beat fast.

"I love you." You repeated with sincerity in your voice, a phrase you had been holding back from long ago that you dared not say for fear of not being reciprocated. Damn, you were in love with him ever since he stole your first kiss and passed it off as an accident, but you couldn't deny that a relationship with him was the closest thing to walking on a tightrope where the risk of falling was imminent.

You couldn't see it, but you were sure Frank was grinning like a fool too.

"I have to go back inside." You said taking his face in your hands, standing on the tip of your toes to reach his lips and leave a short kiss with little taste for both of you. Your rosy cheeks was a detail he didn't overlook, he loved making you blush because it wasn't a simple thing to do. "It's time to make rounds."

With all the regret in the world he had to let you go, feeling your absence from the moment you parted and the cold hit his body. He didn't know what you had done to him but you had him walking behind you much more animated.

"Hey, doctor, are you single?" He asked with his hands in his pockets following in your footsteps. You rolled your eyes and bit your inner cheek to keep from laughing.

"Sorry, I have a boyfriend." You turned around with raised eyebrows walking backwards. "And he's the hottest doctor in the hospital."

He accepted the compliment pretending to be surprised, you turned your back to him and Frank immediately hurried to walk beside you, he put his arm around your shoulders keeping you close.

"I thought we didn't accept compliments at work." He frowned.

You escaped his grip with a cynical smile on your lips.

"We don't." You moved closer to his face being careful not to graze even a millimeter of his face. "Because you don't want to know everything I think when I see you."

You went straight to the nursing desk to look for a case to attend. It was the ER, it was never going to be empty, you walked around trying to hide the love-struck smile on your face.

"I hope it's nothing bad!" Langdon exclaimed letting you go.

"You'd love to know." You replied before disappearing from his field of vision.

Dr. Robby walked past you with a tablet in his hands reading a file on the screen. He was concentrating walking until he passed you.

"You two. No romance at work."

𐙚⋆°. MASTERLIST

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